“Yeah,” Colby said. “I was just judging them.”
“On what scale?” Brian asked under his breath. “One to raging inferno?”
“One to ‘I’m going to have a chat with whoever did this layout,’” Colby said. “Those exit signs are a mess.”
It should not have been comforting. Somehow, it was.
The chair at the center of the board table scraped back. Elaine Drummond, chair of the zoning board, tapped her microphone.
“All right,” she said. “Let’s call this meeting to order. First item, continuation of application ZB-24-16, special-use permit for mixed commercial at 412 Bay Street. Applicants, Hank James, Colby Landon, Brian Knight, and Aubree Spencer.”
Hank felt Bree’s breath hitch.
“That’s us,” she whispered unnecessarily.
Liz stepped forward. “Madam Chair,” she said. “I’ll be speaking in support of this application, along with several community members. The applicants are here to answer questions.”
Elaine nodded, adjusting her glasses. “We’ve received the updated packet from your office,” she said. “Including letters of support, traffic estimates, and revised floor plans. We’ll start with a summary for the record, then move to public comment.”
The municipal part blurred a little; Liz was laying out the basics in clear, steady language. Existing zoning, proposed use. Machine shop in the rear, art studio, and memorial wall upstairs. Projected hours, parking plan, noise mitigation.
Bree’s hand found Hank’s on her knee. He laced their fingers and rubbed his thumb across her knuckles, more for himself than for her.
“…and in addition to the economic impact, there’s a cultural and emotional component,” Liz was saying. “Ms. Spencer’s proposal for a memorial wall has already drawn interest from families who’ve lost loved ones. You’ll find one such letter at the front of your packets.”
Chairs creaked as board members flipped pages.
Hank knew exactly which letter sat on top. He’d watched Bree read it three times last night, tears drying on her cheeks, the laptop glow painting her skin.
“Dr. Charles Bennett,” Elaine read aloud, skimming. “Husband of the late Brynna Bennett. He’s quite eloquent.”
“He’s terrifying in academic debates too,” Bree muttered, voice thick.
Elaine cleared her throat. “We’ll move to public comment,” she said. “If you wish to speak, please come to the podium, state your name and address for the record, and keep your remarks to three minutes.”
There was a brief, awkward pause, then Lila stood. She smoothed her dress, walked to the podium, and smiled at the board.
“I’m Lila Owens,” she said. “I own Harbor Station Café on Main. I’m here because I like it when my morning regulars have somewhere else to walk after they finish their coffee.”
A ripple of chuckles moved through the room.
“I’ve read the packet,” Lila went on. “My main concern was parking, and the plan Mayor Harper mentioned covers that. The kind of business these four are proposing is exactly what we’ve all been saying we want more of, every time we complain about empty buildings. I want more lights on in my neighborhood after dark, not fewer. I want teens and tourists walking between a shop, a café, a marina, not slipping between warehouses. So I’m asking you to say yes.”
She stepped back. The marina manager took her place.
“I’m Tom Reyes,” he said. “I run the marina. As long as they don’t block the ramps or host heavy metal festivals at midnight, I’m fine. If their events bring more people down to see the boats and the water, even better. That’s it.”
He shrugged, but his signature on the letter had meant something. It said so on Elaine’s face as she jotted a note.
A few more speakers followed; the antique shop couple, talking about foot traffic and mutual benefit. An older man Hank didn’t know, who owned a small machine business two streets over, said he liked the idea of another shop that took safety seriously.
Then a woman in a floral blouse stood, expression pinched. “I’m Susan Meyers,” she said. “I live on Harbor View Court. I’m not against small businesses. But I remember the microbrewery mess. Cars lined up and down our street, drunk people yelling, trash on the sidewalks. We moved here for quiet. I see ‘events’ and ‘classes,’ and I worry we’re inviting that nightmare back.”
Bree’s shoulders tightened next to him.
Liz stepped to the side of the room, hands clasped loosely. Hank could practically feel her waiting to speak, to draw a line between their proposal and the nightmare in Susan’s mind.
Susan went on. “And there’s the racing,” she said. “We all got those bulletins from the track last week. Illegal parts, chemical stuff. That van business. I don’t want that element getting a permanent foothold on Bay Street.”
