Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
Grady
Dad slides the printed agenda across the breakfast table before my first sip of coffee. White linen, gold-rimmed china, the smell of butter and sourdough toast I haven’t touched yet. My knee throbs under the table, a dull ache that’s been building since I climbed the stairs last night.
“Bennett Media’s publishing assets for their lifestyle vertical,” he says, tapping a highlighted section. “Their digital subscriber base is three hundred thousand, and their average time on page is above the industry standard. You’ll want to focus on retention.”
I reach for the coffee, and the hot ceramic burns my palm. “I’ve been tracking their metrics.”
“Good. Caroline mentioned you two discussed the Portland-Bar Harbor gap further.”
“She knows more about it than I do.” The coffee leaves a bitter film behind, or maybe that’s just my mood. I haven’t slept well since arriving.
Mom appears in the doorway, her cream sweater traded for a charcoal blazer and her hair pulled back in a tight knot. “The car is waiting. You can review your notes on the way there.”
I push back from the table, my chair scraping across the marble. The cane catches the edge of the rug, and I steady myself on the edge of the table.
Dad’s eyes track the movement, then slide away. He’s never going to ask about the leg. Not outright. It’s as if my parents think that if they ignore my injury, it will fix itself and stop being an inconvenience in their carefully laid plans.
Bennett’s law offices are a twenty-minute drive from the house. Today’s meeting is to document the acquisition. Legal needs the asset structure on paper before any letter of intent can move forward.
When I brought up that I hadn’t agreed yet, my objections were brushed off. Every time I try to tell my father I’m not ready, it turns out the same. My protests disappear beneath his plans, my concerns waved aside as just needing to get into the swing of things.
Dad’s on the phone for most of the ride, which is fine, because it means he doesn’t spend the drive hammering home how important this is for both of our families.
I watch the back of the driver’s headrest and don’t think about Pinecrest, and how the days had never felt rushed. The people never felt obligated.
The car pulls up to the front door of a glass tower, and a doorman hurries forward to open our car door before I can grasp the handle. It takes a moment for me to convince my knee to bend so I can climb out, and I try to ignore my dad’s grumbles for taking so long to disembark.
Inside, the high ceiling of the lobby causes every sound to echo, my cane ringing on the marble. Bennett’s people are already waiting near the elevator, the two partners standing slightly apart from their junior associate, who holds a heavy binder that she keeps shifting from one arm to the other.
They’re here to put the deal on paper, or close enough to paper that it starts feeling real, and my stomach twists into a knot.
We shake hands down the line before we board the elevator and ride it up to the fifth floor. There, we follow them into a conference room reserved for this purpose.
As we sit, the board filters into the room, four men and one woman. More handshakes go around.
Caroline’s father, tall and silver-haired, stands at the head of a conference table laid with binders and tablets. “Grady’s insight on the Portland-Bar Harbor corridor was exactly what we needed. The editorial team’s been working from a Boston-centric model for too long.”
I open my mouth to correct him. It was Caroline’s insight, not mine.
But Caroline’s hand on my arm stops me as she slips into the chair on my left. “It was a good insight, and the data backs it up.”
I turn to her, and she raises one shoulder in a silent statement that she doesn’t need the credit, so long as the gap finally gets addressed.
Today, she wears a navy dress, her pearls swapped out for a thin gold chain.
He beams at me. “Then we’ll address it in the integration.”
The morning blurs into the afternoon.
More handshakes. More names I’m supposed to remember. My cane taps across marble, then carpet, then marble again. My knee stiffens by increments, the metal pins a dull pressure beneath the skin.
By three o’clock, I’m leaning on the cane hard enough for my palm to ache, and the day is far from over.
Dinner that night is at the Bennetts’ place.
I eat whatever gets put in front of me and answer questions, and at some point, Caroline’s mother leans in to ask about Pinecrest with the warm curiosity of someone asking about a hobby I used to have.
“It’s a small harbor town,” I say. “With little shops around the docks that sell fresh bread and pastries, books, and trinkets. That sort of thing. In the summer, they have a Saturday Market, where you can buy local honey and dig through old paperbacks.”
Warmth spreads through me. “And Misty Pines is only a short twenty-minute boat ride from the mainland.”
“Oh?” she asks with polite interest. “And that’s where your little author friend settled?”
I twitch with irritation. Aurora Storm was a bestselling author when Chloe decided to retire the pen name in favor of writing passion projects.
