33. Finn
Finn
The next morning, we were up early to hike the Precipice Trail.
Neither of us had done it before, and it was only open a few months out of the year because it was a nesting site for peregrine falcons, so we decided to tackle it together.
It was the most difficult climb in the park and was a series of iron rungs, ladders, and wooden bridges that led up a massive rock face.
“Did you know that mama falcons will attack hikers during nesting season?” Adele asked over her shoulder as she pulled herself onto the next ledge.
I smiled, enjoying the view of her tiny shorts. “What a way to go. Mauled by a falcon.”
She heaved herself onto the ledge and stuck her tongue out at me in response.
Damn, I didn’t think it possible for this woman to be any more beautiful and intriguing, but this unencumbered version of Adele had proved me wrong.
Since we’d arrived, she had been completely relaxed and open.
We were only a few hours from home, but the change of scenery was good for us both.
“I wonder if He-Man has destroyed Paz’s house yet,” I wondered out loud.
Adele turned and shot me a look. “He would never. My sweet boy is currently being spoiled rotten by Parker. She made a steak for him last night and texted me a photo of them curled up in bed watching Housewives.”
“Where did you tell them you were going?”
“Boston. To meet a new tire supplier. They got glassy eyed when I started talking about tread depth so I figured they bought it.”
We continued our scramble, stopping in a few spots for water and to take photos of the ocean crashing against the cliffs below.
“Is that,” I murmured, bringing my mouth closer to Adele’s ear, “Susan Stephens?”
The woman on the trail in front of us was in her early sixties. She was tall and fit, with chin-length white-blond hair, and bore a striking resemblance to Susan Stephens, chef, TV personality, and media billionaire.
Adele turned and followed my gaze. “I think so,” she whispered.
Susan had a famous rags-to-riches story.
As a young, single mom, she worked in a restaurant kitchen, and eventually purchased the place.
She went on to publish several bestselling cookbooks and produce a line of cookware that was sold at every department store in the US.
She then turned her endeavor into a multimedia empire, with magazines, TV shows and products everywhere.
My mom owned all of her cookbooks, and I had bought a set of her spatulas at Target during my last trip to Bangor with Merry.
Could that be her?
The woman on TV was always made up. This woman’s face was free of all makeup, and her hair was held back by a headband, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that it was really her.
The woman was surrounded by a large group of fellow hikers, some of whom seemed miserable, as she continued ahead of us. As we came up on them, the group moved to the side of the trail, which was standard hiking etiquette.
But not this woman. Nope, she remained in the middle of the trail, making it impossible for us to pass.
That was how we ended up walking behind her, chatting about the trail and the park and the weather.
The sound of her voice as she spoke to her companions confirmed our suspicion.
It was her. Adele and I tried to play it cool as we approached the summit, hanging back a bit and doing our best to carry on a conversation while also enjoying the scenery.
Susan waited for the rest of her group to take some photos at the summit marker, and Adele and I found a spot to rest.
There were few people up here this early, but the handful that were gawked and discreetly snapped photos with their phones.
“I’m freaking out a little,” Adele said, hiking one foot onto a boulder and straightening her leg to stretch out her hamstrings.
“Same. My mom would lose it.”
“Mine too. She’s a huge fan.” Adele dropped to the rock beside me. “Alice was obsessed with her bridal magazine while she was wedding planning last year.”
“Should we ask for a photo?”
“No. I don’t want to be one of those people.” She shook her head. “We’re both sweaty and gross anyway.”
“You’re right. I didn’t even put on deodorant this morning,” I admitted.
“Finn,” she huffed. “That’s gross.”
I shrugged. “We got up at five to climb up a rock face. I forgot.”
She shimmied closer and kissed my cheek. “It’s a good thing you’re so handsome.”
“And sweet,” I said, dipping down to capture her mouth in a quick kiss.
“The sweetest. Now let’s hike back down. I want pancakes.”
I stood and held out a hand to help her up. It was past eight, so it wouldn’t be long before the trail was crowded with tourists who didn’t know how to safely navigate this type of hike.
The trail down the mountain was less dangerous, but it was long. So without any more hesitation, we headed out, scaling the large rocks at the summit.
I’d found my footing on an even patch of ground when a voice called out overhead. “Could you give me a hand?”
Squinting into the sunlight, I discovered Susan Stephens crouching above me, inching her way down the massive rock.
I held out my hand to her, and she grasped it, steading herself as she stepped down carefully.
And then she was standing directly in front of me. If I hadn’t been sure of her identity before, it was obvious now.
“Thank you, sweetheart,” she said. Her trademark Southern drawl was thick, and she turned on her charm. “Oh my goodness! You are a tall drink of water. How tall are you?”
If I didn’t know better, I would have assumed this woman was flirting with me.
“About six foot six first thing in the morning,” I replied politely.
She patted my forearm, seemingly unfazed by the sheen of sweat and dust coating it. “What’s your name?”
“Finn Hebert, ma’am,” I replied, “And this is my girlfriend, Adele Gagnon.”
Adele gave her a tight smile, clearly starstruck.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you both,” she said. “Now tell me all about yourselves. We’ve got quite a long hike down, and my guests”—she waved at the entourage of sweating, exhausted people working their way down the boulders we’d traversed—“aren’t up for the challenge of keeping up with me.”
