In the window display is a to-scale model of what the future Downtown Smoky Heights will look like, made out of foam. Every single location on the model is a vibrant, lively business, none are empty or abandoned. Trees bloom along both edges of the sidewalks, beautiful maples with their leaves changing colors, fir trees, white dogwoods in full bloom, like they were when I first arrived here, and another tree with bushy pink flowers I’m not familiar with.
There are even little adorable miniature people in this diorama. Two parents swinging a child between them outside of Smoky Scoops on their way for ice cream.
Someone picking up a coffee from a to-go window built into the exterior of Foamy Heights.
A man buying flowers from a florist stand while several women sit nearby on benches, smiles on their faces. In front of every storefront, every shop, there is life.
Her vision for this town is stunning. I can see it’s come a long way toward this already, even in my short time here. I have no doubt she will bring this whole strip to life before she calls this project done.
“I just don’t see whyIhave to be the one to change my business name!” the old man in the back argues with Rory.
He’s a brave soul for that. I wouldn’t want to go up against her.
“Are you going to make me repeat myself again?” she asks him, drolly.
“It makes more sense for a laundromat to be called Smoky Suds than a bar! He could be Heights Hops! What am I going to be? Smoky Bubbles? Heights Hampers? That just sounds stupid, Rory.”
“Well, Tom, you don’thaveto include the town name in your business name.”
“Everyone else downtown has! Why shouldn’t I get to?”
Rory lets out an exasperated sigh, her head falling forward into her hands, elbows on the desk while her fingers massage her temples. “For the last time, unless you want to go back to 1976 and beat Duke’s dad to naming your business Smoky Suds, your application isn’t going to be approved. The discussion is over. Pick another name. Call it Smoky Skid Marks for all I care. But until you pick a unique name, I can’t help you get your forms through the grant commission.”
The older man grumbles all the way to the door, forms to fix in hand, and Rory’s attention can finally come to me.
“Amelia!” She holds her arms out, standing, like she’s actually happy to see me.
Lexi’s younger sister is in a white top that can only be referred to as a blouse, so much sleeker than my cut off crop tee or anything else in my drawers in the van. Her slim skirt is something like a leather pencil skirt, black in color, that’s beyond flattering. She’s wearing heeled black boots that go past her calves and all in all I think I can see why Wyatt did everything he did to win her back, from the stories Weston’s told me while painting. Not that looks are everything. But she’s not just looks. She’s brilliant, fierce, the whole package. I’d probably never get over her either.
My eyes finally make it to her desk, and really, what’s over it. The focal piece of the entire office actually. A massive black and white print, at least six or seven feet wide, of an older lady being arrested, bending over as she gets into a sheriff’s car, a look on her face like she’s a mob boss from the heyday of the 20s and this is just another day for her. An odd choice in art for a lawyer’s office, I have to say, but it’s intriguing. There’s something in the woman’s eyes that sparks something in me. I can see why she was drawn to the piece.
Crossing the twenty feet or so to get to Rory’s desk, I nod with my chin to the print. “What’s with the mugshot?”
She grins and there’s something feral in it. “That? Is the inspiration behind New Heights.”
“Getting arrested?” I ask, deadpan.
“Living life to the fullest,” she says simply, whisking me into the vacated chair in front of her desk as she sits down behind it. “Not waiting to grab life by the balls. And taking our town back from the pricks who stole it from us in the first place.”
“And dealing withGrumpy Old Mencasting rejects is living life to the fullest, or is that grabbing life by the balls?”
“Tom?” Rory scoffs. “He’s harmless. Just a Tuesday morning for me. Myfavoritepart of this project is seeing all the new life that comes into the Heights after it was dying off for too long.” Her brown eyes sparkle at me as she says it, and I catch her drift.
Holding up my hands in front of me, I protest. “Oh, no, no, no. You’re not roping me into staying here, no matter how scary you are.”
“You think I’m scary?”
She pouts, clawed fingers tapping on the desk in a slow rhythm. My eyes are drawn to them and I notice her current manicure seems to be spring inspired, a soft pink with white detail that makes me think of Easter and fresh tulips.
My stomach clenches as those thoughts evoke memories of my mom, and I refocus on the woman in front of me.
“Well, yeah, you’re pretty…” I fish for a less insensitive word. “Intense.”
“I like to think of it as passionate,” she says, chin in the air.
“Okay, well, your passion comes out as dragon fire sometimes,” I tell her, and she laughs loudly.
“And that’s why I get paid the big bucks, babe.”
