CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Daniel woke feeling disoriented. Were the steps going up or down? What kind of designer put an M. C. Escher knockoff on a bedroom wall? The same designer who had done his entire apartment over in black and white with construction-worker orange accents. The couch was at least comfortable, even if it did resemble a huge, smashed toilet-paper roll. And the desk was pure Ikea, plain and functional. He could live with it for another week. At least he didn’t have to go to court today. There had been a jury issue over the weekend, and they’d needed to choose new jurors. His phone rang. Odd. Mr. Hastings almost never called.
He tried not to sound too blurry. “Crawford here.”
“Sorry to bother you, but we have a problem at the Indiana property.”
Fully alert now, Daniel sat up. “Is Amanda okay?”
“At the moment, yes, but her chameleon-haired roommate and lawyer boyfriend have set up a rally at the mansion this afternoon.”
“Protesting what?”
“The sale of the property for a refinery.”
Daniel collected his clothes from the closet. “There isn’t going to be a sale. We put out a press release.”
“Well, they missed the local paper. We started finding flyers for the rally late last evening.”
Daniel ran his hands through his hair and pulled his phone away from his ear to check the time. 7:43. “Let me think. Colin is en route from Japan, so he can’t help. If I can get a ticket, I should be there around two or three.” He’d talk with Candace, then he could spend an hour with Amanda.
“We could talk to them, or you could call . . .”
“No, the trial was postponed until tomorrow. And I want to see for myself how Amanda is doing.”
“I suggest you charter a plane. Then you won’t have the drive from the airport to deal with.”
“Probably right. I’ll let you know the details when I do.”
Daniel stared at his phone and wished for a split second he had a New York office, but Father hated the Big Apple. Getting the apartment must have made him roll over in his grave. Daniel laughed. Perhaps the designer was karma.
Too early in Chicago to call Bonnie, Daniel found a charter company they’d used before and hoped the last-minute flight didn’t cost him as much as he thought it would. What time did Amanda need to go to work? After he met with Candace, should he call her or go see her?
Mandy had forgotten she had an art-department meeting. She pulled up the lane just after four to find about fifty people there, mostly college students. But she recognized a few of the older locals, too. Candace was shouting something unintelligible through a bullhorn.
She pulled the poster board sign out the back of the Golf Ball. Keeping the sign low, she moved toward the crowd. Candace wore a cheap red-white-and-blue wig, the type a clown would wear on the Fourth of July. She started them chanting.
“No gas here! No gas here!”
She came over to Mandy. “What do you think?”
“I think that is the worst wig you have ever worn and I made a mistake coming here. Look, Candace, it’s only us and some cows across the street. Did you ever talk to Colin?”
Candace blanched. Apparently not.
Just then, three vehicles came speeding down the road. Two had satellite equipment and network logos on the side. The third was an all-too-familiar truck. No. Mandy couldn’t see the inside clearly, but the driver who passed the access road to the main gate wasn’t built like Mr. Alexander or his crew. Mandy felt her heart sink a little lower. She moved away from the crowd. One of the news vans had boxed in her Golf. Mandy turned around—better to hide in the middle of the crowd. Maybe the cameras would miss her.
The camera crews unloaded their equipment out of the van, a reporter questioned various protesters. Someone pointed toward Candace. Mandy moved to the other side of the crowd, closer to the fence, wishing it offered more protection.
Dust rose from the road near the house.
The truck.
She froze for a moment, then turned her back to the fence and hunched down behind the picketers, hoping not to be seen.
Candace’s voice rose above the crowd. “Anyone see Mandy?” Several people answered. Candace found her and tugged on her sleeve. “They have got to see your sign.”
“No. You show it. Do you see who drove up?”
Candace looked over her shoulder. “Why, it’s the man himself.”
“I’ve got to get out of here. Where is your car? I can’t do another week like the last one and being on TV with him.”
“I came with—Oh no. Too late. He’s taken an interest in your car, and now he is scanning the crowd. He isn’t smiling.”
