Sweet Tibby Mack. Roz Fox Denny

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       CHAPTER TWO

      THE NEXT EVENING Cole took his sandwich and cup of coffee to the screened porch. The setting sun gave off just enough light to see. He and his grandfather used to have some great talks out here. The old man had been able to debate both sides of any issue and do a convincing job of it. Cole wished he’d known about his grandfather’s heart condition; he’d have turned down that last job. All the hours they’d spent together, and Gramps never once mentioned being on high-blood-pressure medicine or having to use nitroglycerin tablets. Joe Toliver had supplied that information yesterday.

      The people of Yaqui Springs had really loved Gramps. They made Cole see the value of belonging to a closeknit community. They looked after their own; they really were a community. At his condo complex on the coast the residents had iron grates on their doors and windows, and he knew barely any of his neighbors. Yes, sinking roots in Yaqui Springs appealed to him.

      For no reason at all Cole recalled the baskets of flowers Tibby had placed on everyone’s door yesterday. Every door except his. After visiting the Tolivers, Fred Feeny and Ralph Hopple, Cole had to admit he’d more or less expected to find one at his place. Winnie had expected so, too. She’d lent him a vase. Apparently she didn’t know sweet Tibby as well as she’d led him to believe.

      Weird how everyone called her sweet Tibby Mack as if it was her name. She hadn’t shown him any sweetness.

      Swallowing the last bite of sandwich, Cole leaned back to enjoy his coffee. Boy, Tibby Mack was a classic case of a caterpillar turning into a butterfly. She used to be skinny as a post, and so bashful she’d made Cole nervous. Even then, her eyes had resembled huge moss agates, always watching him from the shadows.

      Yet…if he hadn’t met Cicely, he might be tempted to ferret out that sweet personality everyone raved about. But he had met Cicely. Which reminded Cole of how lonely he’d been this past year. When they’d begun dating two years ago, a loose relationship suited them both. Cicely wanted freedom to pursue her acting career, and he flew off on short notice to design golf courses for conglomerates. The last time they’d spoken, Cole suspected Cicely’s career had stalled. Now here he was with the chance of a lifetime dumped in his lap. And with him staring thirty-one eyeball to eyeball, and Cicely a couple of years older…By the time his course opened, they should both be more than ready to settle down and start a family.

      Assuming he could begin excavation soon.

      Cole slammed his mug down on the glass-topped table. There was still the little matter of that prime land his neighbor had usurped. He checked his watch. Eight o’clock. Was it too late to have another go at talking her around? Rising, he carried his plate and cup into the kitchen. From there he had a fair view of the Mack house, where lights still blazed. Maybe he hadn’t approached Tibby the right way yesterday. What if he offered to compensate her for the cost of rebuilding elsewhere? Not that he owed her. But if it’d facilitate things, Cole guessed he could bend a little.

      TIBBY WAS ELBOW-DEEP in printer’s ink when someone knocked at her back door. “Come in!” she yelled, hoping it’d be Pete Banks. He was Yaqui Springs’ all-purpose mechanic. Someday she hoped to be able to afford a computer and laser printer. Then, putting out the newsletter would be a snap. For now, she had to nurse this ancient printing press along.

      She glanced up as Cole O’Donnell poked his head hesitantly around the door. What was he doing here? Tibby suffered a moment’s panic. Black ink covered both her hands and no doubt smudged her face. She knew her reaction was pure vanity, yet she’d rather anyone but this man caught her looking like a chimney sweep.

      “Why would you shout ‘come in’ when you had no idea who was at your door?” Cole stepped inside. “An unlocked door is asking to end up a murder victim.”

      “Do murderers generally knock?”

      “Some might. That isn’t the point.”

      “Come on. This is Yaqui Springs, not Hollywood.”

      He gazed critically around the room. Quilting frames stood in one corner, ablaze with color. Dusty golf clubs in another. On the far wall a dry sink overflowed with sweetpeas. Surprisingly the effect was warm and inviting. Cole’s stomach tightened. A crazed stranger could destroy this trusting woman.

      “Crime is no longer exclusive to big cities,” he said.

      “You’re right, of course. It’s a habit I picked up from Grandmother Mack that I should try to break. But I’m sure you didn’t drop by to discuss my bad habits. What brings you here, O’Donnell? Forget something at the store? Or dare I hope you’ve come to tell me you’ve decided against raping our land?”

      “Raping? Now see here. Golf courses are considered greenbelts. And greenbelts are pleasing to the eye. They enhance a residential community.”

      “Tell that to the birds, the snakes, the ground squirrels, coyotes and other desert animals your pleasing-to-the-eye greenbelt will deprive of homes. To say nothing of destroying plant life and marsh grasses so vital to the lake. I assume you plan to use a section of the lake?” Tibby’s nose itched. She rubbed it and knew at once she’d left a black mark.

      “Eventually. But I’ll have to comply with the state’s environmental policies. As a matter of fact, I faxed them my proposal this afternoon. I should hear something soon.”

      “Busy boy. You drove to Brawley and back just to send a fax?”

      “No. I have a fax machine in my car.”

      Tibby arched a brow. “I should have known. The ultimate yuppie. Look, I’m busy. Why don’t you speak your piece, then leave?” She didn’t want him accidentally picking up one of the papers she’d already run off, as she’d written a pretty inflammatory article accusing him of wrecking the ecological and social balance of Yaqui Springs. Tibby would rather he received the news in the morning, along with everyone else.

      He spread his feet and crossed his arms. “All right I’ll get to the point. There are always normal delays in construction projects of this size. The people who petitioned to get this golf course off the ground are anxious. I’m willing to offer some monetary support in relocating the post office you’ve erroneously built on my land.”

      “No part of that building is erroneous. Gram had a permit, and the plans passed all inspections. Do you mind showing me this almighty petition?”

      “Gladly.” Cole dug a folded piece of ruled notebook paper from his wallet.

      Tibby accepted it without a word. Signatures covered both sides of the paper. Good heavens, every resident in Yaqui Springs—except her—had signed the thing. They’d skipped her on purpose. Her friends? Surrogate parents, practically. Wounded, Tibby refolded the damning evidence and thrust it back at him.

      “Well?” He stuffed the smudged paper in his pocket and waited.

      “It changes nothing. You probably dangled the idea before them like a carrot in front of a horse. We’ll see how they feel tomorrow after they read my article. Here.” Perversely Tibby pressed a drying newsletter into Cole’s hands and urged him toward the door. “It’ll make good bedtime reading. I hope it keeps you awake.”