Two
TWO
“Woohoo, we made it to Wisconsin!” Richard cheers as we pass the sign announcing the state border. Claire, sitting shotgun, grins and gives him a high five.
The road trip to the cabin is already an exercise in patience and we’ve only been on the road for ninety minutes. I’m crammed into the back between two car seats, my nieces babbling and giggling on either side of me. The air is thick with the scent of strawberry yogurt and baby wipes, and I can already feel a headache forming behind my eyes.
“Rach, Rach, look!” My older niece, Lily, thrusts a sticky handful of chips towards my face. “I’m sharing with you!”
“Oh, um, thanks, Lily,” I manage, gingerly accepting a soggy chip and trying not to grimace. “That’s very nice of you.”
Claire catches my eye in the rearview mirror and grins. “Isn’t this fun, Rach? Just like old times, hitting the road for a family adventure.”
“Sure, if by ‘old times’ you mean ‘never,’ since we definitely didn’t take many road trips growing up,” I mutter, shifting uncomfortably as Lily’s baby sister, Anna, lets out a piercing shriek.
“Oh, come on, where’s your sense of adventure?” Claire teases. “This is going to be great, you’ll see. Quality family bonding time!”
I open my mouth to retort, but suddenly there’s a clatter and a splat, and I look down to see a blob of purple yogurt dripping down my blouse. Versace. Ruined.
“Oopsie!” Lily giggles, waving her now-empty yogurt cup. “Auntie Rachel is wearing my snack!”
I close my eyes and count to three, reminding myself that this is just temporary, that I can handle a little mess and noise for the sake of my family. But as I feel the cold yogurt seeping through to my skin, I can’t help but wonder what the hell I’ve gotten myself into.
This is a mistake , a voice warns in my head. You should be back in Chicago, focusing on your career, not playing babysitter in some backwoods cabin .
But then I remember my promise to Mom, and the wistful look in her eyes as she urged me to find something more than just work. And I think of Claire, who’s always been there for me even when I’ve been too busy to return the favor.
No , I tell myself firmly. This isn’t a mistake. This is an opportunity. A chance to reconnect with what really matters, to figure out who I am beyond just my job title.
I open my eyes and smile at Lily, who’s now happily smearing yogurt on her own face. “You know what, Lil? I think purple might just be my color after all.”
Claire laughs from the front seat, and I feel a flicker of warmth in my chest. Maybe this trip won’t be so bad after all.
“Okay girls, what should we do first when we wake up at the lake house tomorrow?” Richard asks Lily and Anna.
“Make s’mores!” Lily exclaims.
“Go swimming!” Emma counters.
They chatter on excitedly, while I try to tune it out. I clear my throat.
“So, um, Lily… how’s kindergarten going?” I ask, attempting to make conversation with my five-year-old niece.
She turns and blinks at me. “I don’t like it.” An awkward pause. “They make us do work. Writing letters and numbers. Boring.”
“Oh, uh, wow. That sounds… fun.” I force a smile.
I’m saved from further small talk when my cell phone rings. I frown at the caller ID—it’s Helen, my boss. This can’t be good.
“Sorry, I have to take this. Work emergency,” I say, relieved at the interruption. “Helen, what’s up?”
“Rachel, I have huge news,” Helen says breathlessly. “Guess who was just on the phone inviting us to pitch?”
“Don’t do this to me. Who?” I knew immediately if Helen was playing coy, it was big news. “Who?!”
“You’ve been trying to poach them for months?”
My pulse quickens. “GreenShoots?”
“Yep. They’re looking to go in a new direction. But here’s the rub—they’ve put the account up for tender. Four agencies, including us.”
A thrill runs through me, followed by steely determination. I’ve worked too hard on landing GreenShoots to lose them now. Nearly eighteen months of subtle but constant engagement, and it’s finally paid off.
“A pitch is fine; I can handle the competition. When do they need the proposal by?”
Helen exhales. “That’s the kicker. They want pitches tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?!” The word explodes out of me, making Richard glance back in concern. I wave him off.
