Chapter Eighteen
I come away from Bertram’s orchard with a renewed sense of purpose.
In our next Monday meeting, I tell Amanda firmly and clearly that we have found an official sponsor and apple supplier for the event, and that it will be Bertram Mason.
I hold my gaze on the camera to sell my determination—until I can’t resist lowering my eyes to the screen to gauge Amanda’s response.
I’m not sure what I was expecting. Maybe slack-jawed wonder? A glimmer of pride in her eyes? A round of applause?
No, Amanda’s busy dabbing a wet spot on her blouse. I watch her rub a tissue over it once, twice, three times, and start to wonder how pathetic it would be to ask if she heard me. Until she lifts her head and simply says, “No.”
I hesitate. “No?”
“We should go with Clark Farms,” Amanda continues. “They already supply the apples for our organic applesauce.”
“But…Bertram has history with this festival. He’s a local farmer. The whole point of this festival is to uplift the Greenstead community. That’s Bertram.”
Amanda frowns, like I need to be corrected. “ No , the whole point of the festival is to restore Ryser’s reputation.”
Tessa huffs out a breath. Even Randy, normally so mild-mannered, scoffs.
“That’s never been the point of the festival,” I say.
“But it’s the point of this festival. Which is funded and planned by Ryser.”
I don’t have a comeback for that. Seeing the disillusioned looks of my coworkers around the table, my chin drops to my chest. My resolve shrinks away.
What did I expect, that telling Amanda about Bertram’s misty-eyed festival nostalgia would make her forget about her job as Ryser’s PR director and the ten thousand dollars she invested?
“And we can’t let him draw focus to the factory malfunction with that mustard apple,” Amanda continues. “Which sounds disgusting,” she adds with a laugh.
I can’t say why this makes me bristle. The mustard apple was disgusting.
I had to eat a handful of mints on the drive home just to get the strange flavor out of my mouth.
But Bertram was so excited to share it with us.
So earnest in his recounting of what the festival meant to him.
I can still see that picture in my mind of him and his brother.
Something in me refuses to let her disparage Bertram like this.
“No,” I say. “Bertram and his orchard are an important part of Greenstead, so they’re an important part of this festival, and that includes his mustard apple.
I know the funding is coming out of your budget and I’m very grateful for it, but I think my team needs to have final say over the programming decisions.
We need to make sure this festival reflects Greenstead above all else.
And it wouldn’t be a good look for Ryser to fill the festival with Ryser promo, would it? ”
I can’t tell if the screen has frozen or if Amanda is just sitting still, staring in disbelief.
I have to move my hands to my lap to hide the way they’re shaking.
Amanda and I have disagreed on occasion, but I’ve never unequivocally said no to her like this before.
I start to worry that I’ve taken too much of a stand—in support of a mustard-flavored apple of all things.
I sneak a glance at my colleagues. Tessa’s smiling, her eyes sparkling in a way they haven’t in any other Monday meeting. Arun does an exaggerated fist pump. Randy gives me a thumbs-up, and Jen’s beaming at me with pride.
My hands steady. I breathe in, then out, a sense of accomplishment flowing through me. I enjoy the thought that Marina would be proud of me for this.
Amanda doesn’t look angry, just pensive. She’s staring somewhere off camera, her gaze distant. “I’ll talk this over with the team,” she says. “I understand your point. I’ll see if we can think of a way to strike the right balance.”
Balance.
The word stays with me after we get off the call, after I bask in my coworkers’ praise. It feels right. Amanda knows I’m just trying to do right by the Greenstead community. She knows I’m grateful for Ryser’s support and how much I enjoy working with her.
This is good. When we meet next week, we’ll figure out a solution for all of us to get what we want. I doubt I’ve risked my chance of getting my old job back at all. If anything, I feel like I’ve earned more of her respect.
As the week passes, I’m actually looking forward to our next meeting.
I’m excited to sit down at the table and hear Amanda’s ideas for how we can keep Greenstead at the center of the festival and give her what she needs to repair Ryser’s reputation.
I type up some of my own ideas as well, just in case she asks.
I make a note about reinstating everything she shut down before, from the Nancy convention to the history of Greenstead booth.
Our Ryser Cares team has held off on officially canceling them out of a sort of defiant procrastination—and a reluctance to face whatever tantrum Nancy would probably inflict.
But now I can get them back. In return, we’ll keep the Ryser booth.
It wouldn’t sell food that could compete with festival vendors, but we could allow the display about Ryser’s positive contributions. Balance.
When Amanda calls me on Thursday afternoon, I answer immediately, ready to talk balance strategies. I lean back in my chair and click over to the ideas I’ve drafted.
“I’ve talked this over with Dan,” Amanda says, “and we’ve agreed that it makes sense to step back from the festival.”
“Great,” I say. “That’s exactly what I was thinking. We could take over the planning and operations like we were doing before, but of course we’d update you as often as you want. And you can let me know what’s most important to include for Ryser.”
