LITMIR.BIZ

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West Van with leather chairs and stainless steel appliances and a pleasing, if not exactly spectacular, view of the coastal mountains.”

      “A minor distinction at best. Score—Sally one, Jack nothing. Let me see now. I’ll bet your town house is surrounded by all sorts of trendy little shops and cafés, all of which you cite as your reason—make that your justification—for living in crowded, overpriced West Van, but none of which you’ve ever set foot in.” Was she clever, or what? She could have been an FBI profiler.

      “Wrong again. I eat out almost every night, at a trendy little bistro four doors down from my architecturally correct town house. I shop in the local stores, and I’m a Friday night fixture at the corner pub. I’ve got my own stool there.”

      “Okay. You score one point, even though I suspect you’re exaggerating.”

      He laughed. “Maybe a little.”

      Actually, Sally could just picture him sitting on that stool, sipping some pricey foreign ale while he read and admired his own copy in that day’s Satellite. Probably he wasn’t alone. Probably he was reading it aloud to someone.

      Someone special.

      “One last guess. I’ll bet you’ve got a very tall, very thin girlfriend who dresses in black and smokes French cigarettes.” That sounded like fishing, but how else was she going to learn anything about the guy? He wasn’t exactly gushy about his personal life.

      Jack let the question hang there for a moment, and Sally braced herself for the inevitable. Of course there was a girlfriend. Maybe more than one. A guy like him? Educated, gorgeous, soon to be famous. He probably had the world’s biggest speed dial.

      “Wrong yet again,” Jack finally said. “One more strike and you’re out.”

      Sally waited for details, but, clearly, none were forthcoming. Talk about smooth. He hadn’t really answered the question at all. His girlfriend might be short with red hair. Or medium with no hair. He didn’t ask if she had a boyfriend, either. Come to think of it, he hadn’t asked her a single question that didn’t relate to the story. Obviously he didn’t care.

      Oh well, it was time to switch her hormones off, anyway—stop fantasizing about the impossible and get her mind back on the story.

      Their turn was just ahead. Following her directions, Jack swung left onto the smooth two-lane blacktop, its centre line a ribbon of bright, untarnished yellow. They passed through a dark tunnel formed by the bowed, sweeping branches of overgrown poplars, then abruptly burst into a sun-dappled meadow.

      Sally watched Jack for his reaction to the spectacle ahead.

      Obviously stunned, he slowed the Mustang to a crawl, his gaze riveted on the ghostly remains of half-built structures—shops, restaurants and, beyond, a network of empty streets where new homes should have been.

      He brought the car to a full stop in the middle of the deserted road and sat there, gawking. Sally gave him a moment to take it all in.

      “What do you see, Jack?” She held her breath.

      He took a long time to frame his answer. “I see…a vision…wasted.”

      Yes! She had been so right. Jack Gold was the one and only reporter who could tell her story.

      “What happened here, Sally?”

      As he eased off the brake and proceeded slowly along the access road, she explained how several years ago the town had sold the land to a developer with an inspired vision: Build a series of small, independent communities extending south of town—pods, sort of—that would attract young families looking for affordable homes, with schools and shops nearby. The plan had been to recruit a few national store chains and at the same time to presell the homes. Then the drought came and the local economy tanked. The buyers didn’t come. “The chains backed out. The developer lost his shirt and, well, this is the outcome.”

      “I’ve never seen anything like this,” Jack marveled as he cruised through the eerie district, looking all around him. “I’ve never seen anything so…unfinished.”

      “That’s just it, Jack! There’s a standing proposal before town council to recruit another developer, but no one in the valley is interested. And there’s no way we can finish the project ourselves, not without raising property taxes through the roof.” Sally was ranting again and she knew it, but she just had to get Jack on board. “Do you know what this would have meant for Peachtown?”

      He parked at a curb and turned toward her. “This isn’t really about ice cream, is it, Sally?”

      “No. Well, yes and no. Like I said yesterday, we were positioned for growth and change. For progress, Jack.” Please, please, understand this.

      “You don’t really believe that Peach Paradise is going to change all this, do you?”

      “Got a better idea?”

      “It’s not my place to come up with ideas for urban renewal.”

      “No, but it is in your power to get the attention of the people who will come up with those ideas—”

      “Look, Sally.” His tone was soft, placating.

      “—and then make them happen!”

      “Sally…”

      “Jack, you promised to do the story justice!”

      “I came here to write a story about ice cream, and I will do it justice.”

      “Yes, but there’s so much more to the story than that. Listen, Jack. All of this—” she waved her hands around “—is documented at Peachtown Hall. We could go there tomorrow. I could give you all the background information you need to get started. I…” What the…? Was he laughing at her? “What’s so funny, mister?”

      “You. I’ve never met anybody like you.”

      Sally’s face heated up. “I’ll thank you to take me seriously, Jack Gold. Like you promised.”

      “And I’ll thank you to remember why I came here. I’ve got an article to write. A short article, and I’m planning to write it tonight, in Vancouver. Besides, I can’t be here tomorrow. I’m covering an important press conference first thing in the morning, in Vancouver. In the meantime, you and I are going to pay Charlie Sacks a visit. I’ll tour the dairy barn with you and I’ll look at your photos, as promised. That’s all.”

      Sally folded her arms and worked up her best pouty princess look. Why was he being so difficult? People usually went along with her plans and schemes.

      “The pouty thing doesn’t work with me, Sally.”

      Darn. She tried wounded puppy instead.

      “That doesn’t work, either.”

      A sigh escaped her. “Oh, Jack.”

      For all of a second he appeared to weaken. But Trish’s comment about her tendency to steamroll over people echoed in Sally’s head, and she decided to let the matter drop—for now.

      COULD HE FEEL ANY WORSE?

      Jack stood beside Sally on Charlie Sacks’s front porch, waiting for someone, anyone, to answer the bell. They’d only been there a minute or two, but it felt like a week. The air between them was charged with electricity. Sally was annoyed. No doubt about that. But there was nothing he could do to change it.

      What was it about her that made him feel so bad? What power did she have to make him second-guess himself? People usually flattered him—buttered him up to get what they wanted. Not Sally Darville. She could act coy, but ultimately she wanted what she wanted on her own terms. It was sort of…refreshing.

      Regardless, he wasn’t buckling—no matter how sexy she looked in those little white shorts and that filmy pink blouse with the lacy bra showing through. Her fingernails and toenails were painted a pale pink and her hair was down today, loose and blond and

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