6. Ethan #2
I stood near the counter, giving her space. “That doesn’t sound like good news for the townsfolk, or the budget.”
“I guess that depends on how you look at it.”
“Or who’s looking at it.”
She nodded tentatively, looking from me to the door, and back to the food. I watched the gears turn in her head, and wondered if she knew how obvious it was when she was turning something over in her mind.
I stifled a small chuckle when she finally seemed to settle whatever it was she was mulling over.
“Have you eaten? Do you want to sit?”
The offer took me by surprise. And so did the apprehension in her eyes as she waited for my answer.
“Uh, yeah. Sure.” I took a seat on the opposite side of the couch. “To be honest, I probably would have set my dinner down somewhere and gotten lost in one of the engines and forgotten to eat it.”
“Everyone deserves a hot meal every once in a while,” she said as she curled her legs up under herself on the couch. She took a bite of stew, closing her eyes briefly in appreciation. “This is delicious.”
We ate in silence for a few moments before I realized that I’d almost forgotten my reason for coming in the first place.
“About your car, it needs more than just a battery. There’s corrosion in the wiring harness, your belts are cracking, brake pads are worn, and your transmission fluid is overdue for replacement.”
She sighed, setting down her spoon. “How long will repairs take?”
“Full day’s work, minimum. Maybe two, depending on parts availability.” I watched her calculate this interruption to her schedule. “I can drive you where you need to go until it’s fixed. Part of the liaison duty.”
“That’s above and beyond what the town’s paying you for,” she said.
“Cedar Hills doesn’t have Uber,” I shrugged. “And sorry to break it to you, but you’d be hard pressed to find someone else in this town fond enough of you to chauffeur you around.”
There was a hardening around her eyes, and a small part of me regretted how that came out.
“Thank you. I appreciate it.”
The music changed to something more contemplative, drawing my gaze to the speaker.
“Do you play?” she asked.
“No. My dad did though, guitar mostly, but he appreciated all kinds of music. Said you could tell more about a person from how they played than what they said.”
I took a bite of cornbread. “You play beautifully. What is it?”
A flush touched her cheeks. “It’s Bach. I didn’t think you could hear it. It’s just something I do to think. Started lessons when I was eight. My parents...”
She stopped there, biting her lip. I realized that I’d unconsciously started leaning forward. I straightened up. “Your parents?”
She hesitated. “They entertained a lot. Business colleagues, mostly. Having a child who could perform for guests was... useful.”
“Sounds like a lot of pressure for an eight-year-old.”
“It taught me discipline.” She shrugged. “And how to stay out of the way when needed. Useful skills for a consultant who moves every few months.”
“Is that why you keep everything temporary?”
The question slipped out before I could consider whether it crossed a line.
She didn’t answer immediately, breaking a piece of cornbread into smaller pieces.
“I learned early that attachment complicates things. My parents moved three times before I was twelve, following career opportunities. Each time I‘d just started to feel settled somewhere...” She trailed off. “It’s easier not to put down roots.”
I shook my head. “Different lesson than I learned. When my mom passed and dad’s health started declining, I figured out fast that someone had to hold things together.
” I took a sip of water. “We struggled financially for years. Dad was too proud to ask for help, but neighbors would bring casseroles or offer to watch me when he had doctor’s appointments.
Mrs. Donnelly taught me to change oil in my bike chain when Dad was too sick to show me. ”
“That explains your connection to everyone here,” she observed. “You know their stories because you’re part of them.”
“And they’re part of mine.” I met her gaze. “We need each other in a town this size. That’s what makes the road project so important, it’s not just infrastructure. It’s how we stay connected.”
She frowned. “My career has been built on moving in, solving problems efficiently, and moving on without... entanglements. Clear boundaries between professional assessment and personal involvement.” She gestured toward her scattered notes. “Here, those boundaries keep blurring.”
“Maybe that’s not a bad thing,” I suggested. “You see nuances you might have missed otherwise.”
“Maybe.” She ran a finger along the rim of her water glass. “But I’ve built my life around not needing anyone. It’s efficient.”
“And I‘ve built mine around helping everyone, sometimes at my own expense,” I admitted. “We’ve got opposite problems.”
Her laugh surprised me, genuine and warm, transforming her face. “We do, don’t we? I avoid connections, you seek them out. I maintain independence at all costs, you shoulder everyone else’s burdens.”
“Makes us sound pretty dysfunctional when you put it that way.”
“Or complementary,” she said.
I chuckled. “Good one.”
Her cheeks turned pink and she looked away, then began scarfing down her stew.
I raised my eyebrows. It seemed my welcome was expiring. I followed her lead and focused on my food.
The only sounds were the piano piece still playing softly in the background and the cedar woodpecker that drilled holes in the maple tree outside the shop.
When I stood to leave, gathering the empty containers, she followed me to the door. “Thank you for dinner,” she said. “And for the car diagnosis, even if it wasn’t what I wanted to hear.”
“Sometimes the things we don’t want to hear are the ones we need most,” I replied, then added, “I’ll pick you up tomorrow morning? Eight o’clock?”
“Eight works.” She leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “Goodnight, Ethan.”
“Goodnight, Lena.”