Chapter 7 #2
The smile dies.
“Yeah.”
For one second, we are standing in Boston again, except neither of us is pretending the old problems are temporary.
“Send the files,” I say.
“I will.”
“Thank you.”
He nods.
Then he says, “Are you really starting something?”
My instinct is to minimize.
To say maybe.
To say I’m only sending a proposal.
To keep the thing small enough that failure cannot humiliate me.
Instead I look him directly in the face.
“Yes.”
The word surprises both of us.
Landon recovers first.
“What are you calling it?”
“Bell & Weather Events.”
His expression changes.
Not amusement.
Recognition.
“You had that name before.”
My heart gives one hard beat.
“I had the name before we split.”
“I remember it in your notebook.”
Of course he does.
He remembers plenty.
That was never the problem.
“It’s good,” he says.
I wait for the rest.
The offer.
The suggestion.
The familiar little pivot where my work becomes something we should discuss together.
It does not come.
He just nods.
“I’ll send the files tonight.”
“Okay.”
He walks away.
I stand there holding my radio and feel as if a door I forgot was stuck has finally moved an inch.
Not open.
Not closed.
Just no longer jammed.
“Everything all right?”
Grant’s voice comes from behind me.
I turn.
“Stop materializing after emotionally significant conversations.”
“I walked over from the barn.”
“Suspicious.”
He looks toward Landon.
“What happened?”
“He is sending me copies of my old planning files.”
Grant’s face gives away nothing.
“He offered?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want them?”
“Yes.”
“Then good.”
I narrow my eyes.
“That was very disciplined.”
“I have been threatened with a fryer.”
“Tessa is an excellent regulatory agency.”
Grant steps closer.
“Something else happened.”
Damn him.
“What makes you say that?”
“You look terrified.”
“I do not.”
“You said you’re starting the business.”
I stare.
He smiles.
“You also look pleased.”
“That is invasive.”
“Nora.”
“Fine.”
I lower my voice.
“I said it out loud.”
“What?”
“That I’m starting Bell & Weather.”
His smile disappears.
Not because he is unhappy.
Because whatever replaces it is too serious for smiling.
“Good.”
One word.
Again.
It lands exactly where it did yesterday.
I point at him.
“You need additional vocabulary.”
“I have plenty.”
“Use some.”
“I’m proud of you.”
My breath catches.
Grant’s expression shifts immediately.
“If that’s unwelcome, I’ll take it back.”
“No.”
I swallow.
“It isn’t.”
He waits.
I hate that he has learned how valuable waiting can be.
“I’m proud of me too,” I say.
His eyes warm.
“Good.”
“Still repetitive.”
“I can live with that.”
My phone buzzes.
I take it out.
Lydia Cross.
Not an email this time.
A calendar invitation.
PROPOSAL CALL, THURSDAY, 10:00 A.M.
My stomach drops clean through Vermont.
Grant reads my face.
“Good or bad?”
“Thursday.”
“What happens Thursday?”
“Apparently every dangerous woman in my life has selected Thursday.”
He looks alarmed.
“Lydia?”
“Proposal call at ten.”
“That’s good.”
“That gives me three days.”
“You’ve planned events with less.”
“This is different.”
“Why?”
“Because this one is mine.”
The words are out before I can protect them.
Grant goes still.
I look at the calendar invitation again.
There is excitement underneath the panic.
Huge, bright, stupid excitement.
“I’m going to throw up,” I say.
“Do you want company?”
“What a romantic offer.”
“I’m improvising.”
I accept the calendar invitation.
Then I look at him.
“I need to stress-test the proposal.”
He waits.
I can practically see him trying not to volunteer.
It is magnificent.
And infuriating.
“You may speak.”
“Thank you.”
“Do you know how to evaluate a service proposal without acquiring the company?”
“I believe so.”
“Can you prove it?”
“Possibly.”
I breathe in.
This is help.
Not rescue.
Not money.
Not him opening his contact list and dropping clients at my feet.
A second set of eyes.
From a man who has apparently looked at enough business proposals to wallpaper a medium-sized municipality.
“I want you to read it tonight.”
His eyebrows rise.
“Are you sure?”
“I reserve the right to reject every opinion you have.”
“Of course.”
“You do not rewrite it.”
“Agreed.”
“You do not call anyone.”
“Agreed.”
“You do not magically know Lydia’s chief financial officer.”
“I don’t.”
“That answer was too fast.”
“I genuinely don’t.”
“Good.”
He smiles.
“Anything else?”
“Yes. I’m buying dinner.”
“The next one.”
“I remember.”
“Good.”
I point at him again.
“Stop enjoying compliance.”
“I can’t promise that.”
* * *
At seven thirty that evening, Bell & Weather Events has a real proposal, a real prospective client, and a real domain name that I purchased with my own credit card while Tessa stood over my shoulder yelling, “CLICK IT,” like I was defusing a bomb.
It also has Grant Ashford sitting across from me in the market office with a red pen he has not yet used.
The red pen was my mistake.
I handed it to him.
“I hate your face,” I say.
“You asked me to read this.”
“I assumed you would be less literate.”
He looks back at page four.
Outside, the orchard is dark except for security lights near the work buildings and a test strand of Harvest Lights glowing along the market porch.
Rain taps lightly against the window.
It started two days early.
Of course it did.
A pizza box sits open on the filing cabinet.
I bought dinner.
Grant allowed this without attempting to acquire the restaurant.
Growth everywhere.
He taps one line with the capped pen.
“You want a question or an opinion?”
I hate that distinction because it is useful.
“Question.”
“If Lydia accepts everything in this scope, how many hours are you actually selling?”
I look at the number.
“Probably seventy-five through event close.”
“And your project fee assumes?”
“Sixty.”
He says nothing.
“I know.”
He continues saying nothing.
“Stop it.”
“I’m not doing anything.”
“Your silence has a spreadsheet.”
He smiles.
I take the proposal back.
“The management fee needs to go up.”
“Does it?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because if I win the job by pretending my time costs less than it does, I have simply invented employment with extra paperwork.”
He nods.
I change the number.
My stomach clenches.
It is still reasonable.
I know it is reasonable.
I have charged clients more under someone else’s company.
Apparently capitalism becomes emotionally personal when the invoice has your own logo on top.
Grant watches me save the change.
“Anything else?” I ask.
“One.”
I brace.
“You describe contingency management three times, but nowhere do you say plainly that you own the operating plan from vendor load-in through guest departure.”
I blink.
“That’s obvious.”
“To you.”
I read the paragraph.
Damn him.
I add a sentence.
“Better?”
“Much.”
I set the laptop aside.
“Congratulations. You have survived consulting for Bell & Weather Events.”
“I feel transformed.”
“You will not be compensated.”
“Rule four?”
“Hostile procurement.”
He laughs.
Rain thickens against the window.
For a minute, neither of us speaks.
Grant looks toward the glass.
“Celeste answered once more.”
I turn.
“When?”
“This afternoon.”
“And you waited to tell me?”
“You were working. It wasn’t urgent.”
That answer should not feel as good as it does.
“What did she say?”
“Just that she understood. She also said she didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
“Huh.”
“You keep saying that.”
“She keeps refusing to become convenient.”
Grant leans back in the chair.
“We were good together for a while.”
There is no nostalgia in the sentence.
Only fact.
I wait.
“She understood parts of my life most people don’t,” he says. “Travel. Attention. What it does to ordinary things when enough people recognize you.”
“Then what happened?”
He looks down at his hands.
I have never seen Grant search for words this long.
“She believed if something would eventually become public, controlling the release made it ours.”
“And you didn’t.”