9. Lena #2
Before I could protest, she guided me deeper into the crowd, past grill stations with burgers and hot dogs, a lemonade stand, and a booth selling watermelon slices.
People greeted Marianne warmly, their curious gazes lingering on me.
I got a mixture of outright disapproval, and hesitant acceptance, the latter probably only because of Marianne’s endorsement.
I was about ready to tuck tail and run after an older woman gave me an openly scathing look before whispering something into her husband's ear.
“Don’t you worry about them Darlin’,” Marianne cooed at me. “Mrs. Naples always has her panties in a twist, doesn’t matter who you are.”
I swallowed nervously.
This was a bad idea, Lena.
Still, I followed Marianne through the crowd, doing my best to plaster a welcoming smile on my face.
“This is Lena,” Marianne said to a group gathered near the lemonade stand. “She’s the one they hired to fix our road.” The simple introduction transformed the open disapproval I was used to being met with.
A gray-haired man extended his hand. “Hey! I know you!” I stiffened, bracing myself to be chewed out by yet another Cedar Hills resident.
“You’re the young lady that shifted the construction schedules aren’t you?
My grandson Brad, was devastated about his scout troop missing out on a field trip.
He was over the moon when I saw him this morning, though.
His mother said she got a phone call that the trip was back on because you moved things around to make it happen. Thank you.”
“It was my pleasure,” I replied, surprised by how genuinely I mean it. “I’d like to make sure that they still have access to it when they need it.”
The conversation flowed more easily than I expected, and after a few minutes, Marianne squeezed my arm. “You’re in good hands now. I need to refill at the pie booth, they’re raising money for fireworks.”
Left on my own, I wandered through the celebration, studying how the town had repurposed its central spaces.
The closed street had become a pedestrian gathering area, with benches around the edges and chairs grouped under shade canopies.
Children wove between picnic tables, teenagers clustered near the stage where a local band played patriotic tunes, and seniors had claimed shaded spots for conversation.
Near a row of game booths, a cluster of children’s voices rose above the general party noise.
I drifted closer and spotted Ethan kneeling beside a young boy, helping him hold a baseball for a carnival game next door.
His large hands guided the child’s smaller ones, demonstrating the proper grip with infinite patience.
“That’s it,” I heard him say. “Now remember, follow through with your throw. Don’t just stop at the release.”
The boy’s face scrunched in concentration as he tossed, knocking over three of the six milk bottles.
His delighted whoop made Ethan grin, a full, unguarded smile that transformed his face.
He high-fived the child, then turned to help a little girl waiting her turn.
I watched, transfixed by this side of him.
He was gentle, playful, completely at ease with the children who clearly adored him.
One girl, perhaps seven or eight, launched herself at him in a flying hug that would have toppled someone less solid. “Mr. Ethan! Did you see? I got all the bottles!”
“Sure did, Emma. You’ve got the best arm in your grade.” He set her down gently, crouching to her level. “Want to show Ms. Lena your technique?”
I froze, realizing he’d spotted me watching. The girl turned, assessing me with frank curiosity. “Are you the road lady? My mom says you’re making it so cars don’t crash into people walking to the overlook.”
“That’s right,” I said, moving closer to the booth. “That’s exactly what we’re trying to do.”
“Cool.” She offered before turning back to the game, determination written across her small features.
Ethan rose, meeting my eyes over the children’s heads. “You came,” he said. “I didn’t think… Not after… Well, you know.”
“Professional research. Besides, I can handle being kissed without making a big to-do out of it.” I replied, smiling reassuringly. The sheepish tint that rose to his cheeks took me off guard.
“Well, I guess that makes one of us. I really am sorry. It was completely inappropriate of me. And after? Well, I was raised better than that. I should have said something, explained myself better.”
“Ethan, really. It’s okay. Water under the bridge.”
“Well, no. Hear me out–.”
Before he could finish, a little girl tugged at his sleeve, demanding his attention for her next turn. He turned back to her, and I drifted away, needing space to process the warmth spreading through my chest at the sight of him with these children, and the awkwardness aftermath of that kiss.
I continued through the celebration, stopping at a booth where the local beekeeper offered samples of honey alongside patriotic decor.
