Page 27 of Brewing Up My Fresh Start
“Before we vote,” Mayor Waters continues, “I’ll open the floor for final statements. Keep them brief. We all know where everyone stands.”
Mrs. Sanders from the hardware store raises her hand first. “I’ve lived here forty-three years. Never seen the community this divided. But I’ll tell you what I see when I look at that waterfront—empty storefronts, young people leaving, property taxes we can’t afford. At least this development promises jobs.”
Murmurs of agreement ripple through one section of the room. My heart sinks a little more.
Then Grandma Hensley stands, commanding attention with authority. “Jobs are fine. But what kind of jobs? Minimum wage service positions for a company that’ll pack up and leave the minute profit margins get tight? I’ve seen it before, sugar. Comes in promising the world, leaves you with nothing but debt and regret.”
She sits down to fierce applause from my side of the room. But it’s not enough. I can feel the momentum shifting and can see doubt creeping into faces that were solidly in my camp just days ago.
That’s when Grayson rises from his seat.
He doesn’t approach the podium—just stands where he is, commanding the room through sheer presence alone. The man has a gift for making every space feel like his personal stage.
“I wasn’t planning to speak tonight,” he says, his voice carrying that low authority that makes my pulse skip despite my best efforts to remain immune. “But I think there’s something that needs to be said.”
His gaze finds mine across the room and holds. The air between us crackles with tension so intense it’s practically visible.
“Ms. Lawson accused me last week of not understanding this community. Of treating Twin Waves like a business opportunity instead of a home.” He pauses, letting the words settle. “She was right.”
My legs feel like overcooked pasta as I approach the podium. The microphone looms too tall, and I fumble with the adjustment while Grayson watches from the front row.
“Thank you,” I begin, and my voice echoes too loudly through the speakers.
After clearing my throat and finding proper volume, the words flow. “Mr. Reed paints an appealing picture. Who doesn’t want economic growth and job creation? But what he’s describing isn’t preservation—it’s preservation theater.”
Grayson’s posture shifts. I have his complete attention now.
“When you repackage everything authentic about a place for tourist consumption, you don’t save the community—you perform it. You turn real life into a theme park where everything looks perfect but nothing feels genuine.”
The words come easier now, fueled by watching other coastal towns lose their souls to well-intentioned development.
“My coffee shop isn’t just a business that serves caffeine. It’s where Caroline studies every afternoon because the chaos at the Hensley house makes homework impossible with all those kids running around. It’s where Mr. Spencer and Mrs. Rodriguez practice English conversation while debating whetherPride and Prejudicecounts as romance or social commentary with decent character development.”
Chuckles ripple through the audience, including one from Grayson that catches me off guard. It’s deeper than I expected, rich with genuine amusement, and the sound hits me right in the chest with unexpected force.
Inside the crowded room, the air feels too warm. Outside, fall winds carry wood smoke from a townsperson’s fireplace, mixing autumn and ocean into something that smells like home.
“These aren’t amenities you can replicate in master-planned communities. They’re relationships built over time, trust earned through consistent presence, connections that can’t be manufactured by focus groups.”
I’m hitting my rhythm now, the passionate flow that happens when discussing things I actually care about.
“I’m not opposed to progress. But real progress builds on what works instead of replacing it wholesale. It strengthens what we have rather than bulldozing it for shinier alternatives.”
Thunderous applause greets my conclusion. For one shining moment, victory seems possible. Then I look across the room and see Grayson watching me with an expression I can’t identify. Respect. Interest. Heat that makes my pulse stutter.
Which complicates everything, because respecting your opponent makes it infinitely harder to think of them as the enemy.
Mayor Waters calls for order, promising additional input sessions. As people file out, conversations continue in tight clusters. Battle lines are clearly drawn.
I’m accepting congratulations when Jessica appears beside me, watching Grayson field questions across the room.
“That was quite a performance,” she says.
“It wasn’t performance. I was telling the truth.”
“I know. That’s what made it effective.” Jessica grins. “Also, did you notice he couldn’t take his eyes off you while you were speaking?”
“He was probably calculating legal fees.”
