7. Lena
LENA
After Ethan left and I returned to my work, I found myself pausing at strange moments, noticing the empty containers neatly stacked by the door for return, the lingering scent of Ellen’s pie, the way the apartment felt deafeningly quiet now that it was just me again.
I told myself it was merely the novelty of the interruption, not the company itself, that left the impression.
I woke before dawn, pulled from sleep by some unnamed awareness. The room was gray with pre-morning light, and the apartment creaked softly around me. I lay still, listening, and realized what drew me from sleep. I was waiting for the sound of Ethan’s truck starting below.
The recognition sent an uncomfortable jolt through me. When had I begun orienting my day around his movements?
I pushed back the covers and padded to the window, parting the curtain just enough to see the gravel lot where his truck sat dark and quiet. It was too early even for him. The digital clock on my nightstand read 5:17 AM.
I should have gone back to sleep, but restlessness propelled me into my morning routine instead.
Under the shower’s spray, I tried to redirect my thoughts to the day's tasks, traffic pattern documentation at the elementary school, material sourcing for the custom guardrails, community input session preparation.
But my mind kept circling back to that moment of awareness: I was listening for Ethan now. Cataloging his habits. Anticipating his presence. These were not the detached observations of a temporary professional consultant.
By 6:30, I was dressed and reviewing yesterday’s notes at the kitchen table, a mug of coffee cooling at my elbow.
That’s when I heard it, the distinctive rumble of Ethan’s truck starting below, the sound vibrating faintly through the floorboards. My heart quickened traitorously, and I forced myself to remain seated, to not look out the window again.
At 6:45, footsteps sounded on the metal stairs. The knock, when it came, was gentle but confident. I opened the door to find Ethan holding two paper cups from Marianne’s café and a small paper bag.
“Thought you might be up,” he said, offering me one of the cups. “Marianne’s coffee beats anything from a home machine.”
I accepted the cup, breathing in the rich aroma. “You’re spoiling me.”
“I was there anyway.” He shrugged. “Figured we could head over to the school zone early. Traffic starts picking up around 7:30.”
The coffee was perfect, stronger than I’d make myself, with just a hint of something that might have been cinnamon.
“Give me five minutes,” I said, gathering my notebook and tablet.
In his truck, the morning air still held the night‘s coolness, though the sky had lightened to pale blue.
Ethan drove with one hand on the wheel, the other cradling his coffee. The radio played softly, folk music with acoustic guitar and lyrics about rivers and mountains. It felt oddly domestic, the quiet morning drive through Cedar Hills’ awakening streets.
“Thought we’d stop at Marianne’s first,” he said as we approached the center of town. “School crossing guard starts at 7:15, gives us time for a proper breakfast.”
The café was already bustling when we arrived, morning regulars clustered at the counter and corner tables.
The space was smaller than it first appeared from outside, perhaps a dozen tables arranged beneath windows that caught the morning light, walls painted a warm yellow that made the room feel perpetually sunlit.
A glass case displayed pastries that explained the sweet scent permeating the air.
Marianne herself stood behind the counter, a woman in her fifties with salt and pepper hair pulled into a practical bun and laugh lines etched deep around her eyes.
She looked up as we entered, her gaze first registering Ethan with familiar warmth, then shifting to me with thoughtful assessment.
I tried not to squirm under her scrutiny.
“So this is where you’ve been hiding her,” she called to Ethan, wiping her hands on her apron as we approached. “About time you brought Ms. Road Engineer here.”
“Good morning to you too, Marianne,” Ethan replied with easy familiarity. “Two breakfast specials if you’ve got them.”
“For you, always.” She turned her attention fully to me. “Last consultant through here rerouted the water lines without warning. Left me without running water on a Saturday morning rush. You planning on being any more courteous than he was?”
“I’m trying to minimize disruptions,” I said. “I recognize that the businesses around here are the backbone of the community.”
Something in her expression softened. “Well, that‘s a refreshing attitude from someone with a clipboard. You’ll excuse me if I wait to see if your actions match your words.” She reached into the display case and placed a cinnamon roll on a plate, sliding it toward me.
“On the house today. Consider it a proper welcome to Cedar Hills.”
