Page 13 of Brewing Up My Fresh Start
Right. Don’t mention how I’ve been mentally redesigning half the project based on things she said during our coffee shop showdown. Don’t mention how she absolutely demolished my economic projections while simultaneously making me question my career path and wonder if her hair smells like vanilla or cinnamon. That would qualify as professional suicide with a side of public humiliation.
“And for the love of all that’s holy, don’t stare at her,” Scott adds with desperation.
The fact that my observations keep focusing on how she tucks escaped hair behind her ear when she’s thinking is purely coincidental. Market research.
Mayor Waters bangs his gavel with authority. Silver-threaded dark hair, patient expression, and diplomatic skills that could broker world peace.
“First order of business—the waterfront development proposal,” he announces. “We’ll hear from Reed Development, then open the floor to anyone brave enough to speak their mind.”
Fantastic. I’m the warm-up act before the Michelle Lawson show, which means I’m about to get outplayed by a girl who could convince this crowd to elect her mayor, governor, and Supreme Ruler of All Things That Matter while making everyone feel personally blessed by the experience.
Two hundred pairs of eyes lock onto me with focused intensity. Half these people know what I had for breakfast—black coffee and existential dread, thanks for asking. The other half are their cousins, and they all text faster than teenagers with gossip.
Mrs. Hensley fixes me with a glare.
“Evening, folks. I’m Grayson Reed.” My voice carries better than expected, encouraging since public speaking ranks somewhere between root canals performed by squirrels and tax audits conducted by vindictive ex-girlfriends on my list of favorite activities.
“What we’re proposing would create about forty new full-time jobs and bring in roughly two hundred thousand in additional tax revenue annually.” I click through my laptop slides—building sketches, employment numbers that add up, construction timelines that don’t rely on fairy dust and wishful thinking.
“We’re discussing mixed-use development here. Retail space that works with your existing businesses, not against them. Think friendly neighbor, except this neighbor brings jobs and doesn’t borrow your lawn mower and conveniently forget to return it.”
A few nods ripple through the audience, especially from younger families who understand that economic growth might mean their kids don’t have to choose between staying home and finding work that pays enough to afford both rent and food—a revolutionary concept in today’s economy.
“The design honors what makes this place special.” I click to the architectural renderings that took three months and probably caused at least two nervous breakdowns among the design team. “Ship’s wood details, copper roofing, maritime colors. We’re not trying to build another Myrtle Beach. We’retrying to help Twin Waves thrive as itself, just with better Wi-Fi and parking.”
The renderings show buildings that belong here—weathered wood siding, wraparound porches, and architectural details that nod to the area’s maritime history.
“Construction spreads over eighteen months, allowing existing businesses to maintain operations throughout the process,” I add. “We’re not talking about shutting down the waterfront and turning it into a construction zone. We’re talking about enhancing what already works.”
Scattered applause echoes when I finish. Not exactly a standing ovation, but nobody’s booing either, which counts as a victory considering my audience includes people plotting my professional downfall since I ordered decaf at Michelle’s coffee shop three weeks ago.
Mayor Waters nods. “Thank you, Mr. Reed. Now let’s hear what the community thinks about all this.”
Michelle rises with the grace. No notes, no slides—just pure conviction wrapped in Southern charm and the supernatural ability to make everyone in a room feel personally invested in her cause.
Here we go. Time for my professional execution by a woman who makes it look like performance art.
“Mayor Waters, council members, friends.” Her voice fills every corner of the room with genuine warmth that makes my carefully practiced professional presentation sound like a robot reading tax code. Where I kept people at professional distance, she pulls them into her living room for a heart-to-heart conversation over homemade cookies.
“Mr. Reed paints a beautiful picture of progress, and I appreciate the thought that went into those designs. Really, I do.” She glances at me with what might be genuine approval, which does unfortunate things to my concentration andprobably shows on my face because Scott makes a warning noise that sounds like a wounded bear having an existential crisis.
“But let me tell you what we’d be losing in all that lovely development.” She turns slightly, making eye contact with different sections of the crowd. Including me, which sends an unwelcome bolt of electricity straight through my chest and definitely shows on my face because now Scott’s stepped on my foot.
“Twin Waves isn’t special because of tourism potential or tax revenue projections that sound impressive in PowerPoint presentations.” Her voice carries conviction that could move mountains and convert atheists. “We’re special because every morning in my coffee shop, Mrs. Hensley dispenses gossip and wisdom in equal doses.”
Mrs. Hensley preens visibly at this recognition, adjusting her glasses with satisfaction. Several people chuckle, and Michelle has just made her point about community connection while giving one of her most loyal customers a moment in the spotlight. It’s a brilliant strategy disguised as simple kindness.
“We’re special because when Hurricane Florence tried to level us, we took care of each other without waiting for government assistance or insurance adjusters to tell us what we were worth.”
The room goes church-quiet, and I’m witnessing a master class in community organizing. This isn’t just opposition to my project—this is Michelle demonstrating exactly why people would follow her into battle against corporate development, natural disasters, and probably the forces of darkness if necessary. She’s not just speaking; she’s weaving magic with words while making me feel like an amateur magician.
“Development promises jobs,” she continues, “but what kind of jobs? Will they pay enough for families to afford the fancy new property values that come with boutique hotels and upscalerestaurants where a sandwich costs twenty-two dollars? Will our kids be able to stay here after college, or will we price them right out of their own hometown?”
She’s not just pulling heartstrings; she’s using my own economic logic against me in some kind of financial jujitsu. That’s significantly more dangerous than I bargained for, and definitely more impressive than I want to admit to Scott, who’s now glaring at me.
“What about our existing businesses? My coffee shop has been here seven years, and before that, this space housed The Bait and Bean, which served fishermen coffee and provided bait for three generations.”
She’s building a narrative about continuity and community investment that makes my eighteen-month construction timeline sound like a hostile takeover orchestrated by corporate raiders with no souls and bad intentions.
