Ruffling Feathers

By Jane Greensmith
www.janegs.com

Copyright © 2001.
 All rights reserved.

Chapter 2 -Dinner at Eight

The bedroom glowed with soft morning sun. Amy rolled over, stretched, and smiled at the light flickering and dancing across the walls and down the length of her bed. Waking up to natural light was lovely. Midsummer was just around the corner and all that vitamin D felt good. The house was quiet. Jenn was still asleep.

A quick glass of orange juice, dark curly hair pulled into a ponytail, Amy stretched out her muscles on the front porch. I better fix those stairs before Richard comes over tonight—a twisted ankle is no way to impress an old friend with one's first real estate purchase.

As Amy started jogging, shaking her limbs, her chocolate lab at her heels, she thought back to the day in April when Kris Cox had called, frantic because Hutchins House had been condemned by the fire department and was going to be bulldozed. Without pausing to think through the consequences, Amy had gone to battle. First, she offered to buy the ramshackle old house that had been an eyesore since before she could remember. The fire department was adamant—the place had to come down. Then, she ransacked her dad's basement and produced the papers requiring the house be preserved as a historic landmark. Her great-great grandfather Isaac Hutchins had built the house—one of the first houses in Piñon and home to General Palmer's handpicked first mayor of Piñon.  William Jackson Palmer, founder of the Denver and Rio Grande railroad, had a way of dictating terms to the towns he created when he laid down his lines.

The house was owned by the Delisle Development Group, a California-based real-estate company.  Wild Bill Wyatt, the agent representing Delisle in Piñon, had demanded more payment than a recently-condemned house should justify, but Amy hadn't felt like nickel-and-diming the matter once she got the nod from the judge to stay the house's execution. With the gleam of anticipation in her eye, Amy plunked down every cent she had and bought the house from the cowboy real-estate agent. What a deal—she not only got her first house, she also got a weed-ridden garden, ancient plumbing, creaking floorboards, and peeling paint. She was pretty sure that she'd find leaky roofs when the summer thunderstorms hit. The oven smoked and the windows rattled. Amy and Jenn broke the lease on their two-bedroom  condo and camped under a condemned roof while Amy rolled up her sleeves and got to work...in the afternoons. Mornings were reserved for her column, researching, interviewing, writing, reading, forever learning the complex politics of caring for the planet.

Amy rounded the cottonwood grove and ran down the gravelly path to Piñon Trail—a three-mile loop that skirted irrigation ditches, horse pastures, and neighborhoods—and there he was.  Mystery man, always jogging clockwise to her counterclockwise, she only ever saw him on the trail, but they passed each other at a slow trot most mornings. 

He nodded briefly, panting hard in the thin mile-high air. Clearly a newcomer. With all the new Donovan people in town, Amy assumed he was another Donovan employee—probably a lawyer for the Foundation, maybe a programmer in the software division.  But, he hadn't been at yesterday's wedding. She got the distinct impression from Richard Clayton that every Donovan employee was expected to attend every Donovan function, worse than family, she thought. And he didn't show up around town the way other new people did. Not at the market, not at the post office, not at the bookstore or the computer store or the piano store. Not even at the ice cream store or at the bar on Friday nights. She had been running with him for a good month now and still didn't know whether he wore a wedding ring—not that it matters, I have Greg—but still she was curious. He ran in the cool mornings and then disappeared. Before he had come on the scene, Amy had varied her morning workout—sometimes jogging, often cycling, occasionally roller blading, even swimming. No more, jogging was the best exercise after all.

Maybe I should try running in the opposite direction, catch up with him, and...what?? I'll let Kris be the pickup queen—besides, I have Greg. I'm not even available. He's not my type anyway. Too tall by far, would tower over me. Too lean—probably a health nut who wouldn't appreciate crème brulee. Oh, and that wavy hair—looks like he should be going to soccer camp. A cleft chin—please, who does he think he is? Definitely a workaholic—never home for the kids...

"What's going on? There's another one!" Amy cried, sweet thoughts jolted out of her head by the sign in front of the Gibson place. Amy stopped, leaning on the fence, her chest heaving from jogging. "Condemned by order of the Piñon Fire Marshall." Amy absently patted Ariel's head, the pretty lab waiting while Amy stared at the sign, puzzling through this fresh mystery.

