The Streets of Hudson Falls

Chapter 2

Mara

It was Thursday. I only knew that because I’d stared at my calendar on the drive up like it might tell me how to breathe.

The Willow Inn smelled like lemon polish and old pine and somebody’s idea of comfort.

It wasn’t a bad smell. It was just so carefully curated it made my shoulders tighten anyway, like the building itself was saying, behave. Be nice. Don’t ruin the vibe.

I stood in the lobby for a second with my overnight bag in one hand and my phone in the other, staring at a framed photograph of the falls in winter. The water looked frozen mid roar, white and violent and beautiful.

The caption beneath it read HUDSON FALLS, 1896.

Because of course it did.

“Checking in?” a woman’s voice asked.

I turned.

The woman behind the desk looked sixty, maybe, with iron gray hair pulled back in a bun and glasses hanging from a chain around her neck. She had the kind of calm you got from spending decades watching people arrive with their hopes and their problems and their lies.

“Yes,” I said, and tried to make the word sound normal, like I hadn’t just walked out of Vale Auto and Repair with my heart in my throat.

She smiled politely. “Name?”

“Mara Byrne.”

Her fingers paused over the keyboard.

It was tiny, almost nothing, but I saw it.

I’d grown up with people pausing when they heard our name. Sometimes it was admiration. Sometimes it was resentment. Sometimes it was just a calculation.

This was Hudson Falls. It was all three, layered like sediment.

Her smile didn’t change, but her eyes sharpened in a way that made me feel twelve again, following my father into a room full of adults.

“Well,” she said, and there it was, the word that held a thousand opinions. “Welcome back.”

“Thanks.”

She typed something, clicked, then reached for a key card. “You’re in room seven. Second floor, left hallway. Breakfast is seven to ten. Coffee all day.”

“Great.”

She slid the key card across the desk, then leaned forward slightly. “You’ll want to keep your car up in the lot overnight. The street plows come through early.”

“I will,” I said. “My car’s fine now. I had it looked at.”

Her brows lifted. “At Vale?”

I hesitated for half a beat too long.

The woman’s smile turned faintly satisfied, like she’d just confirmed something for herself. “Jack fix it?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” She nodded once. “He’s a good one.”

That hit me in the chest, sharp and unexpected.

I forced my face to stay smooth. “He is.”

The woman’s expression softened just a fraction, as if she’d decided I wasn’t here to cause trouble. Or that I was, but I’d pay for it.

“I’m Lorna,” she said. “If you need anything, you call down. If you need nothing, you still call down if the heat does that weird clicking thing. Room seven’s got opinions.”

“Perfect,” I said, because I couldn’t help it. “So do I.”

Lorna laughed, a short burst. “Good. You’ll fit right in.”

I took my bag and headed toward the stairs, my heels clicking against wood that had been polished into submission. The inn was quiet, but not empty. I could feel eyes, even when I didn’t see them.

Hudson Falls watched. It always had.

On the landing, my phone buzzed.

I looked, even though I knew what it would be.

A text from my father.

Patrick: Call me.

I stared at it until the words blurred a little.

I didn’t call.

I walked down the hallway instead, found room seven, and slid the key card through the lock.

The room was exactly what the lobby promised. White duvet, soft lighting, a window that looked out toward the falls. A small vase of dried lavender on the dresser. A note on the nightstand that said WELCOME HOME in looping script.

My stomach twisted.

Home was a complicated word.

I set my bag on the bed and exhaled slowly, letting my shoulders drop.

Then, because I was apparently determined to live dangerously today, I walked to the window and looked out.

From here, the town looked peaceful. Like a postcard. Like the kind of place people escaped to when they were tired of city noise and needed to remember what quiet felt like.

But the falls still roared. The river still cut through the town like a warning.

And somewhere down the road, Jack Flynn was closing his shop and trying to pretend I hadn’t walked back into his life.

I pressed my forehead to the cold glass.

I’d rehearsed this for weeks. In my apartment in Manhattan. In my father’s office. On calls with people who said things like stakeholder and optics and community buy in.

None of those rehearsals covered the way Jack’s voice still made my pulse jump, low and rough and angry, like he was holding himself together with sheer will.

None of them covered the way his hands looked, oil stained and steady, like they belonged to the kind of life I’d walked away from.

