Whatever Lola Wants Read Free Page A

to Lexington, each less than a helicopter hour away. A few miles from Richmond, the county seat, a town of fifty-five hundred souls just south of Ethan Allen’s bump. Johnnie had gutted the Fortier farmhouse, and remade it: newly wired, plumbed, insulated, walled, and glazed. And because it would have been out of place to put up some eye-scathing cement and glass headquarters in rural Vermont, he bought the one-time Methodist church, a white-clapboard Revolutionary War building two minutes from Richmond Common, and transformed it into Intraterra North, the Vermont branch of his international operations. He became part of the community. High-quality talent here, good local labor. The smoothest stonemasons, the most inventive carpenters. Mohawk steelworkers, their balance fine-tuned. Ever-creative financing on both sides of the border. And bi-national insight into legal problems; though Intraterra’s staff of lawyers was unsurpassed, Terramac would be further valuably served by local Richmond attorneys. And protected too by an independent Montreal law firm. Thirty months ago John had met with Leonora Magnussen, daughter of John’s neighbors Milton and Theresa, licensed locally in Vermont, long practicing under Napoleonic code in Quebec, a partner there at Shaughnessy, Vitelli, Goldman, and St.-Just, specialists in cross-border law.
    â€œAnd why me, Mr. Cochan?”
    Behind her teak desk lady-lawyer Magnussen had sat, trim and ironic. Standing to shake hands she’d towered over Cochan by three inches. Skinny, skinny, and such a narrow face. But well-lashed clever gray eyes. He’d answered her with partial truth: “Your family’s commitment to Merrimac County is longstanding. Your knowledge of property and community is complex and deeply respected— Yes, yes,” he said as she raised her hand, perhaps to protest. “I’ve done my homework. It’s in your nature to respect the positions of all parties.”
    She smiled lightly. “With some small preference for my clients.”
    â€œIntraterra’s interests are substantial. And they’re not, I believe, antagonistic to those of your family.”
    â€œTell me about your project, Mr. Cochan.”
    For an hour he did. Richmond and the county would do well by Terramac City, with clear economic spillover in all directions—southwest to Burlington, into the ski country around Mount Mansfield to the east, across the border to New Hampshire, up into Quebec as well. For decades to come, hundreds of jobs created, a powerful new tax base for education funding, healthy futures for the county’s kids. And a lot of fun living, too.
    In her office on the thirty-second floor at One Place Ville Marie, Leonora listened. She had privately researched the Terramac City project, and John Cochan too: the prospects and plans floated before the Vermont Commissioners, the contractors and tradesmen consulted, the preliminary community responses. She had read of his earlier achievements, recorded and celebrated on the multi-tentacled Internet. Three points became obvious. First, John Cochan was committed to twin goals, grand-scale variable-service projects with the highest of environmental standards that however did not sacrifice prodigious profit. Second, Terramac’s early critics were conservative and confrontational, the kind who’d condemn replacing a log bridge across a stream with rough-hewn planks. Third, for better or worse, Terramac would increase the value of the Magnussen land five- to eight-fold. “Your project sounds intriguing, Mr. Cochan.”
    â€œGlad you think so. Good to have you aboard.”
    â€œSo I’m sorry. I can’t represent you.”
    â€œExcuse me?”
    â€œI agree with your intentions. But I won’t take you as a client.”
    In her voice, something more. “And yet?” John smiled, tight but open.
    She echoed his tone. “As a concerned citizen, I could