His brick supplier was a sales rep named Joe Root, a veteran in the business. Root had seen a thousand builders come and go with the ups and downs of Florida real estate, and he believed Lenny had the smarts to rise above the competition. He found him on a ladder working with a framing crew and said hello. Root dropped in from time to time to check on his customers. Lenny followed him to the curb and they sat in the shade of the only tree in sight.
Root was saying, “Just got back from Camino, got a big order for eight tons of Florida white. You heard of the Old Dunes project?”
“Maybe,” Lenny replied. There were so many developments.
“High-dollar stuff, million-dollar homes, a golf course, the works. On a bay just off the bridge, near the old Harbortown.”
“I know the area.”
“They’re looking for builders. Company out of Texas, I think. Good reputation so far. All of my bills have been paid on time.”
“Building what?”
“Condos, two to three thousand square feet. Lots of them.”
Lenny was all ears. “Can you get me in?”
“Maybe I know the guy to talk to. Here’s his card.” Root handed over a business card for Donnie Armano, Project Manager, Old Dunes. Address in Jacksonville. A phone number.
Root said, “Let me know and I’ll put in a good word for you. They’re building like crazy and it’s not the run-of-the-mill crap like you got here.”
The conversation quickly shifted to college football. Lenny was a proud graduate of UF. Root was an FSU man. Both teams were struggling but would meet in the season finale. Neither liked the teams at Georgia or Alabama so they trashed both schools for a while.
After Root drove off, Lenny called Donnie Armano with Old Dunes. He threw in Joe Root’s name and Donnie could not have been nicer. That afternoon, Lenny left the subdivision early, drove thirty minutes to Old Dunes, and had an off-duty beer with Armano in his comfortable trailer office. They shook hands on a deal. A week later they signed contracts. Two weeks later Lenny’s foundation crew arrived on-site to prepare the first slab.
He worked hard to temper his excitement and enthusiasm. His little company was taking a huge leap upward and he was not about to screw up the opportunity. With a bit of luck to go along with his formidable work ethic, he just might be developing his own projects in a few years.
Mercer and her twelve students were enjoying a class outdoors in The Grove at Ole Miss, under the shade of two-hundred-year-old oaks, on a perfect fall day. The temperature was in the sixties. The golden leaves were falling. Scattered about were other classes with professors who had also succumbed to the weather and abandoned the buildings. They took over picnic tables, gazebos, stages, a pavilion, and lounged about under the old trees. The Grove was bracing for another football weekend when 20,000 fans would crowd into it for another epic party. Ole Miss might lose on the scoreboard but it never lost the pregame tailgate.
The literary challenge of the day was to look around at the setting, as peaceful and lovely as it was, and create a plot with serious conflict in less than 1,000 words. A beginning and an ending were required. Mercer wanted serious drama, perhaps even some violence. She was tired of the boring navel-gazing and self-pity that dominated their fiction.
As they pecked away on their laptops, Mercer studied hers. Diane was in the courtroom in Santa Rosa, preparing for Lovely’s deposition. Mercer wanted to be there. And Thomas was home from his submarine-hunting adventures and wanted to spend time with his bride. He had not found the Russian sub but was getting closer, in his opinion.
Mercer was at 18,000 words, stalled again, and seriously considering deleting everything she had already written. Thomas was reading it that morning and she did not look forward to his comments.
At ten o’clock, eleven in Santa Rosa, Diane emailed: “Lovely’s here and we’re getting ready. So long for now. Will check in when it’s over.”
She walked into the courtroom smiling, adorned from neck to toe in a bright red flowing robe. The mandatory turban was lime green and somehow wrapped into a tight cone that spiraled upward from the top of her head.
No judge in Florida allowed hats or caps in courtrooms, and Steven Mahon was already thinking about the trial. He planned to discuss her attire with Judge Salazar long before it started. What could be the harm in allowing Lovely to wear one of her many turbans during the trial? In his forty-plus years as a bare-knuckle litigator he had never had a fight over headwear.
He’d worry about that later.