Or the way my own body had reacted when our fingers brushed over a receipt, like I was nineteen again and stupid.

I closed my eyes.

Don’t do this, Mara.

Don’t do what you always do. Don’t let feeling steer.

I stepped away from the window and pulled out my laptop, because work was the only anchor I trusted.

The foundation packet sat in my bag, thick and neat, with tabs and printed summaries. I’d made it myself, because no one did detail like I did, and because keeping busy was easier than sitting with the truth.

I opened the folder, scanned the top page.

Hudson Falls Community Restoration Grant

Finalist Projects

Old Mill Redevelopment, Phase One

Applicant: Flynn Family Trust

And right beneath it, buried in the language that sounded harmless if you didn’t know how to read it, was what my father actually cared about. Scope alignment. Adjacent revitalization. Corridor planning. He talked about the river like it was the headline, but he was looking past it, already building the next phase.

I swallowed.

My father had smiled when he’d handed me the file. That calm, satisfied smile that made people think he was generous.

“You’ll oversee the quarter,” he’d said. “You’ll be my eyes. I want you there in person for this. It’s important.”

He hadn’t asked.

He never asked.

I scrolled through the proposal, even though I’d already read it twice. There were budgets, engineering assessments, projected community impact. A glossy mockup of the mill lit up at night, windows glowing warm, people in coats holding champagne flutes, smiling like they weren’t standing in the middle of somebody else’s past.

And then there was the section that made my throat tighten.

South Bank Stabilization Partnership

Co funded initiative with town oversight

Private matching funds under consideration

Under consideration.

Meaning my father was holding the money like a leash.

Meaning he could pull, and the town would have to follow.

I shut the laptop with more force than necessary.

I wasn’t here to fix the town.

I was here because my father wanted control.

And I was here because Jack Flynn was part of the equation.

A knock sounded at my door.

I froze, every nerve firing.

The knock came again, lighter.

“Mara?” a voice called.

Female. Young.

I exhaled, relieved and annoyed at myself for the relief.

I opened the door.

A young woman stood there with a folded towel in her arms and a nervous smile. Early twenties. Brown hair in a messy braid. A name tag that read EMMA.

“Hi,” she said. “Lorna said you might want extra towels. The washer’s been acting up, so if you want more later, just let us know now.”

“That’s thoughtful,” I said. “Thank you.”

She held them out, then hesitated, her eyes flicking over my face like she was comparing it to a memory.

I’d spent enough of my life in rooms like this to recognize the moment someone wanted to ask a question and didn’t know how.

Emma blurted, “You’re Patrick Byrne’s daughter, right?”

There it was.

I could lie. I could pretend I didn’t know what she meant. I could do the polite version of myself that made people comfortable.

Instead I said, “Yeah.”

Emma’s cheeks flushed. “Sorry. I didn’t mean, it’s just, everyone’s been talking.”

“Of course they have.”

She grimaced, half apologetic, half amused. “It’s Hudson Falls. It’s basically a sport.”

A laugh surprised me, quick and real, and her shoulders loosened like she’d been hoping for it.

“What are they saying?” I asked, because I was either brave or stupid.

Emma’s eyes went wide. “Oh. I can’t tell you that.”

“Sure you can,” I said. “I’m not fragile.”

Emma looked at me like she was trying to decide if that was true.

Then she leaned in slightly and said, quietly, “They’re saying you’re back because your dad’s gonna buy the mill and turn it into some fancy wedding venue.”

Heat flashed up my neck. “That’s not happening.”

Emma shrugged, a little helpless. “I’m just telling you what they’re saying.”

“Fair.”

She shifted her weight. “Also they’re saying you’re back because Jack Flynn finally called you out and you couldn’t stand it.”

My stomach dropped.

Emma winced. “Sorry.”

I forced myself to breathe. “That’s… creative.”

“It’s mostly Ned,” Emma added, like she was offering context and an apology in one. “He loves stirring the pot.”

“Ned,” I repeated, and the name tasted like a complication.

Emma nodded, then brightened. “Anyway. Towels. And if you need anything, like, extra pillows, or a fan, or if the heat starts doing that thing where it clicks like it’s haunted, call down.”

“Lorna already warned me,” I said.

