Chapter 10
At nine fifty-seven Thursday morning, Bell & Weather Events consists of one laptop, one business checking account opened online at six fourteen, one insurance quote I have read seventeen times, and a founder who is considering fleeing to Canada.
Canada is in the wrong direction.
I have checked.
“You are not fleeing,” Tessa says.
She is standing in the market-office doorway holding a cider doughnut like a weapon.
“I didn’t say I was.”
“You looked at the window.”
“There are leaves outside.”
“You hate that window.”
“I do not hate the window.”
“It faces the dumpster.”
I look at the dumpster.
“Canada remains available.”
Tessa comes inside and puts the doughnut beside my laptop.
“Eat.”
“I’ll throw up.”
“Then do it after the call. We are not wasting cinnamon sugar because capitalism frightened you.”
My laptop clock changes to 9:58.
The proposal call starts at ten.
I have hosted twelve-hundred-person galas with less adrenaline.
This is because those galas belonged to somebody else.
Their budgets were somebody else’s risk.
Their invoices had somebody else’s logo.
If the floral shipment arrived in the wrong shade of pink, I could fix it without questioning the basic structure of my identity.
Bell & Weather is mine.
Which is thrilling.
Also apparently terrible for digestion.
Tessa leans over my shoulder.
“Your hair is fine.”
“I didn’t ask.”
“Your shirt says competent but approachable.”
“I didn’t ask that either.”
“Your face says hostage.”
I turn toward her.
“Tessa.”
She kisses the top of my head.
“You are going to be disgusting at this.”
“Good disgusting?”
“Obscenely competent.”
“Thank you.”
“Now stop touching the insurance quote.”
I move my hand away from the insurance quote.
She leaves.
Thirty seconds later, my phone buzzes.
Grant.
I stare at the screen.
One message.
Good luck. I will not ask how it went until you tell me.
I read it twice.
Then a third time because emotional maturity is annoyingly attractive.
I type back.
Your restraint has been documented.
His answer arrives immediately.
I expect a certificate.
I put the phone facedown.
At 9:59, somebody knocks.
I look up.
Landon stands in the doorway.
Of course he does.
There are moments when the universe shows the subtlety of a raccoon opening a trash can.
He lifts both hands.
“I am not here to interfere.”
“Strong opening.”
“I needed the printer.”
I glance at the printer behind me.
“Tragic.”
His eyes move to the laptop.
“Ten o’clock?”
I nod.
He hesitates.
Then he says, “Good luck, Nora.”
Not Nor.
Not we should talk afterward.
Not remember how we used to do this.
Just my name.
“Thank you.”
He takes the printout from the tray and leaves.
The clock changes.
Ten.
I join the call.
Lydia appears first, silver-framed glasses, dark sweater, hotel art behind her.
“Nora.”
“Lydia. Good to see you.”
“You too. Thanks for turning this around so quickly.”
Her operations director joins from an office.
The finance director appears from what looks like the back seat of a car.
For one insane second, I think about Grant’s mock interview.
Be capitalism.
Fine.
I can do capitalism.
Lydia starts with the project.
January leadership retreat.
Three days at a lodge outside Stowe.
One hundred and forty senior employees.
Two executive sessions, one full-company program day, winter activities, dinners, transport, production, weather contingencies, and the ordinary corporate fantasy that one hundred and forty adults can be moved through a schedule without anyone losing a glove.
Then she looks into the camera.
“Walk us through how you’d run it.”
My fear does something useful.
It becomes work.
I share the operating structure.
One client decision channel.
One master schedule.
Vendor responsibility assigned by function.
Transport timed backward from session starts.
A weather trigger for outdoor activities that shifts guests indoors before conditions become a problem instead of after somebody falls on ice.
I talk about load-in.
Room turns.
Dietary tracking.
Executive changes that arrive fourteen minutes before dinner and somehow expect to become reality without disturbing physics.
Lydia smiles.
Her operations director asks about freelance labor.
I explain the backup staffing agreements I would carry for critical roles.
The finance director asks what happens if attendance rises by twenty percent.
“Scope adjustment,” I say. “Not panic.”
Lydia laughs.
The finance director does not.
Excellent.
I like her immediately.
“What would trigger a change order?” she asks.
“Anything that changes deliverables, labor assumptions, guest count beyond the agreed band, production requirements, or venue use.”
“And if Lydia calls you the night before and asks for an additional dinner for forty people?”
“I explain the cost and operational impact before I say yes.”
Lydia puts one hand over her heart.
“Betrayal.”
“You taught me.”
“I did.”
The finance director looks down at my proposal.
“Your management fee is higher than the preliminary number Lydia mentioned from prior events.”
