Hank huffed out a laugh. “We should get going soon,” he said. “Jason’s meeting us at the warehouse to go over the latest quote before the mayor brings her binder of rules.”
Diaz slid something across the table: a business card with her name, the station number, and a handwritten cell number on the back. “You already have this, but I’m giving it to you again,” she said. “Repetition helps.”
Bree tucked it into her sketchbook. “Thanks,” she said. “For everything. I know we’re not your only problem.”
“You’re the ones trying to fix something instead of breaking it,” Diaz said. “That puts you on my priority list.” She pushed her notebook aside. “Okay, enough doom. Tell me your good news. Last time we spoke, you’d just told the mayor you were serious about the warehouse.”
Hank’s mouth curved. “We signed the purchase agreement yesterday,” he said. “Bank’s processing the loan. Assuming today’s meeting doesn’t turn into a bonfire, it’s happening.”
Diaz’s smile was brief but real. “Congratulations,” she said. “Copper Moon could use a few more people crazy enough to plant roots.”
Bree felt a little flutter at that; at the way Diaz said plant roots as if it were a commendation.
“We’ll keep you posted,” Hank said, standing. “And we’ll be here tomorrow. Same time. You’ll want a refill on that muffin intel.”
Diaz raised her coffee in a half-toast. “Count on it,” she said.
The warehouse didn’t care about shell companies or federal cases.
It sat at the end of Bay Street, its brick face catching the midmorning sun, windows like tired eyes. The big bay door was rolled up, the inside cool and shadowed. Jason’s truck was already parked out front; so was the mayor’s hybrid, the chirp of its lock sounding as Bree and Hank walked up.
“Let’s hope this isn’t a portent,” Bree muttered.
Hank’s hand brushed her lower back. “We’ve handled worse than a meeting,” he said. “If they tell us the place is secretly full of asbestos, I’ll just add hazmat suits to the budget.”
“That’s not funny,” she said.
“Little bit,” he replied.
Inside, Jason stood near the center of the open floor, a roll of blueprints in one hand, and a tape measure hooked to his belt. Mayor Liz Harper leaned against a scaffolding plank, tablet in hand, reading glasses perched on her nose.
“There they are,” Liz said. “Our new neighborhood investors.”
Bree tried to read her tone. It sounded mostly warm, with a hint of mayoral briskness.
“Hey,” Jason said. “You two ready for the fun part? Numbers and forms.”
“More ready than you know,” Hank said.
They gathered near the makeshift table Jason had fashioned from two sawhorses and a sheet of plywood. Jason spread the blueprints out. The lines and measurements looked like a language Bree was only beginning to understand.
“So here’s where we’re at,” Jason said. “Structurally, she’s sound. We need to reinforce a couple of beams if we’re going to hang the lift you want, Hank, and if you’re serious about that mezzanine for Bree’s office, we’re talking some steel work. Electrical’s going to need a full upgrade if you want both the shop and the studio pulling power without tripping every breaker on Bay.”
“We knew that,” Bree said, her mind leaping ahead to the Bryn wall, to the way light would fall across it after they opened the second set of windows.
“Right,” Jason said. “So the issue isn’t the renovation itself. It’s what we’re allowed to do under current zoning.”
Liz tapped the tablet. “This block is zoned light industrial with restricted commercial overlay,” she said. “Which is a fancy way of saying you can fix things here, you can ship things, you can sell wholesale. But retail and public assembly uses are limited. Your machine shop? Perfect fit. Your art studio with classes and gallery openings?” She winced. “Not so much.”
Bree’s stomach swooped. “Wait,” she said. “We talked about community events at the council meeting. Nobody said anything about… limits.”
“At that point, you were hypothetical,” Liz said. “It’s easier for a lot of people to nod along when something’s hypothetical. When the forms hit their desks, they start reading the fine print.”
“So what does that mean?” Hank asked. “In plain English.”
“It means,” Liz said, “if you do nothing, you can operate the shop as planned, and Bree can have a private studio. She can sell online, ship from here, and do commissioned work by appointment. But you won’t be able to host regular public events or have walk-in gallery hours without a special use permit.”
Bree’s chest tightened. “The whole point was to have a space people could come into,” she said. “Workshops. First Fridays. Kids’ art days. Bryn’s wall isn’t just for us.”