Emma grinned. “She does that. Okay. Have a good night.”

“You too,” I said, and closed the door.

I leaned my back against it for a second, staring at the wallpaper like it might give me answers.

Everyone’s been talking. And not just about my father.

I’d been in town for less than an hour.

I took out my phone and opened my messages, scrolling until I found the one thread I’d been avoiding.

Jack.

There were no recent messages, because we didn’t do that. We hadn’t done anything.

But at the top of the thread, ancient and aching, were the last texts from ten years ago.

“Me: I’m sorry.

Me: I can’t.

Jack: Don’t do this.

Jack: Mara, don’t.

Jack: Please.”

I stared at the last one until my eyes stung.

Please.

Jack Flynn didn’t say please. Not unless something mattered.

And I’d still left.

I locked my phone and set it face down on the bed like it was dangerous.

Then I did what I always did when I couldn’t sit still in my own skin.

I unpacked with aggressive efficiency.

Laptop on the desk. Toiletries lined up in the bathroom. Clothes hung in the closet. Shoes set in a neat row like I had control of something.

By the time I’d unpacked, pretended to work, and failed at both, it was already after six.

My stomach growled, like my body had finally noticed it was running on adrenaline and one protein bar.

I could eat down in the dining room. I could order room service, if the inn even did that.

Or I could go down to the bar.

The idea of walking into a room full of Hudson Falls eyes made my chest tighten, but hiding in my room felt worse.

I changed out of my coat and heels, swapping them for boots and a sweater that didn’t scream Manhattan. I pulled my hair down from its twist and let it fall into waves that felt more like the girl I used to be.

Then I stared at myself in the mirror.

I looked like someone trying to blend.

It was both pathetic and smart.

“Okay,” I told my reflection. “Just go get food. You’re not here to fall apart.”

My reflection did not look convinced.

I left the room and headed downstairs.

By the time I made it downstairs, it was six thirty something, and my nerves were doing that thing where they tried to convince me I wasn’t hungry, I was just panicking.

The inn’s bar sat off the lobby in a room with dark wood and soft lamps and a fireplace that crackled like it was performing comfort. A few people were scattered around. Quiet conversation, low laughter, the muted glow of a TV nobody was really watching.

I took a stool at the bar and tried to look like I belonged.

But they didn’t look at me like a stranger. They looked at me like a warning.

A bartender appeared, wiping his hands on a towel. Mid thirties, kind eyes, the sort of face that had seen enough drama to recognize it without flinching.

“Hey,” he said. “What can I get you?”

“Something that tastes like I made good life choices,” I said before I could stop myself.

His grin widened. “So water.”

I surprised myself by laughing. It came out quick, real.

“Vodka soda,” I said. “Lime. And whatever food you recommend that won’t make me hate myself.”

“Chili,” he said immediately. “Lorna makes it. It could bring somebody back from the dead.”

“Chili,” I agreed. “That sounds like the only honest option.”

He nodded like I’d passed a test. “Mild or are you trying to feel something tonight?”

My throat tightened. The question was bartender banter, casual, harmless.

It still landed too close.

“Mild,” I said. “I’ve felt plenty.”

He studied me for a half second, then let it go like he’d decided I didn’t need to be pushed. “Mild chili. Coming up.”

He poured my drink and slid it over. I took a sip, grateful for the cold burn and the fact that my hands stopped shaking long enough to hold the glass steady.

This was fine.

This was just a drink and dinner.

This was not me sitting in the exact building where I’d agreed to meet the man I’d left behind.

My phone buzzed in my purse. I didn’t look. I didn’t need to.

Call me.

I shoved the phone deeper under my wallet and forced myself to breathe.

The bartender set a bowl of chili in front of me a few minutes later. It smelled like heat and comfort and a place that didn’t care what your last name was.

“Thanks,” I said.

“No problem.” He wiped the bar, then nodded toward the fireplace. “You want crackers, they’re over there. And if anybody gives you a hard time, Lorna will eat them alive.”

I blinked. “Does that happen often?”

He smiled. “Not often. But often enough that it’s worth saying.”

I ate slowly, letting the warmth settle my stomach.

It was six forty five when the door opened again.

Not a hush of surprise. Not a shift like a storm arriving.

More like the room recognizing a familiar sound and deciding whether it wanted to pay attention.

