“Maybe I’ve changed my mind. Ballpark. How many payments can you make?”
“Four. Five at the most.”
“Then we have time.”
“For what?”
“To sway public opinion.” Cece can see Richie isn’t following her. He is a man who has had no use for politics, local or national, until this moment. “We can get out there and knock on doors. Collect our own signatures. I bet there’s a ton of support in the community for more jobs.”
Richie works his hands together like he’s holding an imaginary bar of soap.
“Look, right here,” Cece says. She points to a line in the letter. “While the majority sentiment expressed by the public may beconsidered in the Commission’s deliberations, please be advised that the Zoning Commission retains sole and final authority over the approval or denial of the building permit.”
“We still have a chance, you mean.”
“Correct,” Cece says, “and if we can bring our own list of signatures and make our case, there’s a good chance it’ll be approved.”
“It’s worth a shot, I suppose,” Richie says dubiously. “Where do we begin?”
For once in a very long time, Cece knows exactly what she needs to do. “Leave that to me.”
Cece knocks onMorgan’s front door and then retreats to the top step of the stairs. She has no real right to ask anything of him, especially after running into him with Jonathan, but she’s desperate. Pride be damned—she needs his help to save Rayburn. From the backyard, the whine of a saw. Cece picks her way around the side of the house where she finds Morgan standing in a cloud of sawdust, bright orange earplugs crammed into his ears, extension cords crisscrossing the lawn. Cece gives him a big wave, but he remains bent to the task, lips pursed, guiding wood slats with both hands, the saw spitting out scraps like spent sunflower seeds.
A few more cuts, the saw powered down, Morgan stands before her brushing sawdust from his beard and pant legs. Two red indentations grace the sides of his nose from the now-removed safety goggles.
“Remember when you asked me if there was anyone I wanted you to thump?” Cece says.
Morgan slides his backward hat around to face forward. “Sounds like something stupid I would say.”
“It was appreciated at the time,” Cece reassures him. She’d expected him to laugh or at least crack a smile. “I can come back. If you’re busy…I mean, I know you’re busy. I can see you’re working…”
“Just trying to finish up a few projects I’ve been neglecting.”
“Totally. I get it,” Cece says, flustered at her own presumption of Morgan’s availability. “I’ll stop by another time.”
She turns and goes back the way she came, stepping gingerly on moss-covered bricks.
“What’s the problem?” Morgan says before she’s out of earshot. “Guys from work still giving you a hard time?”
After Cece hurriedly explains the situation—the impending town hall, Richie’s financial gamble, their immediate need for signatures—Morgan says he knows where they should start.
“You’ll help me, then?”
Morgan tugs a rumpled plaid shirt on over his threadbare V-neck. “Sure thing.”
“We can do it another day, if you’re busy, that is.”
“Sounds time sensitive.”
Cece can’t deny this fact. “What about Lacy?”
“She’s up at her mom’s place. Coming back down tomorrow.”
“Too bad. She could have joined. We need all the help we can get. Should we take my car?”
“Know where we’re going?”
“Not necessarily.”
