Page 61 of The Shield
A hand shot up from a network reporter. “And your love story?” she asked, leaning in, smile sharp.
I smiled, small but unflinching. “If a kiss in the rain makes you listen to flood safety, then fine—let it. If the fact that a man risked his life to pull me from a river makes you believe this city can risk its comfort to save its people, then good. Let it.” I leaned in a fraction. “But don’t get it twisted—romance doesn’t sandbag streets. People do. And I intend to lead them.”
The rotunda roared. Reporters nearly tripped over their cords to beam it live. National anchors leaned into their cameras with smiles:alive, daring, refreshingly different. Hashtags exploded before I’d even stepped down. #BoringHeroics trended ironically and then not ironically. #CharlestonLoveStory spun off into fan edits of me and Ethan set to pop ballads I’d never admit I liked.
A little girl wriggled through a gap in the rope line—the kind of small person who has a force field you don’t try to stop. She held up a hand-drawn sign in crayon: MAYOR NATALIE PLEASE MAKE MY STREET DRY. Her mom gasped. Security tensed. I crouched, my head warning me with a low hum, and took the sign.
“I’m trying,” I told her. “You did the most important part.”
“What’s that?” she asked, the top of her head damp, eyes bright.
“You told the truth about what you need,” I said. “Now I’ll tell the truth about what it takes.”
Someone got the photo—of course, they did—and it moved like a match across kindling.
Strangest of all, no one shouted a question about Butch. For once, I wasn’t his granddaughter on camera. I was just myself with a city in my hands. It startled me, then steadied me. Maybe I could have a day that wasn’t lived in his shadow and still carry his name like a roof.
We exited into the wet Charleston air, the clouds already thinning at their edges. A Public Works truck rolled past; the guys in the cab whooped. I saluted with the water bottle Pearl had forced on me. Granddaddy hovered just behind, equal parts proud and prepared to body-check an anchor if necessary. It didn’t come to that. The SUV door opened. Before I got in, I turned back and raised my voice—not to the cameras, but to the people pressed against the rope.
“We’ll post today’s flood map at two,” I called. “Clear the drain in front of your place. Don’t drive through standing water. If you have an extra hour, text the number on the city site and we’ll put you to work.”
“Yes, ma’am!” someone yelled back, and laughter ripple-started. Fine. They could have that one.
As we pulled away, my phone buzzed in my lap, lighting an avalanche.
Kimmy:Networks running your sound bite top-of-hour. You broke a senior producer’s brain with “romance doesn’t sandbag streets.”
Owen:Huger’s holding. Got a church group on drains at Radcliffe. Someone brought cakes. This city is ridiculous. Also perfect.
Unknown number:Proud of you. Back soon.
I didn’t breathe for a beat. Then I traced the bear claw through my dress and let the message settle like a hand at my back.
We didn’t go home. We went to the Emergency Operations Center. I wanted the cameras to have to follow me into the room where the real work happened and then behave themselves. The operations floor smelled like coffee and damp maps. Screensflickered with river gauges and radar and a spreadsheet a hero had named SOGGY THINGS to keep himself amused.
“Huck,” I said, sliding in beside him.
“Mayor-to-be,” he said, and then, because he’s not a man given to frills, he knocked his shoulder into mine. “The siphon’s sitting pretty. Volunteers moving like ants. We could use more barricades on Calhoun, but I’ll settle for the council not cutting overtime this month.”
“Put it in writing,” I said. “Line items, not poetry. I’ll take it to committee.”
He grunted what might have been a blessing. On a secondary screen, a national chyron ran: “ALIVE, DARING, BRAVE: THE WOMAN WHO KISSED, NEARLY DROWNED, AND FILED TO FIX IT.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose and then smiled because the city was watching and sometimes you let them see you happy to be their problem.
Kimmy slipped a paper into my hand—three bullet points, approved language for the two o’clock map drop, a list of neighborhoods we hadn’t serviced yet. “Your line about boring heroics tested off the charts,” she murmured. “The donors want to meet you. The plumbers’ union wants to endorse you. The chef with the pan says he’ll cater your kickoff with hushpuppies shaped like sandbags, which is … I don’t know. Patriotic?”
“No kickoff,” I said. “No balloons. We’ll launch with a drain-clearing party and a bus route that actually works.” I tapped the screen where the route map ran like veins. “Start a list of stupid ribbon cuttings we’re going to cancel and the unsexy purchases we’ll make instead.”
“On it,” she said, delighted. She loved a sensible spreadsheet like other women love tourmaline.
Granddaddy leaned in a doorway, watching me watch the city. “You’re going to make enemies,” he said under the hum.
“I plan to make fewer floods,” I said, and shrugged.
We left after an hour because Pearl texted a skull and crossbones and the wordnap. In the car, the sky went just a shade lighter—the exact color of a promise when it first learns to keep itself. The rain wasn’t done, but it had taken a breath.
I took one, too.