“I know, I know. They’re doing it on purpose, to see how we react to pressure. They want fresh ideas, not a polished dog and pony show,” Helen explains.
My mind races, already envisioning the key messages, tactics, case studies I’ll need to wow them, jetlag be damned. I’m their woman and they need to know it.
“Okay, I’ll make it work,” I say firmly. “Text me all the pitch details, I’ll start strategizing. Tell GreenShoots they’ll have the most persuasive damn proposal they’ve ever seen, even on short notice.”
“That’s my star closer,” Helen says proudly. “I knew I could count on you.”
I hang up, adrenaline surging through my veins. This pitch could make my career. I have to win it. I have to get to Portland, fast.
But as I look up, I suddenly remember where I am—wedged in my brother-in-law’s SUV, zooming farther away from the airport with each passing mile. My stomach sinks.
What the hell am I going to do now?
I steel myself for the conversation I’m about to have. “Richard, I need you to turn the car around. I have to get to the airport.”
“What?” Claire twists around in her seat to face me, her eyebrows knitted together. “You can’t be serious! We’re literally going on vacation.”
“I know, I know.” I hold up my hands placatingly. “But this is a huge opportunity. I’ve been trying to land a huge client for over a year, and the pitch is tomorrow. I have to be there.”
“Unbelievable.” Claire shakes her head, her lips pressed into a thin line. “You’re really choosing work over family? Again?”
I wince at the accusation, but I don’t back down. “If I win this client, I’m a shoo-in for partner. It’s everything I’ve been working towards. I promise, once I close this deal, we can take a proper vacation, my treat.”
Claire scoffs and turns away, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. The girls have gone silent in the back, their earlier excitement fizzled out. They have no idea what we’re talking about, but they can sense it’s not good.
“Richard, please.” I lean forward, my voice urgent. “I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”
Richard meets my gaze in the rearview mirror, his expression conflicted. After a long moment, he sighs. “Alright, Rach.”
Relief floods through me, followed quickly by a pang of guilt as the girls start to whine.
“But Mom, that means it’ll take even longer to get to the lake!”
“I don’t want to spend more time in the car!”
I tune out their complaints, my mind already whirring with ideas for the pitch. This is my chance to prove myself, to show everyone at Channing Gabriel that I have what it takes to be a partner.
As Richard navigates the car through the traffic, heading back towards Chicago, I pull out my phone and start typing furiously. I have a presentation to plan, and I’ll be damned if I let this opportunity slip through my fingers.
The airport bustles with activity as I hurry through the sliding doors. I spot my assistant, Emily, near the check-in counters, her red hair a beacon amidst the crowd.
“Emily!” I call out, waving to catch her attention.
“Rachel, there you are!” She rushes over, handing me my ticket, a small carry-on, and a garment bag. “I picked out the blue suit, hope that’s ok. You’re going to crush this pitch.”
I take the items gratefully, a smile tugging at my lips. “You’re a lifesaver, Em. Truly.”
We navigate the throngs of travelers, making our way to security. As we wait in line, Emily fills me in on the latest office gossip, but my mind is already on the pitch, running through key points and anticipating potential questions. Em waves me off as I show my ticket to the TSA agent.
Once in the air, I pull out my laptop and immerse myself in the presentation, refining slides and practicing my delivery. The hours slip by, and as the plane touches down in Portland, I feel a surge of confidence. I’ve got this.
Disembarking, I reach for my suitcase in the overhead bin, my mind still running through the opening lines of my pitch. As I step onto the airbridge, a deep, mellifluous voice breaks through my thoughts.
“Excuse me, miss? I think you might have my suitcase.”
I turn to find a striking man with chiseled features and a charming smile. There are jawlines… and there’s him. He gestures to the bag in my hand, and I glance down, noticing a small red ribbon tied to the handle. Heat rises to my cheeks as I realize my mistake.
“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry!” I hand him the suitcase, flustered, and he hands me mine.
His eyes sparkle with amusement. “No worries, it happens to the best of us. I take it you’re here on business?”
