7. Lena #2
“Weekend work?” Harold interrupted, coming around the counter.
He was even larger up close, towering over me.
“You know how much of my business happens on weekends? Contractors picking up emergency supplies, homeowners starting projects? You shut down that road on Saturdays and I lose twenty percent of my weekly revenue.”
I maintained my professional tone despite his increasing volume. “That’s why we’re consulting businesses now, before finalizing the schedule. If weekends are problematic, it’s possible we could adjust.”
“Adjust?” He stepped closer, forcing me to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. “Or just ignore? Because that’s what you people do, pretend to listen, then do whatever your fancy computer models tell you is most efficient.”
The confrontation drew attention. Two customers paused their shopping to watch, and a young clerk hovered nearby looking uncomfortable. Ethan had gone very still beside me, his posture alert.
“Mr. Peterson,” I said, using his surname deliberately to establish formality, “I understand your concerns about business impact. That’s exactly why I‘m here, to ensure the project accommodates local needs.”
“And what do you know about local needs?” He stepped even closer, now definitely invading my personal space.
I could smell coffee on his breath, see the thread of red in his eyes.
“What qualifications do you have to decide what Cedar Hills needs? Some fancy degree that taught you how to punch numbers into a computer?”
I resisted the urge to step back, holding my ground though my heart pounded against my ribs. “I have a master’s in civil engineering with a specialization in rural infrastructure, and seven years of field experience in communities similar to yours.”
“Similar.” He practically spat the words. “There‘s nothing similar to Cedar Hills. This isn’t some textbook case study. This is our lives you’re messing with.”
He jabbed a thick finger toward my tablet, dangerously close to my face. “Your pretty drawings don’t mean anything if–“
“That‘s enough, Harold.” Ethan’s voice cut through the tension, quiet but carrying a steel edge I had never heard from him before.
He stepped slightly forward, not quite between us but definitely establishing his presence. “Ms. Mercer deserves the same professional courtesy you’d show any other engineer.”
Harold’s attention shifted to Ethan, his face flushed. “Since when did you become an apologist for outsiders? Thought you were the one leading the charge against this whole project.”
“I’m hardly apologizing for her.” Ethan’s words landed with quiet force. “You don’t have to like her, or her plans, but you don’t get to talk to her like that either. I won’t stand for it.”
He didn‘t raise his voice or make any aggressive move, but something in his stance, shoulders squared, feet planted firmly, created an unmistakable boundary.
“And the fact that she’s young, pretty, and she is staying above your shop has nothing to do with your change of heart?” Harold’s insinuation hung in the air between them.
I opened my mouth to speak, but Ethan was faster.
“That comment is beneath you, Harold.” His tone remained even, but his eyes had gone hard. “Ms. Mercer is a professional doing her job. A job that benefits everyone in Cedar Hills, including you, if it's done right. So back off and treat her with respect, or we’ll take our business elsewhere.”
The silence that followed felt electric. Harold’s gaze flicked between us, calculation working behind his eyes. Finally, he stepped back, his posture relaxing though his expression remained guarded.
“Just don’t want another mess like Route 16,” he muttered, retreating behind his counter. “Can’t afford it.”
“That’s why she’s here talking to you now,” Ethan said, the tension in his voice easing slightly. “To prevent exactly that kind of problem.”
The confrontation diffused as quickly as it escalated.
Harold grudgingly showed us his stone inventory, discussed potential local quarry sources, and even offered some practical suggestions about material delivery timing.
Throughout the interaction, I maintained my professional demeanor, but internally, I was processing Ethan’s intervention.
No one had stood up for me like that in years, perhaps ever in my professional life.
I’d always handled difficult stakeholders myself, built my reputation on being able to navigate contentious community meetings without backup.
Yet there was something profoundly affecting about Ethan’s calm defense, the way he established boundaries without escalating the situation.
As we left the store, sample materials and supplier information in hand, I felt a strange mix of emotions.
Professional pride made me want to assert that I could have handled Harold myself.
But a deeper part acknowledged the comfort of having someone step in, not because they doubted my competence, but because they believed I deserved better treatment.
“Thank you,” I said as we reached the truck, the words feeling inadequate. “For what you did in there.”
Ethan loaded the stone samples into the truck bed before answering. “Harold’s not usually like that. His son’s construction business went under after the Route 16 project. Makes him prickly about road work.”
“Still.” I paused, searching for the right words. “It’s been a while since someone stood up for me without... without wanting something in return.”
He turned to face me. “That’s not how things should work.”
“No,” I agreed quietly, “but it often is.”
We stood there a moment longer than necessary, something unspoken passing between us. Then Ethan checked his watch and the moment broke.
“Just don’t make a liar out of me. Do right by Harold and the rest of this town.”
I crossed my arms. “I’m trying. But I’ve got a job to do.”
“Right, well we should head to the school zone,” he said, opening the passenger door for me. “Crossing guard will be finishing her shift soon.”
As we drove away from Riverton Building Supply, I found myself wondering what other assumptions I’d made about how things should work that might be challenged by my time in Cedar Hills.