Amy walked the final two blocks home. The sign in front of the Gibson house was the third to show up in Piñon since her house had been condemned two months earlier. Nothing had been torn down yet, but it was curious.

Jenn was sitting on the back patio with a pot of tea, a newspaper, and a couple of cats searching out morning sun filtered through aspens. She smiled up at her sister, who slumped into one of the chairs.

"Anything in the paper?" Amy asked.

"Another wildfire, this time up by Dinosaur. More bird and rodent stories. The manager of one of the condos in Boulder water-blasted some nesting birds off residents' ledges, and now he's facing legal action. You've got your standard development versus prairie dog village standoffs. Nothing to hang a column on."

"I'll check email in a bit. Maybe Jay has something for me. Say, are you going into Boulder today?" Jenn nodded as she finished her croissant. "I'll give you a list for Whole Foods…if you don't mind,” Amy remembered to add, true to her latest resolution not to take advantage of Jenn’s good temper.  “Richard is coming to dinner—he doesn't know I can cook." Amy smiled. "Last time we had dinner, Domino's delivered."

Before launching the wedding band, Amy had earned a certificate from Cooking School of the Rockies and had helped Annie Edgerton with wedding catering. Amy believed that consistently good work on her column—that is, ferreting out rascals and educating the public on what most people thought was deadly dull—was impossible without indulging in a totally sensual hobby. She also didn't believe in weekends. She had never wanted a nine-to-five job where she simply clocked off with a "Thank God it's Friday." Mornings were for the column; the rest of the day was for balance.

Gardening had been the first hobby—turning the earth, cooking compost, burying seeds and bulbs and coaxing them along until they climaxed in glorious colors and vitamin-rich foods. And always weeding—bringing air and light and space to precious heirloom plants. Cooking had quickly followed—rich, creamy textures—tangy, sharp tastes—smells that permeated and built memories. Going to the garden or farmer's market, buying whatever was fresh, Amy reveled in creating dishes that combined simplicity, taste, and texture. Then the band—The Royal Court had actually been around in various forms since childhood, with the Cox's garage being a safe haven for adolescent fantasies of imminent stardom. Amy loved singing oldies—all she needed was a good driving beat or a plaintive anthem, and she could dig deep and dredge up emotions that left her audience stunned and half in love with her.

"Hey, I wonder what happened to Gordon." Jenn commented, looking up from her paper as Amy poured a second round of tea. "It says here we have a new Fire Marshall, somebody named Jim Healy. It says that Gordon Long retired from the Fire Department for health reasons."

Amy's head shot up. "We have a new fire marshal?"

"Apparently not so new—Gordon retired in February, and this Jim Healy was named in March."

"And our house was condemned in April. Jenn, this is more than coincidence. I saw another condemned house this morning—the Gibson place on Second Street had a sign in front of it. And there's the house on Grant and another on Lincoln. That's four houses since April." Amy got up and pulled some weeds from the tomato bed, nervous energy animating her slender frame. "Granted, Piñon is a bit run down, but we can't be pulling down all our old houses. Look what we've done with this place, and we've only been here two months." She sighed, and stretched her muscles on the low retaining wall that skirted the garden. "Well, I can't buy all the condemned houses in Piñon. This is ridiculous. Something fishy is going on."

"But what, Nancy Drew?" Jenn laughed at her sister. "You are too suspicious. I'm sure Jim Healy is a good man and a good fire marshal. And you have to admit, we worked hard just to get this house livable—it wasn’t far from falling down and was definitely a fire trap. With summer starting out so hot and all the wildfires, he's just doing his job.  We can’t let these old houses just lie vacant.  He’s just doing his job."

Now it was Amy's turn to laugh at Jenn. "A more Pollyanna view of the world I've never seen. Are your rose-colored glasses fitting just fine? Jenn, if most people weren't opportunistic and shortsighted, I wouldn't have a column. There would be no need for someone to blow the whistle. No danger of our grasslands being paved over and our wetlands drained."

"You better know what you're blowing the whistle on before you stir up too much trouble."

"Jenn, I can't stir up trouble until I know what's going on."

"Then you better get to work."

