Page 49 of The Summer of Us

“Mayor Tremont.”

He turned, his face confused as he took me in. “Yes. How can I help you, son?”

I turned on the charm, recalling the mayor’s like of alcohol—any kind. I shook his hand. “Lincoln Webber.” From the blank look on his face, I knew he had had no idea who I was, or to whom I was related. “I’m sorry to bother you on a well-earned day on the course, sir, but I am in urgent need to speak to you. May I buy you a drink at the bar?” I indicated the outdoor roll cart, one of the many set up along the course.

He regarded me, then waved to his group. “Play on. I’ll take par on the holes I miss.”

The group all looked amused. “You never make par here.”

He glared. “Well, today, I did. One of my constituents needs to talk to me.”

They moved away. “Leave the cart,” he barked. “My knee is acting up.”

Lazy bastard. But I kept my smile in place. I needed to play this right. We strolled to the makeshift bar and placed our order, then sat on the bench located close. He took a long drink of his beer—probably not his first one of the day.

“Now, how can I help?”

I chose my words carefully. I didn’t know if the mayor had any idea of how my father had double-crossed him for all those years. My father played the game so well that he made sure the mayor shared some of the wealth, but the lion’s share went to my father. Always.

“My lawyer sent in the paperwork for approval on a house demolition. Somehow, the paperwork was lost,” I fibbed, deciding to play this a different way than accusing his wife of treachery. “I have all the other necessary permits but lack this one. I came to see you directly.” I had to pause before I uttered my next lie. “My father always told me to go directly to the source of power.” I clenched my fist so tight, my nails dug into my palm. “His praise for your take-charge handling of things was limitless.”

More like scathing contempt for what a spineless bastard you were, but potato-potahtoh, I added silently.

He frowned. “Webber isn’t a name I’m familiar with. Who was your father?”

I swallowed, barely able to push out the words. “Franklin Thomas.”

His eyebrows shot up. “You’re Frank’s son?”

“Yes.”

“Why the name change?”

I was prepared for his answer. “Out of respect, sir.”

Not for him, I thought silently.

“Ah, not riding on his coattails.”

I nodded, taking a sip of my water in order not to speak.

He stroked his chin. “I don’t recall seeing any paperwork come across my desk.”

I knew it. There had been no discussion. That cow of a wife of his must have hidden it. But why?

“It somehow has been lost in transit, I think.” I waved my hand. “It happens.”

“What are you planning on pulling down?”

“My father’s house.”

“Why?”

I waited for a moment to answer him, as if I was having trouble finding the words.

“I cannot bear to look at that house without him in it, sir.”

Because I wish he were alive so I could blow him up with it.