Page 3 of Forgotten Path
Brianna made a mental note to confirm the claim with her assistant later.
“That’s our Brianna. Always working,” the CEO boomed cheerily, evidently oblivious to the murderous undercurrent coursing between his CSO and CREDO.
He plopped himself into the chair at the head of the table with a deliberate lack of grace. Sharon tittered and perched on the seat to his right. Brianna poured herself a glass of water before pulling out the seat opposite her nemesis and joining them at the highly polished table.
“Brianna,” the CEO began without preamble, “Sharon tells me you have some concerns about the Triple E project.”
Brianna took a long sip of her drink while she formulated her response. The Triple E development—Emerald Estuary Estates—was Chad's current hobby-horse. He made no secret of his preoccupation. He thought the upscale gated community, an enclave of custom waterfront homes with one-acre minimum lots and prices starting in the low seven figures, was his legacy. His ticket out of the grubby world of pulp paper products and into the sparkling company of drippingly wealthy real estate scions.
So, it was no surprise that Sharon was trying to shift the problems with the construction away from her department. But that didn’t mean Brianna had to sit there and let her deposit them in her lap like a steaming pile of …
“Brianna?” the CEO prompted.
She placed her glass on the marble coaster at her elbow and turned to him. “I don’t have any concerns,” she said sweetly. She held his gaze until he smiled and nodded before she went on. “But the Department of Environmental Protection does. They sent some questions, which ended up on my desk because of the sustainability implications, so I’ve been coordinating with the science team. As may you know, the general contractor Sharon hired for this project has a bit of a reputation with the state.”
It was an understatement if Brianna had ever heard one, but it hit its mark.
“Fred Glazier? He’s cheap as the day is long. That man squeezes a dollar so tight that it squeaks when you get it out of his hand. But that’s a good thing, ain’t it?” Chad slapped his thigh in amusement.
Brianna's smile tightened.
“Precisely,” Sharon blurted, tripping over her tongue to agree with their boss. “Glazier’s bid was the lowest by a mile. It wasn’t even close. Triple E’s going to be wildly profitable, thanks to Fred and his team. Sure, the bean counters and the suits in Tallahassee might get their noses out of joint over teeny little things. But you know how they are. It’s easier—and cheaper—to pay the de minimus fines for not crossing every T and dotting every I than to comply with every picayune demand.”
Chad bobbed his head in agreement and turned to Brianna. “That all sounds okay to me. You don’t agree?”
“As your Chief Sustainability Officer, I need to be sure you understand that the alleged violations aren’t quite as petty as they might seem. The state sent out inspectors who said Mr. Glazier’s workers aren’t following the statutorily required best management practices for erosion and settlement control practices.”
He shrugged.
“They haven’t been maintaining the sediment pond, Chad. That means runoff flows into the streams on the property, then runs into the bay, and ultimately out into the Gulf. Aside from the regulatory issues, I don’t think you want to buy a bunch of lawsuits from ticked-off homeowners who find out that the water in their new million-dollar mansions is full of sewage, silt, and pollutants.”
The drinking water bit was a bluff, but she willed herself not to blink or look away. In the end, he broke eye contact first, dropping his gaze to the table and clenching his right hand into a tight fist.
When he raised his eyes, they were blazing. “Sharon,” he barked. “Get Glazier in line.” The ‘or else’ was unsaid but not unheard.
CHAPTERTHREE
Oyster Bay Marina
Oyster Point, Florida
The first Friday of September
The line stretched down the pier and snaked through the small park. Judith raised her face to the hazy sky. She imagined she could feel the heat of the midday sun baking her skin, the rays spreading across her cheeks and down her neck to her shoulders and chest. Beside her, Craig huffed out an exasperated breath.
“We’re not gonna stand in this line all morning, are we, Gran?”
She twitched her lips to the side and calculated. At least twenty folks were shuffling from side to side, sweating and waiting. The line hadn’t moved since she and Craig had joined it. The prospect of standing out here for hours didn’t exactly fill her with joy. But she’d probably have done it—if she’d been alone. But she knew Craig’s incessant moaning and griping would drive her mad long before she surrendered to thirst, heat, or hunger and dropped out of the line. Sometimes her grandson acted like a twelve-year-old boy rather than the nearly thirty-year-old man he was.
She coughed gently, testing the rattle in her chest. It was soft and dry. Doc had said the real worry would come when it felt wet and thick. She clicked her tongue against her teeth.
“No. Come on. We’ll get lunch at Saint Lou’s. Today’s blue plate special is the clam stew.”
“With Miss Lou’s homemade bread?”
She gave him a look. “Well, of course.”
He grinned. “Let’s go. My treat.”