Ned walked in first, loud in the way he was even when he wasn’t speaking. He scanned the bar like he owned the place, then spotted me and grinned like he’d been waiting all day for this.

Behind him came Jack.

He wasn’t looking around for me. He didn’t need to. He came straight toward the bar like he’d already decided where this was going and his only job was to keep moving.

My pulse jumped anyway.

Ned hopped onto the stool on my other side like we were old friends, which was ridiculous, since he’d known me for maybe twelve minutes total.

“Well,” he said brightly, “look at that. You actually showed.”

“I said I would,” I replied.

He put a hand to his chest, mock wounded. “Okay, wow. Trustworthy. Love that for you.”

Jack slid onto the stool beside me, close enough that I could feel heat through his coat, but his posture stayed guarded.

He glanced at my bowl. “You eat?”

“I’m eating,” I said.

Jack’s gaze flicked to my face, then back to the chili like it was safer than looking at me too long. “Good.”

The word sounded like it cost him something.

Ned waved at the bartender. “Marty, give me whatever she’s having. And for him,” he nodded at Jack, “bring him food before he starts biting strangers.”

Jack muttered, “I’m fine.”

Ned didn’t even look at him. “He’s not fine. He’s never fine. It’s like a hobby.”

Jack’s jaw tightened. “Ned.”

Ned raised both hands like he was surrendering. “I’m done. I’m done. I’m just here to make sure nobody commits a felony in public.”

Jack stared at him.

Ned leaned closer, dropping his voice so only I could hear. “For the record, if he acts like an i***t, it’s because he’s scared. And if you act like an i***t, it’s because you’re you.”

I blinked, half shocked. “That’s rude.”

Ned grinned. “It’s accurate.”

The bartender set another bowl down, then another, and a basket of pretzels appeared like Ned had summoned it with pure audacity.

“Thanks,” Ned said, then pointed at Jack. “Put it on his tab.”

Jack didn’t even argue this time. He just exhaled through his nose like he’d already accepted his fate.

I took a sip of my drink, mostly to give myself something to do with my hands.

Jack’s voice came low, rough. “You been here long?”

“Not really,” I said. “I came down early.”

He nodded once. “Figured.”

Ned chewed loudly on a pretzel. “This is riveting. You two should take this show on the road.”

Jack’s eyes narrowed. “Go away.”

Ned swallowed dramatically. “Gladly. I have a very important conversation to have with Marty about whether the Bills are ever going to stop breaking hearts.”

The bartender laughed. “Not in our lifetime.”

Ned slapped the bar like that was the funniest thing he’d ever heard, then slid off his stool.

Before he walked away, he looked at me again, expression turning just a shade more serious.

“Town’s gonna talk no matter what you do,” he said, quieter. “So don’t let that be the thing that decides your choices.”

Then he turned and wandered off toward the far end of the bar, leaving Jack and me in a pocket of space that felt too tight.

Jack watched my spoon as I took another bite.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said softly.

“I know,” I admitted.

He didn’t look satisfied by the honesty. If anything, it made him look like he was trying harder not to crack.

I set the spoon down. “Jack, we agreed. Seven. We’re here.”

His gaze lifted, pinned mine. “Yeah.”

A beat.

Then, quieter, “Why’d you really come back?”

I exhaled slowly. “I told you. Work.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

I swallowed. “It’s the truth.”

His mouth tightened. “It’s the part of the truth you’re willing to say out loud.”

My chest ached. That was exactly it.

The bartender drifted over, gentle but aware. “You want another round?”

“No, thanks,” I said quickly.

Jack didn’t answer.

The bartender nodded like he understood and moved away again.

Jack leaned in just slightly, voice low. “You staying here?”

“Yes.”

“Course you are,” he muttered, not cruel, just tired.

“It’s a bed,” I said. “That’s all.”

Jack’s gaze flicked to me. “It’s also the only place in town that tries to pretend it’s not in town.”

That made me laugh, surprised, and I hated how good it felt.

Jack’s eyes caught the laugh and held it for a second like it was something he wasn’t supposed to touch.

“You’re laughing now,” he said, almost to himself.

“What’s wrong with laughing?”

He looked away. “Nothing.”

It was a lie.

I didn’t push. I couldn’t, not without shattering something.

