“Here’s another question. How can this corporation develop Dark Isle if it’s owned by Lovely? She still claims ownership, right?”
“Right. She says she’s the last-known living heir to the property, but the paperwork is rather scarce. There has never been a grant from the throne or a property deed.”
“Sounds like another chapter.”
“Yes, it does. You’d better get busy. Is Thomas still around?”
“Sort of. He’s got his nose stuck in the book now, completely ignoring me.”
“What an idiot.”
“I’ll call when we get home.”
Steven Mahon had failed twice at retirement. For most of his illustrious career he was a top litigator for the Sierra Club and led assaults against all manner of environmental pollution and destruction. The lawsuits were long and brutal and after thirty years he burned out and retired to a small family farm in Vermont. There he lasted one winter, snowbound and bored, until his wife sent him to Boston to find work. He got a job with a small nonprofit, sued a few chemical companies, and survived a heart attack at the age of sixty-three. His wife was from Oregon, couldn’t handle snow, and decided they needed sunshine. They moved to Santa Rosa and bought a beautiful Victorian three blocks off Main Street. She took over a garden club as he puttered around with the turtle-watchers guarding eggs on the beach. When boredom threatened their marriage, he founded the Barrier Island Legal Defense Fund, an aggressive-sounding outfit that consisted of himself and a part-time secretary crammed together in a tiny office above a dress shop, across the street from Bay Books.
Now seventy years old, he claimed he’d never been happier. Bruce liked him because their politics were similar, and also because he bought a lot of books at no discount. He was quoted on page three in the morning’s paper as saying, “The proposed development of Dark Isle will be an environmental disaster like we’ve never seen in this part of Florida. We look forward to hauling Tidal Breeze into court.”
Never one to mince words or run from a reporter, Steven was always quick with a colorful word or two and loved making threats. Trench warfare against rich, ruthless corporations had stripped him of any semblance of timidity or diplomacy.
He and Bruce met for lunch at least once a month, and seeing Steven’s name in print prompted the invitation by Bruce. They found their favorite table on a waterside terrace at the main harbor, just as a shrimp boat chugged by loaded with the daily catch. Bruce, as always, ordered a bottle of Chablis. Steven said he would have only one glass. He was lean and in great health, but his doctors, and his wife, watched his numbers closely. Cardiac problems were hereditary.
“How’s the book coming along?” Bruce asked.
The book was his memoir, his war stories, his greatest hits in taking on wolf poachers in Montana, nuclear waste leakers in New Mexico, coal strip miners in Kentucky, and Miami cruise operators who dumped tons of garbage in the ocean. The list was long and remarkable and Bruce had heard many of the tales over the years. Steven was a fine raconteur and a good writer as well, but the book required discipline. The author disliked desks and computer screens.
“Two hundred pages, with at least that much to go.”
“When can I read some?”
“Later, not now.” The waitress poured wine and they clinked glasses.
When it came to his writers, Bruce was famously nosy. He wanted to know what they were working on and pushed them to write more. A notoriously undisciplined bunch by nature, they usually lied and said they were making more progress than they really were. He was always ready to jump in and read their latest drafts, which, of course, meant they had to listen to his editorial comments. He wanted them to write hard and well, and get published, and enjoy the writing life. If necessary, he would call agents and editors and give his unsolicited opinions about the manuscripts. And they listened. He had built his store into a powerhouse on the independent bookstore circuit, and it sold a lot of books. He networked nonstop and could deliver as much in the way of gossip as in gross sales. He knew the writers, agents, editors, publishers, executives, book reviewers, critics, and many other booksellers, and he made certain they knew him.
He and Steven ordered seafood salads and sipped wine. It was June and the sun was hot, the tourists had arrived, and the harbor was busy with fishing boats and small craft.
And the bookstore was packed. The summer season was Bruce’s favorite.
He said, “I saw where you popped off in the paper about Panther Cay.”
Steven smiled and shrugged. “Popped off? I thought I offered my usual learned and reserved legal opinion.”
“Well, it was certainly the usual. I assume you’ll be involved.”
“Not yet but we’re watching closely. If Tidal Breeze gets approval, then all hell breaks loose.”
“You file suit?”
“Oh yes. We’ll unload all the heavy artillery, or as much as my little operation can handle. It’ll be expensive, though.”
