1. Lena #2
I bristled at his matter-of-fact tone, then took a breath and advanced to slide ten.
“Engineering protocols prioritize predictable driving conditions,” I explained. “Broadening the road and smoothing the grade reduces driver error and maintenance costs over time. Short-term patches lead to unequal pavement surfaces, which become new hazards.”
A younger woman in her thirties stood near the concession table. “You’re talking budgets and billable hours, not our safety or our livelihood,” she said sharply, “It’d be mighty nice of you to speak a language we can actually understand.”
I met her gaze, and tried to ignore the flush that rose to my cheeks. “The fact is that the road is unsafe as it is, and it needs to be fixed.”
A man from the planning commission cleared his throat. “Everyone in this room knows exactly why you are here sweetheart. To make your money and run, with no regard for the people who live in this town.”
For twenty minutes, residents voiced their concerns, and I tried not to let the condescending attitudes get to me.
I answered with empathy where it was proper, and diverted attention back to the task at hand when the conversation veered into heated territory.
When questions slowed, I wrapped up. “Thank you all. Your insights help refine the final blueprint. Next, I’ll take one-on-one meetings in the back. Feel free to review the handouts.”
As attendees milled toward the refreshments, Ethan Talbot approached slowly, his work boots echoing off of the tiled floor. “Tomorrow morning, seven. I’ll drive you through the bend in my shop truck if you’re interested. I’ll show you what those reports you’ve got there don’t capture.”
I hesitated, annoyed by the public challenge, yet intrigued all the same. “Seven AM. I’ll meet you at your shop, but I’d like to drive it myself. Talbot Auto, right?”
He nodded once before turning to leave, and my mouth thinned. Carol, packing her folder beside me, leaned in and whispered, “Don’t let him get your hackles up there, darlin’. He just cares about his neighbors.”
I packed up my laptop and notes, and tried not to let the hiccups in my day get to me.
That afternoon, Carol escorted me off the Center’s front porch. Rainclouds gathered, and I pulled my jacket collar higher.
I swore, if the sky let out a single drop right then.
“One last stop,” she said, turning onto Maple Avenue.
I checked my mental packing list—work clothes, casual wear, toiletries, wine leftover from my NYC apartment. We glided past tidy lawns until we arrived at a bright blue garage door that read Talbot Automotive Carol pushed it open.
The space inside surprised me: an open-plan loft with amber hardwood floors, a modest couch facing a low table, built-in bookshelves filled with dog-eared manuals and a few hardbound novels.
The kitchen ran along one wall, equipped with a mini-fridge, microwave, and a coffee maker.
A small bedroom lay beyond a partition. The bathroom’s door stood ajar, chrome fixtures gleaming.
“It’s basic, but it’s home,” Talbot said from the doorway. “Bathroom’s there. You’ve got hot water anytime. I left some essentials in the fridge: milk, eggs, and coffee.”
I stepped in and ran my hand along the wood countertop.
Morning light filtered through a single window, offering a view down Main Street.
Ideal for observation indeed. “Thank you,” I said, setting my briefcase on the desk.
It had been his dad’s office, Carol had said. I felt the history in the worn floors.
Carol nodded at me. “Let me know if you need anything.” She opened the door and slipped downstairs.
Talbot lingered. The engine of a passing school bus rumbled in the distance. “Seven AM tomorrow,” he repeated.
I crossed my arms and looked up at him. He was taller than me, broad in the shoulders.
My head tilted back slightly. “Seven,” I confirmed.
He pulled a small brass key from his pocket and held it out. “Front door and front window locks work with this. Yours for as long as you need it.”
Our fingers brushed. He glanced away, then back. “Goodnight, Ms. Mercer.”
“Goodnight, Mr. Talbot.” I closed the door behind him. The click reverberated through the space, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the distant hum of the town.
I unpacked with the same precision I used in every new place.
Clothes folded in the dresser drawers, toiletries lined up by the sink, laptop and folders arranged neatly on the desk.
I found the Wi-Fi password taped to the fridge, “Talbot2024,” and connected my phone.
Outside the window, rain began to patter on the pavement.
The world turned a shade darker, but the glow from Main Street’s lampposts cast a warm halo across the sidewalk.
I sat on the edge of the couch and opened my planner.
Three months stretched ahead like a blank template waiting to be filled with site visits, community workshops, draft reports, and evening hours analyzing data.
A cup of coffee sat on the table, its steam curling upward beside my notes.
I took a sip and tasted determination. Three months in Cedar Hills, I thought.
I’d managed tougher assignments. I turned on the desk lamp and began reorganizing my schedule, carving out time to drive Upper Ridge Road at dawn, interview township officials, study soil samples, and, of course, meet with Ethan Talbot at seven sharp.
Above his garage, in that unexpectedly cozy apartment, I settled into my chair. The rain softened to a light drizzle. Grey determined eyes flitted across my mind as I realized for the tenth time that day that this was not going to go the way I had thought it would.
Just great.