Page 13 of Clear Path

Rory’s expression softened, the tight line of her jaw relaxing. “Your intentions may be good, but your methods are heartless. There are ways to develop communities that include existing residents rather than displacing them. Affordable housingset-asides. Local hiring requirements. Rent control. Business incubators for local entrepreneurs. Investment in social programs geared to the community, not just events to attract visitors.” She shook her head. “But I suppose that would mean more effort and, presumably, less profit.”

Julie stiffened. “You don’t know the first thing about my profit margins or the work I’ve put into improving this town—for everyone.”

Rory slid a knowing eye over Julie’s couture outfit, two-carat ring, and designer bag and smirked.

Julie resisted the urge to squirm under the scrutiny. Instead she forced a smile and changed the subject. Everyone loved talking about themselves. Especially the artsy types.

“How are the preparations coming for your exhibition in Pittsburgh?Push/Pull, I believe it is. Landing a showing at the Hot Metal Gallery is quite an achievement.”

Rory’s nostrils flared. “It’s been canceled.”

“What? Why?” Julie asked, genuinely surprised. “I thought it was opening next week.”

“Creative differences,” Rory said flatly. “The gallery owner wanted to take the show in a direction I wasn’t comfortable with.”

Julie sensed there was more to the story but knew better than to press. “I’m sorry to hear that. Your work is exceptional. It deserves to be seen.”

Rory stood abruptly, adjusting her wrap around her shoulders. “Well, it seems we don’t always get what we deserve.”

The pointed comment hung in the air like a raindrop, trembling on a branch, about to fall. Then Rory turned on her heel.

Julie watched her stride away, the white cashmere shawl fluttering behind her as she crossed the courtyard and disappeared into her building. For a long moment, Julie satperfectly still, the weight of the confrontation wedged in her stomach like a brick.

She chafed at being cast as the villain. If anything, she was the hometown hero, returning to save Union Hill from the slow death of irrelevance. She created jobs, attracted investment, and breathed life into abandoned buildings. In her own way, she was an artist, too, molding the town to her vision. So why did Rory’s accusations unsettle her?

If she were honest, she knew the answer. Rory’s points had struck a nerve because they touched on doubts that plagued her in unguarded moments.

Had she been too ruthless in pursuing her goals? Could she have found a way to include Lydia and others like her in the new Union Hill she was creating?

No. Julie brushed the thoughts aside like cobwebs. Growth inevitably entailed growing pains. But the results would vindicate her approach. Union Hill would thrive again—a new town designed for a new era.

She signaled for the server.

“I’m ready to order now,” she chirped, her smile firmly back in place. “The duck confit, please. And another glass of the cabernet.”

As he retreated, she turned her gaze toward the string of fairy lights illuminating Railroad Way. Beyond them, in the distance, she could just make out the faint silhouette of the construction equipment still positioned at what had been the Hudson property. Tomorrow, workers would clear away the debris dig the foundation for the Allegheny Luxury Lofts.

Change, she reminded herself, was inevitable. Those who couldn’t adapt would be left behind. It was simply the way the world worked.

But when she raised her glass again, the wine tasted bitter.

8

Clayton Falls

The first rays of early sunlight filtered through the thin curtains and fell across Bodhi’s face. He opened his eyes and blinked, momentarily disoriented by the unfamiliar surroundings. Then he remembered. He was in the guest room above Dot’s. The sparsely furnished bedroom had a simple, almost monastic quality—a twin bed with a metal frame, one wooden chair in the corner, and a small dresser that held a tray with a pitcher of water and a drinking glass. If he squinted, he could almost believe he was at a meditation retreat center. He smiled softly. Dot should market the place that way. She’d have to beat off the would-be meditators and yogis with a stick.

He sat up and rolled first his neck, then his shoulders, working out the kinks from the previous day’s long hike. Outside, a robin chirped, welcoming the spring morning with its song.

Bodhi threw back the handmade quilt and padded to the chair where he’d rested his backpack before settling into sleep.He unrolled his thin travel mat and moved through his morning yoga routine—cat-cow, downward dog, the warrior poses, forward fold, mountain pose, and, finally, extended child’s pose, eachasanaflowing into the next like water. As he moved, his muscles warmed and loosened and his mind shed the last residue of sleep.

He arranged himself in the lotus position on his mat and transitioned into his medication practice. He focused on his breath, taking note of each inhalation and exhalation. Thoughts arose—reflections on yesterday’s encounter with Gracie, concern over Joey’s addiction, curiosity about what the future held for Dot and her town. He observed them, then invited them to drift away like clouds moving across the sky as he returned to his breath.

Twenty minutes later, he opened his eyes, his mind quiet and at peace. He rolled up the mat and returned it to its bag before gathering his toiletries and a change of clothes. He walked lightly down the hallway to the shared bathroom. The pipes groaned when he turned the shower knob, but the water was hot and the pressure was strong.

After toweling off, he brushed his teeth, combed through his damp curls, and dressed in lightweight hiking pants and a moisture-wicking shirt. When he returned to the bedroom, he folded his sleeping clothes and tucked them into his backpack along with the toiletry case. He moved with unhurried efficiency. After smoothing the quilt and plumping the pillow, he surveyed the room to confirm he was leaving it as he’d found it. Then he shouldered his pack and descended the narrow staircase, each step creaking under the weight of his boots.

The scents of coffee, French toast, and frying bacon wafted up to greet him. The diner was already half-full. A few people nodded in his direction, curious and welcoming. He heard Joey’sname and understood that the small-town grapevine was doing its job.

---