Chapter 3 #2
“Events,” I say. “Big ones. I used to build destination weddings and corporate launches with Landon. Before everything imploded. I miss the scale sometimes.”
“The work or the company?”
“The work.”
He nods as if that answer was obvious.
“I’ve been thinking about doing something here. Year-round. Not just orchard events. Corporate retreats, weddings, launches, winter stuff, maybe regional work. My own studio.”
The words are out before I can catch them.
They sound embarrassingly real in the open air.
Grant does not say I should. He does not say he can help. He does not immediately turn my half-formed idea into a market analysis, which may be the most seductive thing a billionaire has ever done.
He asks, “What stops you?”
“Money. Time. Fear. My sparkling personality.”
“Which one is the real answer?”
I look at him.
“That’s an invasive question for a man I made move a pallet this morning.”
“You can refuse.”
There it is again.
Choice.
I shove my hands into my jacket pockets. “Fear, probably.”
He nods once. “That one scales.”
I laugh. “Billionaire wisdom?”
“Unfortunately.”
His phone vibrates.
The change in him is immediate. Not dramatic, just a closing of doors.
He checks the screen.
“Celeste?” I ask before remembering I was enjoying not asking.
His eyes lift to mine.
“Cameron. About Celeste.”
“Ah. A Russian nesting doll of emotional convenience.”
“She posted again.”
He turns the phone toward me.
It is a photo of Grant and Celeste from last fall, both of them in black tie, both beautiful in the expensive, professionally illuminated way that makes normal people look undercooked. Celeste’s caption reads: Some seasons deserve a second look.
I make a face.
“Subtle.”
“She believes subtlety is what other people use when they lack distribution.”
“You sound fond.”
“I’m not.”
The answer is flat enough to erase any joke.
I hand the phone back.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
“People are going to assume she’s coming here.”
“They already are.”
I think of four hundred thousand views, the Northspan tag, Bellweather’s main street, and the local gossip network, which operates at fiber-optic speed despite most participants distrusting password managers.
“That should be fun.”
“I have had dental surgery I preferred.”
We reach the picnic lawn as the two o’clock cider-press demonstration begins. Aunt Mae has somehow acquired a microphone, which is never a neutral development.
“And remember,” she tells thirty tourists clustered behind the rope, “cider improves judgment in moderation and courtship in quantities I am legally advised not to specify.”
I close my eyes.
Grant says, “I like her.”
“Everyone likes her. That is how she gets away with things.”
The next hour disappears into work.
Northspan films the press from the public side.
I move a stroller family out of the camera lane without making them feel like scenery.
Tessa brings paper cups of fresh cider. Landon’s crew rigs a reflector where I tell them to and, to their credit, keeps every stand sandbagged and outside guest flow.
For a while, everything works.
This is why I love events.
Not because they are perfect. Because they are chaos with a temporary government.
At three twenty, the temporary government begins to fail.
A woman with a press badge approaches Grant near the Truth Maple. I recognize her from a regional lifestyle site that covers Vermont tourism, openings, restaurants, and any celebrity who accidentally crosses state lines.
“Mr. Ashford, quick question?”
Priya intercepts halfway, but Grant shakes his head.
“It’s fine.”
The reporter smiles. “Mara Vance, North Country Living. Is Celeste Wynn joining the campaign? Her post this afternoon has people wondering whether Bellweather is a reunion trip.”
Grant’s face goes still.
“No. Celeste isn’t part of the Bellweather campaign.”
“Are you two back together?”
“No.”
Clean. Direct. I am impressed.
Then Landon steps beside me.
“You know she’ll print the question anyway,” he says quietly.
“Probably.”
“He knew what dating her would be.”
I turn my head. “That is a weird thing to say to me.”
Landon shrugs. “Public people date public people. Comes with the territory.”
The old familiar irritation sparks.
“Privacy is not something you forfeit because strangers know your name.”
He studies me. “You’re defending him now?”
“I’m defending a basic concept.”
“You’ve known him a day.”
“Half a day.”
“Exactly.”
I take one step away.
He follows.
“Nora, about what I said earlier. I meant it. Come do the Burlington retreat. You don’t belong hiding here forever.”
My whole body goes cold.
There it is.
The sentence I have been saying to myself in uglier forms for two years, delivered by the one person least entitled to use it.
“I am not hiding.”
“Then prove it.”
I actually laugh because otherwise I might stab him with a brass leaf charm.
“You don’t get to assign me homework.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“You keep saying that after you mean things.”