“Yeah. I guess. I can’t have a friend over, because this sitter’s new. I can’t watch a video because of the cartoons. I can’t make a noise, even.”

“Well, why don’t you draw another picture? Your pictures are beautiful.”

“What should I draw?” He sounded bored and lonely and she felt for him with all her heart.

“Why don’t you draw a get-well picture for Mrs. Simpson? I bet she’d love to have it while she’s at home recovering. She’d be happy to know you miss her.”

“I don’t really miss her that much. But I guess I could draw her a picture. Dad says he’s sending her some flowers. He can take the picture over.”

“I’m sure she’d like that.”

“Yeah. I guess. Well, it was nice talking to you.”

Such manners. She had a feeling there was going to be another politician in the family. “It was nice talking to you, too, Dylan.”

“Bye.”

“Goodbye.”

When she got home that night, she went straight to her own computer and pulled up an Internet mapping site. Acadia Springs was disappointingly far away. A three-hour drive, according to her Internet map. It would be a pretty drive-a couple of hours north up the coast and then an hour inland. She confirmed through online white pages that a Joseph Z. Carlton lived there, but decided not to call ahead first. She wanted to surprise the man with a personal visit-judge his reaction to her questions.

She’d drive up there this weekend.

Almost the minute she’d made the decision, the phone rang again. “Mayor’s office,” she answered, forgetting she was at home. “Hello?”

“It’s your uncle Cecil.” But it didn’t sound like her uncle. There was anger, frustration and a coldness in his voice that he’d never used with her before.

Briana fought down a pang of guilt. It wasn’t her fault that Patrick had gone to the people. Although she supported his stand, she hadn’t encouraged him to take it. In fact, she hadn’t known what he was planning until the day of the broadcast. But still, because she did support Patrick’s position, she felt guilty. Her uncle clearly held her in some way culpable.

“What can I do for you, Uncle Cecil?” she said in a conciliatory tone.

“Come on out to our place for lunch on Saturday,” he said.

“Saturday?” She’d intended to go up to Acadia Springs on Saturday, but she’d decided not to tell Uncle Cecil about her plans until she’d interviewed Officer Carlton and had all the facts. Now she’d have to go Sunday.

“Yes. Come for lunch. O’Shea’s playing hardball. It’s time for our team to start playing to win also. I want a full report on how you’re doing, young lady. I want him publicly humiliated-he’s got to drop this nonsense.”

Briana felt herself bristle on Patrick’s behalf and her own. She was over thirty, surely beyond being termed a young lady. However, she knew her uncle was clearly upset, so she didn’t call him on it. The best thing she could do was go over on the weekend and try and convince him that the wisest course of action would be to acquiesce to the wishes of the people with what grace he could muster.

“Are you getting calls from constituents?” she asked.

“The phone’s ringing off the damn hook,” he said, and then added some very unflattering things about her boss before hanging up.

The battle lines had obviously been drawn, and neither man was willing to make a conciliatory move.

PATRICK WAS obviously confused and disappointed the following morning that the three councilmen who’d opposed him wouldn’t change their positions. He began to talk about putting together a plebiscite.

“The trouble is that a plebiscite takes time to set up and will cost money-money we desperately need to go to our emergency services,” he said, pacing her office in frustration.

“Do you want me to set up another emergency council meeting?”

He shook his head. “No point. If those three were planning to change their minds and vote to free up that money, they’d have contacted me by now. No,” he said heavily. “I think we’re on our own.”

“I thought they’d have called by now,” she admitted. “They must be receiving almost as many calls as we are.”

“Damn that Cecil Thomson. How can he not see that this isn’t about petty politics anymore? People are dying unnecessarily because we can’t get to them in time. We need more police, more firefighters on call. More manpower, more resources.” He sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “More money.”

Briana had listened to Uncle Cecil’s advice many times during her career. Maybe it was time he listened to some of hers.

“Patrick, don’t start the plebiscite quite yet.” She hesitated, searching for a plausible reason not to. “Let’s wait one more council meeting. I bet you the gallery will be packed with people demanding answers. Council will be shamed into backing you.”

One thing she could say for Patrick was that he did listen to her. He didn’t always follow her recommendations, but he did listen and she knew he respected her opinions. This time, he nodded. “You’re right as always, Ms. Bliss. Let’s give the three holdouts one last chance. But under the terms of the bond, if we can’t get council to agree unanimously, a plebiscite can be called. One way or another, we are going to get that money.”

CHAPTER TEN

NOON SATURDAY found Briana in a whispered conversation with her aunt while they waited for Uncle Cecil to finish a call in his study.

“Your poor uncle,” Aunt Irene whispered. “I’m seriously worried about him. Goodness knows what this fight he’s in with the mayor will do to his blood pressure.” She shot a glance over at Briana. “And his cholesterol.”

Briana could well understand that stress affected blood pressure, but cholesterol?

“He’s not sleeping well, and I hear him muttering to himself all the time. It’s not right. That mayor had no right to upset your uncle this way.”

Briana was about to explain the mayor’s rationale, when she realized she’d only upset her aunt further. Briana suspected Uncle Cecil was not a fun man to live with when he was in a temper.

So she held her peace and let her aunt rant on about how dreadful her life had been when that awful photo was first leaked to the press. She couldn’t even face going to the supermarket for days. “It wasn’t until we were almost completely out of supplies that I realized I was going to have to face the ridicule of our neighbors or starve.”

“I’m sorry, Aunt.” And she was. “It can’t have been easy.”

“No. It was terrible. Just terrible.” Her lip quivered. “Of course it was a lie. Your uncle has barely looked at another woman since we’ve been married. He’d never do a thing like…what was in that picture. They’d blanked out part of it, of course, to put it in the newspaper, but it was still just awful. And the man didn’t even look like your uncle.”

“I’m so sorry, Aunt Irene. I can’t believe anyone could hurt you and Uncle Cecil this way.”

Still, she wanted proof that Patrick was behind the awful smear campaign.

Interestingly enough, that was exactly what was on her uncle’s mind when he emerged from his study.

“You two go out on the back porch and have a nice chat,” her aunt said. “I’ve got the chicken salad all made. I’ll just fix the rest of lunch and put it out on the dining room table.” She smiled at Briana and added a conspirator’s wink. “It’s very private out back. No one will see or hear you talking to your uncle.”

Briana went through the kitchen and out to the porch. When they were sitting, glasses of lemonade in their hands, she took a moment to study Uncle Cecil. She could see why her aunt was worried about his health. His face was a mottled red, and it wasn’t from exertion or too much sun. She suspected it was from high blood pressure and stress.

“Are you all right, Uncle Cecil?” she asked softly.