“You want a bottle or tap? Keg’s fresh.”
“Tap then. And better add some chili cheese fries to that order. Miranda doesn’t strike me as being in a sharing mood tonight.”
“You got it, sugar pie.”
Cam lounged back against the bar and took note of the glass of scotch Abe was nursing. “Are we celebrating or commiserating?”
“Little bit of both. I got an offer on my land.”
“That acreage over by Hope Springs?”
“Yep.”
Cam straightened in surprise. Abe was a local man, born and raised in Wishful. That land parcel had been in his family for generations. “You’re selling?”
“Thinkin’ ’bout it. It’s a damned good offer. Well above market value.” He sipped the scotch and grimaced, more a testament to the situation than the drink.
“Who?”
“Nobody local.”
Cam had figured that. Nobody local had that kind of money to throw around. In the wake of the plant closing, a lot of people didn’t have any money at all. Heirloom Home Furnishings had been the primary employer in town. When they’d opted to move their operations to Mexico eight months ago, it had gutted the town’s economy. That was just the latest blow in a long line of economic downturns over the last few decades. Their population was shrinking as more and more good people were forced to go elsewhere to support their families.
“But you can’t sell. That land’s part of your family history. Part of Wishful’s history.”
“History don’t pay the bills, son.”
It was an unfortunately familiar story. Loss of workforce and population also meant loss of business. Abe’s farm supply company took a hit when Cam bought the nursery five years ago. Cam had a wider variety and better stock, and with local propagation, he was able to offer better prices than the other man. But nursery and garden stock wasn’t Abe’s bread and butter. If the farm supply was suffering, this was the first Cam had heard about it.
Adele set Cam’s beer on the bar. “It’s too bad the city can’t make an offer on that parcel. Be nice to make a formal park out there by the springs. Like that plan you drew up. It’d be a great addition to the town.”
Cam’s mind started to spin. “Who’s brokering the sale?”
“Sally Forester on my side. Other folks got an attorney from out of town.”
“Hold off on making any final decisions, Abe. If anybody’s gonna buy that property, the city ought to have first crack at it.”
Abe grunted in acknowledgment, but it was a hollow victory. Buying more land was only one of many things the city couldn’t afford to do. The truth was, the town he loved was dying, and Cam didn’t know how much longer they could limp along as they were. What they needed was a miracle, and despite the holiday season, those were in pretty short supply.
~*~
“And how is my sister from another mister?” Miranda’s voice rolled out of the car speakers, a welcome breath of the South that made Norah Burke ache with homesickness.
“Tired. It’s a long drive back from New York.”
“Why on earth didn’t you fly?”
“Because nobody’s invented a teleporter yet. Flying would take just as long, and I’d be one of a hundred other irritable sardines, who want to be home already. At least on the road it’s quiet.”
“You totally live in the wrong city for quiet. Are you home yet?”
“Got a couple more hours. But I’m about to break it up a bit and make a stop in your honor.”
“Off I-90? Oh my God, are you in Morton? You’re going to Have Your Cake, aren’t you?”
Norah laughed at the mix of accusation and longing in her friend’s tone. “Guilty.”
The stretch of road immediately off the interstate had mushroomed in the past three years with the usual contingent of fast food restaurants, gas stations, and a couple of chain hotels. Pleased at the evidence of growth, Norah bypassed them all, following the signs for downtown and sending up a silent prayer that Have Your Cake would be open until six.