It had been quite a day, and it wasn’t even lunch time yet.
Chapter Six
Laurelton’s official business took place at Town Hall, a nineteenth century farmhouse that had been expanded over the years but still had the cramped feel of an earlier era with low ceilings and a few original scarred beams. The meeting room was packed by the time Glenn got there, and he squeezed down a row to an empty seat.
Zoning meetings were usually a snooze unless something controversial was on the agenda.
Like the Weber development.
The zoning board was the first hurdle. If they green lighted the project, the town council was likely to approve it. The thought left an unhappy knot in his stomach. He didn’t like public meetings, but this was the last undeveloped tract of land in town. Untouched habitat for animals and birds, healthy forage for pollinators. He even kept fifty of his own hives there. A nice sunny clearing at the edge of the woods. His bee yard was getting crowded, and the honey from this second location was exquisite. But this wasn’t just about his own hives. This issue was too important not to be here.
An older man in the next seat looked him over. “You here about that project?” Early seventies, with a head of silver hair, clothes rumpled but expensive. A lot of finance types up here, you never knew who you were talking to.
“Thought I’d see what was going on,” Glenn said evenly.
“You have a horse in the race?”
“Just interested.” Something about the guy’s tone set him on edge. The presumption that Glenn, in jeans and work boots, couldn’t have a stake here. “Actually, it’d be a shame to see that property developed.”
“I’m guessing you don’t pay taxes here in town.”
“As a matter of fact, I do,” Glenn said. This was what he disliked about Laurelton, the frank dismissal if you weren’t a money guy from Wall Street. How someone like him could possibly have anything to say.
“If you live here,” Wall Street said, “you ought to know what forty homes will do for the tax base in this town. Ever think of that?”
“What the tax base needs is more business downtown, not a bunch of new homes that are going to stress the schools. You have kids in public school?” Glenn knew the man didn’t. Grandkids maybe, but he’d bet they went to private.
A few heads turned now, curious.
A woman to Glenn’s left whispered, “Did you sign up to speak? You ought to; we need everyone we can get.”
He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “I’m not much for public speaking.”
“I heard what you said. You totally made a good point about the schools.” She tipped her chin toward the back of the room. “The sign-up sheet’s by the door.”
“Thanks,” he said, although he hadn’t intended to speak, just listen. He’d rather open a hive of stressed bees than stand in front of a room full of people. Bees weren’t always forgiving. They could chase you fifty yards if they thought you were a threat, but they weren’t duplicitous. They didn’t promise one thing and do another. The only heartache was when you couldn’t keep them alive.
“I’ll save your seat if you want to sign up,” the woman offered.
“Um, sure,” he said reluctantly. She was right. Even though it made him uncomfortable as hell, he needed to speak.
First the board took up other zoning matters—a variance to widen a residential street, a homeowner who wanted to operate a hair salon out of her garage. By the time they got to the Weber development it was eight o’clock, but not a soul had left.
The developer, Chuck Weber, gave a smooth presentation. He was late thirties, in black jeans and a blue blazer with the polished look of a salesman. “Of course there are concerns about any development,” he said, “but at the Weber Group we understand that a home is not just a place to live, it’s where families and memories are built.” He’d been facing the dais but glanced warmly over his shoulder at the audience. “These will be exceptional homes, with every amenity, that encompass elegance and technological innovation for the most discerning buyers. Starting at about three and a half million.”
A murmur ran through the crowd. Weber let the room settle. He’d clearly anticipated a reaction. “This caliber of development will provide a secure underpinning for your tax base and favorably impact your own property values. Even more important, the families who move here will be your neighbors, part of your community.”
Glenn’s leg twitched. What a load of crap.
The rest of the speakers were divided. The woman next to Glenn spoke about the traffic a big development would bring. A local real estate agent urged the zoning board to approve. “He’ll go to Darien or Greenwich if we don’t jump on this. Woods are nice, but we have plenty.”
The Wall Street guy clapped pointedly, and Glenn shot him an irritated glance.
When they finally called his name, Glenn’s mouth went dry. The woman who’d urged him to talk gave an encouraging nod. “I think their minds are still open, just say what you said before.”
At the podium, Glenn cleared his throat, heat riding up his neck at the thought of all those people behind him. He hadn’t written anything down since he’d never planned to speak. All he could say was what was burning a hole in his heart.
“Twenty acres of woods and open space. It’s not much in the scheme of things,” he began. “Connecticut has thousands of acres of parkland and state forest for recreation and public use, and New York State has many more thousands. So why should we care about an insignificant twenty acres here in Laurelton?” He felt himself winding up, his chest expand. “We should care because it’s the last open space in town and once it’s gone, it’s gone for good.”
