The Streets of Hudson Falls

Chapter 5

Jack

By ten a.m., I’d already fixed three problems that weren’t mine.

Mrs. Greeley’s Buick needed a new battery, even though she swore the one I put in “just last year” was brand new. It was five years old. She tried to argue anyway.

Rourke and Sons rolled in with a flatbed and a story about how a pothole “jumped out of nowhere,” like the road had personal beef. Ned listened with a straight face, which meant he was saving the commentary for later.

And a kid from the gas station down the street showed up holding a tire like it was a dying animal. He’d taken a nail straight through the sidewall and looked like he expected me to perform a miracle.

“Can you patch it?” he asked.

I stared at the tire. “No.”

His shoulders fell. “But I have to be at work.”

“Then you need a new tire,” I said.

He blinked. “You just said no.”

“I said no to patching it,” I corrected. “Not to fixing your problem.”

The kid nodded slowly like I’d spoken in code, then hurried off to call someone who could explain tires to him in a gentler language.

Ned leaned in the office doorway, watching it all like it was a show.

“You know you could’ve said that in fewer words,” he said.

“I did,” I replied. “I said no.”

Ned grinned. “True. You really are a poet.”

I ignored him and went back under the hood of a Subaru that had decided, in its own dramatic way, that it no longer believed in power steering.

My phone buzzed on the workbench.

I glanced at it without meaning to.

Again.

I stared at the screen until it went dark.

Ned saw my face change and wandered over, wiping his hands on a rag like he wasn’t curious.

“That number still bothering you?” he asked.

“It’s nothing.”

“Nothing doesn’t call this much,” Ned said. “Nothing sends flowers and waits outside your window.”

I shot him a look.

He held up both hands. “I’m just saying. Either it’s the world’s most committed scammer or it’s someone you don’t want to talk to.”

“Neither,” I said.

Ned’s eyebrows rose. “That’s a third option?”

“It’s… work,” I muttered.

Ned gave me a look that said he didn’t buy that for a second, but he didn’t push. Not yet.

He never pushed right away. Ned liked to circle first.

He wandered back toward the office, then paused. “You going to the council thing later?”

“Yeah,” I said.

“At noon,” he added, like he was reading off my brain.

I didn’t look up. “Yep.”

Ned nodded slowly. “And Mara’s gonna be there.”

I froze for half a beat, wrench in hand.

Ned’s mouth twitched. “I’m not psychic. Lorna texted Emma, Emma texted Dani, Dani texted her cousin, and her cousin texted me because he owes me twenty bucks and this is apparently his way of paying interest.”

“You talk to too many people,” I said.

Ned grinned. “It’s called community.”

“It’s called gossip.”

“Same thing,” he said, and walked away before I could throw something at him.

I tried to focus on the Subaru. I really did.

But my brain kept doing what brains do when they’re scared.

It replayed last night.

Mara under the porch light, saying she couldn’t tell me yet.

My own stupid hand on her elbow.

The way her face looked when she said she’d been scared of her father her whole life.

And the way my chest had tightened like I’d swallowed a rock, because I’d spent years hating Patrick Byrne without asking what it cost Mara to live under him.

My phone buzzed again.

This time it didn’t stop.

It rang.

I stared at it until my skin crawled.

Ned called from the office, “If you don’t answer it, I’m gonna.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I absolutely am,” he said, voice cheerful. “I’m gonna put it on speaker and everything.”

I swore under my breath and grabbed the phone.

“Hello,” I said.

“Mr. Flynn?” a woman’s voice asked. Polite. Crisp. Not a scammer. Not a friend. The kind of voice that charged by the hour.

“This is Jack,” I said.

“Mr. Jack Flynn, owner of Vale Auto and Repair, correct?”

My jaw tightened. “Yeah.”

“My name is Karen Whitman. I’m counsel for the Byrne Foundation.”

Of course you are. The trust application had my name at the top because it had to. I was the trustee, the signature, the local i***t who’d agreed to be responsible. The council didn’t call me a project lead, but they sent me to every meeting anyway, like showing up was the same as having authority

The shop got quieter in my head.

Not because it actually changed. Ned was still clanking around, someone was laughing outside, a car door slammed.

But inside me, everything narrowed.