We fall into step, chatting easily about the trials and tribulations of corporate life. There’s an undeniable spark, and I find myself drawn to his wit and warmth.
But as we exit the airbridge, a beautiful woman with flowing blonde hair rushes up to him, pulling him into a tight embrace. “Honey, I missed you so much!”
Reality comes crashing down, and I laugh inwardly at my foolishness. Of course, a man like him would be taken. I offer a polite nod and turn to head towards the exit, my focus shifting back to the task at hand.
And that’s when I see it. The sign that stops me dead in my tracks.
“Vacationland, welcome to the State of Maine.”
No!
This.
Is.
Not.
Happening?
My heart plummets as the realization hits me. I’m not in Portland, Oregon. I’m on the wrong side of the country.
No. No, no, no. That can’t be right. I blink hard, as if willing the sign to change. I dig into my bag, nearly ripping the zipper off as I yank out my ticket and unfold it with trembling hands. My eyes scan the fine print—Portland International Jetport (PWM).
Oh my God. PWM. Not PDX.
My heart thunders so loudly in my ears that I barely hear the chatter of the other passengers around me. I stare at the letters, trying to force them to rearrange themselves, to magically morph into the correct airport code. But they don’t. Because they can’t.
I clutch the ticket like a lifeline, my brain scrambling to piece together what the hell had just happened. How did I not notice this? How did I let this happen? I’m always so meticulous, so organized—I double-check everything, triple-check, even.
I feel lightheaded. I look around, as if someone might pop up and tell me it’s all a joke, that I haven’t just flown to the wrong damn side of the country—it’s just a hidden camera, YouTube prank channel. But there’s no one to laugh with me, no friendly face to reassure me it’s not as catastrophic as it seems.
Frantically, I pull out my phone and scroll to the confirmation email from Emily. There it is, plain as day—Portland, ME. My stomach lurches. How did I miss that? How did neither of us catch it? I thumb through the flight information again, as if somehow the words will change, but they’re still the same damning coordinates pointing to Vacationland instead of the West Coast.
My knees go weak, and I stumble toward a bench, collapsing onto it. The gravity of my mistake hits me like a freight train. I’m in Maine. I’m supposed to be in Oregon. I’m supposed to be pitching to one of the biggest potential clients of my career tomorrow morning.
I can’t breathe. I press my palm to my forehead, trying to calm down, but it’s no use. The reality is suffocating me, stealing the oxygen from my lungs.
“Oh, my good God.” The words escape my lips, disbelief and panic rising simultaneously in my chest. “What have I done?”
Frantically, I rush to the airline’s service desk, my mind reeling with the gravity of my mistake. The line seems to stretch on forever, and every passing second feels like an eternity. I tap my foot impatiently, my eyes darting to the departure boards, hoping against hope that there’s a flight that can get me to Oregon in time.
As I wait, the TVs above the desk flash with breaking news. The anchor’s grave tone fills the air. “The ash cloud from the eruption of the Alaskan volcano is rapidly spreading across Canada and the Northern United States, causing unprecedented disruptions to air travel. Experts predict massive delays and cancelations in the coming hours.”
My stomach churns as I watch the departure board flicker, the word “DELAYED” morphing into “CANCELED” next to flight after flight. The reality of the situation crashes over me like a tidal wave. I’m stranded, and there’s no way I’ll be flying to the pitch.
With shaking hands, I pull out my phone and start searching for alternative routes. Train schedules, bus timetables, anything that could get me to Portland, Oregon. But deep down, I know it’s futile. The distance is too vast, the time too short.
I step out of the line, my legs feeling like lead. The bustling airport seems to fade away as the weight of my failure settles on my shoulders. I find a quiet corner and sink into a chair, burying my face in my hands.
“Think, Rachel, think,” I mutter to myself, desperately trying to come up with a solution. But the more I rack my brain, the more apparent it becomes that there’s no way out of this mess.