Mandy wished the boot off. The only way she could get lower was by sitting. “Get away from me so he won’t notice!” She pushed her roommate and the sign away.
A reporter, microphone in hand, came to stand beside Candace. “Miss, I understand you’re the organizer of this rally?” Candace moved several yards farther away and grinned into the camera.
The blonde reporter flashed a smile and asked her first question. “Why do you feel saving this old house is important?”
“This house is a work of art. It deserves to be more than a photograph in an archive or a crumbled-down ruin. I was inspired by a project my roommate is creating called ‘If Only . . .’” Candace lifted Mandy’s poster and showed the picture of the beautifully restored mansion. “See, like this, repaired and beautified, the estate could become a great asset to our community.” Candace flipped the sign over. “But this is what a refinery would be like here.”
Mandy wasted no time working her way to the far side of the crowd, keeping low. There were some trees on this side of the fence if she could get to them.
The reporter studied the picture. “Where did you get this photo?”
“My roommate created it.”
Mandy dropped as close to the ground as her boot and skirt would allow.
“Is your roommate here?” The reporter scanned the crowd.
Don’t look at me, don’t look at me, don’t look—
Several people in the crowd pointed Mandy’s direction and moved away.
“Young lady?”
Mandy looked up from her crouched position. When the reporter addressed her, Mandy mouthed a silent “me?”
“Yes, you. Are you her roommate?”
Mandy stood up and dusted off her skirt. The camera was aimed at her face. “Found my keys.” She held her key ring up. Lame.
Candace tried to step between the eager reporter and Mandy. “Yes. It’s her MFA project. Let me tell you—” But the reporter stepped around Candace.
“Impressive work, miss.” The reporter turned to the cameraman. “Get a shot of the sign.” She turned back to Mandy. “Why do you want to save this house?”
“I . . . um . . . I lived near here when I was a child. And I hate to see another piece of our history morph into a parking lot or concrete structure. There are few buildings left of this style.”
The reporter tapped the piece in her ear. I have just learned Mr. Crawford is here and will speak to us.” She turned her attention to Daniel crossing toward them through the crowd. Someone spit on him. The saliva dripped down his shirt, but he walked with purpose, giving heed to none of the jeers and insults flying around him.
The reporter shoved the microphone in his face. “Mr. Crawford, what do you have to say about this protest?” A reporter from the other network joined her.
Daniel focused on Mandy as he answered. “I think the protesters need to do their research and not rely on erroneous newspaper articles.”
“Are you saying you have no intention of selling this land?”
“The statement C & O put out Friday afternoon clearly stated I have no intention of selling this property to see it marred by a refinery. C & O is no longer conducting any business with the company credited with starting the rumor.”
The color drained from the reporter’s face. She’d obviously neglected her research too. “Are you looking to sell your ancestral home?”
“I have been entertaining several proposals for the future of this property, but no final decision has been made. And anyone who thinks I would sell this to make a refinery doesn’t know me very well. I already gave my word that parts of the estate would remain intact.” He dipped his head slightly in Mandy’s direction.
The reporter whirled back to Mandy. “Aren’t you that plain Jane who enjoyed a romantic meal with Mr. Crawford last week?”
Mandy felt the heat rise in her face. Most of the protesters stood stock-still, their signs lowered. Backed nearly to the fence, Mandy had no place to run, even if she didn’t have the boot on.
Candace tried to step between Mandy and the reporter. “It appears we were mistaken. Our deepest apologies to Mr. Crawford. Come on, people, move out!”
The other reporter cornered Daniel. “Mr. Crawford, do you have anything more to say?”
Mandy felt his eyes on her, but she didn’t look up.
“I don’t have anything to say that anyone would listen to.” He turned and walked off.
The tenacious reporter came back to Mandy’s side. “Mandy, can you answer the question every woman has been asking all week? How did you end up on a date with Daniel Crawford?”
“It wasn’t a date. It was a good-bye.” Mandy ducked her head and hurried after the crowd.