The Willow Creek Town Hall was a low, brick-faced building from the 1950s that always smelled of dust, floor wax, and the faint, sweet-metallic tang of the old radiator system. By ten to seven, the parking lot was full of pickup trucks and sensible sedans. For a town that claimed to be dying, it sure knew how to turn out for a fight.
Amanda held the door for her mom, Carol, who navigated the steps with a slight grimace, her hand tight on the railing.
"You okay, Mom?"
"It's the weather, not the hip," Carol lied smoothly, waving a dismissive hand. "Now, let's go find a seat before Brenda commandeers us for her 'Save the Beacon' battalion."
The chamber was already buzzing, a low hum of conversation and the squeak of folding chairs on scarred linoleum. It was a map of the town's social order. The old-timers and fishermen, faces leathered by salt and sun, occupied the center rows, their arms crossed in uniform skepticism. The "artsy" crowd—B&B owners, potters, the woman who ran the struggling art gallery—clustered on the left, looking earnest and slightly out of place. On the right, sitting alone with a tablet and a patient expression, was the NCC man, Mark Keating. He wore a company polo shirt, as if he might be called upon to swing a wrench at any moment.
And there, at the very front, holding a stack of printed petitions, was Brenda Wu, holding court.
"Amanda! Carol! Over here!" Brenda waved them over to a saved spot on the left side.
"We've been conscripted," Carol muttered under her breath, but she smiled and made her way down the aisle.
Brenda squeezed Amanda's arm. "Isn't this exciting? Finally, some forward momentum in this town." She thrust a petition and a pen into Amanda's hands. "Sign this. It shows community support for the grant."
Amanda skimmed the paper. It was full of phrases like "historical preservation" and "tourist dollar revitalization." She signed it. It was easier than arguing.
"I just don't see the point," a voice grumbled behind them. It was old Mr. Peterson, who had somehow materialized behind their row. "Fifty thousand dollars for a coat of paint on a useless tower. My boat's sounding like a coffee can full of rocks, but there's no grant for that."
"It's not just paint, Pete," Brenda said, her cheerfulness becoming a little strained. "It's about pride. It's about who we are."
"Who we are is fishermen," Peterson shot back. "Or we were. Now we're just a pretty picture for folks from Portland to look at on the weekend."
The mayor, a kindly, ineffectual man named George Talbot who owned the hardware store, called the meeting to order. The first forty minutes were a masterclass in bureaucratic tedium. Drainage issues on Cedar Street. A debate over the noise ordinance for lawn mowers. Amanda felt her eyelids getting heavy.
Then, agenda item seven: Discussion and Vote: Coastal Heritage Grant Application for Lighthouse Restoration.
The room straightened up. This was the main event.
Brenda was the first at the microphone during public comments. She was magnificent, a force of nature. She spoke of community identity, of honoring the past, of the economic potential of heritage tourism. She painted a picture of busloads of tourists buying lattes and lighthouse-shaped trinkets.
She was followed by a woman from the historical society who detailed the lighthouse's significance with a level of detail that had several fishermen nodding off.
Then Sam Gunderson shuffled to the mic. He looked uncomfortable, shoving his hands deep into his jacket pockets.
"I, uh… I don't have a speech," he began, his voice low. "I just know that the price of diesel is up twenty percent from last year. The price per pound for crab is down. NCC charges us more every year to use the dock they own. That lighthouse…" He looked up at the council members. "It's nice. It's real pretty. But my family's been fishing out of this creek for four generations. That's our heritage. And it's drowning. I'd rather see that fifty thousand go into a fund to help guys fix their engines or something. Something that keeps the boats in the water."
A rumble of agreement went through the center of the room.
The mayor nodded. "Thank you, Sam. A valid perspective. Mr. Keating? Does North Coast Consolidated have a position?"
All eyes turned to the man in the polo shirt. Mark Keating stood and approached the mic with a calm, corporate ease.
"North Coast Consolidated is a proud member of the Willow Creek community," he said, his voice smooth and practiced. "We believe in preserving the town's unique character. While we don't have an official position on the grant itself, we do want to assure everyone that we are continuously investing in the working port, which remains, as Sam pointed out, the vital heart of the local economy. We're always looking at ways to support our fishing partners."
Amanda watched him. It was a perfect, political non-answer. It sounded supportive but committed them to nothing. He'd acknowledged Sam's concerns without offering a solution, and praised the lighthouse without endorsing the grant. She'd heard a hundred versions of this speech in her old job. It was the language of power, which spoke a lot but said nothing.
The debate went back and forth for another twenty minutes. It wasn't about paint. It was about the soul of the town. Was it a living, working community, or was it a museum piece?
In the end, the vote was called. Four council members, two who owned shops on Main Street and two newer residents, voted yes. Three, including a retired fisherman and the owner of the marine supply store, voted no.
The grant was approved.
A quiet cheer went up from the left side of the room. The center sat in stony silence. Sam Gunderson got up and walked out, the door swinging shut behind him.
"Progress!" Brenda said, squeezing Amanda's arm, her eyes shining.
Amanda watched Mark Keating gather his tablet. He hadn't voted, but he'd gotten what he wanted. A divided town was a distracted town. A prettier lighthouse might draw more people to the waterfront, where they'd see the NCC logo on the port gates. It was all upside for him.
As the meeting broke up, Amanda felt a hand on her shoulder. It was Dr. Ben Evans, the town's only physician. He was in his sixties, with a kind, tired face.
"Amanda, how are you?" he asked. "Your mom's hip doing okay?"
"She's good, Ben. Stubborn as ever."
"Good, that's the best medicine." He lowered his voice slightly. "Listen, I heard you were looking for work. Something… more. I've got a mess of files at the clinic that need digitizing. It's boring as hell, just data entry. But it's a few hours a week, pays better than Feng. Thought you might be interested."
It was a lifeline. A small, pathetic, boring lifeline thrown from the heart of the town's establishment. It was charity, but it was kind charity.
"I… yeah. Yeah, I am. Thank you, Ben. Really."
"Stop by the clinic tomorrow," he said with a smile. "We'll talk."
He moved off into the crowd.
Carol came up beside her. "Everything okay?"
"Yeah," Amanda said, watching Dr. Evans go. "Yeah, I think maybe it is."
They drove home in silence. The town was quiet now, the debate over. The streets were empty. The lighthouse, still un-painted and dark, stood on its distant bluff, oblivious to the fight it had caused.
Amanda stood on the porch again for a moment before going inside. The air was colder now. The stars were brilliant pinpricks in a vast black sky. Somewhere out there, Sam was on his boat, staring at the water, worrying about his engine. Brenda was probably already designing "I Saved the Lighthouse" t-shirts. Mr. Feng was counting the day's take. Mr. Keating was probably writing a report about community engagement.
And she had a data entry job.
It was all so perfectly, mundanely normal. The complex, frustrating, interconnected web of life in a small town. Nothing was happening. And yet, everything was.
She took one last deep breath of the cold, clean air and went inside.