2. Ethan
ETHAN
The garage door rattled down behind me, metal against concrete echoed in the empty shop. The meeting had left a sour taste in my mouth, like drinking coffee that had been sitting too long on the burner. It was this Ms. Mercer, Lena, whatever I was supposed to call her, and what she represented.
Another outsider with a clipboard and good intentions, ready to “improve” Cedar Hills without understanding what made it worth protecting in the first place.
I flipped on the work lights and they hummed to life, casting long shadows across Mrs. Donnelly’s faded blue pickup.
At least this was something I could fix.
I grabbed a clean rag from the workbench and slid under the truck.
The familiar smell of motor oil and rust greeted me like an old friend.
Mrs. Donnelly had been driving this truck since her husband passed, three years ago now.
It had more miles than she could afford to maintain properly, but she wouldn’t part with it.
Said it was her independence, though I suspected it was also the last tangible connection she had to her husband.
The transmission fluid leak was worse than I initially thought.
I traced my fingers along the pan gasket, feeling the sticky residue where it was seeping through.
She needed a full replacement, but I knew she’d been picking up extra furniture refinishing jobs just to cover her heating bill this past winter.
It didn’t take me long to decide that I’d replace the gasket, top off the fluid, and charge her for parts only.
It wasn’t charity, I hated charity, it was just the way things worked around here. You took care of your own.
“I’ll figure something out, Old Reliable,” I muttered to the undercarriage. Mrs. Donnelly named the truck years ago, and somehow the name stuck, even in my head.
I rolled out from under the vehicle and reached for my tools, my mind drifting back to the community center.
The consultant had a look I’d never seen before.
Urban, professional, ready to steamroll local concerns with technical jargon and colored charts.
At least she’d agreed to see the bend through my eyes.
The shop door chimed, pulling me from my thoughts.
“Decided to actually work tonight instead of just staring at engines?” Mark’s voice carried across the space, accompanied by the scent of fresh coffee.
“Some of us don‘t have the luxury of closing at five,” I replied, not looking up from the transmission pan I was removing.
Mark set a coffee cup on my workbench, the steam curling from the lid. “Figured you’d need this after that meeting. Couldn’t tell if you were planning to help the road lady or run her out of town on a rail.”
I snorted, reaching for the coffee. “Thanks.”
“Mrs. Donnelly’s truck again?” Mark leaned against the bench, his arms crossed. He was still in his store clothes, a button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows, name tag tucked in his pocket. The hardware store closed at seven on meeting nights.
“Transmission leak.” I took a sip of the coffee, black with one sugar, exactly how I liked it. Mark had been bringing me coffee for fifteen years and hadn't messed up the order once.
“What are you charging her this time? A jar of those peppermint candies and a promise to be careful?”
I shot him a look that said mind your own business. “She pays what she can.”
“Uh huh.” Mark’s tone was knowing without being judgmental. “So, the meeting. You went full Cedar Hills protector on the consultant.”
“Hardly. I just pointed out some facts.” The transmission pan came loose, and I carefully lowered it to avoid spilling fluid everywhere. “Her plan would change the whole character of that road, not just fix the dangerous part.”
“And she just... took it? Most of these state types get defensive when locals challenge them.”
I reached for a clean container to drain the remaining fluid. “She didn’t dismiss it outright. Agreed to see the bend with me tomorrow. That’s something. Though you could tell it got her knotted up.”
“Huh.” Mark watched me work for a moment. “And what did you make of her? Personally, I mean.”
The question caught me off guard. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just asking your impression. Professional consultant blows into town, immediately locks horns with the most stubborn mechanic in three counties... seems like the start of something interesting.”
I focused on cleaning the transmission pan, scraping the old gasket material with more force than was necessary. “She was... not what I expected.”
“Which means?”
“She was competent. Prepared. Didn’t back down when I challenged her.” I found myself remembering the way she stood at that podium, spine straight, voice steady, eyes sharp enough to cut glass. “And she actually agreed to hear me out instead of hiding behind her credentials.”
“High praise coming from you,” Mark observed, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
“It’s not praise. It’s an assessment.” I reached for the new gasket. “Besides, she’s temporary. They all are. They come, they make their recommendations, and they leave. Meanwhile, we’re the ones who have to live with whatever changes they pushed through.”
Mark took a slow sip of his own coffee. “Carol mentioned she’s staying in your dad’s old apartment. For what, three months?”
“Apparently.” I focused on aligning the new gasket perfectly. “Not my idea.”
“Well, that should make tomorrow’s drive interesting. Just try not to run her off the road to prove your point about the bend.”
“Very funny.” I glanced up at him finally. “She’s going to be driving, actually.”
Something flickered across Mark’s face. “Smart. Wants to experience it herself.”
“Yeah.” I found myself nodding.
“Could be a good thing. Having someone actually listen for once.”
I shrugged. “We’ll see.”
