Chapter 7 - The Board Wanted to Close the Store His Family BuiltCatching Galen did not save the windows.
That was the part nobody put in the newspaper.
Three panes were permanently scarred.
Two required specialized restoration.
One had damage deep enough that Maren Bell could not guarantee stabilization.
The insurance carrier launched an investigation.
The historic-district committee wanted reports.
The Strickland board wanted numbers.
Numbers were less sentimental than windows.
“This building is becoming a liability,” Cullen’s cousin Marshall said during the November board meeting.
Cullen sat at the head of the long walnut table.
His aunt Margaret sat opposite him.
Two outside directors joined by video.
Marshall pushed a report across the table.
“Thirty-eight thousand for replacement was the cheap estimate.”
“We’re not using Wade Reeves.”
“Obviously.”
“Then stop quoting his number.”
Marshall sighed.
“Fine. Fifty-two thousand from the new bidder. Plus frame restoration. Plus security upgrades. Plus electrical work we postponed last year.”
“This store is profitable.”
“Barely.”
“It’s the company’s original location.”
“That matters to customers until it starts costing shareholders.”
Cullen hated when family used shareholder as though the word absolved them from having feelings.
Margaret adjusted her glasses.
“Your father refused to consider moving.”
“My father refused to consider many things.”
“That sounded disrespectful.”
“It was descriptive.”
Marshall leaned forward.
“We have space in the west-side distribution property. Build a modern retail showroom there. Close this location.”
“And do what with the building?”
“Sell.”
Cullen looked through the conference-room glass toward the old showroom.
Eighty-eight years.
His grandfather had stocked hats there during the Dust Bowl.
His father had worked Saturdays behind the counter at thirteen.
Cullen had learned to count change at the register.
He had also spent years avoiding the place because every room reminded him of Carl.
Loss made buildings complicated.
Sometimes you wanted to preserve them because someone you loved had stood there.
Sometimes you wanted to burn them down for the same reason.
“I want thirty days,” Cullen said.
“For what?” Marshall asked.
“To explore restoration grants, tax incentives, and redevelopment options that keep retail downtown.”
Marshall exhaled.
“Sentiment is expensive.”
“So is short-term thinking.”
The motion passed.
Thirty days.
That evening, Cullen found Jolie cleaning the windows at a bookstore two blocks away.
She had hired a new employee.
A woman named Denise who worked school-hours because she had twin boys in kindergarten.
Cullen stood across the street watching Jolie explain how to check the edge of a squeegee blade.
She noticed him.
“Still spying from dark places?”
“It’s six-thirty.”
“Streetlight’s broken. Counts as dark.”
Denise looked between them.
“Should I know who this is?”
“My former direct client.”
Cullen raised an eyebrow.
Jolie smiled.
“The corporate restructuring went through.”
“Yesterday.”
“I know.”
“How?”
“Your facilities coordinator emailed me.”
“You sound disappointed.”
“I’m devastated to have proper purchasing procedures.”
Denise picked up the bucket.
“I’m going to pretend I don’t understand whatever this is.”
When she left, Cullen approached.
“Dinner.”
Jolie blinked.
“That was abrupt.”
“I promised I’d ask.”
“You did.”
“Friday.”
“That wasn’t a question.”
“Would you have dinner with me Friday?”
“Where?”
“A restaurant.”
“Excellent start.”
“No police stations.”
“Better.”
“No business.”
“Better.”
“No interrogations.”
Jolie hesitated.
“Can you actually do that?”
“Probably not.”
She laughed.
“Yes.”
“Seven?”
“Yes.”
He should have left.
Instead, he looked at the bookstore window.
“You hired someone.”
“Two people.”
“When?”
“This week.”
“Business growing?”
“Apparently being publicly cleared of sabotage is good marketing.”
“That’s one way to describe it.”
“I’ve gotten fourteen calls.”
“You could raise your rates.”
“I did.”
He looked impressed.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“That was something.”
“I’m learning not to inspect.”
“Very funny.”
She closed her equipment case.
“What’s wrong?”
Cullen frowned.
“Nothing.”
“You came here without a coat and have been staring through glass for five minutes.”
“The board wants to close the store.”
Jolie stopped.
“Strickland?”
“Yes.”
“Because of the damage?”
“Partly.”
She looked down Sixth Street toward the old storefront.
“That store’s been there forever.”
“Since 1938.”
“What do you want?”
The question irritated him.
Not because she had asked it.
