Zoey looked down to her lap, trying to hide her smile. Decisions like that could take months, sometimes years, to churn through committees. It was a clever ploy on Mike’s part. Unfortunately, it would delay the problem rather than solving it. Because Karen Schiff was sitting right there in the front row with her husband, on the opposite side of the center aisle from Zoey.

Edward Schiff looked like he’d rather be on the surface of the sun than in that meeting. Zoey leaned to the side to get a better look at Karen. The woman, with her cropped blond hair looking like a helmet, was glancing around the room with a hint of uncertainty in her eyes. She was probably as surprised by the turnout as Zoey was. And the crowd was clearly there for Zoey—the room burst into applause every time Mike made a point.

The only thing missing was a cape attached to his shoulders as he paced the floor in front of the board, pleading her case. He was her hero right now. He caught her eye just then and gave a quick wink. He was enjoying this. And she was enjoying watching.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I believe we’ll find that the Hartford Farm will qualify for historic designation. The original owner, Horace Hartford, was the blacksmith who created some of our town’s original and most ornate iron fences, including the intricate gate at the entrance of Brady College.”

Hazel was sitting next to Zoey, and they stared at each other in surprise. She’d never heard that story before. Mike explained how records proved that her great-great-grandfather had helped create the iconic look of the town that was world-famous for its Victorian style. Since the town itself had been recognized as a national historic landmark, with many individual homes also sporting signs from New York State describing their significance, then surely, Mike insisted, the home of Horace Hartford would also qualify. It was fascinating, but Zoey couldn’t help thinking that it might not keep Karen Schiff from getting her way. Rules were rules.

“In addition, if you’ll take a look at Exhibit E in your packets,” Mike was saying. He gestured to the glossy, bound booklets of material he’d handed out to the board members and everyone who walked in the door until they’d run out. Zoey was flipping through hers to find the list of old census copies. She saw Horace Hartford’s name on several of them, and then her great-grandfather, her grandfather and her dad.