The gesture caught me off guard. “Thank you,” I managed, genuinely touched by the simple offering.
As we waited for our breakfast, Ethan greeted seemingly every person who entered, the hardware store owner picking up coffee for his staff, a young mother with twin toddlers in a double stroller, two elderly men who took the corner table without needing to order.
“Small towns,” I commented, sipping my coffee. “Everyone knows everyone.”
“Not just knows,” Ethan corrected. “Depends on everyone too.”
He nodded toward Marianne, now laughing with a customer. “Three years ago, a bad storm took out half her roof. Water damage destroyed most of her equipment, ovens, coffee machines, refrigeration units. Insurance covered maybe half the replacement cost.”
“What happened?” I asked, already sensing where this story was headed.
“Mark from the hardware store organized a rebuild crew. Eight of us worked through the weekend to replace the roof. Mrs. Donnelly’s nephew sells restaurant equipment in Riverton, got her new ovens at cost. Someone started a collection jar at the post office; within a week, there was enough to cover what insurance didn’t. ”
“Because people need their coffee?” I suggested.
Ethan shook his head, his eyes on Marianne as she served plates heaped with eggs and potatoes.
“Because Marianne feeds the volunteer firefighters for free during emergencies. Because she lets high school kids study here during finals week without requiring them to order anything. Because when Mrs. Collins was recovering from hip surgery, Marianne had dinner delivered to her house every night for two weeks.” He looked at me directly.
“We take care of the people who take care of us. That’s how Cedar Hills works. ”
The contrast between his simple explanation and all the economic development theory I’d studied was almost comical.
As we ate breakfast surrounded by the gentle hum of morning conversations, I found myself cataloging details I would have missed three weeks ago.
How Marianne remembered every regular’s order, the way she slipped an extra muffin into a bag for an elderly man who came in counting change, the bulletin board by the door where community notices shared space with children’s drawings.
I was seeing Cedar Hills not just as a collection of infrastructure needs and traffic patterns, but as an intricate system of human connections, fragile, resilient, and far more complex than any model in my professional toolkit.
After breakfast, Ethan suggested we stop at Riverton Building Supply on the edge of town to check material availability for the custom guardrails.
“They’ve got a wider selection than Mark’s place,” he explained as we pulled into the gravel parking lot.
“And Harold might have some ideas about local stone sources.”
The building looked like it was cobbled together over decades, the original structure a faded red clapboard, with additions in cinder block and corrugated metal that created an architectural patchwork.
A handpainted sign above the door promised “Best Prices in Three Counties” alongside faded logos for various tool brands.
Inside, the store smelled of sawdust, metal, and the peculiar rubber scent of new tools. Narrow aisles created a maze between towering shelves packed with everything from pipe fittings to garden supplies. The wooden floorboards creaked beneath our feet, worn smooth by decades of work boots.
Unlike the hardware store downtown, this place felt less curated, more utilitarian, a serious supplier for serious projects.
“Harold’s usually at the back counter,” Ethan said, leading me through the labyrinth of shelves. A few customers nodded at him as we passed, but their eyes lingered on me with the familiar mix of curiosity and suspicion reserved for outsiders.
We found Harold sorting through a delivery of hinges, his thick fingers moving with surprising dexterity as he checked each one against an invoice.
He was a big man, tall and broad, with arms like tree trunks and a close, cropped gray beard. When he looked up, I noticed his eyes were sharp blue, calculating as they moved from Ethan to me.
“Talbot,” he acknowledged, setting down his clipboard. “What brings you out this way? Thought you got most of your supplies from Mark these days.”
“Looking for guardrail materials,” Ethan replied. “Custom job for the road project. This is Lena Mercer, the consultant working on the safety redesign.”
Harold’s expression shifted, something hardening around his mouth. “So you’re the one planning to tear up the ridge road.”
“Not tear it up,” I corrected politely. “Improve safety while preserving community access.”
He made a dismissive sound. “Heard that before. Last state engineer who came through promised the same thing for Route 16. Three months of construction dust and half the businesses nearly went under. Some still haven’t recovered.”
I retrieved my tablet from my satchel, and pulled up the plans I wanted to show him. “We’re proposing a phased approach specifically to avoid business disruption. Weekend work primarily, with–”