Mark pushed off from the workbench. “I should get going. Promised my sister I’d stop by.” He paused at the door. “Just remember, not everyone with a clipboard is the enemy.”
After he left, I returned to Mrs. Donnelly‘s truck, working methodically through the repair. I replaced the gasket, secured the transmission pan, and topped off the fluid. By the time I was closing the hood, my thoughts had drifted back to the meeting, to Lena Mercer’s steady gaze when I challenged her, to the way she didn’t flinch or retreat.
Tomorrow at seven, I would show her what she needed to see.
Not just the road, but what it meant to us.
The question was whether she’d actually see it through eyes that weren’t measuring angles and calculating statistics.
Whether she’d understand that sometimes, the most efficient solution wasn’t the right one.
I wiped my hands clean and glanced up at the ceiling, toward where I knew she would be settled in for the night.
For a brief moment, I wondered what kind of person she was when the blazer came off and the professional mask fell away.
Then I shook the thought from my head and returned to my work.
Three months was a long time to have a stranger just above my head, especially one who held the future of our road in her hands.
I locked the shop door behind me, my muscles aching from hunching over engines all day. Mrs. Donnelly would be happy though, her truck was running better than it had in months, and the invoice I’d prepared showed a “loyal customer discount” that we both knew didn’t officially exist.
The night air had cooled considerably since the meeting, bringing with it the scent of pine from the hills and something sweet, maybe jasmine from the Hendersons’ garden down the street. My apartment waited above, quiet and empty, a bachelor’s refuge that I rarely thought about until I needed it.
The metal stairs creaked under my weight, each step a familiar note in the night‘s silence. My key slid into the lock with the ease of routine, and I pushed into darkness broken only by the digital clock on my microwave and the streetlight that filtered through half closed blinds. I didn’t bother with the overhead light, but navigated by memory to the fridge.
The beer was cold against my palm, condensation already forming on the bottle as I twisted the cap off.
My couch welcomed me with the same worn comfort it had offered for years. I sank into it, feeling the day’s tensions begin to unravel in my shoulders and neck.
Tomorrow would be interesting, showing Ms. Mercer the bend, making her understand what couldn’t be captured in reports and measurements. I took a long pull from the bottle, letting the bitter taste wash away the lingering frustration of the meeting.
That’s when I heard it, so faint at first that I thought it might be coming from outside. Music. Not the tinny sounds of someone’s phone or a distant car radio, but something with depth. I sat my beer down and listened more carefully.
Piano notes flowed through what must be the floor of the apartment above.
Then another instrument joined in, violin, I thought, recorded but perfectly complementing the live piano.
The melody wasn’t anything I recognized, nothing like the country or classic rock that filled the shop during working hours.
It was structured. Emotional. Intentional.
I found myself holding my breath to hear it better. The consultant, Lena, was playing. Each pause between notes felt deliberate, each progression thoughtful. This wasn’t someone casually picking out a tune.
It didn’t fit the image I’d constructed of her. The efficient professional with her charts and data points, the outsider viewing our town through the cold lens of risk assessments and traffic patterns.
There was vulnerability in this music, a thoughtfulness I didn’t expect. The tempo slowed further, the notes became more sparse but somehow more meaningful for the silence between them.
I leaned back and closed my eyes, letting the sound wash over me.
Dad would’ve appreciated this. He always said you could tell more about a person from how they played music than from what they said.
“Words can lie,” he’d tell me, hands black with engine grease yet gentle on his old guitar strings.
“But music always tells the truth, and so do engines.”
What truth was Lena Mercer telling now, alone in my father’s apartment, playing into the night? The melody shifted, becoming something that felt like a question without resolution. Not sad exactly, but searching. Like she was working through something, using notes instead of words.
I thought of how she stood at that podium, confident, professional, certain. Now I was hearing something else entirely. Someone more complicated than the woman from the town hall.
The music stopped abruptly, as if she had suddenly remembered where she was or grew self-conscious.
I waited, half-expecting it to resume, but the silence stretched on, broken only by the faint sound of footsteps above me.
She was moving around the apartment now, probably getting ready for bed, preparing for our early morning drive.
I drained the rest of my beer and headed to the bathroom to shower, the ghost of the melody still echoing in my head.
Tomorrow I would show her the bend, the overlook, and try to make her understand.
But tonight, she’d shown me something too, something beyond clipboard efficiency and technical expertise.
As I stood under the hot water, and let it pound away the day’s grime and tension, I found myself wondering what kind of person played music like that.
By the time I was in bed, staring at the ceiling in darkness, I'd come to an uncomfortable realization. Lena’s approach to the road was still wrong. But she might not be who I thought she was.
I rolled onto my side and punched my pillow into a more comfortable shape. Seven AM would come early, and I needed to be sharp. But as sleep began to pull me under, it was not the road I was thinking about. It was those careful piano notes that spoke a language more honest than words.