“Noted.” I checked the box for adjacent owner contact and wrote the condition about quiet hours. “Stormwater plan?”
“The contractor sent me the numbers this morning. You’ll have a stamped plan by Thursday.”
That was faster than I’d expected. For someone the town claimed never finished what he started, he was keeping ahead of schedule.
“How about lighting?”
“Shielded fixtures pointed downward,” he said. “Timers will shut everything off by ten.”
“Trash and recycling?”
“Two cans, anchored. I’ll be in charge of maintaining them.”
He didn’t try to charm his way through the list, which would have irritated me more than anything. He just answered, point by point, like he’d already gone over the checklist and anticipated all of my questions. It was disorienting. Why did he get under my skin so easily? Maybe because he wasn’t acting like the reckless man everyone insisted he was.
I glanced toward the gravel lot. “What about winter use? Outdoor courts will be buried half the year. How do you propose to make them functional?”
Dane didn’t hesitate. “In the short term, we plow them with the sidewalks. Long term, I want to add a heated dome. That way, the courts can be used year-round, even when the snow piles up. Seniors won’t lose their routine in the winter, and kids will still have somewhere safe to burn off energy after school.”
His answer surprised me. I wrote the note without comment, though the fact that he had considered winter conditions unsettled my assumption that this was only a summer whim.
While I checked the clipboard, footsteps approached from the back door of the gym. A cluster of seniors appeared with water bottles and baseball caps. Harvey Gates stood at the front, leaning on his cane while he shuffled his feet. His grin made it clear whose side he was on.
“Hi there, Ms. March,” he said, tipping his cap. “We appreciate you coming out. My doctor says I need to keep moving since my hip surgery. Pickleball sounds like a good way to do it.”
“I’m just here to review a site plan, Mr. Gates.” I stepped to the side to let them pass. “The purpose of this visit is solely to confirm setbacks and conditions.”
Harvey winked like I’d shared a joke. “That sounds fine. We’ll be over here, staying out of your way and not stepping on your tape measure.”
“Thank you,” I said, then bent to measure the distance from the fence to the staked line for the ADA path. The numbers were close enough that I checked them twice. The line of the path would need a slight dogleg to meet standards, which meant a modest change to Dane’s sketch. I made a note and kept moving.
“Do you want to look at the drainage swale line?” Dane asked.
“I see it,” I said, and traced the flagged curve with my pen. “You’ll need erosion control during construction. Silt fence, stabilized entrance, stockpile protected.”
“Already on the list,” he said. “Want to come inside for a minute? I made a board to show the court layout.”
“I’m not here for a tour,” I said, but my clipboard did include interior access as part of a holistic review, and I had no desire to argue a technicality in a gravel lot while a cheerful octogenarian club pretended not to listen. “I suppose I can take a quick look. You’ve got five minutes.”
Inside, the gym buzzed with activity. Just beyond the door, a stretching area faced a tall mirror. Free weights were stacked along one wall, the clank of metal plates mixing with easy conversation from a couple of lifters. Beyond that, two studio rooms were ready for classes. The air smelled faintly of chalk and rubber mats, the kind of mix that came from hours of steady workouts. I hadn’t been inside before, and though I didn’t want to give Dane Thorne too much credit, he’d built something impressive.
He led me to a chalkboard next to the front desk. He’d sketched out the court dimensions with notes about fence height and surfacing. There were even a few stars doodled around the edges. He didn’t look like a doodler, but I was learning Dane Thorne was full of surprises.
Dane led me toward a balance board stationed near the mirror. “I want to show you why the surface texture matters.”
“I’m already familiar with ASTM standards and ADA slip coefficients,” I said, hoping that would put an end to it. I couldn’t spend any extra time around him. Even though it was all an act… the charming smile, the slight southern drawl… he still had an effect on me. One I refused to acknowledge.
“Sure,” he said. “But you need to feel this.” He walked over to the balance board and motioned for me to follow.
Figuring it was easier to do what he asked than waste even more time arguing with him, I gave in. Testing surface textures wasn’t in the manual, but neither was half of my job. I set my clipboard on the front desk, put one foot on the board, then the other. The cylinder under it shifted. My calves engaged. The subtle wobble forced every small muscle in my legs to wake up at once.
“Bend your knees a little,” Dane said, close enough that I could hear the low warmth in his voice. “There. The seniors use it to work on their stability. New players use it for control. The finish we pick out here will feel different under a shoe than on a spec sheet.”
“I’ve got it,” I said, but the board twitched to contradict me. Dane’s hand hovered near my elbow without touching. The closeness was totally unnerving, but I refused to fall on my ass in front of him. I adjusted, found a center, and held it.
“See?” he said. “You learn balance even though you didn’t know you were missing it.”
I stepped off and retrieved my clipboard. “The surface will be specified in the packet. The brand doesn’t concern me as long as it meets standards.”
