Chapter 8
By six twenty Tuesday evening, I have learned that preparing for Nora Bell to visit my house is significantly more stressful than negotiating with institutional investors.
This is ridiculous for several reasons.
First, it is not technically my house. It is a furnished farmhouse Northspan rented for six weeks because every hotel within thirty miles of Bellweather was either booked for leaf season or had internet service described online as “usually.”
Second, Nora has seen me covered in orchard mud, ordered me to move a pallet, watched me lose an argument with a woman in her late sixties over coffee pricing, and kissed me hard enough to temporarily erase corporate governance from my memory.
A throw pillow should not have this much power.
I move it anyway.
Then I move it back.
My phone rings on the kitchen counter.
Cameron.
I answer. “No.”
“I haven’t asked anything.”
“You were about to.”
“I was going to ask whether the weather delay is handled.”
I look through the window at the wet field behind the house. Yesterday’s rain continued until almost noon today, leaving the orchard soft enough that Nora relocated two Thursday setups before Northspan finished breakfast.
“Handled.”
“Priya says the apparel shoot lost the west-meadow option.”
“It did.”
“And?”
“And we moved it.”
A pause.
“That was easy.”
“Nora had an alternative.”
“Of course she did.”
I open the refrigerator.
It contains significantly more food than it did yesterday, which is mostly because I went to the Bellweather Market after lunch and discovered that shopping while thinking about a specific woman produces an unreasonable number of purchases.
I have cheese she mentioned liking.
Bread from the bakery beside the print shop.
Apples, which is absurd when I spend ten hours a day at an orchard.
Eggs, naturally.
And ingredients for a roast chicken dinner that I am beginning to suspect exceeds the normal effort level for a Tuesday.
Cameron says, “What are you doing?”
“Looking in the refrigerator.”
“Why?”
“That’s generally where food is kept.”
“Grant.”
I close the door.
“Nora is coming over.”
Silence.
Then, “To the house?”
“Yes.”
“The house where you currently have one chair you like and four bedrooms you never enter?”
“There are several chairs.”
“That wasn’t the point.”
“I know.”
Another pause.
I can hear the smile in it.
“I hate this conversation.”
“I haven’t said anything.”
“You are saying things by not saying them.”
“Mae’s eyebrows again?”
“Apparently contagious.”
Cameron laughs.
“Fine. I will behave. One work thing. Communications has a request from Financial Ledger for comment about the Vermont campaign and whether your relationship with Nora influenced the location choice.”
My hand stills on the counter.
“Absolutely not.”
“That is also what the timeline says. Bellweather was selected before you met her.”
“Then give them the timeline.”
“Already did.”
“And don’t involve Nora.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
I exhale.
This is the part I still have to learn.
Not every problem requires me to reach into it before someone else can.
Cameron says, “Grant?”
“Yes.”
“She may eventually need to decide for herself whether she wants to answer questions.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
I look toward the driveway.
No headlights yet.
“I am trying.”
“I know.”
Her voice softens just enough to be irritating.
“Have a nice evening.”
“I was planning to.”
“Oh, God.”
I hang up before she can make it worse.
At six thirty-eight, headlights turn into the drive.
I know it is Nora before I see the truck.
My body has apparently developed vehicle recognition.
This feels medically embarrassing.
I step onto the porch as she parks beside my SUV.
She gets out carrying a canvas bag, her laptop, and a bottle of wine.
I look at the bottle.
She lifts it.
“I know you said you’re not drinking during campaign workdays, so this is for later or never. I panicked in the market and bought a hostess gift like somebody’s divorced aunt.”
“You didn’t need to bring anything.”
“That sentence is the natural predator of the hostess gift.”
She climbs the porch steps.
Her hair is down, still slightly wavy from the damp air. She is wearing jeans, brown boots, and a rust-colored sweater that turns every coherent thought in my head into a temporary service outage.
I make myself look at her face.
“You look beautiful.”
She stops.
For all her jokes, Nora still occasionally reacts to directness as if nobody warned her it was allowed.
“Thank you.”
Then she looks me over.
“You look suspiciously domestic.”
I glance down at my dark sweater and jeans.
“I’m dressed.”
“Exactly. No coat. No radio. No billionaire field jacket. You’re in a kitchen-adjacent environment.”
“Should I be concerned?”
“Deeply.”
She steps inside.
Then stops again.
The farmhouse is comfortable in the expensive, professionally furnished way of a place designed to offend nobody. Wide-plank floors. Stone fireplace. Cream sofa. Dining table large enough for people I have never invited here.
Nora turns slowly.
“This is where you live?”
“For six weeks.”
“This is where you are stored.”
I close the door behind her.
