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ONE
CHARLIE
I had a bad habit of chewing the ends of my writing implements. When the email came through, I was gnawing on a red ballpoint pen, gleefully marking up the document that one Mr. Sebastian Anderson had sent through earlier that day.
Mr. Anderson was an evil, monocle-wearing, mustache-twirling corporate overlord attempting to turn our wonderful, historic town into some kind of modern dystopia.
Actually, I had no idea what the man looked like, but I was well acquainted with his writing style. We’d been exchanging emails for the better part of a year by this point: he would send in a proposal to destroy one of the landmarks in New Elwood, Virginia, and as the town’s chief historical preservation officer, I took great pleasure in denying him every time.
Over the weeks and months, our messages had become sharper and almost painfully professional. Lots of per-my-last-email and I-hope-this-email-finds-you-well (where “well” actually meant “dead and buried in the cold, hard ground, you mangy dog”). I could tell he thought I was a man; there hadn’t been the edge of condescension in his emails that usually accompanied the discovery that Charlie Washington Reeves, Esquire was in fact Charlotte Washington Reeves, Esq, a thirty-six-year-old woman—and no, I still wasn’t approving your application no matter how many times you thumped your big hairy chest in my face.
That evening, I was in the process of enjoying a wonderful bubble bath while I redlined Anderson’s latest proposal. He wanted to destroy the old theater on Main Street—the Monticello, a gorgeous Art Deco building that had been a landmark in town for a hundred years, complete with geometric plasterwork exteriors and lavishly gilded interiors—and replace it with a gigantic hotel tower that added precisely zero visual appeal to the neighborhood and would only serve to congest an already traffic-heavy street.
He wasn’t the first man to waltz into our town thinking he could make it into his personal money-printing machine. We’d lost that battle once; I wasn’t going to let it happen again.
With every swipe of my red pen, the boiling in my blood became more violent. Steam from my bath made the papers soft and easy to crumple as I gripped them in a white-knuckled fist. He didn’t just want to raze the Monticello to the ground; he wanted to rip out half a dozen century-old trees as well. The rat bastard. When I finally saw his stupid, sneering face, I’d stuff these pages down his gob and make him choke on them.
Leaning over the edge of my gorgeous clawfoot tub, I set the papers on my side table and circled the offensive section of his application. Water sloshed over the side of the tub onto the ground. I glared at it. Another mess for me to clean up.
He was a delusional psychopath. I couldn’t wait to meet him so I could say it to his face.
Tomorrow, I’d do just that. He was finally deigning to come to the council offices to discuss his development plans with us lowly public servants, and I was looking forward to eviscerating him in person.
I’d dealt with his type before. He was likely older and used to getting his way. He threw money at problems and expected them to go away. He had no respect for tradition, for history, for anything that didn’t line his already bulging pockets. Tomorrow, I’d get to finally put a face to the name so I could curse him properly.
Leaning against the back of my bathtub with my toes sticking up through the bubbles floating on top of the water, I spent a few minutes enjoying vengeful fantasies of papers being stuffed into various orifices belonging to arrogant, disrespectful men.
Then my phone dinged.
My eyes narrowed at the name that popped up on my screen.
Speak of the devil, and he’ll drop a bomb in your email inbox.
The subject line said, “For your consideration ahead of tomorrow’s meeting,” which was Sebastian Anderson code for “screw you and your little meeting, you historical preservation loser.”
Well. Unfortunately for him, I was the one who had the final say in these things, and my approval could not be bought or bullied. I dried my hand and forearm and swiped the phone’s screen to unlock it.
This would be good. I could only guess at what this guy thought he could slip into my inbox at eight o’clock the night before our first in-person meeting.
And it was no surprise whatsoever: an update to his plan for the theater, which now involved a swanky bar and restaurant, conveniently meaning he had to tear down two additional trees. More traffic congestion. Less street appeal. This guy just never quit.
While debating whether or not to respond to his message ahead of our meeting, another email came through. This one was from my coworker Minnie and had the subject line, “Thought you’d want to see this…”
That couldn’t be good.
I opened the email and saw she’d forwarded an application from the permits department. And what a surprise. Sebastian Anderson had applied for a permit to demolish?—
A strangled gasp escaped my lips as I sat up in the tub. Bubbles clung to my shoulders and upper arms as I brought the phone closer to my face, and more water splashed onto the wood floors on either side of the bath.
The address?—
No. It couldn’t be. I read and reread the proposal, then opened the attachment. It was right there in black and white: Radcliffe House Apartments. The man owned this building. My building. My home.
And he wanted to tear it down.
Sebastian Anderson wasn’t just going to destroy the historic theater, but he was also going to kick me out of the only home I’d ever called my own, destroy it, and replace it with a five-bedroom McMansion.
That’s when the pen in my mouth exploded. I’d forgotten it was there until I chomped the end of it so hard the plastic casing couldn’t withstand the pressure of my incandescent rage. Ink erupted over my tongue, my lips, my teeth. I spluttered, dropping my phone on the side table, and tossed the pen across the room. My fingers came back red, and I looked down to see crimson ink dripping down between my breasts. My face probably looked like a crime scene.
