left with her husband for new digs in Colorado, leaving the land behind for local politicians and developers to squabble over like coyotes fighting over a dead sheep.
Over the last four months, several related proposals concerning the land had been introduced and then tabled during city council meetings, all outlining what construction should take place in order to bring the dream of a Neuse River Park to life. The version I suspected Thornton Mitchell was connected to called for the development of a wide recreational beach along that strip of the Neuse, complete with an artificial pool for swimming alongside its banks, water slides, a huge snack hut, and an intricate network of roads that led north and south into the woods. I had no idea what purpose these roads served, but thought I could guess: he was hoping to use the park as the centerpiece for a new residential subdivision. A surrounding park was a great magnet for home buyers. It guaranteed that, while you might be spoiling the land and view for others, no one could return the favor.
I peered at the color photograph of an elaborate architect’s model that accompanied the article. It was complete with miniature trees, Lilliputian gravel walkways, a shining strip of pseudo-Neuse, and a scaled-down eating complex. There was even a tiny Ferris wheel near the beach. It was painted bright red and yellow. Hordes of miniature people streamed toward the Ferris wheel, as if the entire city of Raleigh had been waiting for generations just to get the chance to eat cotton candy along the banks of the Neuse. No wonder the proposal had been shelved. In Raleigh’s current climate—which was moving toward development backlash—a project like this was a guaranteed political disaster. I wondered how much Mitchell had had to do with it.
I’d have to wonder a little bit longer. It was time to face the hordes at Stoney Maloney’s fundraiser and see if I could track down Madam X. I printed out a copy of the article and left it with Bobby as I dashed out the door. “I need to know who the potential investors in that piece of nonsense were,” I told him over my shoulder. “That architectural model must have cost them plenty. Who paid?”
He held the copy of the photo up to the light and squinted. “Man, I love cotton candy,” he said.
My wardrobe for the evening was hopeless. Everything was either too low cut, too tight, too short, or too transparent for a conservative college boy shindig. I’d be fighting off drunken frat boys like a dog in heat intent on preserving her honor horn the neighborhood studs. I finally settled on a sleeveless white dress with a low scoop neckline that almost, but not quite, hit my belly button. It was a little tight on top and I made a mental note that I needed to cut down on the upper body weight machines because I was starting to look like a fire hydrant. But I thought I might be able to salvage the look if I used my ingenuity.
I had a remnant of red satin I’d been considering for curtains and wound it around each breast and over my shoulders like Miss Liberty. It concealed my cleavage and lent a patriotic air to the ensemble. I then tracked down a bright blue negligee that some misguided soul had given me. I wound it into a belt, tying it off with a perky bow that perched on top of my butt as if my rear end was a gift for the entire party. All I had to do was unearth my red pumps, wear pink lipstick, and slap one of those goofy straw campaign hats on my head to hide my roots in order to blend in. Of course, I looked like a float in an election day parade, but we must all suffer for our art.
It cost me twenty bucks to get in at the door and, to cover the cost of what I intended to spend on cocktails, I reminded myself to tell Mary Lee it had been fifty. The fundraiser was being held in the smaller of two basketball gyms at North Carolina State University. The cramped coliseum was not exactly the swankiest of milieus. I’d seen the women’s
Over the last four months, several related proposals concerning the land had been introduced and then tabled during city council meetings, all outlining what construction should take place in order to bring the dream of a Neuse River Park to life. The version I suspected Thornton Mitchell was connected to called for the development of a wide recreational beach along that strip of the Neuse, complete with an artificial pool for swimming alongside its banks, water slides, a huge snack hut, and an intricate network of roads that led north and south into the woods. I had no idea what purpose these roads served, but thought I could guess: he was hoping to use the park as the centerpiece for a new residential subdivision. A surrounding park was a great magnet for home buyers. It guaranteed that, while you might be spoiling the land and view for others, no one could return the favor.
I peered at the color photograph of an elaborate architect’s model that accompanied the article. It was complete with miniature trees, Lilliputian gravel walkways, a shining strip of pseudo-Neuse, and a scaled-down eating complex. There was even a tiny Ferris wheel near the beach. It was painted bright red and yellow. Hordes of miniature people streamed toward the Ferris wheel, as if the entire city of Raleigh had been waiting for generations just to get the chance to eat cotton candy along the banks of the Neuse. No wonder the proposal had been shelved. In Raleigh’s current climate—which was moving toward development backlash—a project like this was a guaranteed political disaster. I wondered how much Mitchell had had to do with it.
I’d have to wonder a little bit longer. It was time to face the hordes at Stoney Maloney’s fundraiser and see if I could track down Madam X. I printed out a copy of the article and left it with Bobby as I dashed out the door. “I need to know who the potential investors in that piece of nonsense were,” I told him over my shoulder. “That architectural model must have cost them plenty. Who paid?”
He held the copy of the photo up to the light and squinted. “Man, I love cotton candy,” he said.
My wardrobe for the evening was hopeless. Everything was either too low cut, too tight, too short, or too transparent for a conservative college boy shindig. I’d be fighting off drunken frat boys like a dog in heat intent on preserving her honor horn the neighborhood studs. I finally settled on a sleeveless white dress with a low scoop neckline that almost, but not quite, hit my belly button. It was a little tight on top and I made a mental note that I needed to cut down on the upper body weight machines because I was starting to look like a fire hydrant. But I thought I might be able to salvage the look if I used my ingenuity.
I had a remnant of red satin I’d been considering for curtains and wound it around each breast and over my shoulders like Miss Liberty. It concealed my cleavage and lent a patriotic air to the ensemble. I then tracked down a bright blue negligee that some misguided soul had given me. I wound it into a belt, tying it off with a perky bow that perched on top of my butt as if my rear end was a gift for the entire party. All I had to do was unearth my red pumps, wear pink lipstick, and slap one of those goofy straw campaign hats on my head to hide my roots in order to blend in. Of course, I looked like a float in an election day parade, but we must all suffer for our art.
It cost me twenty bucks to get in at the door and, to cover the cost of what I intended to spend on cocktails, I reminded myself to tell Mary Lee it had been fifty. The fundraiser was being held in the smaller of two basketball gyms at North Carolina State University. The cramped coliseum was not exactly the swankiest of milieus. I’d seen the women’s
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