“Okay,” I said.

“I’m calling regarding the Hudson Falls Community Restoration Grant,” she continued. “Specifically, the stabilization partnership and the Flynn Family Trust proposal.”

“And the mill?” I asked, flat.

A beat. Paper shifted on her end.

“That is part of the broader scope alignment,” she said carefully, like she’d been trained not to say the quiet part out loud.

I stared at the Subaru’s open hood like it had personally betrayed me.

“What about it,” I said.

“We’d like to schedule a brief call today,” she said smoothly. “Fifteen minutes. To clarify terms and confirm your understanding before this afternoon’s municipal meeting.”

My grip tightened on the phone. “You mean before the council meeting.”

“Yes,” she said, tone pleasant. “We want to ensure there are no misunderstandings that could delay implementation.”

No misunderstandings.

Like I was the one who needed it explained.

I could hear Ned in the background, making exaggerated coughing noises that sounded suspiciously like control.

“Where’d you get my number,” I asked.

There was a pause, then the same smooth tone. “It was provided as part of the applicant contact information.”

I hadn’t provided anything to them.

I hadn’t talked to them.

Which meant Patrick Byrne had gotten it some other way, and now his lawyer was calling like she owned my time.

“My understanding is simple,” I said. “Help the town. Don’t try to buy it.”

Another pause. I could practically hear her smile.

“Mr. Flynn, the foundation’s intention is to fund stabilization efforts responsibly,” she said. “The vendor oversight clause exists to ensure accountability.”

“I read the clause,” I said. “It’s control.”

“I’d like to discuss it with you,” she replied. “Briefly. Today. At eleven thirty.”

I looked at the clock.

Eleven seventeen.

I laughed, short and humorless. “That’s not a schedule. That’s an order.”

“Mr. Flynn,” she said gently, “we’re trying to avoid conflict.”

“Then tell your client to stop starting it,” I snapped.

Ned’s head popped around the office door like a meerkat. His eyes were wide with delight and horror.

I ignored him.

Karen Whitman’s tone didn’t change. “I understand you have strong feelings. But there are practical realities. The council will want clarity.”

“Fine,” I said. “Call me at eleven thirty. Fifteen minutes. That’s it.”

“Thank you,” she said, like I’d just agreed to donate a kidney. “I’ll send a calendar invite.”

“No,” I said immediately. “Don’t.”

Another pause. “Excuse me?”

“I don’t need a calendar invite,” I said. “Just call.”

“Of course,” she said, and I could hear the surprise now, like she hadn’t expected someone to refuse her normal script. “We’ll speak at eleven thirty.”

The call ended.

I stared at the phone in my hand like it might smoke.

Ned walked over slowly, eyes bright. “So.”

“Don’t,” I said.

Ned held up both hands again. “I’m not doing anything. I’m just standing here, being a supportive colleague.”

“You’re not supportive,” I muttered. “You’re entertained.”

“Both can be true,” Ned said. “Byrne Foundation counsel, huh.”

I shoved the phone into my pocket. “Go do your job.”

“I am doing my job,” he said. “My job is keeping you from punching rich people.”

“My job is not punching rich people,” I said.

Ned snorted. “Could’ve fooled me.”

I wiped my hands, closed the Subaru’s hood, and forced myself to breathe like a normal person.

Eleven thirty.

Fifteen minutes.

Then the council meeting.

Then Mara.

I told myself I didn’t care about seeing her again.

That was a lie.

At eleven twenty nine, my phone buzzed.

I stepped into the office and shut the door behind me, because if Ned heard this call he’d never let me live.

I answered on the first ring.

“Mr. Flynn,” Karen Whitman said, smooth as ever. “Thank you for taking the call.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Let’s do this.”

“Great.” Paper shuffled on her end. “I’ll be brief. The foundation is prepared to commit matching funds for the south bank stabilization, contingent on certain oversight provisions. These provisions are standard for philanthropic funding of this scale.”

“Standard doesn’t mean acceptable,” I said.

“We understand there’s concern,” she said. “However, the foundation cannot commit to this partnership without assurance of vendor quality, project transparency, and cost controls.”

