12. Echoes of the Past
Chapter twelve
Echoes of the Past
Iarrive early enough to catch Mayor Ford beside the podium with one hand wrapped around the microphone and the other pressed to his ear.
A squeal cuts through the community center. He winces, checks the sound booth, then sees me near the side aisle.
“Annie. I’m glad you came.”
“I’m a member of this town, and I’m here to listen.”
“That would be more reassuring if you didn’t say it like you’re checking a pulse.”
“You invited a developer to talk about doing god knows what to the cannery. Seems appropriate.”
His smile fades. “It’s only the presentation tonight. No commitment. As a town, we’ll hear him out and ask our questions.”
“I read the notice.”
“You also know how this town hears the word developer.”
“I know how developers hear the word waterfront.”
“Annie.” He’s already tired of this issue and the meeting hasn’t even started yet.
“It’s a start. I’ll practice looking calm.”
“Thank you.” He sighs and returns to the microphone.
The room fills slowly tonight. I’m sure the heavy rains are making people think twice before going out into it. Storms always slow progress. But for the cannery’s sake, I hope not tonight.
Those who braved the elements now start to clump together around the room. Mostly around the refreshment table. Low, worried voices looking for truthful answers.
I greet folks as they pass. Some have questions tucked under the greeting where they can pretend they are only being polite.
“Annie, have you heard anything from the clinic side?”
“Same as you. I’m going to listen tonight, before I panic.”
That gets a dry laugh from Mr. Hanley.
Mrs. Dorsey stops and puts her arm around my waist. “You look either lost in thought or you already have an opinion.”
“Not really. But I know what I want to ask.”
“I think a lot of folks are planning on doing the same. I have my comment card ready.” She tucks it into her purse, gives me a squeeze, then moves toward the front.
Ellie comes in, scoping out the room. She spots Erin and squeals with relief. Erin’s face lights up with a quick grin.
Doc follows a step behind Ellie. They walk over to Rhea and Erin. Ellie plops down and they immediately start chatting. Doc takes off his coat and puts it on the chair beside Rhea.
My god damn blood pressure starts to rise. It's ridiculous, and I can’t control it.
Doc hasn’t sat yet, he’s looking around the room, and then finds me.
Of course, when I’m standing here, face red, staring at him.
Smooth Lockhart.
He smiles and gives a wave.
Rhea doesn't miss it. She gets up and comes back to grab some lemonade, a cookie, and a chat.
“Everyone is pretty nervous about this.”
“I’m one of them.”
“But you have a good head on your shoulders and an open mind. Let’s see what we’re up against first. Right?”
“Right. I’m trying to remain optimistic.”
“Try harder. It looks like indigestion.”
I burst out laughing. “Thanks, Rhea. I needed that.”
“Happy to help.”
She heads back to her seat. Doc stands to let her pass and looks back at me again and smiles.
I appreciate it.
I hate needing it.
He turns and takes his seat. Ellie on one side. Rhea on the other.
I let out a long, careful sigh.
Mayor Ford steps behind the podium at seven-oh-two. The room settles slowly, a reduction of movement rather than instantaneous silence.
“Thank you all for coming. I want to welcome you to the preliminary presentation for development of the waterfront cannery property.”
Everyone seems to stir in their chairs at once. I’m thankful I’m standing.
“I want to remind everyone that no approvals have been granted, no permits have been issued, and no vote is being taken tonight.” The room reacts without making a sound.
Mayor Ford looks down at his notes. “I would like to welcome to the stage, Ian Danvers, managing partner of Danvers Urban Renewal Group.”
The side door opens and he strides out, stopping in front of the podium. The room is right and wrong all at the same time. Same chairs, people, damp coats, and cookies on trays. All sitting here in the present as the past just took center stage.
Ian.
No. It can’t be.
Did the mayor just say Danvers? That’s not right. His name is Ian Thorne.
My knees start to give out. I lean against the wall and grab the cookie table for support.
My body reacts before my mind has time to refuse it. My mouth goes dry.
I squeeze my eyes shut to clear him from my thoughts, but my mind chooses to replay the feel of his hand behind my knee.
His mouth at my neck. The weight of him between my thighs, body moving inside mine, deep and rough, his voice telling me to look at him while we came together making me believe he loved me.
Heat hits me so fast and I hate myself for it.
