3. Lena
LENA
Today I would stay objective.
I set the coffee maker on a timer, packed a stainless steel thermos with hot water and black coffee, then took a shower.
I chose dark jeans, a crisp pale blue button-down and sturdy lace-up boots.
I pulled my hair into a neat ponytail and kept my makeup simple: a light sweep of powder, neutral shadow, clear lip balm.
In my leather satchel I placed a notebook, my camera, a tape measure, and my tablet loaded with up-to-date maps.
Under harsh fluorescent lights, three service bays stretched before me. In the far bay Ethan leaned over the engine of an old pickup, his gray T-shirt slick at the shoulders with sweat. I cleared my throat.
He straightened and wiped a smear of grease from his forearm. “You’re on time.”
“Always,” I replied, adjusting my satchel on my shoulder. “Shall I wait or are you ready to start?”
He eyed my outfit, then nodded. “Almost done. Mrs Donnelly’s oil change has gotta be finished by eight. I’m on a tight window.” He held up a rag. “Coffee?”
I hesitated, then offered a small smile. “Black, please. I packed some but if you aren’t ready yet I could use a cup.”
He gestured toward a back room. “Break room’s that way. Help yourself. Five minutes.”
Inside the tidy break room I found a round table, a humming fridge and a well-worn coffee maker.
Steam curled from the half-full pot. I chose a mug labeled ‘World’s Okayest Mechanic’ and poured myself a cup.
The aroma was sharp and familiar. I sipped slowly, and ran a fingertip along the chipped rim as I glanced around.
A faded calendar on the wall showed last month’s landscape photo.
A bulletin board held business cards for local tow trucks and parts suppliers.
I returned to the shop floor as Ethan lowered the hood of the pickup. He noticed my mug and grinned. “Dad’s idea of a joke.”
“It’s charming,” I said, then checked my watch. “Everything on schedule?”
“Yeah. You’ll need to drive today, right?”
“That was our plan. I need to evaluate road handling firsthand.”
“Your car or mine?”
“Mine’s good with curves.” I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. “And familiar controls help me think.”
“After you then.”
Outside the sun filtered through leaves that still held morning dew. My car stood ready, its windshield sparkling. I unlocked the doors remotely. The single beep echoing down the quiet street. Ethan slid into the passenger seat beside me. He admired the dashboard. “German engineering.”
I settled into the seat, gripped the steering wheel, and felt a surge of confidence. “You’re up. Show me what you want me to see at that bend.”
He fastened his seatbelt. “Sight line problem, pedestrian risk. Widening won’t fix it.”
I started the engine and shifted into drive. “I’m open to new data but my preliminary report stands.”
“We’ll see,” he said. We pulled away into Cedar Hills’ half-sleeping morning calm, poised for the journey ahead.
The road climbed gently through dense pines. I kept a steady thirty-five miles per hour, and noted guardrail posts and drain inlets as I logged data. The pavement was well sealed, with visible striping and shoulders wide enough for a bicycle. My initial findings held up until Ethan leaned forward.
“Ease up. Check your sight line here,” he prompted.
I lifted my foot slightly and coasted until my speed dropped to thirty. The curve loomed, banking gradually to the left. I peered over the slight crown of the road. “About seventy-five meters,” I said.
“Now get to forty-five,” he instructed.
I complied. The car’s body leaned into the turn, tires gripping the asphalt. My sight line shrank quickly. “Forty meters, roughly,” I admitted as I dabbed the brake. “The radius changed mid-bend. That detail wasn’t clear in the survey notes.”
“Exactly my point,” he said. “Slide over onto that gravel pullout.”
I spotted the narrow pullout just before the worst section. The gravel crunched under the tires as I stopped. Ethan checked his watch. “Morning commute starts now,” he said.
We got out and watched. A pickup truck flew around the curve, hugging the inside lane like it belonged there. Two more locals followed, slowing as they negotiated the bend. “They all know this road,” I observed. “Signage seems adequate.”
