As the room continued to fill, so did the anxiety cluttering Paxton’s chest. She didn’t want to think about how it would be received if they told the residents that they may have to spend several hundred dollars more a year in flood insurance. And that was on the low end. Some people—those in the most vulnerable areas, which were also some of the poorest areas—may have to pay upward of a thousand extra dollars a year if the revamped flood zones raised their levels too much.
Paxton didn’t have to try to put herself in their shoes. She’d worn their shoes for years. Her mother still did. They both knew exactly how it felt to pinch every penny you could find until old Abe Lincoln squealed. She wouldn’t be surprised if most of the people in her part of town didn’t even have flood insurance. They were probably relying on prayer to keep their homes and possessions safe. She couldn’t help but feel like a traitor for going along with this plan that may put residents under even more financial duress.
But the science didn’t lie. They were doing what needed to be done in order to build a flood-protection system that would hopefully prevent them from ever having to cash in on those insurance policies. Still, she was certain some of the people filling these seats wouldn’t see things the same way.
By the time the meeting got underway, it seemed as if half the town had shown up.
Mya took the floor and, in her composed yet authoritative way, went over the meeting agenda, stressing several times throughout her initial spiel that questions would be taken at the end of the presentation.
By the time Mya called her to take center stage, Paxton had calmed the nervous energy running through her enough to stop her hands from shaking. Public speaking had never been her strong suit, but she had given this type of pitch enough over her career that she could recite it in her sleep.
But things were different this time. This time it was personal.
Paxton couldn’t look out over the crowd of familiar faces—some skeptical, others hopeful, some completely expressionless—and ignore how deeply personal this all felt. These people trusted her. Even the skeptics wanted to believe that she had their best interests at heart. She didn’t want to let them down.
She gave the crowd a brief overview of what they were planning to do and what they could expect in the upcoming months once the actual construction commenced. The crowd gave her their undivided attention, and then gave the same to Matt, who had come in a few minutes later. Sawyer closed out the presentation with his explanation of the mechanics of the system. Paxton was impressed with the way he explained it all in layman’s terms, without coming across as if he were patronizing anyone. Some of the engineers she worked with at Bolt-Myer could learn a thing or two from him.
“The citizens of Gauthier should also be applauded for approving the millage tax that will be used to fund the rest of the project along with the upkeep,” Sawyer said. “This is going to be a long effort, but after what many of you experienced with Tropical Storm Lucy, I’m sure we all understand just why it’s so important.”
He glanced at Paxton before turning back to the audience. “If you all could bear with me, I’m going to go off script for just a minute.”
Paxton tried to curb the quick shot of anxiety that slashed through her. Going off script was never a good thing in her book.
“Paxton and I, along with several people from the state, have visited the properties that received the most damage,” Sawyer started. “But I think it’s only fair that we give everyone whose lives were negatively affected the opportunity to voice your grievances. We want to hear your stories. We want to know how this has affected you both financially and emotionally these past months.”
Only moments ago Paxton had wanted to strangle him, but if she didn’t think it would cause a firestorm of gossip around town, she would kiss Sawyer right now.
This was what the people in this town needed to hear—that someone cared about the struggles they had endured. It wasn’t just the houses that took in several feet of water that made this flood-protection system necessary. Even one inch of standing water could cost a homeowner thousands of dollars in flooring repair.
And that was exactly the kind of stories they heard as, one by one, citizens shared how their lives had changed in the aftermath of Tropical Storm Lucy. Hearing about the damage was bad enough, but Paxton took in so many tales of insurance companies not covering repairs that she thought she would be sick.
Just when she thought they would get out of this meeting unscathed, Clifford Mayes, the town’s retired policeman, posed a question that sent a ripple of tension through the crowd.
“What about these flood maps you want to draw up?” he asked in his gravelly voice. “I heard they would make our insurance rates spike.”
“That’s what I heard, too,” Nathan Robottom said. “The insurance we already have didn’t want to cover the storm damage. Paying more is just throwing good money after bad.”
The number of people nodding as others aired their grievances about the potential insurance rate hikes continued to increase.
Paxton’s head instantly started to pound, but she couldn’t refute a single claim because they were right. There was a better-than-average chance that the same people who were screwed by the insurance companies after Lucy would be screwed again if another storm hit.
She glanced over at Sawyer. The worry clouding his face told her exactly what he was feeling on the inside. This was as hard for him to hear as it was for her. Sawyer was a fixer. He was the kind of man who wanted to come in on his white horse and save the day.
But even the powerful Robertson name and money could not save everyone in town from financial ruin following a storm.
“I’m not as concerned about the insurance rates as I am about our property values,” Jamal Johnson said.
Jamal had moved from Arizona to Gauthier several years ago. An architect, he and Phylicia Phillips had renovated her family’s beautiful Victorian home, turning it into the town’s only bed-and-breakfast. Belle Maison was in an area that wasn’t classified as a flood zone, but Paxton couldn’t be sure what category it would fall into once the new maps were drawn.
“This can be even costlier than just paying a higher insurance premium,” he continued. “If your property is in a part of town that is designated as a flood zone, the property values will plummet.”
“And developers will come in and start scooping up the land that isn’t in flood zones,” Clifford added. “That’s what happened in Maplesville. You’d better believe it’ll happen here, too.”
As the residents continued making the case against the new flood maps, Paxton couldn’t help but be moved by their plight. Tonight had changed her outlook on her career. She would never walk into a town hall meeting again and address a crowd of citizens with the detachment she once felt. Before, she was just doing her job. But her job was not all about budgets and engineering specs and beating her coworker, Clay Ridgely, to the finish line.
This was about people’s lives. This was about years of hard work and sacrifice, about people who had given everything to make life better for their families. She had to look no further than her own mother to see the face of that hard work and sacrifice.
The weight of what they were doing hit Paxton with enough force to steal the breath from her lungs. The decisions she and Sawyer made in that conference room would have a lasting effect on the people in this town for generations to come.