Ian doesn’t look a day older. It’s been eight years and he’s still devastatingly irresistible to look at. Dark, no tie. White shirt open at the throat. His hair is shorter than I remember, and the cut makes his face look sharper.
His face is the same. Beautiful and dangerous. But look, don’t touch. You don’t know to be afraid until it is too late.
I hate that memory kept him this accurate. I hate that my body can recall pleasure before disgust gets a hand around my throat.
I hate that a room full of people can watch the man I trusted with my body before I understood what he could do with my name. The man who helped ruin me is walking to the podium
The mental dam I have carefully built and preserved bursts all at once. I have to sit down in a folding chair as Portland rushes back at me.
Our apartment door open. His drawers hanging open, empty.
Wires hanging uselessly from walls, once connected to a television and stereo.
My phone in my hand blaring the same thing at me every time I dialed: The line you are trying to reach has been disconnected. If you believe you have reached this recording in error, please dial again.
And I did, over and over and over.
Then the investigation. Conference rooms with beige walls. Different people, different times sitting across from me, asking just what the scope of my involvement was in the project and with the accounts.
Words like discrepancies and irregularities began to swirl around me. They asked over and over, day after day as if the right version of the question might make me confess.
And then the stigma. Months of people reading headlines where my name was constantly being attached to words that sounded like guilt.
That son of a bitch didn’t have to live through that.
Questions followed me everywhere, but none worse than at the hospital, staff meetings, donor calls, the medication room. People who used to ask for my opinion started finding other sources of information.
Colleagues stopped talking to me and instead started talking about the investigation, as if I weren’t sitting three feet away. And then patients started recognizing me and asking for someone else.
I press my thumbnail hard against the side of my index finger. Pain gives my face something to do.
Ian shakes Mayor Ford’s hand and takes the podium.
His eyes move across the room with that careful warmth I used to mistake for generosity. He gives people the sense that he has already listened to them, even though he has barely arrived.
Then he sees me.
Only his eyes change.
Not his mouth. Not his posture. Not his voice when he begins.
He did not know.
Good.
“Good evening,” he says. “I’m Ian Danvers, managing partner with Danvers Urban Renewal Group. Thank you for taking the time to meet with us.”
That voice should not have access to me.
“I understand the cannery is not simply a building,” he says. “It carries work, history, family pride, and frustration. Any serious proposal has to begin by respecting all of that.”
He pauses long enough for the room to give him credit.
In Portland, I watched him learn this trick. Never tell people they are sentimental. Tell them their attachment is a strength. Never tell them they are afraid. Tell them caution proves they care. Then offer yourself as the responsible person who can turn feeling into structure.
He talks about preserving exterior features where feasible.
Independent assessments. Public input before final design.
A historical space shaped with local voices.
Waterfront access protected in the plan.
Leases that would prioritize island businesses.
Local contractors. Apprenticeships. Restaurants open past tourist season.
No firm numbers. No binding commitments. No sentence that cannot later be twisted into another meaning.
Careful is not the same as honest. Prepared is not the same as safe.
He doesn’t sound slick. That is the most dangerous thing about him. Slick makes people defend themselves.
Ian makes people lean forward and feel sensible doing it.
And this town is listening.
Mrs. Bell writes something on her card. Mr. Hanley stops tapping his pen when Ian mentions public access. Louise Hart unfolds her arms and no longer looks ready to reject the proposal on principle.
My blood is boiling. And my hands are fucking tied.
Ian reaches the close of the presentation. “A project like this succeeds only if the community recognizes the benefit in the finished result. We are not here to tell you what you need. We are here to ask whether there is a responsible way to make the cannery useful again.”
Responsible.
That word did a lot of work for him in Portland too.
The presentation ends with polite applause. Mayor Ford returns to the microphone with relief already loosening in his expression.
“We’ll open the floor for questions,” he says. “Please keep comments brief so everyone has a chance.”
Mr. Hanley gets up first. “I want to hear the words public access again, and I want to know whether they survive lawyers.”
A few people laugh.
Ian smiles. “They should survive the lawyers, Mr. Hanley. Public shoreline access is part of the concept we are presenting, and any final agreement would need to define that access clearly enough to be enforceable.”
Should. Concept. Need to.
I write the words on the back of my comment card.