Chapter 6
The problem is, I am not.
I know this at six forty Monday morning while standing in the kitchen of a rented farmhouse eating scrambled eggs and reading a Northspan sales forecast I have technically been looking at for eleven minutes.
The eggs are good.
The forecast is good.
My concentration is somewhere above the old hardware store in Bellweather, probably watching Nora Bell sleep.
This is not normal behavior for me.
I have had relationships. I was engaged. I understand attraction, sex, affection, partnership, and the complicated administrative burden of owning a second toothbrush.
I do not generally wake up wondering whether a woman emailed two former clients because she said she would.
At six forty-three, my phone vibrates.
Cameron.
I answer before the second ring.
“You sound awake,” she says.
“I am awake.”
“You sound disappointed about it.”
“I’m reviewing forecasts.”
“At six forty-three in the morning from rural Vermont.”
“That is a normal sentence.”
“For you, unfortunately.”
I carry my plate to the sink.
The rental house Northspan found for me sits three miles outside town, has four bedrooms I do not need, a stone fireplace I have not used, and a refrigerator currently containing eggs, mustard, six bottles of sparkling water, and a container of leftovers Priya forced me to take after Saturday’s crew dinner.
Money makes it easy to occupy a space without living in it.
I have done that in several cities.
“What happened?” I ask.
“Nothing urgent. I wanted you before the communications call.”
That gets my attention.
“What about it?”
“The Bellweather story is still moving.”
“Numbers?”
“North Country Living’s original post is over a million views across platforms. Reposts are larger. Most of the attention is harmless. Orchard, leaves, billionaire boyfriend, small-town romance, et cetera.”
I dislike one word in that sentence more than the others.
“Boyfriend.”
“You are publicly dating her.”
“Fake dating.”
“Not according to the internet.”
“According to us.”
Cameron is silent.
I realize too late that I have said us with enough emphasis to interest my sister professionally.
“Right,” she says.
“Don’t.”
“I said nothing.”
“You have Mae’s eyebrows over the phone.”
“Who is Mae?”
“Nora’s aunt.”
There is another pause.
“Oh, this is worse than I thought.”
I close my eyes.
“What is the communications issue?”
“People want to use it.”
“No.”
“I know. Priya knows. Communications knows. I am telling you because one of the social teams drafted a Monday post using a photo from the orchard with copy about finding the right trail partner.”
“No.”
“I already killed it.”
“Good.”
“The person who drafted it did not understand the restriction.”
“Then make sure everyone understands it.”
“They do now.”
My irritation arrives fast enough that I have to inspect it.
Nobody used the image. Nobody harmed Nora. Cameron stopped the post.
Still, the fact that someone saw Nora standing next to me and immediately translated her into useful engagement makes something cold settle behind my ribs.
I know this machinery.
I built part of it.
Northspan is not a gossip company, but brands notice attention because attention becomes traffic and traffic becomes revenue.
I have spent years accepting that the public parts of my life can be metabolized into numbers as long as I control the terms.
Nora never agreed to that bargain.
“Grant.”
“I’m here.”
“Do not punish a twenty-four-year-old social coordinator for thinking a viral romance connected to our autumn campaign might be relevant.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“You were planning something.”
“I was planning clarity.”
“Your clarity occasionally has a casualty radius.”
I lean against the counter.
There are mornings when having a younger sister as general counsel feels like hiring an expert to identify every least flattering motive I possess.
“Point taken.”
“Good.”
“What about Celeste?”
“Nothing public since yesterday.”
“And private?”
“Her manager asked again whether Northspan would facilitate access to the orchard.”
“No.”
“I said no.”
“Does Nora need to know?”
“Not because of that request. If Celeste actually plans to come to Bellweather, yes.”
I look through the kitchen window at wet grass silvered by the early sun.
“Do we know that?”
“No.”
“Then don’t turn possibility into Nora’s Monday problem.”
Cameron makes a thoughtful sound.
“What?”
“That was almost healthy.”
“Goodbye.”
“Wait.”
I wait.
“How was the date?”
I say nothing.
She starts laughing.
“I hate this family.”
“You love this family. How was the date?”
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
“Good.”
“Good.”
“Very good.”
“Oh, God.”
I hang up.
At seven fifteen, I leave for the orchard.
I could work from the house until the eleven o’clock walkthrough. I have two video calls, a review with finance, and forty-seven unread emails that will become sixty if I continue pretending Vermont has suspended capitalism.
Instead I drive into Bellweather because Priya is running the calls from the temporary production office and because I apparently require visual confirmation that Nora Bell still exists after dark.
The orchard on Monday morning feels like the stage after an audience leaves.