“Yes.” The warmth brought on by speaking of Pinecrest vanishes. “She settled there with her mates.”
“Oh my.” She leans in closer. “How many does she have?”
“Four,” I grit out. “They’re all very nice and unique men.”
She fans herself. “I can’t even imagine. Mr. Bennet is enough of a handful.” She sends her husband a less-than-favorable look. “But I suppose Omegas don’t really have a choice in such things.”
Anger replaces the irritation, but Caroline jumps in before I can snap back. “Mom, that’s hardly polite dinner conversation.”
“Come now.” She flaps her hand. “We’re practically family. That allows a little relaxing of the reins.”
“How was lunch with the tennis club?” Caroline asks, skillfully steering the conversation away from my bestie’s love life.
As her mother launches into some gripe about the service, I glance at my phone, which sits screen-side down beside my water glass.
Since they’re three hours behind, everyone will still be at work, wrapping up for the day.
What will Emily be making for dinner tonight?
Certainly, a meal more filling than the wild greens in front of me.
What adventures will Quinn be divulging to Leif?
What drama on the water taxi will Jared bring home?
What new monstrosities will Chloe’s pregnancy cravings demand?
I haven’t had a chance to call any of them since I arrived. My family keeps me going nonstop, and by the time they let me head up to bed after cocktails that go late into the night, I barely have the energy to crawl into bed, only to wake up and start it all over again.
I haven’t even had a chance to check for messages today.
I don’t check them now, because I already miss them, and missing them means this hollow feeling inside has a name.
After the dinner concludes, Caroline and our mothers go for a walk in their garden, while we men retire to the study.
I accept the bourbon Mr. Bennet extends, and take the folder beneath it with far less enthusiasm.
“We just got the Q1 projections for next year. Bennett’s board wants everything signed by June.”
I set the folder on my knees and open it to find numbers in neat columns, cells highlighted in blue. I’ve seen these before. I’ve studied them. The figures speak for themselves.
“It’s solid,” I say. “The media division overlap is where I’d focus.”
Dad grunts in approval. “Exactly my thought.”
“Haven’t you boys done enough business for today?” Mom demands as the women join us. “Let Grady rest. He has plenty of time to catch up on everything in the coming months.”
Caroline joins me, and her fingers alight on my forearm, just for a second. “Sorry, I tried to tell my father to leave you alone for one night.”
“It’s okay.” I pat her hand. “Our dads have been scheming for a while.”
She throws back her head and laughs, the slender column of her throat on display.
Then she pulls me from my chair and announces to the room, “I’m stealing Grady away. No more business for the night.”
Since I don’t want to be here anymore, I leave the folder on the side table and stand, following her out to the garden.
Tuesday is more of the same. A country club lunch, where my mother introduces me to her charity group, and they discuss which organizations to support for the season. More handshakes with people whose faces blur together, my cane dragging a little more with each step.
When I crash into bed, the down pillows flatten too much, and the air is too dry, but exhaustion sucks me under.
Wednesday, I check my phone in the pre-dawn dark. It’s three-fifteen here, which means it’s twelve-fifteen in Pinecrest. Everyone’s asleep.
Emily
Hope you’re having fun with your family.
Sent Tuesday night, and I haven’t answered.
Jared
Em is planting bulbs in the garden in the rain. Gotta love a woman who’s willing to get her hands dirty.
Followed by a selfie of Jared standing on the porch, Emily in the background with a small trowel in hand, her white T-shirt translucent and dirt up to her elbows.
I save it to my growing folder of the life I want that isn’t here.
Chloe
I BETTER NOT POP BEFORE YOU GET BACK! YOU’RE THE GODFATHER, GRADY GARFIELD FINCH!!!!!
My eyes sting, and I swipe the back of my hand over them before I type out a reply.
Grady
Miss you, too. Tell that baby it needs to bake for a few more weeks.
I send it and start to set it back down, but the screen lights up. Surprised, I fumble the device and almost drop the damn thing. As I catch it, my thumb swipes across the screen, and Chloe’s shout comes blaring out.
“You’re still alive!”
I huff out a laugh, the sound rusty from disuse. “I’m hanging on by a thread.”
“Ha! I was right.” Paper rustles on her end of the line, followed by the scrape of a chair. “I told the guys they probably locked you in a boardroom and were force-feeding you spreadsheets.”
“They’re easing me in.”
“That wasn’t a denial.”