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Saving Mossy Point: In the Fifty-First State of Superior (Great Lakes Romances) (Volume 17)

By Donna Winters

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CHAPTER 1
“Mr. Engstrom, you can’t sell Mossy Point State Park!” Betty Hanson slid to the edge of her chair and stared straight into the pale blue eyes of the head of the General Land Office in the recently formed State of Superior. She’d sought this meeting with him at his office in Superior Bay, the new state capital, to warn him of the devastating effect a park closing would have on the Village of Mossy Point. But convincing him wouldn’t be easy. His gaze never seemed to meet hers for more than a nanosecond.
“Is that what you came here to tell me? You said you had some urgent information on a serious threat to state land. I assumed it concerned illegal activity, but selling a park? Come, now.”
“Selling the park is a serious threat.”
“Why not sell it? That park’s a real money pit.” As Mr. Engstrom leaned his bulky torso back in his creaky leather chair, Betty envisioned a button popping off his too-tight shirt and splashing in the coffee mug on the edge of his desk. Her lips twitched into a smile that she instantly suppressed. Now was no time for humor. She narrowed her brows and followed his wandering gaze like a guided missile locked on a target.
“Think of the consequences, Mr. Engstrom! Without the park, the village where I have lived for the last forty of my sixty-five years, will fold up! We’ve already got half-a-dozen ghost towns in this county. I understand you were originally from Mossy Point. You don’t want to add your own hometown to the list, do you?”
He took a deep breath, exhaling the stench of stale cigar smoke. “Now I doubt Mossy Point will turn into a ghost town anytime soon.” His dismissive attitude fueled her sense of urgency.
“Seventy-thousand people come through there every year for one reason, and one reason only—to get to the park. Without it, every business in the village will close, and then the Post Office and the school.”
Mr. Engstrom put his palm out. “That park loses money. When we were the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, Lansing funneled off income from the parks farther south to keep Mossy Point open.”
“And now that we’ve become the State of Superior?”
“If parks don’t support themselves, they’re done.” He propped his feet on his desk as if the case were closed.
A yellow sticky note had taken up residence on the bottom of his shoe. She casually leaned forward and pointed to a figurine on a bookcase a few feet to his left. “Mr. Engstrom, what’s that thing next to the ream of paper on your bookcase?”
When he craned his neck to look, she snatched the note and tucked it into her pocket.
“A snapping turtle. If anyone gets in the way, snap ’em where it hurts the most.”
“Sounds like the campaign you ran in Lansing to pass the resolution for us to separate from Michigan.”
He grinned.
“By the way, I never quite understood why you moved back up here after that. I assumed you’d stay below the bridge and take advantage of the economic improvements.”
He cocked his brow. “Opportunity.”
“You were promised this job if the resolution passed?”
“Your words, not mine.”
“But if you snap at Mossy Point by selling off the park, this state will lose even more revenue. Once businesses close, folks will move to Michigan or Wisconsin. Tax dollars will disappear right across the state line!”
“The legislature doesn’t see it that way.” He checked his watch, swung his feet to the floor, and pressed against the arms of his chair with a grunt, eventually reaching a vertical position. “Now, you’ve had your say, Mrs. Hanson, and I have another meeting to attend.”
Betty slung her bag over her shoulder, took one step toward the door, and turned to face him. “Just promise me one thing, Mr. Engstrom. Promise me you’ll keep the park open if it’s self-supporting this year.”
He shrugged. “I’m only one voice among many when it comes to these things.”
“Don’t be so modest. Everybody who knows the first thing about politics in the State of Superior knows you have influence over the legislature and the governor when it comes to land.”
He shook his head. “You flatter me, Mrs. Hanson. As for promises, I usually avoid them, but I suppose there’s no harm this time. You know why?”
She drew a breath to say, “Because it’s the right thing to do,” but he went on before she could get the words out.
“Because Mossy Point State Park has never paid its own way, not since it opened back in 1959. That park has the same chance of running in the black as a turtle has of flying.” He winked.
Betty thrust her hand out. “It’s a deal, Mr. Engstrom. The park’s going to make money, stay open, and a turtle will fly.”
