The Notice

The notice is taped to the shed door when you get to the yard the next morning.

Not mailed. Not emailed. Taped, with blue painter's tape, like a lost-dog flyer. The town seal sits in the corner, the lighthouse and the pine tree.

You read it twice. Then you read it again, out loud, because the words don't stick the first time.

NOTICE OF PUBLIC HEARING. The Hollis Cove Town Council will consider a proposal from Whitaker Lakefront LLC to purchase Parcel 14-B (Lantern Point), currently leased to Lantern Point Boatyard under a lease expiring August 31. Public comment and vote: Friday, August 15, 7 p.m., Town Hall.

Parcel 14-B.

The land under the shed. The slip. The crane. The rooftop deck where your grandfather drank his coffee every morning for forty years.

"Walt!"

He's already behind you. He's been standing there long enough to read it over your shoulder.

"Knew this was coming," he says quietly.

"You knew?"

"Knew it'd come someday. Town's been broke since the cannery closed. Pop knew it too." Walt takes off his cap and turns it in his hands. "Land was always the town's. Your grandfather leased it in '71 for a dollar a year and a handshake. Every twenty years, the council renewed. Nobody ever asked for more."

"Somebody's asking now."

Walt looks toward the road, toward town, toward the Harbor Inn.

"Somebody with a black car, Ethan," he says. He settles his cap back on his head and looks at the shed for a long moment, the way a man looks at a house he grew up in. "Your grandfather always said the town would come for the point someday. He just figured he'd be here to argue."

The Harbor Inn is the nicest building in Hollis Cove: white clapboard, green shutters, a wraparound porch, and a lawn that rolls all the way down to the water. There's a white gazebo at the bottom where people get married every summer. You've been to six weddings there. You've never been to one that made your stomach hurt before it started.

Brody is on the porch, laptop open, phone at his ear, an untouched croissant beside him. He sees you coming up the steps and lifts one finger. Wait.

You don't wait. You put the notice down on his keyboard.

Brody looks at it. Then he says into the phone, "I'll call you back," and hangs up.

"Good morning," he says pleasantly. "Coffee? They do a great pour-over."

"What is this?"

"That's a public notice." He slides it back toward you. "Pretty standard. The town has to publish those."

"You're buying the land under my yard."

"I'm making an offer to the town for a parcel the town owns." He leans back in the wicker chair, completely at ease. "It's not your land, you know. I'm sure that's hard to hear. But legally..."

"My family's been there fifty years."

"And I respect that. Sincerely." He presses a hand to his chest. "That's exactly why I wanted to talk to you before this went any further. I told you at breakfast. I like to know my neighbors."

"You knew. When you asked who owned it. You already knew."

Brody smiles. It's a nice smile. It's probably won him a lot of rooms.

"I like to see how people answer questions," he says.

A waiter comes out with a coffee pot. Brody waves him off without looking. The waiter retreats so fast he nearly trips.

"Sit down," Brody says. "Please. Let's be adults about this."

You don't sit. He doesn't seem to mind.

"Here's what's going to happen," he says. "The council's going to vote in August. They're going to see a town with a dead cannery, two empty storefronts on Main Street, and a school that's down to forty kids a grade. Then they're going to see my numbers. Jobs. Tax base. A marina, a hotel, restaurants. People will come back to Hollis Cove." He tilts his head. "And on the other side, they'll see one old shed, one crane, and one very sweet guy who restores wooden boats nobody buys."

"People buy them."

"How many last year?"

You don't answer.

"That's what I thought." He reaches into his laptop bag and takes out a checkbook. An actual paper checkbook, leather-bound, initialed. He writes something, tears the check out, and sets it on the table between you.

It's signed. The amount is blank.

"Name your number," Brody says. "Relocation. Equipment. Goodwill. You could open a place in Traverse City, somewhere people actually have money. Or take a year off. Travel. You've never left this town, have you?"

The lake glitters down below the lawn. A sailboat tacks lazily past the gazebo. Your hands are shaking, and you shove them into your pockets so he won't see.

"I don't want your money."

"Everybody wants money. They just want different amounts." He pushes the check an inch closer. "Think of it as a wedding present. From me to Lily's oldest friend."

"Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Don't use her name for this."

Brody's eyes change. Just slightly. Like a door closing somewhere in a big house.

"I wasn't using her name, Ethan," he says quietly. "I was being generous. There's a difference. You'll learn it."

You pick up the check. For a second, he looks pleased.

Then you tear it in half, and in half again, and drop the pieces next to his croissant.

"It's not for sale," you say. "Not the yard. Not anything."

You're halfway down the porch steps when he calls after you.

"You know what I don't understand?"

You shouldn't stop. You do.

Brody has stood up. He's leaning on the porch railing, coffee cup in hand, looking down at you like a man looking down at a dock from a yacht.

"Why you're acting so surprised." He shrugs. "I assumed you knew. I assumed she told you."

"Told me what?"

"Lily." He takes a slow sip. "She's known about the Hollis Cove project for months, Ethan. Since the winter. Before she ever said yes to a summer wedding here."

The wind comes up off the water. The gazebo flags snap.

"Funny," Brody says. "I'd have thought she'd mention it. Being your best friend and all."