I tried for lighter, even though my voice wasn’t steady. “So what’s the plan? You’re taking me on the grand Hudson Falls tour?”

His mouth twitched, almost humor, and it was gone so fast I wondered if I’d imagined it.

“We’re not doing the tour,” he said.

“What are we doing then?”

He glanced around the room, the listening ears, the pretending not to listen.

“Not here,” he said.

Relief hit me so hard my shoulders dropped. “Okay.”

Jack set cash on the bar, because of course he did, then stood.

I slid off my stool and followed him out without looking at anyone else.

Outside, the cold hit sharp. The falls were louder out here, the sound cutting through the night like a warning.

Jack didn’t go toward the street. He angled around the side of the inn to a darker stretch of the lot near a bare maple.

He stopped, hands shoved in his coat pockets, breath visible.

I waited.

Finally he turned, and the porch light caught his face just enough to show how tired he looked under all that control.

“You can’t just come back and act like nothing happened,” he said quietly.

“I’m not,” I said, voice rough. “I know it happened.”

Jack’s laugh was short and bitter. “Do you?”

“Yes,” I snapped, then softened immediately. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”

He stared at me. “How did you mean it?”

My throat tightened. “I meant I’ve been carrying it.”

Jack’s jaw flexed. “Then tell me why.”

My pulse hammered.

“Not tonight,” I whispered.

His eyes went bright and hard. “Mara.”

“Please,” I said, and the word came out before pride could stop it. “Please don’t ask me for the one thing I can’t give you right now.”

Jack looked away toward the river like the sound of the falls was the only thing keeping him from saying something he’d regret.

When he spoke again, his voice was lower, steadier.

“You want to see what’s changed,” he said.

I nodded.

“Come to the river tomorrow,” he said. “Nine.”

“With you?”

“With me,” he confirmed.

It wasn’t a date. Not really.

It was a test.

I nodded again, because I didn’t trust my voice. “Okay.”

Jack held my gaze for one more beat, then stepped back like he had to put distance between us to stay sane.

“Go inside,” he said. “It’s cold.”

“I’m fine,” I said automatically.

His eyes narrowed. “You always say that.”

“So do you,” I shot back before I could stop myself.

That landed.

Jack’s mouth tightened, and for a second he looked like he might say something real.

Then he didn’t.

“Night, Mara,” he said.

“Night,” I whispered.

He walked away into the dark.

I stood under the maple a second longer, breathing hard, trying to get my heart back into my chest.

Then my phone buzzed again.

Call me.

I pulled it out this time, because I was shaking and I needed something solid, even if it was poison.

I hit call before I could change my mind.

It rang once.

Twice.

My father answered like he’d been waiting.

“Mara,” he said, calm and controlled. “Where are you?”

“At the inn,” I said.

“I told you to call.”

“I know.”

A pause, heavy.

Then, softer, “Did you see him?”

My stomach dropped. Of course he already knew.

“Yes,” I said.

“And?” he asked, like he was asking about an inspection.

“He’s not a project, Dad.”

A faint, amused breath. “Everything is a project, Mara. The only question is whether you manage it, or it manages you.”

Anger flared. “Why am I really here?”

He paused just long enough to remind me who held power.

“Because Hudson Falls is at a tipping point,” he said smoothly. “The south bank, the mill, the grants. It all comes together this quarter. I want it done right.”

“And by done right, you mean your way.”

“My way keeps the town alive.”

“You mean your way keeps you in control,” I said.

Silence.

Then, quieter, almost gentle, “Don’t pick a fight you can’t win.”

My stomach twisted.

“What do you want from me?” I asked, hating the shake in my voice.

His voice warmed, the way it always did when he wanted something. “I want you to remember where you come from.”

“I remember,” I said, and it was both lie and truth.

“Good,” he said. “Then you’ll do what needs doing.”

The call ended.

Not with goodbye.

With a click.

I stared at my phone like it had betrayed me.

Then I shoved it into my purse and walked upstairs fast, chest tight, steps angry.

In my room, I locked the door and leaned against it, breathing hard.

Tomorrow at nine, Jack Flynn was going to take me to the river.

And I was going to have to start earning the right to be here.

Because this time, leaving wasn’t the only thing that could break us.

This time, staying might.