There it is.
My body recognizes the old reflex instantly.
Discount.
Explain.
Make myself cheaper before anyone can decide I cost too much.
I take one breath.
“The preliminary number was for work I performed under another production company with a different cost structure. This proposal reflects the scope Bell & Weather would own directly.”
She waits.
I keep going.
“It also prices the hours realistically. I would rather give you a correct number now than win the work by underestimating it and spend January negotiating against my own mistake.”
Silence.
I resist the urge to fill it.
Grant would be proud of the waiting.
I decide not to tell him that because his face will become unbearable.
The finance director nods.
“Good.”
One word.
My shoulders release half an inch.
She moves to payment terms.
Deposit at signing.
Progress payment before final vendor commitments.
Balance after event close.
She asks about insurance.
I give her the limits from the quote and explain the binder can be issued once the entity information is finalized.
“Entity is already formed?” she asks.
“As of this morning.”
That is technically true if we consider registering a Vermont LLC at dawn a normal business activity and not evidence of acute psychological distress.
“Banking?”
“Business account is open. I also have a lender meeting tomorrow regarding working capital.”
I do not mention that I spent twenty minutes at six fifteen staring at the bank’s confirmation screen while wearing pajama pants with apples on them.
Professionalism has boundaries.
The operations director asks, “Would Bell & Weather contract directly with the lodge and vendors, or would you act strictly as our agent?”
We spend ten minutes on structure.
Some vendor contracts direct to client.
Some managed through Bell & Weather depending on liability, deposits, and client preference.
No magical shell game.
No pretending my new company has the balance sheet of Price Event Production because I want to sound bigger.
When we finish, Lydia removes her glasses.
“Anything you want to ask us?”
Yes.
Are you hiring me?
Will my life survive if you do?
Is there a dignified way to scream on a video call?
Instead I ask about approval authority, program changes, attendee travel, and how much freedom I would have to replace vendors if a winter-weather plan requires it.
Lydia answers.
Then she looks at the other two people on the call.
They look back.
My heart rate becomes medically interesting.
The finance director speaks first.
“I don’t see a reason Bell & Weather can’t contract directly.”
I forget how breathing works.
The operations director says, “Neither do I.”
Lydia smiles.
“Nora, if you’re still interested, we’d like to move to a letter of intent while legal reviews the agreement.”
Still interested.
I look at the proposal on my screen.
Bell & Weather Events.
My name beneath it.
No Price logo.
No Landon.
No employer.
No one else between my work and the person buying it.
“Yes,” I say.
My voice is steady.
I am proud of that.
“I am very interested.”
“Good. I’ll have the LOI over this afternoon.”
We discuss next steps.
Certificate of insurance.
W-9.
Contract review.
Initial site walk in November.
No champagne explodes.
No choir appears.
At 10:46, the call ends.
I stare at my own face reflected faintly in the black laptop screen.
Then I say, very calmly, “Holy shit.”
Tessa bursts through the door.
“Did you get it?”
I spin.
“Were you listening?”
“No. I have been pressing my ear against the door with integrity.”
“Tessa.”
“Did you get it?”
“They’re sending a letter of intent.”
Her scream frightens somebody in the market.
Possibly several people.
She throws both arms around me hard enough to move my chair backward.
“Oh my God.”
“I know.”
“You have a client.”
“Potential client.”
She pulls back.
“Do not make me slap the word potential out of your mouth.”
“It’s an LOI, not a signed contract.”
“It is a client wearing legal underpants.”
I start laughing.
I cannot stop.
Tessa laughs too, which makes it worse.
For about thirty seconds, we are two thirty-three-year-old women clinging to each other in a market office while somebody outside asks whether the cider slush machine is broken.
Then Tessa’s eyes get wet.
Absolutely not.
“No.”
“What?”
“Do not cry.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“Allergies.”
“In September?”
“Very aggressive foliage.”
I hug her again.
This one is quieter.
She says into my hair, “You did it.”
The words nearly finish me.
“Not yet.”
“You started.”
That is different.
That I can accept.
“I started.”
She kisses my cheek and heads for the door.
“Now tell your boyfriend before I do.”
“Which boyfriend?”
Tessa turns around slowly.
“Careful.”
I pick up my phone.
Grant’s message is still there.
I type three words.
LOI coming today.
The typing bubble appears.
Disappears.
Appears again.
Then:
May I come over?
I smile.
Yes.
He is in the doorway less than four minutes later.
I narrow my eyes.
“Were you waiting nearby?”
“I had a meeting in the production office.”
“Convenient.”
“I walked.”
“You walk suspiciously fast.”