More than that, I’ll make sure every nail and ledger is tied down so tight she can’t pry them loose without losing a few teeth in the process.
“Second,” Jack calls from the wall. “No one’s logged more hours on that house than Rourke.”
Bobby looks relieved. “All right, we got one name. Any others?”
Jack shrugs. “Put me on, too, if you want somebody to yell at contractors.”
“Good, good. That’s two.” Bobby scratches with a pencil that barely leaves a mark. “We need five for quorum.”
Dr. Alma Torres lifts her chin. “I’ll serve.”
She’s our town physician, the kind of steady hand every committee needs. She’s thoughtful, sharp, and she doesn’t waste time on ego. For years, she’s helped me manage the pain in my knee with a calm efficiency I’ve come to count on.
I’m glad she stepped in. She’ll keep things practical, and I know she’ll have my back.
“That’s four, including me,” Bobby says, brightening. “Hey, not bad.”
I clear my throat. “While we’re at it, the committee should review interior features, too. Original beams, hearth stones, porch lattice. And the ledgers, if they can be archived. We need to do right by the inn.”
If the house is going to be preserved, transferred, and sold, then every last piece of it ought to be properly documented. Every hinge and ledger and brass keyhole. It’s the least I can do for a place that’s given half this town its start. And if the extra paperwork buys us a little more time, then maybe that’s no bad thing, either.
There are nods. Quick assent. Preservation’s easy to agree with in theory.
“And one more thing,” I add before Bobby can move on. “Interim protection while we review that will allow us sixty days, renewable once. No permits or alterations until we’re finished.”
That earns a ripple of murmurs. People like rules when they spare them a fight. What I’ve just done, in plainer terms, is put even the idea of a sale on pause. Nobody can so much as repaint a railing until the review’s complete.
Beside me, Elsie’s hands flatten on her knees. Still at last. She doesn’t look at me, and I can’t tell if she’s furious or blindsided. Either way, I can’t pretend I didn’t know it would stink.
I didn’t do it to spite her, though, and this isn’t about winning. It’s about making sure nothing unforgivable and irreparable happens to the inn. Still, if it slows things down—gives her reason to think twice—then maybe that’s for the best, too.
Bobby blinks. “We can send that to the selectboard as a recommendation. All in favor?”
Hands rise. Only two don’t. Good enough.
Bobby scratches his pencil again. “We still need a fifth member for quorum. For the inn, county likes one seat held by an owner or owner’s rep, but ... given the circumstances, maybe we can waive it.”
The room shifts, quiet as snowfall. All eyes swing my way, then Elsie’s.
“I’ll do it,” she concedes. “I should have an opinion on what happens to my grandmother’s house, official ownership be damned.”
“Second,” Ms. Quinn says immediately.
“No,” I say quickly. “That’s a conflict of interest. She’s the one planning to sell the place.”
Elsie turns, fire in her eyes. “And it’s not a conflict when you’ve been living there for years? When you’re the one who doesn’t want it sold?”
The benches creak with interest.
“That’s different,” I snap. “I’m not the intended beneficiary. I don’t stand to gain by denying a proper designation.”
“You stand to lose,” she fires back. “That’s the same thing.”
“You’re not even a town resident,” I say.
“I’m living in the house right now. Mail comes to my name. Taxes will be in my name. That makes me resident enough.”
Bobby shifts at the podium, uneasy. “There’s no technical reason Miss Hart can’t serve. Owner’s representative is exactly what the county wants.”
