Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 102523 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102523 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
“You’re being asked to vote on a rezoning proposal for land just outside city limits of Cold Springs, making this area single-family use, which will have consequences for the farms currently located there,” Winston continues. “They will no longer be legally able to farm, which is their current livelihood. Adding in the previous property tax changes, the expected end result is that these families will be unable to afford the properties. At that point, Jed intends to purchase this land as the site for Springdale Ranch.”
He pauses, letting that sink in. It’s the first time anyone from Jed’s company has officially, and on the record, spelled out their intentions so succinctly.
“In researching the land in question, it was up to me to do a full analysis—”
Jed interrupts him, snapping, “Winston!”
Winston’s head jerks to the left so that he’s looking at Jed, the same way everyone in the room does. We all see Jed’s anger rising, and the small shake of his head. That alone is telling that Winston has information Jed doesn’t want made public.
Dad clears his throat, the microphone amplifying the sound. “Why don’t we take a short break. We can reconvene in fifteen minutes?”
But Winston says sharply, “No. I don’t need a break.”
Dad looks at Jed uncertainly.
Winston takes advantage to press on. “This land has been farmed for generations and has a history.” Jed inhales sharply, but Winston forges on. “A long and varied one.”
I have no idea what he’s talking about, his dry delivery not doing him any favors. I’ve never heard my typically trash-talking brother’s professional voice, and it’s surprisingly trustworthy. I believe that if he feels he’s sharing important information, he most definitely is.
He glances back, his eyes asking if I get what he’s saying, but I’m missing something Winston needs me to see.
“Help him,” Avery whispers.
I step forward before I know I’m doing it, making my way to Winston’s side. Dad’s eyes narrow, his tone concerned as he says, “Wyatt?”
I’m still working it out, so speaking slowly, I say, “It’s important to preserve Cold Springs, especially the history—”
Winston nods, and I know I’m on the right track, but he has to give us more information. He’s the one with the research, but I will stand by his side in support.
“Which is . . .”
Winston picks up the sentence: “In rereviewing the property analysis, I recently discovered that the section of property at 812 Bellsy has a small carriage house. It was once a hideout for Beauford and Mildred Craft.”
Someone in the back yells out, “Who the hell is that?”
I know this, remember it from a book I read for school once.
“Beauford and Mildred Craft were a married couple who escaped slavery in the eighteen forties by what became known as the Underground Railroad. They fled for their freedom from Georgia to Boston, and later England. Their story inspired and encouraged many.”
Winston nods excitedly, probably thinking that I would be the least likely to actually know something of historical relevance. But I know this story.
“Exactly,” he says. “And while the Crafts might not be as historically famous as some others, it’s important to consider preservation before we make any moves that would lead to the destruction of our town’s history.”
Jed blurts out, “Nobody gives a shit about some old, falling-down barn.”
An elderly woman stands up, leaning on the chair in front of her for support. “I do. It’s my barn. That carriage house is where my favorite horse was born, it’s where I hid when the Prohibition police would search for my daddy’s moonshine, and it’s where I store my old car now, on account I can’t drive no more. And that it was part of the Underground Railroad too? You can’t tear it down! Especially not for some cookie-cutter houses and Johnny-come-lately strangers that don’t give a damn about Cold Springs.”
Jed scoffs, and several of the council members are looking at each other like they don’t care about some old lady’s storage shed. I need to remind them about what’s at stake here.
“If we destroy what made Cold Springs special, we’ll be destroying Cold Springs. I move that we petition the state to make the carriage house a historical site, an important place in our town from the days of Beauford and Mildred Craft to today, when it’s Ms. . . . I’m sorry, what’s your name?”
The old lady smiles, holding her skirt out daintily, though I doubt she can bow at her age. “Mrs. Eugenia Hackwood, but you can call me Geni.”
Her left eye twitches, and I’m not sure whether it’s supposed to be a wink or an involuntary tic. Either way, I smile back warmly. “From the days of the Crafts to Mrs. Eugenia Hackwood.”
Wren stands up, declaring in a loud voice, “I second that motion.”
Dad stands, too, his face pale. “Members of the public can’t make motions, nor second them. Tonight’s hearing is about rezoning.”