Quiet ruled again at Hutchins House. Jenn was off to choir practice. Amy was editing. She generally had three to four columns underway at any given time—researching and pondering the furthest one out, writing and rewriting the middle ones, and polishing the one that would be published that week. By Sunday evening she needed to email it to her Boulder editor, who would then distribute it. The horror of coming up cold on a Sunday with nothing to send kept her to her schedule religiously. Gardening, cooking, singing—nothing preempted the schedule.

Amy read her latest through with a critical eye. The topic wasn't startling—we're loving our national parks to death—but the theme was one that was gaining ground. Don't experience nature solely through constricted paths. Fight as vigorously to save a patch of green in your neighborhood as you would to save Yosemite. Okay—let's go. She scanned her card deck of environmentally appropriate quotes and selected yet another Emerson one: "The man who has seen the rising moon break out of the clouds at midnight has been present like an archangel at the creation of light and of the world." You don't have to camp in Yosemite to experience the rising moon—the quote would work.

She logged on—uploaded the column—and sent it out. That was the scary part—the Extreme Games for a columnist—taking a stand, finding words for opinions, and putting them out there for readers to shoot holes into. She always sent out the column before reading her daily email—once the column was emailed, she couldn't take it back.  Then she would steel herself for the barrage of input from the previous week’s column.  Writing on the environment, and often straddling the fence, made her enemies in many camps, enemies connected to the Internet.  

Amy scanned her email messages, and started with one from Jay O'Brien, managing editor at the Boulder Camera. Amy sighed. He wanted her to go to a ten a.m. press conference on Tuesday—governor's mansion. She couldn't imagine that this press conference was going to yield any new ideas for the column. Jay was a good friend, her mentor in fact, and in a bind for someone to cover this press conference. She did like visiting the governor's mansion. Amy opened the attachment and scanned the agenda—report on state public school performance for the past year, report on the "Clean Industries for Colorado" campaign... what's this?  The governor would be hosting a special guest—Mr. Donovan was going to outline The Donovan Foundation's philanthropic program for the region.

Amy quickly emailed Jay that she would do him a favor and go to the press conference on Tuesday, which would mean he was now so hopelessly indebted to her that...well, who knew when she would require payment. Amy sat back from her PC and stared at the screen. Why was she so eager to go? There was nothing there for the column—she had covered "Clean Industries" so often that it really was old news.  And she held a healthy skepticism about philanthropic groups that were headed by captains of industry.  She grinned as she admitted to herself that actually all she wanted to do was just meet the elusive Mr. Donovan who was taking her town by storm—cutting down trees and putting up big buildings.

Better do my homework. She brought up a search engine and typed "Donovan Foundation." Nothing. She wrinkled her brow. Must have entered it wrong. She tried again. Nothing.  She remembered that Dave Landry had mentioned a software operation so she typed in “Donovan Software” then “Donovan Engineering” then “Donovan Inc.” then “Donovan Industries.”  Finally something.  But not much.  Just a little blurb that Meriweather Explorations and Engineering had changed its name to Donovan Industries in January.  Amy was incredulous.  That was it?  Sure, it was probably a privately-held company, but they must issue press releases and have product web sites and put out the regular pr spin on mundane activities. Just the move to Piñon, Colorado would warrant some Internet mention.  Most companies devoted entire web teams to communicating company details far more trivial than that.

Searching on “Meriweather Explorations and Engineering” and “Meriweather E&E” yielded a pitiable, single picture published in the Denver Post in 1990. But at least Amy now had a name and a face.  There he was, Mr. George Donovan—early 50s, surprisingly rugged looking in a plaid flannel shirt and baseball cap.  Certainly not the suave business tycoon she had anticipated. The caption was cryptic too. “George Donovan of Meriweather Explorations and Engineering cuts ribbon on South Park resort.” What South Park resort? Amy had driven through South Park countless times since 1990 and there was nothing in the arid mountain park except ghost roads, windmills, and a few reservoirs.