When I reached for my wallet, he waved it away.
“You’re the one helping Ethan with the overlook road, right?
My hives are up that way. You just try that honey and tell me that it’s not worth preserving. ”
Each interaction weaved another strand connecting me to this place, making it harder to regret the adjustments I made. It felt good to not be entirely hated by the people in this town.
Even if I knew that it was only temporary.
Even if I knew that I'd never belong in a place like this.
I pushed the thoughts from my mind, determined to have a good time, even if it was only for tonight.
I found myself relaxing into the party rhythm, stopping to listen to the band’s rendition of “America the Beautiful,” accepting a sample of homemade root beer from a teens-run stand. When Carol Winters appeared beside me, I was surprised to feel comfortable rather than professionally alert.
“Didn’t expect to see you here,” she said, her usual efficiency softened by the festive atmosphere.
“Professional research,” I repeated my now-standard explanation, though I couldn’t keep the smile from my face.
Carol’s knowing look was remarkably similar to Marianne’s. “Of course. Very thorough.”
She nodded toward where Ethan was now helping at the ring-toss booth. “Our liaison seems to be taking his duties seriously.”
I followed her gaze, watching as he demonstrated the proper technique to another child. “He really cares about this town.”
“Yes,” Carol agreed, her eyes studying my face rather than Ethan’s. A moment later, she patted my arm. “The blue dress suits you, by the way. Nice to see the person behind the consultant for a change.”
As she walked away, I remained rooted in place, her words echoing in my mind. The person behind the consultant.
For a split second, I realized that I wasn’t entirely familiar with the person behind the consultant. I’d spent years keeping those identities separate, work and self, but in Cedar Hills, the boundaries kept blurring.
Just like they did when Ethan kissed me, just like they were now as I watched Ethan laugh with the children, just like they would continue to do if I didn’t do something about it.
Yet even as those thoughts swirled through my mind, my feet were already carrying me toward the ring-toss booth, drawn by something stronger than professional caution.
The ring-toss booth appeared deceptively simple.
There were colorful wooden pegs arranged in rows, waiting for plastic rings to encircle them.
Children threw with abandon, rings clattered against wood and bounced away.
Adults approached with strategy, calculating angles and force.
I hovered at the edge of the small crowd, watching Ethan hand out rings and offer encouragement to each player.
When the rush of children subsided, leaving a momentary lull, he looked up and saw me waiting. Something shifted in his expression, surprise, pleasure, caution, all cycling quickly before settling into a tentative smile that made my stomach flutter in a way it hadn’t since college.
“Professional research?” he asked as I stepped closer, a gentle tease in his voice.
“Very thorough documentation,” I replied, returning his smile despite my best intentions. “The structural integrity of carnival games seems relevant to my assessment.”
He leaned against the booth’s counter, arms crossed in a way that emphasized the strength in his shoulders. “And what’s your professional opinion so far?”
“Inconclusive. I haven’t tried this one yet.” There was a sultry edge to my voice that I didn’t recognize.
Ethan’s eyebrows rose slightly. “Can’t have an inconclusive assessment.” He collected five rings from the counter and held them out. “Want to try?”
I took the rings, their plastic cool against my fingers. The first throw fell short, not even reaching the closest peg. The second bounced off the side of a peg and clattered to the ground.
“You’re overthinking it,” Ethan said, coming around to my side of the counter. “May I?”
I nodded, and he stepped behind me, close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating from him. His arms came around mine, not quite touching but guiding as he adjusted my stance.
“Relax your elbow,” he said, his voice low near my ear. “And follow through with your wrist, like this.” His hand hovered over mine, demonstrating the motion without contact.
The proximity made my pulse quicken, awareness of him overwhelming the simple mechanics of the game. When his fingers brushed against my wrist, adjusting my grip, the contact sent a current through me that had nothing to do with proper throwing technique.
“Now try,” he said, stepping back just enough to give me space while remaining close.
I inhaled, focused on a middle peg, and released the ring with the motion he showed me. It sailed forward, clipped the top of the peg, circled once, and settled around the base.
“I did it!” The childlike excitement in my voice surprised me as much as the successful throw.