Because he did not know.
“I want the decision that makes sense.”
“That wasn’t what I asked.”
He looked at her.
“My father would keep it.”
“You’re not your father.”
“I’m aware.”
“Are you?”
Cullen folded his arms.
Jolie stepped closer.
“If you close it because the numbers say close it, fine. If you keep it because the numbers and the history together say keep it, fine. But don’t make a decision just to prove you’re different from a dead man.”
Cullen stared.
“You’re very comfortable criticizing me.”
“You invited me to dinner.”
“I’m reconsidering.”
“No, you aren’t.”
“No.”
She smiled.
Then she looked toward the old building.
“You know what Posie likes about that store?”
“The hats?”
“The brass mail slot.”
Cullen blinked.
“Why?”
“She says notes disappear into history.”
“That makes no sense.”
“She’s seven.”
He smiled.
Jolie continued.
“People don’t love old places because they’re efficient.”
“What do they love?”
“The fact that other people stood there before them.”
The sentence stayed with Cullen.
Two days later, Maren Bell called.
“I found something behind the interior display panels.”
Cullen met her at the store.
Jolie happened to be finishing another route nearby and came too.
Maren had removed a temporary panel from beneath the curved center window.
Behind it, protected for decades, was hand-painted lettering.
STRICKLAND HAT CO.
Gold leaf.
Deep red shadowing.
Original.
Cullen stared.
“My grandfather’s first sign.”
Maren smiled.
“Apparently.”
The letters had been hidden during a 1970s remodel.
The sabotage had come dangerously close to destroying the final section.
But it had not.
“Can it be restored?” Jolie asked.
“Yes.”
Cullen looked at Maren.
“Cost?”
“Don’t ruin the moment.”
“Professional habit.”
“Approximately twelve thousand for the sign work.”
He closed his eyes.
Jolie laughed.
But Maren continued.
“However, original storefront lettering plus intact curved glass may make the project eligible for a preservation grant.”
Cullen opened his eyes.
“How much?”
“Possibly enough to change your board’s conversation.”
One week later, the preliminary grant review came back favorable.
If Strickland committed to restoring the original façade and maintaining retail operations for a minimum period, preservation funding could cover a substantial portion of the qualifying work.
For the first time, keeping the store was not just sentimental.
It made financial sense.
Cullen called Jolie.
“We’re keeping it.”
Her voice brightened.
“The store?”
“Yes.”
“Posie will be thrilled.”
“Interesting that her reaction is apparently more important than mine.”
“She likes the mail slot.”
Friday night, Cullen picked Jolie up at seven.
No limousine.
No driver.
Just his SUV.
Jolie opened the door wearing a dark green dress.
Cullen forgot what he had planned to say.
She noticed.
“Oh, this is fun.”
“What?”
“You actually lost words.”
“I have words.”
“None are coming out.”
“You look beautiful.”
Now Jolie lost words.
Cullen smiled.
“Also fun.”
Dinner lasted three hours.
They talked about everything except windows.
Almost.
Jolie told him she had wanted to become a veterinary technician before Posie was born.
Cullen admitted he had once tried to design hats and produced what his father called “an insult to cattle.”
Jolie laughed hard enough to attract attention from another table.
Afterward, they walked beneath downtown lights.
When they reached her porch, Cullen stopped.
“No contract issue.”
“No.”
“No police station.”
“No.”
“No business emergency.”
“Not currently.”
“Can I kiss you?”
Jolie looked at him for a long moment.
“Yes.”
The kiss was gentle.
Almost careful.
Then Jolie touched his coat and kissed him again with significantly less caution.
When they separated, Cullen rested his forehead against hers.
“That was worth restructuring facilities management.”
Jolie laughed softly.
“You’re ridiculous.”
“Apparently.”
The porch light flickered.
Inside, Posie’s babysitter discreetly moved away from the curtain.
Jolie groaned.
“She was watching.”
“Who?”
“The woman who will tell my daughter everything.”
Cullen smiled.
For once, being watched did not bother him at all.
But the next morning, a certified letter arrived at Strickland Hat Company.
Galen Voss’s attorney was threatening a civil claim.
Defamation.
Business interference.
Wrongful accusation.
And attached to the letter was a statement signed by one of Galen’s former workers.
A statement claiming Jolie Cantrell had once admitted she knew exactly how to etch glass without leaving evidence.
May you like
Someone was still trying to make her the villain.
Even with Galen behind bars.
