CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
STACY
“HON,” MY MOTHER SAYS WHEN I open the door. “Can I talk to you a bit?”
I step aside. She enters.
“What’s up, Mom?”
She sits on my couch. I get a weird flash and am freaked out for a quarter second, my mind equating the downstairs couch with the one up here, in my apartment. But Hampton and I didn’t have sex on this one. We did it downstairs a few places, up here on my bed a few times, and in the shower twice. Once he drove me to the airstrip and we had sex in his plane, then again on the limo ride back. Only now am I realizing how much fucking that is for a long-distance relationship that’s only about a month old.
Mom composes herself with her knees together, hands atop them. She seems to be waiting for me to sit down, too, so I settle into the chair.
“Your father and I have heard some things.”
“What things?”
She takes another pause. I don’t like this. The vibe is wrong. She is clearly troubled, but I don’t know why.
“That man. Hampton Brooks.”
Shiver.
“What about him?”
“Carla at the Rite-Aid said she saw you with him the other day. And when I dropped off at Salvation Army on Tuesday, Paula was there, and she asked about you and that rich guy in the suit. Are you seeing him, Stacy?”
“What does it matter, Mom? That’s my business.”
I hate my answer. Because without a denial, I’ve confirmed her suspicions. I’m feeding right into the teenage rebellion fantasy, wherein I assume she’s prohibiting and I’m about to stand up for my rights. We’ve never really clashed. My parents accept my choices. I hate the hint of a rift or the suggestion that they might not trust me.
“It is. And we’ll respect whatever’s the case. But if you don’t mind saying … are you …?”
“I’m not sure,” I say, snapping more than I mean to.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean …”
Sigh. Am I supposed to tell my mother that we’re having a lot of sex, but it’s not clear yet whether we’re more than fuck buddies? Even if I’m reasonably sure how I feel, and have dreams in which Hampton feels the same way?
“He’s a nice guy, Mom.”
“And you’re dating?”
“I don’t see why it matters.” I have to give her something, so I add, “Okay. Fine. Yes, I guess we’re dating.”
“Your father says you talked to him a while ago when Mr. Brooks came into the shop. He says you were hopping mad.”
“I didn’t think I liked him, but I didn’t know him yet.”
“Your father also says you have a grudge against his business.”
“A grudge?”
“You know. I read your internet page about him at the library. You talk about his business like they’re the devil.”
“I just don’t agree with their philosophy, is all. Or what I thought their philosophy was.” I shake my head. “What’s this all about, Mom? I’m a little too old for you to be giving me dating advice.”
“It’s not advice. It’s—”
“Or for you to be disapproving of my boyfriends.”
I’ve said the word before I mean to. Mom flinches but quickly regroups. “It’s not any of that, Honey. Do you know the Billings & Pile Building?”
I shake my head.
“Off of Elm. Where they used to have the smithery.”
“Speak English, Mom.”
“The smithery,” she repeats the word as if will make more sense the second time. Then she rolls her eyes. “With the horses?”
Now I remember. Every October, we used to have a family ritual where we’d go to the orchard, pick apples, do a corn maze and a few other things I long ago got too old for. Then we’d go to this big street festival on Elm where they’d block off traffic to fill the place with games for kids, plus hot cider and spiced donuts and pumpkin desserts for everyone. It always took place in front of this big building that once made horseshoes, of all things. My mom called it a “smithery” even though only one corner used to house a blacksmith’s shop. But there was still a city police horse stable next door, and to go with the theme the city used to bring the horses out as if they were about to be shod. We always pet the horses, fed them long grass, and stayed in the blocked-off section of the street until midnight.
I didn’t realize it until later, but apparently, the smithery had been owned by a candle manufacturer for the years I remember it. What used to be bellows and furnaces became assembly lines for pouring scented wax. The candle company sponsored the street fair, which is why it happened where it did. When the company died, the whole affair went with it. There was no fair that next year, no pumpkin desserts, and the police horses stayed inside.
“What about it?” I ask.
