Both of Us
Chapter three
Margot arrived at Elaine Marston’s office at six fifty-five with a coffee in one hand and a growing list of questions in the other. The text from the night before still sat unanswered in her mind.
Elaine’s office smelled like espresso and fresh printer paper.
The blinds were angled to block the morning sun, but a thin stripe of light cut across the desk like a blade.
Margot took the chair opposite the desk and wrapped both hands around her coffee.
Whatever this meeting was about, it apparently couldn’t wait until normal business hours.
At exactly seven o’clock, Elaine arrived, reading glasses in one hand and a stack of folders in the other. She crossed behind the desk and arranged them in a precise grid, each folder aligned with the next like tiles.
“You’re early,” Elaine said.
“Seven is early. Six fifty-five is on time.”
Elaine gave her a look that might have been approval. Hard to tell with Elaine. The woman ran at exactly sixty-eight degrees: precisely warm, never hot, never cold.
“How’s setup?”
“On schedule. Garland is fixed, sound check is done, cooler dispute is resolved.”
“Good.” Elaine opened a folder and set it apart from the others. “Because I’m about to make your week significantly more complicated.”
Margot set down her coffee.
“The Lila Sloane Collection.” Elaine slid a photograph across the desk. “Have you heard of it?”
“No.”
“Lila Sloane is a glass artist out of Asheville. She makes ornaments. Not the kind you buy at a craft fair.” Elaine tapped the photo.
“The kind that collectors fly across the country to bid on. She’s agreed to display her full holiday collection at the expo.
Twenty-four pieces. Estimated total value around a hundred and seventy thousand dollars. ”
Margot picked up the photograph. A blown-glass ornament, deep blue with veins of gold, catching light like a planet suspended in midair. Even in a photograph, it was stunning. “And you’re telling me this now?”
“The deal closed yesterday. She requires a custom display case, climate-controlled transport, dedicated security, and a lighting designer who understands iridescent glass.”
“In nine days.”
“In nine days.” Elaine folded her hands. “This is the centerpiece of the entire expo, Margot. If something goes wrong with this collection, it’s on us. On you, specifically.”
Margot held her gaze. She’d heard that tone before, in conference rooms and client calls and one very bad meeting in Asheville where she’d realized she was the only person in the building who didn’t know the money was gone.
But Elaine wasn’t David. Elaine was putting pressure on her because Elaine believed she could take it.
A hundred and seventy thousand dollars in glass, during hurricane season, on her clipboard.
“I’ll make it work.”
The terrace was baking by nine. Heat rose from the boardwalk planks in visible waves, and the ocean breeze carried the smell of pine garland and sunscreen.
Margot heard Lila Sloane before she saw her.
“This is absolutely unacceptable.” The woman stood at the edge of the event pavilion, evaluating the empty display platform with the same exacting attention she might give a flawed piece of art.
Tall, mid-thirties, dark hair in a low bun, earrings made from what looked like the same iridescent glass in Elaine’s photograph.
“The lighting is wrong. The platform height is wrong. And is that a fluorescent tube?” She pointed at the ceiling. “I was promised gallery-quality conditions.”
Margot extended her hand. “Margot Pine. Event coordinator. I’m going to make sure everything is exactly right.”
Lila looked at her hand. Then at her face. She did not shake it. “You just learned about my collection this morning.”
“I did. And I’ve already spent twenty minutes researching what salt air does to metallic oxide glazing.” Margot lowered her hand without flinching. “You’ll have a sealed display case with independent humidity control. Not the pavilion’s system.”
“And if the power fails?”
“Backup generator on site. I’ll confirm the switchover time with maintenance today.”
“And security?”
“Keycard access, physical key held by you and Elaine, motion sensor, and a camera. I’m also scheduling a walk-through of the full setup before the display goes live.”
Lila studied her for a long moment. Her jaw eased a fraction. Not warmth, not yet. More like a grudging acknowledgment that Margot had not crumbled under questioning.
“What I need from you,” Margot continued, “is a spec sheet for the case dimensions, the lighting angles, and your preferred temperature range.”
“I’ll have my assistant send it within the hour.”
She turned and walked toward the parking lot, a battered hard case clutched against her side like a shield.
Caleb appeared with two coffees. “You met the artist.” He offered her a cup. “She’s intense.”
“You know her?”
“Know of her. I could rig the display lighting, if you want. I consulted on a similar installation in Raleigh last year.”
“You’d know how to light something like this?”
“Absolutely.” He tapped the platform with his shoe. “Let me see the specs when they come in. I can make that glass sing.”
Margot added his name to the task on her clipboard. Caleb moved through the resort easy and proprietary, like a man walking through his own living room. She’d learn where that ease came from, eventually. Right now she needed his help more than she needed answers.
Tessa Monroe appeared in a swirl of blond highlights and floral perfume, phone already raised and recording. Harbor’s Hope’s unofficial social-media ambassador, she seemed to spend half her life documenting the town and the other half convincing everyone else to smile for the camera.
“Oh my gosh, is that the display platform? My followers are going to lose their minds.” She lowered the phone just long enough to shake Margot’s hand. “Can I get early access to the ornament display for content? Those glass pieces catching the sunset? It would trend for weeks.”
“I’ll see what I can arrange.”
“You’re the best.” Tessa squeezed her arm and drifted toward the beach, filming the platform from three different angles as she went. Halfway across the lawn she stopped, crouched low, and framed the ocean behind the empty platform.
Margot watched her work. The girl knew her angles. She also knew exactly where a hundred and seventy thousand dollars in glass would be sitting in nine days.
She turned back to her clipboard. Fourteen items down. Thirty-three to go. The terrace was bright and busy, the breeze carrying the smell of salt and pine garland, and for a moment her grip on the pen loosened.
Then her phone buzzed, and the feeling disappeared.
David Mercer.
She declined the call. Her hand was steady. Her pulse was not.
A text followed. I heard about the Evergreen Tide gig. We should talk. I have an opportunity that could be good for both of us.
Both of us. She stared at those two words. Two years ago, “both of us” had meant a shared business, a shared future, and a shared bank account he’d emptied without telling her. Now it meant he wanted something, and he was betting on the part of her that still confused partnership with trust.
The strange thing was, she wasn’t angry. Just tired. The same weariness that had settled into her bones the night she’d sat at her kitchen table with bank statements spread out like a crime scene, realizing that the person she’d trusted most had been the person she’d known least.
She put the phone in her back pocket and picked up her pen. Somewhere in Harbor’s Hope, a hundred and seventy thousand dollars in glass was on its way. She did not have time for ghosts.
And somewhere on the boardwalk, a man with steady hands was working a dock cleat, and she caught herself wondering, just briefly, if steadiness was something you could trust or just another kind of charm in a quieter package.