“Oh.” She sounds confused, like I’m speaking another language. “No, I mean really step back . As in we don’t need to do the festival at all.”
A sinking feeling hits my stomach. “What?”
“All the backlash from that article has blown over,” she explains. “No one’s talking about it anymore. Our stock has bounced back, our response to the water irregularities lawsuit is going over well. At this point, the festival would just risk dredging all that stuff back up again.”
I can’t make sense of her words. My brain is still clinging to the word balance , and it can’t compute how throwing away a hometown festival like a piece of trash floating in their contaminated water well is anything resembling balance.
“The point was never for Ryser to save face,” I say slowly. “It was to save Greenstead.”
“Okay,” she says in a That’s someone else’s problem kind of way. Cool and unbothered. “Nothing’s stopping Greenstead from throwing the festival. I’m just saying Ryser isn’t part of it anymore.”
It’s too simple a declaration for a statement riddled with so much consequence. The logistical impacts zip through my brain, bouncing loudly at every angle like an air hockey puck.
“What about the ten thousand dollars?” I ask.
“We won’t be contributing that any longer,” she says smoothly.
The puck in my head grows more frantic, picking up speed.
My eyes dart around the office, taking in Arun on the phone with a vendor, Tessa at Jen’s desk chatting about social media strategy, Randy coming from the kitchen with a mug of tea in his hand.
He sees me watching him and gives me a warm smile.
I quickly force one out in return, but it feels strange on my face.
Suddenly wary of being overheard, I walk toward the empty reception desk by the door. Only when I’m tucked away behind the desk, my aimless gaze on the parking lot in front of me, do I speak.
“But…we were counting on that money,” I say, lowering my voice. “We’ve already made plans.”
“You can cancel them.”
“No.” I don’t say it with any defiance, but more like it’s an impossibility. It’s not an option.
“You still want to go ahead with it?”
“ Yes .”
Amanda sighs like this is all an inconvenience.
“Okay. You can get the funding you need from your Greenstead sponsors. Just make sure Ryser isn’t associated with it.
We don’t want to draw attention to Ryser’s connection to Greenstead any longer.
This whole thing has made me realize we need to stop fussing with Greenstead.
Our image has moved on from this. We’re going to be moving on, too. ”
A shiver snakes down my spine. “How are you moving on?”
“We’re… reassessing our priorities.” Her voice is smooth, the way it is when she’s dancing around the truth.
“What does that mean?” I choke out.
“I’ll tell you when I know more.” More dancing.
“Is it about Ryser Cares?” I guess. When she doesn’t answer right away, I’m gripped with a foreboding feeling that I’m right. “What is it? Layoffs? Closures?”
Amanda pauses. “This is confidential, but we discussed the possibility of closing the Ryser Cares office at the end of the year. Nothing’s decided yet.”
I feel like my throat is closing. This office of kind people who were sent here as a punishment, who chose to stay anyway and build a life for themselves, could all be left without a job, without the small community they’ve formed in each other. I bite my lip and try to think.
“When will it be decided?” I ask.
“Dan’s going to talk it over with Bill. I don’t know when that’ll be.”
“What would happen to the people who work here?”
“They’d be let go,” Amanda says.
“Even me?” I ask. “I wouldn’t get my old job back, even though I’ve only been here for a couple months?”
Amanda heaves another sigh. “If we were going to hire back someone, it would be you. But as long as Dan works here, I’d say your chances are low. I’m not sure he’d go for the idea of you coming back to his team.”
Dan goddamn Gorland.
When Amanda hangs up, I’m left to run my hands through my curls and stare hopelessly ahead.
I turn at the sound of Jen and Tessa high-fiving over something.
Randy walks over to join the discussion.
Arun’s enthusiasm on his vendor call fills the air.
Behind him sits the whiteboard, once boasting a running score of Arun and Randy’s air hockey games, now scribbled with our colorful hopes and plans.
How am I supposed to tell these people that the festival is off and they might lose their jobs at the end of the year?
How am I supposed to tell Marina—who came up with this idea in the first place—never mind, screw the festival our entire friendship has been built around, let’s leave Greenstead and its community center to die?
Selfishly, I wonder what this means for my own goals.
Everything I’ve worked for at Ryser, all that time slowly climbing the ladder until I got high enough to make a meaningful impact, will have been for nothing.
It would mean the last decade of my life has been a lie.
I’d be leaving Ryser weighted down with every sin I’ve contributed to, with no way to erase it.
Unless I did away with my FIRE plan entirely and spent decades toiling away in a low-paying job at some dreary nonprofit.
But I know myself. I couldn’t even make it three hours at that accounting firm in Greenstead before I went running for Ryser.
When given the choice between good and easy, I choose easy every time.
The achingly lonely thought of carrying on the way I’ve been for years more makes me want to cry. I swallow past the lump in my throat and start gathering my things. I sling my bag over my shoulder and make up an excuse about taking off for an appointment.
They believe me because they trust me. And I plod to my car to the sound of geese calling me a fraud.