“Wait for the next one,” he prompted. I stepped forward to get a good look.
A rental sedan appeared in the distance, moving at the posted speed limit. Only, he didn’t slow down. “They aren’t adjusting–”
A second later the car hit the curve, and the brakes slammed. The nose dipped hard, the tires shrieked, and I watched in panic as the rear end fishtailed. Gravel spat up from the shoulder, scattering across the pavement, a few stray pieces lancing across my arms.
I didn’t even have a moment to be non-plussed about it though, because the car was still going. And it was much, much too close.
“Lena.” Ethan’s hand closed around my arm, his grip firm, and pulled me back just as the sedan jerked wide. The passenger mirror flashed past the space where I’d been standing just a moment before.
The car corrected a second later, swerving back into its lane, the engine revving as it disappeared down the road.
I wrenched my arm back the second the car cleared, heat flashing up my spine.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” The words came out sharper than I intended them to, but the heat in me didn’t die. If anything, the incredulous look in his eyes made it worse.
“What in the hell were you doing there? Volunteering to become roadkill?” he retorted.
“I was doing my job. Observing,” I shot back.
There was something sharp in his eyes when he glanced back at me then. “Well, do it better. Observe from farther back. And the next time someone saves your life, try to at least act thankful,” he said.
I didn’t reply right away, still angry, shaken and embarrassed.
“I know how to assess risk,” I snapped finally.
“Looks a lot to me like you are the risk, Ms. Mercer,” he said.
I resisted the urge to stamp my foot on the gravel, and took a moment to collect myself. Infuriating man.
I walked a few paces along the shoulder. “I saw a small dirt path cutting off ahead of the curve. What was it?” I asked.
Ethan stared at me for a moment and then pointed. “Walk it with me,” he said.
I gathered my camera and tape measure and followed him into a stand of wildflowers where the path began. The scent of pine mingled with lavender and clover. The trail was wide enough for two people. He stepped confidently along it.
“This path was here before the road,” he explained. “Locals used it for generations. My parents sat up here on their first date.”
I examined the worn earth, noting its smooth center and deeper edges. “Foot traffic must be high during summer months.” I estimated based on tread width and compaction. “Thirty to forty pedestrians daily, fewer in winter?”
Ethan pointed back toward the road. “Your widening plan would obliterate this path, forcing these people onto that narrow shoulder.”
I bent to photograph the path from several angles.
“Frankly, it might be unavoidable. The locals might know how to drive these roads, but I can’t risk tourists’ safety because of nostalgia.
It’s possible that I could add a separate pedestrian lane and a barrier, but I’m not sure there is a need for that,” I said, tapping a note into my tablet.
“Maybe,” he replied. “But consider winter maintenance. Would that lane stay clear of snow and ice?”
“Possibly,” I admitted. “I could design the cross slope and drainage for reliable plowing, but if not, people might need to make some sacrifices.”
“That’s easy for you to say,” he muttered.
I threw a death stare at him, only to find that he wasn’t even looking at me. He watched a logging truck lumber past on the pavement above us, its tires kicking up dust.
We retraced our steps to the road and I mapped out the distances from the pavement edge. At the trailhead, we met Mrs. Collins, an elderly woman walking her terrier. She paused on the incline and greeted Ethan like a neighbor she’d known all her life. She probably had.
“Morning, Mrs. Collins,” he said warmly.
“You must be the engineer,” she said, lifting her chin.
“Lena Mercer, conducting a safety assessment,” I replied, offering my hand.
She clasped my fingers firmly. “I’ve used this path for sixty-three years. I couldn’t walk up to the overlook if there was only a paved shoulder.”
Her green eyes met mine in challenge, but I didn’t back down. What these people didn’t realize was that I couldn’t. I knew that at the end of this, there was no way to make everyone happy.
Lucky for me, my job wasn’t to make them happy, it was to keep them safe.
She turned away to continue her walk. I watched her slim figure carry the terrier uphill.