The weekend bunting is still up, but the parking lot is mostly empty. Staff gather abandoned picking bags. Somebody is pressure-washing the market porch. A tractor moves slowly between the work buildings with empty apple bins stacked behind it.
The air smells like damp gravel, bruised apples, and coffee.
I park correctly.
Growth.
Tessa sees me through the kitchen door before I make it ten feet.
She steps outside holding a breakfast sandwich wrapped in paper.
“You.”
“Good morning.”
“Have you eaten?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“Eggs.”
Her expression becomes deeply suspicious.
“Of course.”
“I’m not sure what that means.”
“It means Nora told me.”
I stop.
“Told you what?”
“That your favorite food is eggs.”
Something in my chest does something embarrassingly warm.
She talked about the date.
Tessa notices.
Her eyes narrow with delight.
“Wow.”
“What?”
“Nothing. Do billionaires blush or does the money prevent circulation?”
“I’m not blushing.”
“Sure.”
She takes a bite of her sandwich.
“Where is Nora?”
“Market office. She has been pretending not to refresh her email since seven.”
I look toward the building.
Tessa points the sandwich at me.
“Do not go in there and fix anything.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“Do not offer contacts.”
“I know.”
“Do not buy her a client.”
“How would I buy a client?”
“I don’t know. You people have methods.”
“You people.”
“Men with boats.”
“I don’t have a boat.”
She pauses.
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Huh.”
She looks genuinely disappointed.
“That was doing a lot of work in my mental model.”
“Can I go now?”
“Yes. But if you make her business weird, I will put your photograph beside the fryer and let grease decide your fate.”
“Understood.”
The market office door is open.
Nora sits at the desk with a mug of coffee, her hair twisted up, three pens clipped to her sweater, and an expression of profound distrust directed at her laptop.
She sees me in the doorway.
Her face changes.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
I am beginning to live for just enough.
“You’re early,” she says.
“I’ve heard that before.”
“You don’t have a site meeting until eleven.”
“You know my schedule.”
“I warned you.”
I lean against the frame.
“Did you send them?”
She looks at the laptop.
Then at me.
“Six fifty-eight.”
“Both?”
“Both.”
“How do you feel?”
“Like I released two raccoons into a church.”
“Specific.”
“My emotional life has strong wildlife imagery.”
I smile.
“Anything back?”
“One automated reply informing me that Lydia is traveling until Wednesday. One silence.”
“It’s seven thirty.”
“I am aware.”
“Are you?”
“No.”
I walk into the office but stop on the other side of the desk.
She watches me with suspicious amusement.
“You can sit.”
“I didn’t want to crowd the raccoons.”
“They’re very territorial.”
I take the chair.
For several seconds, neither of us says anything.
It is strange how quickly silence with Nora has become comfortable.
Yesterday, every pause felt like a decision.
This morning she drinks coffee while I look at the September calendar behind her and feel as if I have been allowed into something ordinary.
I like ordinary more than expected.
“How did you sleep?” I ask.
“Badly.”
“Me too.”
Her eyebrows lift.
“Really?”
“I kept thinking about a woman.”
“That sounds inconvenient. Is she local?”
“Very.”
“Have you considered controlling the situation with a spreadsheet?”
“I was told that would be unwelcome.”
Her mouth curves.
“You learn fast.”
My phone vibrates.
I ignore it.
Nora notices.
“You can work.”
“I am working.”
“Staring at me is not currently billable.”
“I own the company.”
“That is a horrifying answer.”
“Also inaccurate. Priya would object.”
Nora laughs and closes the laptop.
“Come on.”
“Where?”
“I need to walk the Harvest Lights route before Jeremy starts asking if he can put a smoke machine in a hayfield.”
“Can he?”
“No.”
“Does he know?”
“He knows in the technical sense that I have already told him.”
I stand.
“Then he definitely needs reinforcement.”
The orchard is still cool enough that Nora puts on a canvas jacket before we cross the lawn.
The Truth Maple is quieter without tourists beneath it.
A few more leaves at the crown have turned since Saturday, early streaks of red among the green. Brass charms move gently in the morning breeze.
Nora gives the tree a narrow look as we pass.
“What did it do?”
“Nothing.”
“You looked at it like it owes you money.”
“It has become smug.”
“It’s a tree.”
“That is exactly the kind of defense a smug tree would want.”
We follow the packed path toward the lower orchard.
Harvest Lights is still weeks away, but several strands of weatherproof string lights have been hung as tests between posts along the public route.
Nora stops beside one.
“We use the picnic lawn, the farmstand side, and the first two picking blocks. Nothing farther downhill after dark. Guest route stays completely away from machinery and loading.”
“Hay wagons?”