The Streets of Hudson Falls

Chapter 3

Jack

By Friday morning, my patience was already half gone.

Ned showed up ten minutes late with coffee and a look on his face like he’d slept great, which was obnoxious on principle.

“You’re late,” I said.

Ned held up the coffee like it was an offering. “I brought peace.”

“You brought caffeine.”

“Same thing.”

I took it anyway, because I wasn’t stupid.

The shop was busy. It always was. Hudson Falls might complain about everything, but it still needed cars to start, heat to work, and tires that didn’t look like they’d been gnawed by a bear.

I tried to keep my head on the work. A Civic with a bad alternator. A work truck that smelled like old cigarettes and regret. A minivan full of cheerios and plastic dinosaurs.

Normal.

Except my eyes kept flicking to the clock like it was taunting me.

Nine.

I told myself it didn’t matter. It was just the river. It was just the south bank. It was just showing her what she’d missed so she’d stop walking around town like she still had a claim here.

That was all.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. I didn’t need to look. 212. I ignored it and kept my hands moving.

At eight forty five, I shut the bay door and wiped my hands for the third time, even though they were never really clean. I grabbed my coat, my keys, and the folder I’d been pretending not to carry around all week.

South Bank Stabilization, Draft Plan

Hudson Falls Council Notes

Byrne Foundation Grant Summary

Ned had printed the foundation summary off the town email chain and stapled it like that made it official. Then he’d left it on my desk like a threat.

Paper that decided whether the town survived.

Ned leaned in the office doorway. “You going somewhere?”

“Town stuff.”

Ned’s brows lifted. “At nine.”

I stared at him.

He smiled, slow and smug. “What? I have a clock too.”

“Stop,” I said.

“Stop what?” Ned asked, innocent. “Noticing? Having eyes? Existing?”

I walked past him.

Ned followed, because of course he did. “Just so we’re clear, you’re not taking her on a date.”

“It’s not a date.”

“Right,” Ned said. “It’s a guided tour of trauma and municipal infrastructure.”

I unlocked my truck.

Ned planted himself at the edge of the lot and jerked his chin back toward the bays. “I got the shop. Go.”

I paused, then nodded once.

Ned’s expression shifted, a little less smug. “You sure you want to do this alone?”

“I always do things alone.”

Ned’s voice went quieter. “Yeah. That’s kinda the problem.”

I gripped the door harder than I needed to. “Ned.”

He backed off, hands up. “Okay. Fine. Go be a hero. Just don’t be a jerk.”

“I’m always a jerk.”

“No,” Ned said, smirking again. “You’re efficient. There’s a difference.”

I shut the door and started the engine.

It wasn’t anger. Not really.

It was nerves, and I hated that more.

The Willow Inn sat just off the main stretch, close enough to pretend it was part of town and far enough to feel separate. White porch, tidy landscaping, that soft golden light even in daylight like it was constantly trying to be charming.

I pulled into the lot at eight fifty eight.

Mara was already outside.

Of course she was.

She stood near the porch steps in a dark coat and boots that looked like she’d actually planned to walk on something that wasn’t marble. Her hair was down today, loose waves catching the light. She had a travel mug in one hand and her phone in the other like she was pretending she wasn’t waiting.

She was early, which told me she’d been awake for hours pretending she wasn’t.

My chest did something stupid.

I killed the engine and got out.

Mara turned at the sound, and her gaze found me immediately. Like it hadn’t ever stopped knowing where I was.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hey.”

She took a breath like she wanted to say something else, something softer, and thought better of it.

“Thanks for doing this,” she said instead.

“Don’t thank me yet.”

That got the tiniest twitch of her mouth. “Fair.”

I opened the passenger door. “Get in.”

She hesitated for half a second.

Then she climbed in and pulled the seat belt across her body like she was bracing for impact.

I shut the door, walked around, and climbed into the driver’s seat.

For a second, we just sat there with the engine idling and the town quiet around us.

It felt too much like being nineteen, when we finally stopped pretending we were just friends. When she kissed me first and looked terrified of how much she wanted it. When she came back a week later and said, with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes, that I wasn’t enough for her.

I put the truck in gear. “Where’d you grow up again? Manhattan?”

Mara’s fingers tightened on her mug. “Mostly. But I spent summers here.”

“With your grandmother, yeah,” I said. “I remember.”

Silence.

The road out toward the river wasn’t long. Hudson Falls wasn’t big. But it was enough time for everything you didn’t say to pile up between you.

Mara glanced out the window at the main street as we passed. Mae’s Diner. The pharmacy. The post office. The hardware store with the faded sign.

“Some of it looks the same,” she said quietly.

“Most of it is,” I said. “That’s kinda the point.”

Mara’s gaze flicked to me. “You’re mad.”

I kept my eyes on the road. “I’m not mad.”

She let out a small breath. “Okay. You’re not mad.”

I could hear the disbelief in it.

I turned onto Willow Road, then down toward the river access, where the pavement cracked and the guardrail had been replaced twice in the last five years.

