Part 12 (2/2)

He had breakfast every morning with his four oldest friends at the same restaurant and they sat there like the town elders and gossiped like their wives. While I made fun of them every chance I got, they did know what was going on in Rose Petal ninety-nine percent of the time.

”There's some rumbling that they're looking to move the fair next year,” he said with a sly grin, because he knew I was going to be interested. ”Did you know that?”

”Move it?”

He nodded. ”You know that plot of land at the north end of the county, up near Denton? Was supposed to be some fancy schmancy development but then the money dried up and it never went through?”

”Vaguely.”

”It's there,” he said. ”Trust me. The land is pretty usable. Needs some infrastructure and a few other things, but it's a good chunk of land.”

”It could hold the fair?”

He shrugged. ”Structures would have to be built because it's essentially vacant right now, but, sure. Plenty of acreage. I would guess that it's already zoned for plumbing and electricity, given that it was originally going to be housing.”

I looked around. I'd been coming to the fair since I was born. I'd covered every inch of the fairgrounds. I knew exactly where everything was, including all of the secret hiding spots I'd discovered as a kid. I couldn't imagine it all going away.

”Who exactly wants to move it?” I asked. He raised an eyebrow. ”Who do you think? Your pal, Mama Biggs.”

”Can she move it?”

”Here's the really interesting thing,” my father said, glancing around. ”Sure, she can move it. The fair board as the governing body can do whatever they'd like. And as you well know, they'll do whatever she tells them. But that land up north? It's for sale.”

”I'm not following you.”

”In order to move the fair, that land has to be offered up for use by whomever owns it,” he explained. ”Right now, it's still for sale. Has been for almost two years, since the developers went belly up. The developers still own the rights and they've been looking to sell it to recoup their losses. They aren't interested in leasing it, because they're starving for money and they need to get as much as they can as quickly as they can. But there haven't been any takers.”

”So, then, how can the fair be moved there? Wouldn't the land have to be owned by the county or something to house it?”

He smiled. I'd seen that smile a lot over the course of my lifetime. It was the one that said, ”I'm so far ahead of you, I can barely see you when I look back over my shoulder at you.”

”Well, it would definitely have to be owned by someone, yes,” he said.

I waited.

”Mama Biggs was at the bank last week,” he said. ”Applying for a loan. To buy that property.”

I took all of that in for a minute, working it through my head, watching several families stroll by us.

”Ed told me this morning,” my father said. ”I wasn't even talking about your shenanigans.”

”So she wants to buy the land so she can hold the fair there?” I said, trying to connect the dots. ”Why?”

My dad shrugged. ”No idea. But I thought it was interesting.”

”Why would that appeal to her?” I asked, confused. ”So the county would have to pay her to use the new fairgrounds? That makes no sense. She'd have to pay for all of the new construction, not to mention the infrastructure needed to turn it into a fairground. I can't believe that would be worth it.”

”Well, since no one knows exactly what this rinky-d.i.n.k carnival takes in each year, maybe there's more money in it than we know,” he said.

”Who owns these fairgrounds?”

My dad paused. ”The county, I'd a.s.sume.”

”But you don't know for sure?”

He chuckled and slapped me on the shoulder. ”I can't do all your work for you.”

24.

”You look perturbed,” Julianne said.

We were sitting outside the 4-H building under an awning and Carly was off helping her grandmother.

”Perturbed?” I said, then shook my head. ”No. Not perturbed.”

She grabbed one of the hot wings from the paper boat in her lap and held it up. ”Hmm. Okay. How about bewildered?”

”Are you just trying to use big words to confuse me?”

She gnawed on the wing. ”Maybe. Whichever word you like, you are clearly preoccupied with something.”

I nodded. ”Yes. The impending birth of our child.”

She dropped the empty bone into the boat. ”Ha. Funny. But that is not what I see in your expression. And remember. Being, like, ten weeks overdue gives me incredible powers of clairvoyance.”

”I don't remember hearing that at birthing cla.s.ses for Carly.”

She chewed on another wing. ”That's because you're a man and your hearing is awful.”

”I remember everything from birthing cla.s.s.”

She snorted. ”Oh, really? So how did you promptly forget all of it the minute we walked into the delivery room?”

”I didn't,” I said.

”I think your memory is just as bad as your hearing,” she said. ”It's the whole reason we signed up for the refresher cla.s.s. Which was totally stupid and pointless.”

The refresher cla.s.s wasn't stupid and pointless. We'd dutifully gone for six weeks of learning and bonding with other parents-to-be. Six of them, actually. All of whom had delivered healthy, happy babies. The ”reunion” had been last week. We were the only ones still incubating, much to Julianne's dismay.

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