“Stored.”
“There is no evidence of a person.”
“There are shoes by the door.”
“One pair.”
“I have more upstairs.”
“Scandalous.”
She sets down her bag and walks into the living room.
I follow.
She examines a shelf containing three decorative books selected by someone who does not read them.
“Have you touched any object in this room?”
“I use the sofa.”
“Allegedly.”
“I sat there this morning.”
“Doing what?”
“Reading email.”
She turns.
“That does not count as living.”
“I also drank coffee.”
“Reckless.”
I take her coat.
She watches me hang it beside mine.
Something changes in her expression.
Small.
Warm.
I am learning that most of the important things with Nora happen at that scale.
She looks toward the kitchen.
“Something smells good.”
“Chicken.”
Her eyebrows rise.
“You cook?”
“I can follow instructions.”
“That was not my question.”
“Yes. I cook.”
“Why is your favorite food eggs, then?”
“Efficiency.”
“That is the saddest possible answer.”
“They’re also good.”
“Still sad.”
She crosses into the kitchen and looks at the counter.
I have vegetables chopped, potatoes roasting, and a chicken halfway through what the recipe claims is an uncomplicated process.
Nora stares.
“What?”
“You went shopping.”
“Yes.”
“For vegetables.”
“Adults occasionally do.”
She opens the refrigerator before I can stop her.
Her head disappears behind the door.
Then she slowly straightens.
“You bought Cabot clothbound cheddar.”
I know immediately that I have made a mistake.
“You said you liked it.”
“Once.”
“At dinner.”
“You remembered.”
“Yes.”
Her gaze stays on me.
There are moments when my instinct to pay attention feels like competence.
Under Nora’s stare, it feels closer to exposure.
“I also bought mustard,” I say.
She closes the refrigerator.
“Very casual.”
“I needed mustard.”
“You had mustard yesterday.”
“How do you know that?”
“I didn’t. I guessed from your egg obsession.”
“I did not realize you were retaining evidence.”
“I work in events. Documentation is everything.”
She comes closer.
“Thank you.”
“For cheese?”
“For remembering without making it weird.”
“I think we are currently making it weird.”
“Only conversationally.”
She kisses me.
No question.
No warning.
Just a quick press of her mouth to mine because we have apparently moved far enough past the original rule that this is allowed privately now.
I do not object.
When she steps back, I say, “For the record, that was acceptable.”
“Excellent. I was worried your compliance department might object.”
“They are difficult.”
“I’ve met your sister.”
I return to the chicken because another thirty seconds of Nora standing close to me in that sweater will turn dinner into a salvage operation.
She leans against the counter.
“How was your afternoon?”
“Two budget calls. One supply-chain review. Priya moved Thursday’s shoot. Jeremy complained about mud as if Vermont invented it personally.”
“He’s adapting.”
“He asked you before changing the path.”
“I noticed.”
“You looked disappointed.”
“I enjoy having enemies. They give structure to the day.”
I smile.
“How is the proposal?”
Her face changes immediately.
There it is.
Bell & Weather.
“I sent Lydia the formal version at four twelve.”
“You didn’t tell me.”
“I have been here nine minutes.”
“Fair.”
“I also got the files from Landon.”
I set down the spoon.
“How was that?”
“Weird.”
“Useful weird or bad weird?”
“Both.”
She pulls a small flash drive from her bag and holds it up.
“He sent exactly what he promised. My templates, my old planning worksheets, original versions with metadata. No client contracts. No current vendor rates.”
“Good.”
“He also found the first Bell & Weather budget I made.”
I look at her.
“How old?”
“Three years.”
“Before the breakup.”
“Before the breakup.”
Her voice is lighter than the subject.
That usually means it is heavier.
I wait.
She rotates the flash drive between her fingers.
“I had forgotten how far I got.”
“With the business?”
“With admitting I wanted it.”
The oven timer goes off.
Neither of us moves for one second.
Then Nora points.
“Your domestic credibility is burning.”
I take the chicken out.
She laughs and starts opening cabinets until she finds plates.
“You don’t have to help.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you?”
“Because I am hungry and your plating instincts are probably authoritarian.”
“They are efficient.”
“Exactly.”
We eat at the dining table.
The chicken survives.
Nora has seconds.
I consider this a better performance metric than most of Northspan’s quarterly reports.
Halfway through dinner, she puts down her fork.
“Mock interview.”
I look at her.
“For Thursday?”
“Proposal call. Lydia’s operations director and finance person are joining. I want you to be difficult.”
“I can do that.”
“I know. Natural talent.”
I take a drink of water.
“All right. Why should I hire Bell & Weather instead of a larger production company?”
She answers immediately.