I leaned back in the chair and stared at the faded flyer on the wall for the Hudson Falls Fall Festival from three years ago. A picture of a kid with face paint and a smile. A simpler world.

“You can have transparency,” I said. “You can have reporting. Audits. Whatever you want. What you don’t get is choosing who gets paid.”

Her tone stayed patient. “Mr. Flynn, local politics complicate vendor decisions. The foundation’s goal is to prevent mismanagement.”

“You mean you think we’re idiots,” I said.

“That’s not what I said,” she replied smoothly.

“It’s what you mean,” I shot back.

A pause.

Then, “Mr. Flynn, I’m going to be frank,” she said. “If the foundation removes vendor oversight, the board may withdraw the offer.”

There it was.

The threat, dressed up as practicality.

I stared at the desk, jaw clenched.

“And then you’ll blame the town,” I said quietly.

“We’ll explain that terms couldn’t be aligned,” she said.

Terms.

Like this was a lease negotiation.

“You want leverage,” I said.

“Mr. Flynn,” she replied, voice still calm, “we want results.”

I let out a slow breath.

“Here’s the reality,” I said. “The town’s desperate. That doesn’t mean we’ll sell ourselves. If you want to help, help. If you want control, take your money and go.”

Silence.

Then, for the first time, her voice sharpened just slightly. “Your position is noted.”

“I’m sure it is,” I said.

“There’s one more thing,” she added. “We’d like you to sign a memorandum of understanding confirming intent to proceed, pending final terms.”

My stomach dropped.

“No,” I said.

“Mr. Flynn,” she began.

“No,” I repeated, firmer. “I’m not signing anything before the council meeting. And I’m not signing anything that gives the foundation authority over local vendors.”

Her tone cooled. “The council meeting is at noon, correct?”

“Yeah.”

“Then we’ll discuss it there,” she said. “In person.”

My pulse jumped. “You’re coming.”

There was a beat.

“Yes,” she said simply. “Mr. Byrne will be attending.”

My throat went tight.

Of course he would.

“Anything else,” I asked, because if I didn’t keep my voice steady I was going to lose it.

“One final note,” she said. “Your trust’s application includes references to the mill redevelopment. The foundation will also want clarity on the scope of your involvement.”

“Scope,” I repeated, flat.

“Yes,” she said. “We’ll cover it in the meeting.”

The call ended.

I sat there for a second, staring at the office wall like it had answers.

Then I opened the door.

Ned was standing there like he’d been leaning on it the whole time.

“You were eavesdropping,” I said.

Ned shrugged. “I was supporting.”

“You’re gonna get killed one day,” I muttered.

“Probably,” he agreed cheerfully. “But not before I see Patrick Byrne get told no to his face.”

I grabbed my coat. “I’m going to the council meeting.”

Ned picked up his keys. “Us. We’re going.”

“No,” I said. “You’re staying here.”

Ned blinked. “Jack.”

“You said you’d cover the shop,” I reminded him.

Ned’s face did that thing where the humor faded and the loyalty showed underneath. “I meant it. But you don’t need to walk into that alone.”

I stared at him for a beat.

Then I looked away, because I hated needing anything.

“Fine,” I said. “But you talk, I’m throwing you in the river.”

Ned’s grin came back instantly. “Deal.”

We locked up what we could and left a sign on the counter that said BACK IN AN HOUR like we had control of time.

The municipal building was three blocks away, a squat brick place with a flag out front and a lobby that smelled like paper and old coffee. The kind of building where decisions got made slowly and everyone pretended that was normal.

I pushed through the doors with Ned at my shoulder.

Inside, people were already gathering.

Council members. Town staff. A handful of locals who’d learned to show up when things mattered. A few faces I didn’t recognize in suits that didn’t belong here.

And then I saw her.

Mara sat at the long table near the front, a folder open, pen in hand, posture straight. Calm face. Controlled.

But when her eyes lifted and met mine, something flickered.

Not surprise.

Not fear.

Something steadier.

Like she’d been waiting too.

Hudson Falls never forgot what she said to me. And they never let me forget it either.

Ned leaned close and whispered, “Alright. Show time.”

I ignored him.

I looked at Mara.

And for the first time since she’d walked into my shop, I wondered if she was about to do the thing I’d never seen her do.

Stand up to her father.