Chapter 7
Grant’s version of exactly what happened takes eleven seconds.
“Celeste texted me,” he says. “She said she’s nearby Thursday, wants to talk, and would like to meet you.”
I stare at him.
He hands me the phone.
This is either trust or an elaborate attempt to make my Monday dramatically less productive.
I read the messages.
Hope Vermont’s treating you well. I’m nearby Thursday. Maybe we can finally talk like adults.
Would be nice to meet Nora too.
I read them again because apparently the second viewing might reveal hidden flames or a tiny animated devil.
It does not.
“That’s annoyingly reasonable,” I say.
Grant blinks.
“What?”
“I was prepared for something more villainous. Possibly a threat delivered through skin-care content.”
“Celeste isn’t a villain.”
“I know.”
He watches my face.
That is becoming a habit of his.
An intrusive, attractive habit.
“What do you want to do?” he asks.
There it is.
Not what should we do.
Not here’s what I’ve decided.
I hand the phone back.
“What do you want to do?”
His jaw shifts.
“I don’t want to see her.”
“Okay.”
“I don’t want you meeting her because she asked.”
“Also okay.”
“I don’t want to use you as the reason.”
That one catches.
Grant looks down at the phone.
“For seven months, I’ve dealt with this by saying as little as possible because every direct statement creates another round of headlines. I kept thinking silence was neutral.”
“It wasn’t.”
“No.”
The answer is quiet.
I lean one hip against the picnic table.
Around us, Monday keeps being Monday. Somebody drags an empty apple bin across gravel. A pressure washer starts behind the market. Aunt Mae argues with a supplier about jar lids as if national security depends on thread count.
Grant says, “I think I need to answer her.”
“Do you want my opinion?”
“Yes.”
“Tell her the truth you actually own.”
His eyes settle on mine.
I lift one shoulder.
“You don’t want to meet. You don’t want her contacting me. Northspan isn’t giving her access to the orchard. You don’t need to announce your eternal devotion to me in a text message just to make the boundary sound convincing.”
His mouth moves.
“Was that an option?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“I would throw your phone into the cider press.”
“I believe you.”
He types.
Then stops.
“Can I show you before I send it?”
I nearly laugh.
“Grant, you don’t need approval from Fake Girlfriend Legal.”
“I know.”
“But?”
“I want to make sure I’m not speaking for you.”
That gets me.
I hate how often he gets me.
“Show me.”
He turns the screen.
I’m glad Vermont is treating you well. We don’t need to meet Thursday.
I should have been clearer months ago that our relationship is over and there isn’t a private conversation left to postpone.
Please don’t contact Nora. Northspan won’t facilitate access to Bellweather Orchard.
I wish you well with the Manchester event.
I read it slowly.
No cruelty.
No performance.
No me as proof.
“You should send that.”
He does.
Just like that.
No committee. No communications team. No strategy meeting in a glass room with eighteen screens.
One thumb.
Send.
Grant slides the phone into his pocket.
“How do you feel?” I ask.
“Like I should have done that six months ago.”
“Probably.”
He looks offended.
“You could soften it.”
“You are dating the wrong woman for decorative reassurance.”
His gaze warms.
“Apparently.”
My stomach performs a small, unprofessional somersault.
I point toward the production office before it can escalate.
“We have an eleven o’clock walkthrough.”
“It’s nine twenty-six.”
“Correct.”
“That’s an hour and thirty-four minutes.”
“I have noticed you are very literal before lunch.”
“What are we doing until eleven?”
“I am working.”
“I also work.”
“Debatable. You spent twenty minutes this morning staring at me while I wrote pricing notes.”
“I answered three emails.”
“Heroic.”
His phone buzzes.
We both look at his pocket.
Grant takes it out.
Celeste.
He reads.
“Well?”
He turns the screen.
Understood. I won’t contact Nora. I wish you’d said this sooner, but point taken. Good luck with the campaign.
I read it twice.
“Huh.”
“Huh?”
“I think I liked it better when I could imagine her cackling over a cauldron of sponsored moisturizer.”
Grant laughs.
I hand the phone back.
“She has a point.”
“I know.”
“Do you hate that?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Personal growth.”
“You are very supportive.”
“I contain multitudes.”
He puts the phone away.
Something about the air changes.
Not because Celeste is solved. She still has an appearance forty minutes away on Thursday, there will still be headlines, and the internet remains an unregulated swamp full of people named AppleMama76.
But Grant has closed one door himself.
He did not barricade it.
He did not ask me to stand in front of it.
He just closed it.
I like that more than I intend to.
Which is becoming the official slogan of this relationship.
* * *
At eleven oh-seven, Jeremy proposes putting a temporary cider-press demonstration on a slope that becomes approximately the texture of pudding after rain.