The south bank was visible before we even parked. Orange fencing. Warning signs. From here, you could see the mill upstream. Red brick and broken windows, sitting there like a promise somebody wanted to cash in. The river was the emergency. The mill was the prize.

A section of the trail closed off with plywood and a bright red DO NOT CROSS sign that someone had already crossed, because people in this town treated warnings like suggestions.

I pulled into the dirt turnout and killed the engine.

Mara stared out the windshield.

“Jesus,” she whispered.

“Yeah,” I said. “That’s what we’ve been saying.”

We got out. The cold bit at my ears. The river air always had a bite, even in spring. Damp, metallic, alive.

I walked toward the fence. Mara followed, slower, her boots crunching on gravel.

The river ran hard, swollen from recent rain. It slammed into the bank like it was trying to tear it away. The soil was eaten out underneath in places, leaving a jagged edge like a bad wound.

Mara stepped closer, stopping just short of the fence.

“It’s worse than the photos,” she said, voice tight.

The south bank was a crisis. A crisis made people sign things fast. And Byrne loved a fast signature.

“Photos don’t show the sound,” I replied. “Or the smell when the sewer line gets exposed.”

Her head snapped toward me. “That’s happened?”

“Twice,” I said. “Third time, it’ll be a disaster.”

Mara’s face drained slightly. “Why isn’t this bigger news?”

“Because we’re Hudson Falls,” I said. “We’re not a headline.”

She swallowed. “So what’s the plan?”

I pulled the folder from under my arm and flipped it open on the hood of my truck.

“Town’s got a stabilization plan,” I said. “Engineering, permits, timeline. It’s solid.”

Mara leaned in, reading. Her hair brushed her cheek, and I had to force myself not to look at her like that mattered.

“It’s expensive,” she said.

“Yep.”

She traced a line on the page with her finger. “And the funding gap is…”

“Two point three million,” I said. “If we’re lucky.”

Mara’s fingers stilled.

I watched her face as the numbers turned from abstract to real.

“That’s why your father’s here,” I said quietly.

Mara’s jaw tightened. “He says he wants to help.”

“He wants leverage,” I said.

“And he wants the mill,” Mara said quietly, like she hated how certain she sounded.

Mara lifted her eyes to mine. “Maybe both.”

“That’s the same thing with him,” I shot back.

Mara flinched, then steadied. “You don’t know what he’s like all the time.”

My laugh was sharp. “No? Because he only ever shows me the version he wants me to see.”

Mara’s eyes flashed. “Jack.”

“What,” I snapped, then dragged in a breath. “Sorry. I’m not trying to take this out on you.”

“Yes, you are,” she said quietly.

The honesty landed hard.

I stared at the river instead of her. “Fine. Maybe I am.”

Mara’s voice softened just a notch. “You’ve got a right to be angry.”

That shouldn’t have made my throat tighten.

It did.

I flipped to the grant summary. “Here’s what he sent over. Foundation’s calling it a partnership. Matching funds. Conditions.”

Mara read, and her mouth went tight.

“They want oversight,” she said.

“They want control,” I corrected.

Mara’s gaze stayed on the page. “This clause… this gives them authority over vendor selection.”

“Which means,” I said, “your father picks who gets paid.”

Mara’s fingers curled into the paper a little. “He can’t.”

“He will,” I said. “Unless you stop him.”

Mara looked up. “I’m not the one in charge.”

“You’re his daughter,” I said, and the words came out bitter before I could soften them. “That’s as close to in charge as anybody gets.”

Mara’s face tightened. “You think I can just snap my fingers and make him do what I want?”

“No,” I said. “I think you can choose whether you’re helping him.”

Silence.

The river slammed into the bank again, loud enough to fill the space.

Mara stared at the water, then at the broken earth. Her throat moved like she was swallowing something thick.

“I didn’t realize it was this bad,” she said. “Not like this.”

“Yeah,” I said. “That’s why we get pissed when people swoop in with pretty words.”

Mara’s eyes cut to me. “I’m not here to swoop.”

“Then what are you here for?” I asked.

Her shoulders lifted slightly, like she was bracing.

“I’m here because I need to know what’s real,” she said. “And because I don’t want him doing this without somebody in the room who can push back.”

I studied her.

That sounded like truth.

It also sounded like someone trying to convince herself.

“You push back?” I asked.

Mara’s mouth twitched, humor flickering through the tension. “You ever met me?”

I snorted before I could stop myself.

It surprised both of us.

Mara’s eyes widened slightly, like she’d forgotten I could still make that sound.

I cleared my throat, annoyed at myself. “Fine. So push back.”

Mara nodded once. “Okay.”

I tapped the page. “Then start with this. If the foundation wants to help, it helps. It doesn’t own the vendor list.”

Mara’s gaze sharpened. “That’s going to be a fight.”

“Good,” I said. “We need someone who isn’t scared of him.”

Mara looked at me, and for a second, her face softened. “I’ve been scared of him my whole life.”

The words were quiet, but they hit like a punch.

My chest went tight.

I should’ve felt satisfied. Vindicated. Something.

Instead, all I felt was this ugly twist of regret.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked before I could stop myself.

Mara’s eyes flashed, pain and anger and something raw. “Because you hated him.”

