Emma Blooms At Last Read Free Page A

your estimate.”
    â€œJah, well, the excavation crew I use is only available this week, before they go to jobs with other contractors,” Reece replied hastily. “Can’t get them again until the middle of January, see, so I didn’t think you’d want to wait that long.”
    The middle of January?
Nobody poured concrete then, so his facility would be delayed by months if he waited that long. Wyman drew in a deep breath, trying to compose himself. “It seems to me that bedrock would be the ideal foundation for an elevator anyway,” he said. “It’s not like I need a basement—or even a crawl space—under the silos or the office building.”
    â€œYeah, but see, the new EPA regulations are making us do a lotta things different these days,” the contractor replied. “Nothing’s as easy as it was when Pop put up your elevator in Clearwater. That was about twenty years ago, after all.”
    Wyman blinked. Norbert Weaver’s friendly, reliable service had been the main reason he and his partner, Ray Fisher, had wanted Weaver Construction to build their new facility, but itseemed that some of the family’s values had died with the company’s founder. Wyman heard the hum of equipment in the background. Could it be that Reece was pushing for more money because he had several big projects going on at once? The founder’s son had acted quite accommodating and professional last week when they’d discussed the plans for this new elevator . . . and Wyman realized that because he, too, was feeling pressured, he wasn’t handling these details well over the phone.
    â€œTell you what, Reece,” he said, trying to sound reasonable and relaxed. “I need to discuss this situation with my partner before we proceed. How about if I meet you at the elevator site tomorrow morning?”
    â€œI’ll be outta state on another big job. Won’t be back around Bloomingdale until Friday.”
    Wyman caught himself scowling yet again. But he would not be pushed into paying out more money until he’d talked with Ray about this new development. “What time on Friday, then?”
    â€œYou really want to wait? My excavation crew’ll most likely be gone by then, or they’ll charge me double time for squeezing your job in over the weekend,” the contractor replied. “You know what they say. Time is money.”
    No, time is
time
, and this is
my
money we’re talking about.
Wyman let out the breath he’d been holding. “Three o’clock this afternoon, then. But don’t come to the house,” he insisted. “Meet me at the elevator site so we can talk about our options.”
    â€œSee you then. With at least half of that hundred thousand bucks.”
Click.
    Wyman sank onto the wooden bench near the phone. How had this opportunity for his future changed so radically? Just a few weeks ago the details of his move to Bloomingdale had effortlessly come together because, he believed, God was directing him to start a new life with his new blended family on Amanda’s farm.He’d sold the Brubaker home place to the Fisher family for less than market value because he and Ray had been best friends since childhood, and so that Ray’s son could move there to expand his dairy operation when he got married.
    The transaction with the Fisher family had been seamless, on a handshake. Wyman had felt confident that he could afford a new facility—in addition to the elevator he and Ray had run since they’d been young and single—or he wouldn’t have dreamed of stretching his family’s finances so thin. They had agreed that Weaver Construction would do the work, because they wanted to support other Plain businesses in the area.
    Had they made a mistake? Maybe they should’ve gotten a bid from another construction company . . . but it was too late for that now. They had already