Then Ethan and I resumed our climb. The path opened onto a rocky ledge with a stunning view of the valley.
Mist drifted along the hillside and the town lay framed by distant ridges. I caught my breath at the sight.
“You ignore this at your own risk,” he said softly.
I crouched to measure the ledge’s slope and took multiple photographs of the drop-off and vegetation.
I would have had to be dead to be able to ignore a view like that. It wasn’t hard to see why they all loved it. Standing there, even after that near miss, made it feel like the world itself was holding its breath just to give you a moment to appreciate the beauty.
But that was irrelevant information. They just didn’t understand that.
Ethan stood with his hands on his hips, sunlight catching his profile. “Right design solves specific problems and respects this place,” he said.
I sighed and packed my camera. “Look, I know you want to preserve the town here, but I can’t ignore safety issues for sentimentality. You saw what almost happened with that sedan out there.”
“I’m not asking you to ignore safety. I’m asking you not to bulldoze everything else in the name of it,” he replied.
Several hours later we finished our curve analysis.
Ethan led me down a narrow side trail under a canopy of pines.
I brushed my fingertips along rough bark as I walked.
The trail opened to a small clearing where a handcrafted bench rested on stone supports.
Its silvered wood slats curved gently to cradle the sitter.
“Oh,” I whispered.
“My father built this,” Ethan confided. He traced a joint in the armrest. “He was a furniture maker before he owned the shop,” he added.
I examined the bench closely. The woodwork was flawless.
“May I sit?” I asked.
He moved aside. I eased down and felt immediate support.
The bench angled so that my line of sight swept across the town below.
I leaned forward and listened to Ethan give me the history of the town: the elementary school, the red-brick community center, Mark’s hardware store established in 1952, and the old trading post that now housed the historical society.
Each landmark had a story carved into the timber frames and stone facades.
I imagined floods decades ago that gouged out the riverbank, forcing townspeople to reinforce the levee.
I envisioned volunteer electricians rewiring the community center after the storm.
I saw banners from championship parades fluttering from lampposts on Main Street.
I knew why he was doing it, why he spent so much time on town history. I also knew that it wasn’t going to change anything.
“This place is important to people,” Ethan said. “The history means something to them.”
I rested my hands on the armrests. “And safety hazards here have been ignored because the people here are too focused on the past,” I countered.
Ethan breathed in the crisp air. “Lord, you are a parrot, aren't you? Did you listen at all, or just rehearse the next line you were going to spout out about safety? I’m not against improvements. I just want the right improvements,” he said.
I raised my camera for one last photo of the bench, of the valley spread out beyond it. Then I lowered the lens and looked at Ethan.
“I listen, I just don’t allow myself to become distracted. Thank you for showing me all of this. It was very informative,” I said.
His mouth twitched. “No need to thank me. I’ve got a not-so-hidden agenda here. No one wants to lose business, but that place means more than that to us. I figured if I could get you to see that, it would make it harder for you to make it collateral damage,” he admitted.
I bristled at that. I wasn’t the wicked witch, here to destroy the town. Telling him that felt like a moot point though, so I bit my tongue.
I shouldered my satchel and we retraced our steps to the car. As I climbed in behind the wheel I reflected on how hard Ethan was trying to get me to see his way.
But that was the thing. Getting attached had never worked out for me.
People adapted. Roads changed, towns modernized. It was just a part of life.
Later, as I drafted the final report, I included precise measurements of the curve radius, tables of sight-distance readings, and recommended locations for guardrails and signage.
I sent the draft to my supervisor with a short note detailing my initial findings and my schedule for the rest of the week.
Then I closed my laptop and leaned back.
God, I’d done more jobs like this than I could count. The work was all second nature, muscle memory.
I hated that as I lay my head down at the end of the night, and the faint smell of clean oil tickled my nose, I wasn’t thinking about numbers, sightlines, or even my meeting the next day.
I was thinking about Ethan, and his father’s bench, and how utterly annoying was that?