Page 18 of Goalie and the Girl Next Door
I sit in the sudden silence and jab the switch on my desk lamp. Nothing. I unplug and replug like an optimistic maniac. Still nothing.
From the barn, I hear Scotty yell, “Did Edgar chew the breaker again?”
Of course he did.
“That’s it, we’re going old school,” I say to no one and go rummaging in the kitchen for the candlesticks I keep for these situations. The binders from the town hall archives have been waiting on my nightstand for this very moment. Time is ticking if we’re going to stop Maple Falls from becoming an outlet mall.
I’m hunched over a binder whose label saysMaple FallsHistorical Property Registry, 1980–2001, and the handwriting is so bad I initially read it asHistorical Prophecy Register.
My eyes are twitching from squinting. The desk feels too low and the candle too high, and I think I inhaled a paperclip during a yawn.
But then I see it. On page 117, jammed between a permit for a 1986 miniature golf expansion and an order form for twenty-two commemorative ashtrays.
The clause.
An easement clause so specific, so technical, so mind-blowingly obscure, it might actually be the silver bullet to get Jeremy Hunt off our back. It references a change in ownership filing that predates the real estate bundling processandputs a non-commercial use cap on the parcel MacDonald is trying to claim.
My heart stutters. I reread it three times.
Oh. My. Spreadsheet.This is it, this isthe thing.
I lurch upright so fast I knock over the candle…
Which lands on my skirt.
My pencil skirt—rayon-poly blend, because breathable fabric shouldn’t cost my entire paycheck—curls and singes like a marshmallow that got too close to the campfire.
“NOPE, NOPE, NOPE!”
I grab my cold coffee mug and throw it directly at my thigh. The singe dies in a pathetic hiss and a puff of steam. My leg is soaked. My skirt is part melted and smells like barbecued office supplies.
But I’m fine.I have the clause. And I have to get to Ashlyn Thompkins as fast as possible.
Slipping into my nearest shoes—which technically are running sneakers from the time I thought I might exercise, but we’re not being picky—I bolt out the door like the building’s on fire. Thankfully, it’s not.
I’m hooting. A real, unfiltered woot.
“YES! ACCOUNTANCY, BABY!”
I jog down the gravel driveway, binder under one arm, coat half-on, one sleeve flapping in the breeze.
Scotty sees me from the barn and freezes, screwdriver in hand. Angel joins him.
“Marcy? Did you hit your head in the dark?”
“No,” I gasp, grinning like I’ve finally cracked the universe. “Iwon! I found it! I found the…”It’s a secret, Marcy. “The thing I needed!”
He blinks. “What’s wrong with your skirt?”
“It’s fine! I’m fine! Everything isfine!” I yell, flipping the binder up like a trophy. “Zoning loopholes and tax code to therescue!”
Scotty looks to Angel for help. She just shrugs. “Let her have this one.”
I keep jogging, powered by adrenaline and sheer nerdiness. I’ve completely forgotten that I hate running. I hit the edge of town before my lungs remember I’m not a triathlete.
I double over, hands on knees, gasping.
My thighs are burning. My binder is heavy. My skirt is singed up one side, coffee-soaked, and sticking to my leg in a way I don’t want to think too hard about.
