The Solace of Bay Leaves

the original proposal,” Lindy Harmon said. “She’d had her eye on that property for years and along comes this other developer and buys it out from under her.”
“What?” This was news to me.
“But she got it back—I don’t know how. She listened to the community. She understood what would work in that location and what wouldn’t.” From inside the house came the sound of a telephone. Who still has a land line, I wondered, as Lindy straightened, gave Arf a last quick pat, and headed for her open door. “I can’t convince my mother to call my cell phone. She always says she doesn’t want to interrupt me. Nice to meet you both.”
“Well.” I glanced down at the dog. “Learn something new every day.”
If you didn’t, it wouldn’t be a very good day.

Twelve
Researchers believe that we choose what we eat and drink partly through sensory cues that draw on experience, such as our memory of enjoying the taste of an expensive wine, which prompts us to choose an expensive vintage the next time we scan a wine list.
WOULD THE NEIGHBORING BUSINESS OWNERS TALK TO ME? They had to be on pins and needles. First, all the rumors and struggles over the development, and now a shooting. No doubt some of them remembered Pat Halloran’s murder, as Lindy Harmon did, although I hadn’t heard anyone connect the two crimes yet. Whether they thought Maddie’s shooting random or targeted, and whether they approved of her plans or not, they had to be worried for their own safety and their businesses.
Though I had learned, to my astonishment, that crime is not necessarily bad for the bottom line.
We circled back to Twenty-Fourth, cars and busses whizzing by. I had no idea what kind of building the corner grocery had replaced, but it was hard to imagine that this had ever been an improvement. Will today’s hip new looks become classics, or dated eyesores like the boxy stucco grocery? But despite its appearance, it had been a central meeting spot, a hub that helped define the community.
It’s a fact of life and age that the places that hold our memories change without asking our permission.
Of course, the moment you turn out the lights and walk away, a building takes on a shabby air. As if it knows it’s been abandoned and plunges into depression, the sidewalk sprouting cracks and weeds overnight. And that breeds crime, if you buy the broken window theory.
Emby must have had a family. What had happened to them?
“Come on, boy.” I tightened Arf’s leash. “Time to get to work.”
The rest of the buildings on the block were a mix of styles, some the redbrick popular in the 1920s, another with a recessed doorway under a stately stone arch. It was the classic commercial district with a floor or two of apartments above the shops that once defined a neighborhood, before we all began hopping in our cars to work elsewhere. These days, it was a struggle to find the right mix that would serve nearby residents and remain viable. To its credit, the city made an effort to balance changing needs and keep the neighborhoods vibrant. But gentrification has its costs, and community can be one of them.
Though I knew, as the tenant of an aged building in the Market, that no amount of character beats reliable wiring.
The name on the first door we came to read FRANK THOMAS INSURANCE Serving Montlake Since 1977. I pushed it open and stepped inside, Arf at heel. An electronic chime announced our arrival, and the sounds of radio news drifted from a back room.
My dad had brought me here to see the agent when I got my drivers’ license, to teach me some of the costs of driving.
“Coming,” a male voice boomed. The radio clicked off. The front desk sat empty; it was lunch time.
I scanned the walls, hung with a series of black-and-white photos of the neighborhood. One shot, partially hidden by a silk ficus tree, caught my eye and I stepped closer. The corner lot, taken from across the street. Two men in dark suits and hats stood on the sidewalk in front of a two-story redbrick building, still under construction. A slight distance apart stood a third man, in dark pants, a white shirt, and suspenders. Their faces were impossible to see—too far away, the sun too bright in their eyes. The owners and their tenant? Two bankers and the owner? No way to tell. I could only imagine what they might think, knowing that their businesses and buildings were long gone, and about to be replaced again.
“Bygone days,” the man I’d heard earlier said. “Lively block, back then.”
I turned to see a man of about fifty, wriggling the knot of his tie into place beneath a broad, friendly face. He finished the job and held out his hand. “Frank Thomas. How can I help you?”
The son, not the father I’d met as a teenager. “Pepper Reece. Chuck and Lena’s daughter. Hope you don’t mind me dropping in, or bringing the dog in out of the drizzle.”
“No, no, he’s fine. I thought you looked familiar. How are the folks?”
“Good.” What few financial matters my parents couldn’t handle long-distance they’d entrusted to my brother, Carl, who does, after all, make a living in finance. But I remembered the Thomases, one of the few black families in the neighborhood. “They’re still in Costa Rica, loving it, but they’re thinking of moving back part of the year. I was passing by and thought I’d drop in, let you know they’ll be calling.” I’d have to remember to tell my mother I’d promised she’d call.
“My pleasure. They renting or buying?”
“Haven’t decided yet. You know my mother—when she sees the right place, she’ll snap it up. She was curious about the condos—or are they apartments?—going in next