He pumped her hand once and ushered her through the office door, past his secretary, and into the historic oak-paneled hallway that led to the lobby of the former Superior Bay Hotel. “So how are you going to do it, Mrs. Hanson? How are you going to get that park to make money?”
She shrugged. “I’ll think of something. Then I’ll be back here at the end of the season to show you a flying turtle.”
“Looking forward to it, Mrs. Hanson, but not holding my breath. Good luck!” When they reached the lobby, he passed the security guard with a nod, burst out the front door of the state office building, and disappeared down the street quicker than any three-hundred-pounder had a right to.
Betty returned her visitor I.D. to the security guard and stepped outside. She slipped her hand into her pocket and retrieved the yellow sticky note she’d pulled off Mr. Engstrom’s shoe. “ExlandGroup, 11:30 Monday.” Evidently that was the meeting he was headed for. But what or who was ExlandGroup? She’d look them up later.
Tucking the note back into her pocket, she drew in a deep breath of the late April breeze blowing in off semi-frozen Lake Superior, a block away. Azure ripples between ice floes sparkled with sunlit diamonds, beckoning her. She headed down Hill Street and across Lakeshore Drive to Superior Bay City Park on the shoreline. A pang of nostalgia pricked her heart. She’d met Harry here in April forty-seven years ago when she was a freshman and he was a sophomore at Superior Bay Community College. How she missed him. Would she ever get used to widowhood? After five years, probably not.
She sat on a bench facing the water. Icy reality washed over her. How was she going to save Mossy Point? She lifted her gaze heavenward. “Well, Lord, what have I gotten myself into this time? In sixty-five years of living, you’d think I’d have learned by now that I can’t fix everything that’s wrong with the world, or my world, anyway.” She paused, her mind in a spin. “I haven’t the slightest idea how Mossy Point State Park can make enough money to stay open. If it’s going to happen, you’ll have to show me the way.”
She slumped down until she could rest her neck against the top of the park bench. The sun warmed her cheeks, tempered by gentle gusts off Lake Superior. She closed her eyes. The cry of gulls made melody against the dull roar of Lakeshore Drive traffic. Just as she started to drift to sleep, a thought bolted her awake.
Start a folk school.
Her eyes sprang open and she sat upright, her mind racing. Could it work? She and Harry and Angie had loved their classes at North Country Folk School. Probably the best family vacation ever. Of course, Petite Baie, Minnesota, with its artsy, upscale atmosphere, had a lot more going for it than Mossy Point. But it could work. The up-north location on one of the most picturesque stretches of the Lake Superior shoreline ought to be a draw.
But what building could she use for classes . . . ? There was the old Lahti cabin at the park, a board-and-batten place about twenty feet by sixty feet, probably full of junk. It needed work. Paint for the wood siding, a new coat of paint on the metal roof, and who-knows-what on the inside. Big job.
Who could she get to help? Lee Nylund for sure, maybe Wayne and Doris Reed. Some others came to mind.
She’d need teachers. Steve Taylor. He was an ace with that photography club at school. If he could get two-dozen high school kids to shoot artistic photos with digital pocket cameras, he could get adults to do it, too. Lee could teach fly-tying. Maybe Wayne Reed would teach decoy carving. He’d created some really amazing ducks since retiring from his plumbing job.
Her stomach grumbled. She checked her watch. Time for lunch; then she had to get back to Mossy Point and talk to Thad. She recalled her phone conversation with the park supervisor that morning before she had headed to Superior Bay. She’d speed-dialed his landline and caught him before he’d left his office for the morning rounds.
“Thad, did you see the article in yesterday’s paper about the possibility of selling the park? I just got around to reading it a minute ago.”
“I saw it. Not much I can do if the State decides to close us up and sell.”
“I’m going to see Mr. Engstrom. Tell him he can’t sell our park.”
“Good luck. And Betty? You’d better pray for me that I can get a transfer. It’ll be tough finding another job in the State of Superior that will support a wife and two kids.”
“This park won’t close, not if I can help it. But you can count on the prayers, buddy. Talk to you later.”
That promise had been made three hours ago; now she had to make good on it. Rising from the bench, she set a brisk pace for her truck. A roast beef sandwich at the Beef Palace would quiet her stomach, then off to meet with Thad.

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