Susan Stephens was one scary woman, and she was objectively hilarious.
She told us wild stories about how she brought along a cocktail shaker when she hiked Kilimanjaro so she could enjoy a decent drink at the summit.
Adele and I listened as she recounted wild adventures she’d taken part in all over the world and introduced us to the folks hiking with her, which included her personal assistant, her publicist, two internationally known fashion designers, and the editor-in-chief of her travel magazine.
According to her publicist, Susan had woken them up at four a.m. for sunrise yoga, followed by this grueling hike. Apparently, as an employee, one’s job requirements included jumping on her private jet for random weekend trips on demand.
She was an alpha dog. Not once did she let a person pass her on the trail, but her stories made up for it. She was damn impressive. This hike would have had most of my Navy buddies complaining, but she never slowed down.
“You’re a pilot?”
“Navy,” Adele cut in, elaborating for me. “And a recipient of the Flying Naval Cross.”
Though I was dripping with sweat and my face was surely flushed, heat still crept up my neck. Adele was bragging about me to a real-life billionaire. I shot her a look, silently begging her to let it go, but she didn’t seem deterred.
“Finn is so talented and passionate about Maine,” she continued. “He’s working on plans to launch a flight tourism business. That way, folks who aren’t from the area can experience the wilder parts of Maine rather than settle for the usual tourist traps.”
Susan’s face lit up. “Authentic. I love it. I hiked Katahdin about a decade ago. That area is breathtaking.”
“Finn flew me around the Katahdin summit a few weeks ago,” Adele said. “In a float plane, you can land on some remote lakes and see so much wildlife. People perceive Maine to be all beaches and lobsters, but there is so much more beyond our coast.”
“Take me up,” Susan demanded. “I’ll bring a photographer. Since I own a home here, my fans love Maine.”
My stomach lurched, and I stumbled a little. Had I heard her correctly? I needed to watch my footing or I’d fall to my death down this mountain.
Susan snapped her fingers and barked, “Milo.”
A skinny man in his twenties with floppy hair sprinted toward us. His sneakers were designer and clearly not made for this terrain.
“Yes, Susan?” he asked, huffing and puffing and wiping at his sweaty brow.
“Finn owns a flight tourism business.”
Not quite, Susan. It was still in the planning stages, but I kept my mouth shut. I was already in over my head.
“I want him to take me up in his plane. Get my schedule.”
Milo swung his backpack off one shoulder and pulled out a tablet. Deftly, he scrolled through while climbing down rocks.
“When am I free?” she asked. “Maybe fall. Ooh, Blythe! Get over here.”
A woman in her forties wearing actual hiking boots jogged over, offering Susan a stainless-steel water bottle.
“Let’s do a spread. We’ll call it “Untouched Maine.” She waved her hands in front of her like she could see the words written in the sky. “Wilderness, a bush plane, moose.”
Blythe was nodding like a bobblehead. “Love it. So no ocean? Just rugged wilderness?”
“We could do something like “Move over Alaska, Maine is the new wild frontier.”
“Finn is a fourth-generation lumberjack and excellent at axe-throwing,” Adele tossed out. “You could photograph him chopping wood.” She gave me a wink.
“Brills!” Blythe exclaimed. “Instagram will lose its shit. I’m thinking fall foliage and Susan in a chunky sweater, talking about the history of the region.”
“And this one”—Susan gestured to me like I was nothing more than a mannequin— “will photograph so well. Leaning against a plane with his arms crossed, maybe at sunset?”
Blythe hadn’t stopped nodding, but her thumbs were flying over her phone screen as she made notes.
“And he’s a war hero,” Susan said.
Blythe hummed. “Even better. I’m texting the editorial team right now. We’ll have an emergency meeting in an hour. Screw Morocco in fall. Those articles will be a dime a dozen. But Maine? So inspired, Susan.”
I looked at Adele for confirmation that I was really hearing this. She gave me a discreet thumbs-up.
“Susan,” Milo exclaimed. “I can clear three days next September.”
“Ooh, that’s soon,” Blythe said. “But I like it. Preproduction in the spring, then get a camera crew out for stills of the area so we can capture the experience. I’ll have the video crew work on content for YouTube too. You know the web team loves that.”
I searched Susan’s face, then Blythe’s, then Milo’s. These strangers were flanking us as we descended the mountain, planning out my future in rapid-fire fashion. My head was spinning and my heart was racing, making it impossible to keep up.
Despite the wince that struck at the words “photo shoot” and the way my stomach lurched when they mentioned me being a “war hero,” I didn’t stop them. Though this was worlds outside my comfort zone, it could only mean good things for me and the dream I was working to make a reality.
Beside me, Adele bumped my shoulder with hers and squeezed my hand like she could sense I was spiraling. Her touch alone brought my panic down a notch or two.
“Let’s talk branding,” Blythe said without looking up from her phone. These people were absolutely unconcerned that they were on a mountain, surrounded by jagged rocks. “Once I get my team on this, I’ll send over contracts and other info. Give me your number.”
Adele and I continued on, hand in hand, while Susan and her team buzzed around us, going on and on about their travel article.
Hopefulness blossomed inside me right along with a sense of panic.
Could I have a fully operational business a year from now?
And could I handle the exposure that an opportunity like this would bring?
I looked over at the woman next to me, the person who told me every day that I could do this. And for the first time, I believed it.