The disappointment is a bitter pill to swallow, but I know I have to accept the reality of the situation. The pitch, the partnership, the future I’ve worked so hard for—it’s all slipping through my fingers, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.
With a heavy heart, I pull out my phone again, my fingers hovering over Helen’s number. I hesitate, dreading the conversation that’s about to unfold. But I know I can’t put it off any longer.
As the call connects, I steel myself for the inevitable fallout. “Helen, it’s Rachel. I have some bad news…”
While I explain I’m in Maine, she mostly remains calm, although it would be fair to say her choice of language is zesty. However, the magical solution I was hoping she could conjure from thin air isn’t forthcoming.
“TSA is shutting down all flights. There’s no way you’re getting to Oregon.”
My heart sinks. “But the pitch?—”
“Don’t worry about it. Given the circumstances, Zoe will handle the presentation instead. She can drive from Seattle.”
“Zoe?” I feel a surge of frustration. “But I’ve been working on this for months, Helen. GreenShoots is my client.”
“Not yet, they’re not, Rachel. I don’t have a choice. The pitch is happening tomorrow, we have to be in the room.”
I pace, my mind racing. “What if I use my influence with GreenShoots to change the pitch day? I’m sure they’ll understand, given the situation.”
“No, Rachel,” Helen says firmly. “They’ve set the date, and we have to comply. We’re sending Zoe.”
“But Zoe doesn’t have my green credentials,” I argue, desperation creeping into my voice. “She primarily works on Big Oil accounts, for God’s sake. And she drives a 5-liter Mustang GT. Wouldn’t it be better to Zoom into the meeting, to reduce our carbon footprint?”
My arguments fall on deaf ears. “Rachel, this is not up for discussion,” Helen says, her tone leaving no room for debate. “Zoe is the next-best closer in the company, and GreenShoots is a must-win client for Channing Gabriel.”
I feel my anger rising, but I try to keep it in check. “So, if Zoe closes the deal, does that mean she’ll get the partnership?”
There’s a pause on the other end of the line. “Rachel, I suggest you enjoy your two-week vacation in Maine and forget about work for a while.”
“But Helen?—”
“That’s an order, Rachel. Send your presentation and notes to Zoe. Now.”
The line goes dead, and I’m left staring at my phone, seething with frustration. I can’t believe this is happening. I’ve worked so hard, and now Zoe is swooping in to steal my thunder.
I want to scream, to throw my phone across the airport, but I force myself to calm down. Losing my cool won’t solve anything.
I glance out the window, watching planes that were supposed to be departing return to the terminal to offload their passengers. None of us are going anywhere.
weeks in Vacationland. You’ll have to forgive me if I’m not jumping for joy.
* * *
The taxi swerves through the crowded streets of Portland, and I lean forward, scanning the buildings for any sign of a hotel vacancy. I try looking again at the multitude of travel apps I have on my phone, but everything is grayed out, mocking me with a ‘sold out’ banner. The driver glances at me in the rearview mirror, his eyes sympathetic.
“Tough luck with all these flight cancelations, huh?” he says, shaking his head. “Seems like everyone’s stranded.”
I nod, my attention still focused on the passing storefronts. “You wouldn’t happen to know of any hotels with available rooms, would you?”
He chuckles. “Wish I could help, but I’ve been driving folks around all day, and every place is booked solid.”
I slump back against the seat, my mind racing. I can’t spend the night wandering the streets of Portland. I need a plan.
As if on cue, my phone rings. It’s my mother. I hesitate for a moment before answering, bracing myself for the inevitable barrage of questions.
“Rachel, honey, are you alright? Your sister told me what happened with your flight.”
I sigh, rubbing my temple. “I’m fine, Mom. Just trying to find a place to stay for the night.”
“Oh, sweetheart, don’t be like Mary and Joseph and end up in a manger. Why not just rent a car and come join us at Lake Michigan? We’d love to have you.”
I’m not sure Mom fully comprehends just how far I am away from Wisconsin. “Mom, it would take me days to drive back to… Hang on? You’re with Claire?”
