“Well,” the Dragoon Lady begins, turning to her followers, two of whom I now notice have clipboards and pens at the ready. “The Preservation Committee was thrilled to learn that you’ve decided not to sell your family cottage.”

“Thank you,” I say, suddenly feeling a bit warmer toward her.

“As you know, preservation of Saugatuck’s history and historical cottages is very important to us and our town,” she says in a voice that sounds a bit robotic. “This cottage has such a unique history...”

“Such history, such history,” her three committee members coo in unison.

“...from Mr. Capone to your family, who has kept the character of this cottage and fought to preserve its character.”

I blush. “Thank you,” I say again, wondering if my mother had been wrong about this woman.

“I...we...however, are concerned about your intentions for this cottage,” she says, raising an eyebrow, her lashes tossing a shadow across her face. “The committee has learned about your plans to turn this into a...” She stops as though she’s about to say a dirty word.

“Inn?” I offer. “B and B.”

“Yes,” she says with disgust. “We’d like to set up a meeting with our full committee to review your plans.”

I stare at her, not blinking. Trish has taught me well. But it doesn’t work on the Dragoon Lady.

“Which architect are you working with?” she asks. “We have two the committee approves of.”

My head begins to spin. “I’m not working with an architect,” I say. “I’m remodeling this myself.”

My renderings are still sitting on the kitchen counter. The Dragoon Lady’s eyes flutter toward them, and then scan every inch of my work.

“I see,” she says, ice dripping from her ironic choice of words.

I can feel my face flush, and I immediately want to hide my work like a kid might hide a test on which she had received a bad grade.

“And I’m working directly with a local contractor who’s done numerous projects on this cottage for years. In fact, his great-grandfather helped build the cottage.”

“Frank,” she says with a dismissive sigh. She turns to her committee, two of which are writing furiously. “The handyman.” She stops and acts as if she’s thinking. She scratches her hair, and both wigs move atop her head. “So, what date would be convenient for you to meet? We meet every other week, either at the woman’s club or at the country club.”

My eyes are so large I feel as if they might bust free of their sockets and just roll across the floor. If they did, I’m sure two of the women would note it on their clipboards.

“I appreciate your stopping by,” I start gingerly, “but this is my first full day here. My contractor and his crew are coming back in a bit, I have a million things to do and...”