Amy slogged on through the afternoon.  Meriweather E&E, just like Donovan Industries and The Donovan Foundation, had kept a low profile.  Amy could find nothing that actually emanated from Meriweather E&E, just a few mentions in technical journals and newspaper blurbs when they had won a government contract.  But slowly, she began to piece together a history.  Based in Chicago, Meriweather E&E had mainly been involved in oil and gas exploration and engineering projects—wells, refineries, holding tanks, pipelines.  The oil bust of the eighties forced them to reinvent themselves.   They turned to water projects—dams and diversions.  Turns out that Meriweather E&E had been in line to win the doomed Two Forks Dam project that the Denver Water Board had tried to muscle through back in the late eighties. George Donovan must have been in tight with the old water buffaloes that ran the board.  The speculation in the trade press was that Meriweather E&E would have gotten the contract had Two Forks been approved. 

Then, she followed a hunch and dug further.  Eureka!  Meriweather E&E had actually purchased thousands of acre-feet of water from dying farm towns in eastern Colorado.  Water in eastern Colorado was South Platte water.  George Donovan had bought the rights to prairie water that would have to flow through his dam before it left the mountains.  Amy bit her lip and stared at her PC monitor, trying to understand how the facts intersected. 

Could water rights from one part of the state be used in another part of the state if they were taken out of the same source?  Amy scribbled some notes to ask her father—lucky I’ve got a water expert in the family. She didn’t need to ask Ed Bennet to tell her what George Donovan had been planning to do—she merely wanted him to confirm her theory that Donovan had intended to dam the South Platte at Two Forks and then draw off the water he had purchased and use it to irrigate a hunting and fishing mecca in South Park. No matter that this scheme would have turned eastern Colorado into a dust bowl.  Once he had a sportsman’s resort, Donovan could have auctioned off lots in South Park and sold for a thousand-fold land he had bought for a dollar an acre.

Amy wondered how many acre-feet of water it would take to irrigate a posh village like Vail—golf courses and trophy houses tend to be thirsty; ski resorts are unquenchable.  But all the mountain resorts—Vail, Aspen, Telluride—have what South Park doesn’t have, an abundance of water.   Two Forks would have changed that and Donovan knew it.

Mercifully, the EPA had shut down Two Forks in 1990 before the project had turned Colorado into a war zone.  The defunct project meant that Donovan’s attempt at a water grab was also defunct except that now Donovan Industries was back in Colorado.  Amy’s instincts told her that they were back on the scent of a damn big deal.  Maybe not a dam this time—Amy knew enough about water politics to know that another dam would never be built in Colorado.  But George Donovan was back—maybe his company had a new name, but Amy knew that greed never took a vacation.

Jenn Hutchins found Amy still hard at work at three in the afternoon. "Amy, if you're going to make dinner for Richard, you better log off soon."

Amy looked up at Jenn, then at the clock. "I’m finding great stuff, Jenn. We've got a regular Jekyll and Hyde in town. I think that the Donovan Foundation is just a front for some really disgusting ventures being exercised by Donovan Industries—you know, pat you on the back with one hand and pick your pocket with the other."

"I'm glad you've found a project to work on," Jenn said patiently. "Nevertheless, you need to stop now. I've cleaned the house and fixed the front steps."

"A hammer and everything?" 

Jenn nodded.

"You are an angel. I meant to do that step after lunch, but I never stopped for lunch. There—I'm logged off." Amy stood up and gave her sister a hug. "I'm serious. You are wonderful."

"So you won't hate me when I tell you I'm going out with Dave Landry tonight?"

"He couldn't resist you, eh?" Amy shot Jenn a grin. "No—go out with him, drive him crazy with your legs, but keep your ears open. He seems like a sweet man, but I have a feeling he's in tight with old man Donovan."

Chill two martini glasses. Place one and a half cups of ice in a shaker. Pour in four ounces of chilled vodka and one ounce of crème de cacao. Shake to mix. Chill. Strain into glasses. Float two ounces Goldschlager on top. Watch as gold flecks dance, suspended in space. Swirl the glass and bat your eyes at the handsome man stretching his legs on your couch. Be absolutely confident that he would move heaven and earth to kiss you...raise your hands in horror, slosh your drink on the coffee table, race to the kitchen and rescue your practically perfect appetizers as smoke pours out of the now open oven door.

Richard Clayton stuck his head in the kitchen door as Amy dumped filo-wrapped goat cheese into the sink and fanned smoke out the back door. "Fie Amy, you said you could cook. You said you even went to cooking school." He picked up the phone, "What's Domino's number in this cow town?"