“The old smithery is called Billings & Pile. Those were the names of the two men who, about a hundred years ago, started their shoeing business. It was a big space inside, originally with stalls. They graduated into machines, and the horses moved out. Then the candle company. After the candle company busted, Newport bought the building. Same time as they bought the rest.”
My mother’s eyes darken as I’m sure mine have. We’ve talked about some of this before. As has everyone in town.
“Newport leased it to some stamping business. You remember the smoke it made. When they finally went out of business, nobody wanted the building.”
“I remember, Mom. I’ve gone by a few times.”
And I have. When I feel sad, it’s one of my regular haunts. There’s a tiny park on the other side of Elm, and I’ll sit there in the fall with a Thermos of hot cider wishing the festival would return. I fantasize that someone new will buy it. Another quaint business like our candlemaker. Then it will stop being the sad, abandoned shack and return to life. But it’s never happened. The inside only gets darker and darker. More windows broken. Machines continuing to rust.
“What, Mom?”
She seems suddenly sheepish. “I was talking to Trey Davis. The boy down at the market. His mother is Jocelyn Davis.”
“The realtor.”
Mom nods. “Honey, I think your Mr. Brooks wants to buy the Billings & Pile building.”
I scoff. But then I stop scoffing because I’m starting to think.
“Has he said anything?”
“No.”
“Maybe that’s because he doesn’t want you to know.”
“Why wouldn’t he want me to know?”
But I’m putting some things together, half of my mind distracted. Hampton did say that he originally came here to make a purchase. And he’s talked a few times about moving here, or moving part of his company here or something like that. But I assumed he meant a store. A retail location that I’d turn my nose up at, but eventually accept. Plenty of downtown shops annoy me, but I’m big-girl enough to admit that my tastes aren’t everyone’s. And besides, I might be turning a corner on Expendable Chic. I still hate their disposable-clothing culture and how they pollute, but Hampton and I have talked much of it through. The company’s values aren’t what I thought at first. Hell, they aren’t what Hampton thought at first. It’s harder to hate them now.
But a factory? He wouldn’t bring a factory here, would he?
“The city council was considering buying the building back from Newport. They thought they could get it for a song because nobody wanted the damn thing. It’s been vacant for seven years. But when a big company like Expendable Chic started showing interest, the price went way up. The city dropped their plan to buy it because they couldn’t afford it once Mr. Brooks was involved.”
I sit with the idea. My mom’s face is sympathetic. She knows I’ve gotten tight with Hampton no matter what I say, and she also knows how much that stupid old building means to me. Once upon a time, the city might have been able to buy it. Get rid of one more Newport blight and have another piece of our old town back. They could fix the place up, lease it to some nice, no-pollution business, and maybe even find a way to give us our festival back. But now, if Mom’s right, it’s all over. Because of the man I’m sleeping with.
“If it’s true,” I say, “he didn’t do it on purpose.”
“I know, dear.”
“Maybe if I talk to him, he’ll reconsider.”
Mom shrugs. She didn’t come here, I realize, to ask me to talk to Hampton. She came here to inform me that Hampton is a snake. This isn’t a question of fixing the Billings problem. It’s a question of me knowing what I need to before getting in deeper, and getting hurt even more.
“I don’t know if it’s worth it, Stacy.”
“Maybe it’ll still be okay. You don’t know him like I do, Mom.”
“It’s a factory. It’s big business. That’s all I know.”
“He wouldn’t put a factory here. He must have plans for an outlet shop or something.”
“It’s such a big building, Stacy.”
“Outlet shops can be big!”
She doesn’t reply. She just sort of frowns with empathy.
“You don’t believe me. Look. I’m telling you. I’ve talked to Hampton. I told him all about the clock tower. About Newport. He knows how I feel about big business here. Or, God forbid, a factory. I know him. He wouldn’t do that.”
“I’m sure, Stacy.”
“He wouldn’t!”
But again, I get that face. That look. That sense of pity.
“He wouldn’t do that to me, Mom!”
But how well do I know Hampton Brooks?
And how do I know what he would and wouldn’t do since he’s been keeping secrets since the beginning?