“No,” I say.
Jeremy takes a breath.
I admire his courage.
“It’s visually better.”
“Gravity is also visually interesting. We still don’t schedule guests to experience it unexpectedly.”
Priya lowers her tablet to hide a smile.
We are standing near the lower picnic route with Grant, Landon, two Northspan production leads, and my cousin Ben, who has been invited because he knows where every buried utility line on the property is and because I promised him lunch.
Jeremy points toward the upper path.
“Weather says rain Wednesday, not Thursday.”
“Weather says rain starts Wednesday afternoon. Ground doesn’t become dry by committee Thursday morning.”
“We can mat the route.”
“You can put the press demonstration on the hard-packed lane beside the tasting barn, where we already have power, guest barriers, hand-wash access, and level ground.”
“The background isn’t as scenic.”
Landon studies the route map.
“The barn angle might actually be better for the press,” he says.
Jeremy looks betrayed.
Landon taps the paper.
“You’ll get the west orchard behind the operator if the camera faces northeast. Plus you won’t have visitors standing in mud.”
Jeremy looks at Grant.
Grant looks at him.
I wait.
Jeremy sighs.
“Tasting barn.”
“Excellent,” I say. “Consensus achieved without casualties.”
Ben raises his hand.
“Can lunch happen now?”
“You’re twenty-eight.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
“Yes.”
He leaves immediately.
Grant leans toward me.
“Strong governance.”
“Fear and sandwiches.”
“Most institutions.”
We move on to Thursday’s apparel shoot.
Priya has already shifted it to the north picnic lawn based on this morning’s conversation. Landon’s crew will place temporary power from the service side. Northspan loses one planned vehicle angle.
Nobody dies.
A triumph.
Then Priya swipes to the Harvest Lights preliminary layout.
Even looking at the map makes something inside me wake up.
Harvest Lights is my favorite event of the year.
Not because it is easy.
It is, in fact, a six-hour demonstration of why civilization depends on extension cords being taped down correctly.
But by late October, the orchard is nearly done picking. The nights are cold enough for gloves. We hang lights through the public blocks, put lanterns along the safe walking route, keep hot cider moving, and let Bellweather pretend for one evening that autumn has agreed not to end.
Northspan’s campaign closes the same weekend this year.
Which sounded manageable six weeks ago.
Now I am fake dating its billionaire founder, genuinely kissing him when nobody is looking, and discussing soil saturation with his production crew.
Professional evolution is strange.
Priya enlarges the map.
“Agency still wants a suspended lantern installation here.”
“No overhead lines across the guest route,” I say.
“They’re rated.”
“No.”
Jeremy looks at Grant.
Grant folds his arms.
“Stop looking at me after she answers.”
Silence.
I turn my head slowly.
Grant’s expression remains neutral.
Jeremy says, “I wasn’t.”
“You were.”
Priya suddenly becomes extremely interested in her tablet.
Landon coughs into one fist.
Jeremy’s ears turn pink.
“Right. Sorry.”
Grant nods once.
“Ask Nora what would work.”
Jeremy looks at me.
Properly this time.
“What would work?”
“Ground-level lantern clusters outside the walking edge, weighted bases, battery units instead of cable wherever possible. Nothing a kid can grab, nothing that narrows the path, and nothing between the route and emergency access.”
He writes it down.
Actual writing.
Miracles happen.
I glance at Grant.
He is already looking at the map again.
No smile.
No request for credit.
Nothing that turns his support into something I owe him.
My chest does an annoying thing.
Landon notices.
Of course he notices.
I become deeply interested in emergency egress.
The meeting ends at eleven forty-three.
Priya and Jeremy head toward the production office.
Grant gets stopped by one of his managers.
Landon rolls the site map and waits until we are mostly alone.
“I meant what I said earlier.”
I brace automatically.
He sees it.
“Not about us.”
“That clarification is appreciated.”
His mouth tightens with something close to regret.
“About Lydia’s project.”
“Okay.”
“The old staffing model was yours.”
“Landon.”
“Hear me out.”
I cross my arms.
He looks toward the tasting barn.
“We built Price together.”
There is a time when that sentence would have made me angry enough to lose the next ten minutes.
Today it just makes me tired.
“We did.”
“I didn’t say that enough while we were doing it.”
No.
He did not.
His grip shifts on the rolled plan.
“I still have the original files from our shared drive. The templates you created before we incorporated, the staffing calculators, your vendor evaluation sheets. They’re not mine to hold hostage.”
My throat tightens unexpectedly.
“I have copies of some.”
“Not all.”
“No.”
“I can send you yours.”
“Mine.”
“Yours.”
“No current Price vendor rates. No client lists. No confidential contracts.”
A faint smile.
“I remember your ethics policy.”
“I wrote your ethics policy.”