"You put that phone down. All is not lost. I was just overcome by your incredible charm and got distracted. Now pull up a stool and help me repair dinner."

Amy instructed Richard and together they made, that is remade, Amy’s special appetizers—softened goat cheese with tarragon, chives, parsley, and dill wrapped in four layers of filo sheets, cut into three-inch logs, and baked until golden brown. Amy dressed a bowl of rinsed greens in a garlic vinaigrette.  They washed down the lot with glasses of Richard's pinot grigio—"Flowers and wine. Richard, you overwhelm me."

Then, they turned their attention to the next course. Diver-caught sea scallops—expensive but without that horrible rubbery texture—seared to golden brown in oil and butter with minced shallots on a bed of spinach wilted with champagne vinegar. "Absolutely glorious. Amy, you can cook."

Richard mopped up the last of the caper lemon brown butter that had topped Amy’s cedar-planked wild salmon and breathed a deep sigh of contentment. "I thought you knew all the ways to my heart, my dear. This is clearly the most direct hit you've made. Name the day and I'm yours."

"Let's take a walk. Fun in the kitchen is fun, but it does heat up the house, and I need some fresh air."

Amy and Richard walked through the quiet streets of Piñon, the heat of the day melting into soft coolness. Richard glanced at his lovely friend. It seemed every time he saw her, she broke his heart. Never taking his overtures seriously, she laughed him off whenever he tried to tell her what she meant to him. Oh well, got to keep the track record intact.

"Amy..." Her name hung in the air like gold dust.  She was his mirage, his siren, and he knew he'd come up dry, crash on the cliffs again. The inevitability of the outcome made him resolute in going forward. "You do know I love you, don't you?"

Amy turned to him, her face bathed in streetlight, and took his hand. "We are too much the same, you and I. You'd grow tired of me, and, I'm afraid, I of you." She shook her head as he started to protest, "Fall in love with the person who brings out the best in you, Richard.  That's what my Aunt Mary always told me. Fall in love with the person who likes your core. Fall in love with the person who challenges you to be your best—who helps you find courage and helps you find peace. Don't settle for me, Richard—I'm just the easy answer."

"Is Greg Hansen the man who brings out the best in you?"

"That's a hard question. He used to be—but then, I fell in love with him when I was only twenty. Aunt Mary warned me against falling in love too young. She said that I was the type to stay true to something that had vanished, and young love vanishes, she said.  I think she meant that I would hang on come hell or high water because my parents got divorced.  And Greg really used to be the one.  Don’t look at me that way, Richard.  He helped me channel my energy. I would never have had the guts to keep on writing and facing Jay O’Brien and Frank McIntosh every day if he hadn't been there goading me along."

"So you’re staying with him out of gratitude?"

"I don't think so. Anyway, I'm not sure I'm even staying with him—or, more to the point, he with me. He's gone most of the time. When Jenn and I moved, we packed his stuff and just put everything in the basement. I'm not sure we're even living together anymore. I get a phone call once in awhile, and a postcard if he's in a particularly cool place, but he seems stuck at twenty-two and happy to be stuck there. I think he thinks this house represents me growing up and away from him.”  Her face became wistful as she thought of her absent boyfriend and why he was absent.  “You know, I never wanted to grow away from him."

Amy paused, her eyes glistening, "If I could get that feeling back—that feeling I had for him, even two years ago—I would give up everything I own, everything I have. You're lucky that you haven't really fallen in love yet.  Yours may have a chance of lasting."

They walked back to the house and sat on the porch steps and talked of easier things than worn-out love that peaked too soon. Richard was going home in the morning—he'd only come out for the wedding and to see his cousin. Amy gathered that they were closer than their difference in years would indicate. She hadn't found the courage to ask him about her findings regarding Donovan Industries and The Donovan Foundation. She genuinely liked Richard Clayton and wanted to keep him as her friend even if he would rather be her lover.  She wanted to believe that if anything was underhanded in how his cousin conducted his business, at least Richard kept himself clean. She knew that he had a small architectural firm in Boston that specialized in historic restorations.  He’d even been featured on This Old House. Richard didn't really need the trust fund, Amy convinced herself. He's clean.

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