Back at the warehouse, Bree stood in the front bay with a clipboard, talking to the café owner from Main and the antique shop couple, a petite woman and a tall man with a collection of pens in his pocket. The marina manager leaned against the doorframe, arms folded.
“…we’d host open studio nights,” Bree was saying. “Live painting, maybe a local musician, nothing wild. We’re talking nine o’clock end times, not midnight ragers. And the shop side closes earlier than that. We want this block to feel safe. Alive, but safe.”
The café owner, Lila, nodded. “More foot traffic’s good for me,” she said. “If people are coming down for your events, they’ll want coffee and dessert. I’m on board.”
The marina manager shrugged. “As long as your events don’t block the boat ramps, I don’t care,” he said. “I’ll sign whatever Liz wants.”
The antique shop owner’s husband adjusted his glasses. “My only concern is parking,” he said. “We already get the overflow from the ice cream place on busy nights.”
“We’ve been talking about partnering with the civic center lot,” Bree said. “Most nights after six, it sits half empty. If we can get signage and a shuttle going on event nights, it should ease some of that.”
“And I’ll put parking management in the application addendum,” Hank added, stepping up. “We’ll have clear hours, clear capacity limits. You’ll have all of that in writing.”
The man studied them for a moment, then nodded. “All right,” he said. “We’ll support you. A little noise’s better than another empty storefront.”
Relief softened Bree’s shoulders.
As they trickled out, promising to email letters to Liz’s office, Hank caught her eye.
“How’d it go?” she asked softly. “At the track?”
He told her the condensed version: the van, the vendor, Diaz stepping in.
“Any trouble?” she asked.
“Not today,” he said. “But that guy knows we’re not just going to look away. So do the kids he was trying to hook.”
Bree’s expression was steady. “Good,” she said. “Let him know Copper Moon isn’t an easy mark.”
He looked at her, at the smudge of primer on her wrist, the clip holding back her hair, the clipboard full of signatures. She’d spent the day convincing neighbors, calling in favors, and building support. While he’d been on familiar terrain with engines and bad actors, she’d been on a different kind of front line.
“You did good today,” he said.
“So did you,” she replied.
Later, after Brian left with promises to return in the morning and Jason had locked up his tools, they sat on overturned paint buckets in the middle of the empty floor, pizza box between them.
“This doesn’t feel real yet,” Bree said, looking around. “Like we’re squatting in someone else’s dream.”
“It’s ours,” he said. “We just haven’t filled it in yet.”
She took a bite of pizza, chewed thoughtfully. “Speaking of filling in,” she said, “I talked to Diaz’s assistant. Her cousin’s a realtor. She sent over some listings.”
He swallowed a mouthful of crust. “Anything promising?”
“A few,” she said. “There’s a little bungalow near the marina that’s in our budget, but it’s tiny. There’s a farmhouse on the outskirts with land and a detached garage that keeps winking at me, but it needs work.”
“Work we could do,” he said.
“Work we’d have to do,” she countered. “On top of this.”
He thought about it. About walking out of a place that smelled like their coffee, their laundry, their life.
“Can we see the farmhouse?” he asked.
She smiled slowly. “Tomorrow afternoon,” she said. “Realtor’s meeting us there at three.”
He leaned back on his hands, looking up at the rafters. “A house and a shop in the same week,” he said. “We don’t do anything halfway, do we?”