“Yes, when they dropped you off at the airport, Richard drove over and asked if I’d like to take your spot. So here I am. Between you and me, I think they just wanted a babysitter, but I’ll not look a gift horse in the mouth. Come on, join us.”
The thought of spending the rest of my vacation with my family is tempting, given that the alternative is spending it alone in a strange city. I’m about to give Mom’s suggestion some serious consideration when the taxi passes a massive industrial complex, the sign reading “Harcourt Foods” in bold letters.
Suddenly, an idea takes root in my mind. Harcourt Foods is one of the largest frozen food manufacturers in the country. If I could land them as a client…
“Rachel? Are you still there?”
I snap back to the present. “Yeah, Mom, I’m here. Listen, I appreciate the offer, but I think I’m going to stay in Portland for a bit. There’s something I need to take care of.”
“Are you sure, honey? We’d really love to see you.”
“I know, and I promise I’ll make it up to you. But this is important.”
There’s a pause, and I can almost hear the wheels turning in her head. “Well, alright then. I can’t say I understand you at all. Promise you’ll call if you need anything?”
“I will. Thanks, Mom. Love you.”
As I hang up, I lean forward, tapping the driver on the shoulder. “Actually, could you take me to the nearest car rental place?”
He nods, merging into the turning lane. I sit back, my mind already formulating a plan. Partnership or not, I’m not leaving Maine empty-handed.
Harcourt Foods, here I come.
The car rental place is a hive of activity, with frazzled travelers scrambling to secure vehicles. I join the line, tapping my foot impatiently as I scroll through my phone, gathering as much intel on Harcourt Foods as I can. Their CEO, Jonathan Harcourt, has something of a reputation as a die-hard traditionalist. Referred to as ‘Old Man Harcourt’ by friend and foe alike, he’s certainly not known for his commitment to innovation and sustainability. A poultry industry stalwart, it’s going to be a hard sell to convince him to diversify from the frozen chicken nuggets that built his empire.
But… thanks to my market research for GreenShoots and IncrediBurger, I’ve got data. Lots of it. Compelling, detailed facts and figures that show a shift in eating habits and a growing demand for plant-based alternatives. If I can pitch CGPR as the agency to revamp their public image and convince him that plant means profit, it could be a game-changer.
Lost in thought, I startle when the clerk calls, “Next!”
I step up to the counter, flashing my most charming smile. “Hi there. I need to rent a car, preferably something electric, compact, and efficient.”
The clerk, a young man with a name tag reading “Ethan,” looks at me apologetically. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but we’re pretty much out of everything due to the flight cancelations. The only vehicle we have left is a pickup.”
I blink, processing this information. A pickup truck? That’s about as far from my sleek, urban, green lifestyle as it gets. But beggars can’t be choosers, right?
“I’ll take it,” I say, handing over my credit card.
Minutes later, I’m staring at a behemoth of a truck, its red paint gleaming under the lot lights. I clamber into the driver’s seat, adjusting it to accommodate my shorter stature. The engine roars to life, and, truth be told, I can’t help but grin. There’s something empowering about being behind the wheel of this beast. It pains me to think it, but maybe, just maybe, I can understand why Zoe chooses to drive her Mustang despite the societal pressure to drive electric.
As I navigate the unfamiliar streets of Portland, my mind races with ideas for a potential Harcourt Foods pitch. I’ll emphasize CGPR’s track record with green initiatives, our innovative social media strategies, and our ability to connect with younger, eco-conscious consumers. Driving almost on instinct, I’ve left the city and find myself in the quieter suburbs.
Signs for Biddeford start to appear and as I’m approaching the city limits, I find a quaint motel on the outskirts of town, its neon ‘vacancy’ sign a beacon of hope after a very trying few hours. The owner, a gentleman in his early forties, introduces himself as James, insists on carrying my carry-on case to my room, and hands me a key with a knowing smile.
“Just call down to the front desk if you need anything,” he says kindly.
I nod gratefully, suddenly feeling the weight of the day catching up with me.
“Thank you. I will.”