8. Chapter 8

Mayor Voglmeyer comes into Breakfast at Britta's every morning for her coffee. So do a lot of people in Paradise. Britta's is always packed, which makes it easy to avoid the mayor when our breakfasts overlap. Usually, I do my best to blend into the crowd so she doesn't notice me. That's difficult for a guy my size, but everyone in Paradise knows me, so I don't stick out the way I do other places. Between me and my brothers, people here are used to living around giants, but I'm the biggest of all of them.

On Tuesday morning, though, I get to Britta's early to get a table right by the window so I can watch for Darlene. Instead of my regular mocha with whipped cream on top, I work through three cups of black coffee—straight. No sugar, no cream—to steel my courage. I take the last sip of the bitter stuff, wondering if she's not coming in today, when I spot her black Cadillac pull into the parking lot.

She climbs out of the car, and my hands tremble. Partly from the rush of caffeine. Partly from nervousness.

While I hate public speaking, I don't mind talking face-to-face with a person… as long as that person isn't Mayor Voglmeyer. In general, she's not the kind of person anyone enjoys talking to, but she is a person who gets things done. Which is why she keeps getting elected mayor. That, and no one has the guts to run against her.

The people in line at the counter go a little quieter when she walks in. A few give her friendly hellos while others greet her with a brisk "mayor." Still others avoid eye contact altogether, take their coffee, and get out before she can corner them about the sad state of their yards, or pressure them for their commitment to sponsor a local event, or convince them to try her kid Lyle's terrible hamburger joint.

Britta is among those who give her a genuine hello, before handing her the to-go cup she's had ready and waiting for the mayor.

I watch it all, wishing I had Mayor Voglmeyer's confidence. I wish I had Britta's, for that matter. Even Cassie's.

If I did, Paradise could have an official girl's hockey team, for sure, with top line equipment, and a permanent rink.

The thought of the girls drives me out of my seat. I may not be able to convince people outside my family to donate money for my team, but Darlene has that kind of power. If I can get her on my side, I know everything else will fall into place, too.

I catch the mayor as she's about to leave. It's possible I block the door so she can't. I don't mean to; I'm only trying to talk to her.

"Good morning, Mayor." I barely get the words out before my ears are burning.

The fire travels quickly to my cheeks when Darlene squints, looking confused by my presence. Like she's never seen me before.

"Good morning, Bjorn. If you'll excuse me, I'm in a bit of a hurry."

She's never called me Bear. Not once. Not even when Lyle and I were kids and played on the same hockey team for a season.

My mind goes blank, and I quickly open the door and move out of the way so she can go through. Britta catches my eye as the mayor walks past me. Her lips press together and her eyes grow big. She might explode from holding her breath if I don't talk to Darlene. I told her I'd do it after my meeting with Lester didn't go so well.

I run after Darlene, catching her when she's almost to her car. "Excuse me, Mayor…" I grab her coat sleeve to stop her. At the look she sends me, I quickly let go and remember all the times growing up when Mom would remind me that because of my size, my actions can be misinterpreted. I'm a grown man who now has to remind myself of this. I take a step back to ease her worry.

I swallow hard, then force words out of the pit in my stomach. "Sorry, ma'am. I just, I, uh…"

Her eyes narrow, and even though it's the dead of winter, I swear it's her look that sends the sun into hiding and causes the temperature to drop ten degrees.

"Iwonderedifyou'vehadachancetolookatmyproposal," I say in one breath.

The mayor blinks slowly, then takes a long sip of her coffee, while I contemplate melting into the snow-covered pavement.

"I have." She smacks her lips, and I wait for her to say more.

She doesn't.

"Um… did you… like it?" I turn my head slightly, preparing for the verbal blow that's likely coming.

Better to take it on the chin than right in the nose.

Darlene takes another long sip of her coffee, smacks her lips again, then meets my eye. "I did… not."

In the nanosecond between did and not, I let my hopes get away from me, making the blow hit even harder than I'd anticipated.

"Oh." That's all I can think to say.

She turns to open her door, and I find my voice.

"Can you tell me why? Did the entire city council agree with you?"

"The council hasn't seen it. There's no point. First, the city doesn't have the money to buy the properties. Second, girls don't play hockey, even if we had the money." She sets her jaw tight and lifts her chin in a challenge.

And maybe if she hadn't said girls don't play hockey, I'd turn around and leave. But she said it. So I can't.

I won't go back inside and face Britta without putting up a solid argument first. If I don't, I'd be agreeing with Darlene. And I don't agree with her. Saying girls don't want to play or that hockey's not for girls is stupid, whether it's coming out of the mayor's mouth or Grandpa's.

"I disagree." I stand taller and pull my shoulders back. "In the past, local girls haven't had the opportunity to play. Hockey is getting more popular every year, especially women's teams. The more popular it grows, the more girls will want to play. Keeping the pond for their rink would be a real asset to this town and, specifically, for the girls of this town. I've worked hard with them for two years and it's been really great for them."

And me, I think, which is almost surprising.

Darlene answers with a glare.

"At least let the rest of the council see my proposal." My words sound like an order, but my voice shoots up to a pleading octave, so I finish with a "Please."

Darlene lets out a long sigh. "Fine. I can tell them about it. But they'll need as much convincing as I do, which means more than the half-page proposal you submitted. We need all the logistics; the costs, the timeline, the benefits. Everything. The kind of proposal Georgia's friend already submitted to get approval to open a bookstore."

The fact Cassie's only been here two weeks and has already crafted her own proposal for the shop is the strongest sign yet that I need to treat this entire process not only more seriously, but also with more urgency.

