“If a billionaire wants to invest in my town, who am I to stop him?”

I frowned. “Are you worried about gentrification or overcrowding? More traffic?”

“Nah. The more gentrified the town becomes, the less money I spend on gas driving my kids to Newburgh and Middletown.” He gestured to the travel mug in my hand. “Just this?”

I reeled back. And we’re done here. “Yes.” I passed him my debit card, cringing when the cash register displayed the price of $19.99, and thanked him for his time.

After receiving another lackluster response in Lickety Splits a few minutes later, I took a different slant. “With the addition of this new swooping structure, the landscape of the town will be drastically and irrevocably altered. Are you concerned the building will block the river views for a significant portion of the population?” People in New York City had strong feelings about views, especially when theirs were threatened, but posing it as a question rather than leading allowed me to remain impartial.

The woman behind the counter, who I guessed to be about my mother’s age, with blond hair spilling out of a white visor, beamed at me. “I’m on the waiting list for a unit on the top floor!”

And so it went.

I visited several more storefronts, including Books on Main and Twinkly Nails, where I also made a manicure appointment for later in the week. While the responses differed—some people were in favor of the construction, others didn’t care—no one was concerned Andrew Hanes would shut down their business or needlessly modernize the town with chain stores like H&M and Starbucks. There appeared to be no plans to band together to stop him, either by seeking historical status for the property or by collectively buying him out—popular solutions in the movies.

Think, Adi, think. Hmm. Would a story about a small town with the opposite reaction to real estate development than what the movies portrayed be of interest to the readers of Tea?

Nice try, but no.

I wandered to the park and plopped my butt on a black bench to think and nibble on my muffin. In front of me was the statue of Natalie Schull, the ballet dancer and only famous person born in Pleasant Hollow. The bronze replica appeared massive in photos yet was only about twice the size of the Tony Award she’d won in the 1980s. I laughed and choked on my muffin. It was too dry, and I swallowed it down with effort. My body curled in on itself on the bench. How long until I came across something in this town that surprised me in a positive way or, better yet, didn’t surprise me at all because I’d seen it on my television screen hundreds of times?