“I didn’t hate him,” I said. “I hated what he did.”

“To you,” she said, voice sharp. “And you didn’t ask what it was like living with him.”

That landed.

It landed because it was true.

I stared at her, stunned, and for a second all the old anger shifted, rearranging into something heavier.

“I didn’t know,” I said, and my voice came out rough.

Mara looked away quickly, like she regretted letting that slip.

“I’m not doing this here,” she muttered.

My pulse spiked. “Doing what.”

She shook her head. “Talking about him. About us. Not with the river listening.”

“The river doesn’t care,” I said.

Mara’s laugh was breathless. “Everything in this town cares.”

I looked at the jagged bank, the signs, the fencing. The damage that didn’t stop because feelings were complicated.

“This is what I wanted you to see,” I said quietly. “Not to punish you. To make you understand what’s at stake.”

Mara nodded, swallowing hard. “I do.”

I watched her face, the way she tried to keep control, the way she failed just enough to feel human.

“Come on,” I said. “There’s more.”

She glanced at me. “More bad news?”

“More reality,” I corrected.

Mara sighed, then nodded. “Lead the way.”

We walked along the fence line until the trail ended in broken boards and mud. I pointed out where the collapse had started, where the town had put in temporary barriers, where the river had chewed right through them anyway.

Mara asked questions. Smart ones. Detailed ones. She took notes on her phone, her brow furrowed, her mouth tight.

She wasn’t pretending.

That mattered.

At one point, she stepped too close to the edge and a small clump of dirt slid down into the water.

I grabbed her elbow without thinking.

She froze.

So did I.

My hand was on her arm, solid and warm through her sleeve, and for one second, the world narrowed to that contact.

Mara’s breath caught.

My throat went dry.

I let go too fast, like her skin was fire. “Watch it.”

“I’m fine,” she said automatically.

My eyes narrowed. “You always say that.”

Mara’s gaze snapped to mine, startled.

Then her mouth twitched. “So do you.”

I huffed a laugh. “Yeah. Fair.”

A beat.

Mara tucked hair behind her ear, a nervous gesture she probably didn’t realize she still had. “Thank you.”

“For what.”

“For not letting me fall into the river,” she said, and there was humor in it, but her eyes were serious.

“Don’t make it dramatic,” I muttered.

Mara smiled, small. “You’re the one who makes everything dramatic.”

I rolled my eyes. “I literally fix cars for a living.”

“And yet,” she said, looking at the river again, “your life still looks like a drama.”

That made me laugh, real this time.

Mara blinked like she’d just won something.

I cleared my throat again, because apparently I hated joy.

“Let’s go,” I said, and turned toward the truck before she could see what that laugh had cost me.

On the drive back, Mara was quieter. She stared out the window like she was storing away images she didn’t want to forget. The orange fencing. The torn earth. The water hitting too hard.

I kept both hands on the wheel and tried not to think about the way she’d looked when she said she’d been scared of her father her whole life.

At a stop sign, she spoke softly. “Jack.”

“Yeah?”

“If I can get the foundation to remove the vendor control clause,” she said, careful, “would you accept the money?”

I didn’t answer immediately. Because it was a real question.

Because taking help came with strings even when the strings were hidden.

Because the town needed it.

“We’d have to see the full terms,” I said finally. “But yeah. If it’s clean. If it’s actually help.”

Mara nodded once, like she’d expected that.

Then, quieter, “Okay. I can try. I can’t promise he’ll go for it.”

I glanced at her. “Put it in writing. Make it public. That’s the only language he respects.”

Mara’s fingers tightened on her mug. “Why.”

“Because if it’s public, he can’t rewrite it later,” I said.

Mara looked out the window, jaw tight. “And because if he’s going to bulldoze this town, I’d rather be in the way than watching from Manhattan.”

That was a good answer.

It was also a dangerous one.

I pulled into the inn lot and stopped.

For a second, neither of us moved.

Then Mara turned to me. “Thank you for showing me.”

I nodded. “Yeah.”

Her gaze held mine. “And… I’m sorry.”

My throat tightened.

“For what,” I asked, even though I knew.

Mara’s voice went quiet. “For leaving.”

The words hung between us like frost.

I didn’t know what to do with them.

So I did what I always did.

I made it practical.

“You should go talk to your father,” I said. “Today. Before he starts deciding things without you.”

Mara’s mouth tightened. “He already has.”

“Then catch up,” I said. “And Mara?”

She looked at me, eyebrows lifting slightly.

I swallowed. “Don’t let him use you. Not this time.”

Mara’s expression softened, and something in her eyes went bright and dangerous. “I won’t.”

She got out of the truck, closed the door, and walked toward the porch.

Halfway there, she paused and looked back.

For a second, she was nineteen again in my head, hair lit by fireworks, eyes full of promises.

Then she turned and went inside.

I sat in my truck for a moment longer, hands on the wheel, staring at the inn.

My phone buzzed. I stared at it like it might finally make sense.

Then I flipped it over, started the engine, and drove back to the shop.

Because some storms you can’t outrun.

But you can choose where you stand when they hit.