Darlene's in her car before any words come to mind, but as she's about to shut her door, I grab it.

"I can do that. When does it need to be done by? I'll give it to everyone at the same time." I barely believe the words I'm saying, but I hope she can't tell that.

"We have public city council meetings the fourth Tuesday of every month. Talk to my secretary about being added to the agenda of our next one." She checks her watch. "That's the twenty-fifth of February."

"Okay. I'll be ready. Thank you." I let go of her door, then close it softly behind her and step back from the car. I even give her a wave as she drives away. She doesn't wave back.

Then I go inside to tell Britta the good news.

"Bear," she says, looking defeated. "That's in two weeks. Even if the shop isn't in escrow by then, can we get a presentation together that fast?"

I don't answer. The only thought in my head, now that Britta has pointed it out, is how little time I have.

Britta wipes her hands on her apron. "I'll try to put something together…" her mouth pulls into a sad smile. "Or maybe we can convince the girls to play field hockey."

I wince at her terrible joke. "Field hockey? What are they? East Coast snobs at a private school?"

Britta laughs.

I wrap my arm around her shoulders and pull her into a side hug. "I'll take care of the presentation. Don't worry about it. You've got enough going on here and at home."

Even with Grace working full time with Mom, Britta spends every spare minute—already in short supply—caring for Mom. I can't let her take on more.

My sister wraps her arms around my waist, and what started as a simple don't worry hug turns into a full-blown emotional release that threatens to make tears spill.

That's the problem with casual hugs with my brothers and sister these days. Every hug tends to turn into something bigger because all our emotions are so close to the surface. No one wants to come right out and talk about how long we may have left until Mom doesn't remember any of our names, or faces, or anything at all. She's declined so fast, and we're all struggling to accept the inevitable.

Even without talking about it, though, the unspoken words are always written on their faces. Mine too, I'm sure.

I let go of Britta before either of us breaks down and hurry to my truck, feeling anxious about a presentation to the entire city council and whoever else shows up that night. But I can't let worry stop me. I have another chance—my last chance—and I don't want to mess it up.

Over the next three days, all I can think about is my presentation. The weather has turned colder and we've had half-a-foot of new snow, so I've got emergency jobs at a few vacation homes where pipes have frozen. In addition, Georgia's next renovated cottage is ready for plumbing, so I spend an entire day there. And there's hockey practice. Through it all, I'm thinking about what to put in my proposal that will convince the city council to accept it.

But the only thing that comes to my mind is the image of me standing in front of all six people, and probably an audience, with no idea of what to say because I'm frozen with fear. That picture gets in the way of actually coming up with any words to say to them.

In my most desperate moments, my thoughts turn to Cassie and the fact that, if not for her, I might have had time to get the girls through the season. Even if he'd thought to officially put the shop on the market, who would have bought it as quickly as Cassie is trying to?

We've got about six weeks—maybe eight, if we're lucky—of temps low enough to keep the ice on the pond frozen and thick enough to be safe. And six weeks would be the right amount of time to perfect my proposal and practice presenting it.

If Cassie had waited—or would wait—one more month to make an offer on the property, I wouldn't have to worry about putting together a presentation in the next week. I could focus on hockey practice and quit worrying about the worst-case scenario of where to move the team if I lose the ground.

And the more I consider the idea, the more I think that, maybe, if I explain to Cassie why I need more time, she and I can figure out a way to make things work for both of us. If we agreed to each put off our presentations until the next public city council meeting, we'd both have more time to prepare.

This idea fills me with a rush of heat I feel all the way to my scalp. Every other time she and I have tried to talk about anything, it's ended badly. The idea of trying again feels ridiculous.

But the way I've treated her feels even more ridiculous—especially the mice part.

And if I can talk to Darlene Voglmeyer about my idea, I can talk to Cassie. She's more reasonable than the mayor—possibly. Cassie didn't freak out over the mice, and she didn't hurt them. The exterminator probably has, but Cassie, at least, isn't a cold-blooded killer.

Darlene, on the other hand, definitely has it in her to be. But I got through that conversation and made progress.

I can point out to Cassie all the benefits for her to wait four more weeks. She'll have more time to put together the financing she needs for the bookstore and make her renovation plans for it. Plus, unless she's got more than another week off work, she probably has to go back to LA soon. Who's protecting the streets if she's not there?

Meanwhile, I'll coach the girls to a level of play and love for the game that will help me convince people to fight to keep the pond as their rink.

It's far from a perfect plan. Cassie doesn't have any real incentive to go for it, other than out of the kindness of her heart. And I'm not even sure there's much kindness in her heart, or anywhere else in her body. The only evidence I've seen is that Georgia is friends with her, and Georgia doesn't hang out with mean people.

Usually.

She hasn't been very nice to me since Cassie showed up.

To be fair, I've given Georgia some reasons to be mad at me. I'll have to fess up to and apologize for the whole mice thing. Cassie's no dummy. She knew what I'd done. I saw it written on her face when she held up the mouse.

The memory of her green eyes flashing while she held the mouse by the tail makes me smile. And not just because it's funny how mad she was.

I wouldn't mind seeing her eyes do that same thing again. It reminded me of a lightning storm over the lake in early summer when the water reflects the color of the pine trees and the leaves of quaking aspens that surround it.

That memory, as much as my hope that Cassie might agree to my idea, propels me to the shop. Georgia said Cassie had moved back to the studio, so it's the most likely place to find her. She may still be mad. She may tell me no.

But at least I'll get to see her eyes again.