Chapter 15
Claire had Owen on the living-room floor when Miranda came home. He lay beneath the activity gym kicking at the blue ring while Claire sat beside him with one leg folded beneath her, eating grapes from a bowl and reading the back of the YSL serum box as though it contained evidence of fraud.
“This claims to restore radiance,” she said without looking up. “For that price, I expect it to restore cartilage.”
Miranda set her bag beside the dining table and placed Lauren’s envelope on top of it. The house smelled like coffee and the lavender detergent Claire used on everything she owned, including clothes that had never needed washing.
“How was he?” Miranda asked.
“Pleasantly tyrannical. He rejected the first bottle, accepted the second, and then screamed because I removed the empty bottle from his mouth.” Claire set the box aside and watched Miranda remove her coat. “How bad was the meeting?”
“They offered me a job with the same salary and none of the authority.”
Claire’s expression did not change much, which was one of the reasons Miranda had called her instead of their mother. “Did you sign anything?”
“No. I asked them to send everything in writing.”
“That was the correct answer.” Claire reached down and rescued a cloth fox from Owen’s grip before he could drag it over his face. “Garrett?”
“Still at work.”
Claire waited, but Miranda did not offer more. The confrontation upstairs belonged to Garrett now, and she had no desire to imagine him demanding answers from Willa only to accept whichever explanation let him preserve the friendship.
She carried Lauren’s envelope to the kitchen and cut it open with the edge of a butter knife.
The contents slid onto the table in a loose stack: two benefits notices, a vendor catalogue, a holiday card from a hotel client, an invitation to an awards dinner that had already passed, and several envelopes with her name handwritten across the front.
Most were unimportant. A supplier had sent a thank-you note for a campaign completed before Owen was born. A former intern had mailed a wedding invitation. The final envelope was heavier than the others, cream paper with a return address she recognized before she read the name.
Nolan Sanders.
Miranda held it for a moment, searching for the last time they had spoken.
Nolan had been the marketing director at Bellmont Hospitality during the company’s expansion campaign, the client who arrived at meetings with annotated spreadsheets and distrusted every slogan until Miranda connected it to an occupancy target.
He had left Bellmont the previous summer to form his own consultancy, and Dennis had complained for weeks about losing one of the few clients who understood deadlines.
Claire came into the kitchen carrying Owen against her shoulder. “That one looks expensive.”
“It’s from Nolan Sanders.”
“The hotel man?”
“The former hotel man.” Miranda opened the envelope carefully and unfolded a four-page proposal printed on thick paper. A brief letter sat on top.
Miranda,
I’m launching a regional campaign for a hospitality group expanding into three new markets. I need someone who understands how to connect brand positioning to actual operational decisions, and you remain the best strategist I’ve worked with in that area.
I tried your Halcyon email twice and did not hear back, so I’m sending this directly to the office in case the messages were caught in a filter.
The project scope is attached. I would prefer to work with you independently if your agreement allows it, though I’m open to contracting through Halcyon if necessary.
Please call when convenient. If the timing is wrong, I understand, but I wanted you to know the invitation is specific to you.
Nolan
Miranda read the final sentence again.
Claire shifted Owen higher and leaned over her shoulder. “How much?”
Miranda turned to the second page.
The fee was thirty-two thousand dollars for a sixteen-week strategy engagement, paid in four installments. The work included market positioning, campaign development, and weekly client sessions, with travel limited to two overnight presentations if Miranda agreed in advance.
No office hours. No language about flexibility, gradual reentry, or responsibilities suited to her availability. The milestones were tied to completed work, not physical presence.
“He sent this six weeks ago,” Miranda said.
Claire looked at the postmark. “And no one forwarded it.”
“He emailed too.”
“To your work account?”
“Yes.”
Miranda opened her laptop and searched Nolan’s name. Nothing appeared in the results. She checked the spam folder, then the archive, then broadened the search to his company domain.
Still nothing.
“Could someone have deleted them?” Claire asked.
“Not without access to my account.”
“Who has access?”
“IT. Maybe Dennis, if he requested it.” Miranda looked toward the envelope again. The corner had been creased, as though someone had opened the mail slot, handled it, and placed it back in the accumulated pile. “Lauren may know when this arrived.”
Claire set Owen into the bouncer and fastened the straps. “Call Nolan first.”
Miranda glanced at the clock. It was almost eleven, early enough that the call would not require an apology and late enough that he would already be working.
She entered the number from the letter before she could begin rehearsing an explanation.
Nolan answered on the third ring. “Sanders.”
His voice brought back conference rooms, airport hotels, and the campaign launch where he had rejected the proposed theme twenty minutes before the client dinner, then accepted Miranda’s replacement because she had explained it in terms of revenue rather than taste.
“It’s Miranda Holloway.”
There was a brief pause, followed by a change in his tone. “Miranda. I was beginning to think I had offended you.”
“You didn’t. I just received your proposal this morning.”
“This morning?”
“It was sitting in accumulated mail at Halcyon. I’m on maternity leave.”
“I know. I sent the letter there because the emails received no response, and I did not have your home address.” He sounded irritated now, though not with her. “Someone at Halcyon told me you were unavailable indefinitely.”
“Who?”
“Willa Burnett. She replied from your account thread and said she was managing your portfolio.” Nolan paused. “I assumed she had authority to answer.”
Miranda looked at Claire. “What exactly did she say?”
“That you had stepped away from client work and were unlikely to take on anything new for the foreseeable future. She offered to discuss the project herself.”
The words settled with an efficiency that left no room for doubt. Willa had not merely accepted Miranda’s accounts. She had intercepted work offered directly to Miranda and tried to redirect it.
“Did you speak with her?” Miranda asked.
“Once. She was prepared, but she did not understand the operational side of the assignment, and I was not interested in substituting another account manager.” Nolan’s voice softened slightly. “I asked for you because I wanted you.”
The sentence carried no personal implication. That was what made it land.
Miranda looked down at the proposal. “Is the project still available?”
“Yes. We delayed the launch after the client changed one of the target markets.” He turned away from the phone briefly, the sound of papers moving in the background. “The fee may need revision because the scope expanded, but the role is still yours if you want it.”
She felt something wake inside her, not confidence exactly but the memory of it. Nolan had not asked whether she could manage the work with a baby or whether her priorities had changed. He had described the project, the value of her contribution, and the terms.
“I need to review my employment agreement,” she said. “There may be restrictions while I’m still technically employed.”
“Have an attorney review it. I can send the updated scope today and hold the position for a week.”
“That would help.”
“I’ll send it to your personal email.” He paused again, then added, “Miranda, for what it’s worth, I did not believe you had simply stopped answering. That was why I mailed the proposal.”
The practical kindness of the remark affected her more than sympathy would have. Nolan had noticed an inconsistency and assumed the failure did not belong to her.
“Thank you,” she said.
After the call ended, Miranda remained seated with the phone in her hand. Owen kicked hard enough to rattle the bouncer, delighted by the movement he had caused.
Claire pulled out the chair across from her. “You’re going to take it.”
“I’m going to have the agreement reviewed.”
“That was not my question.”
Miranda looked at the proposal again. The fee would not replace her salary for a year, but it would cover several months of expenses. More importantly, it belonged to work chosen for her abilities rather than adjusted around assumptions about what motherhood had left behind.
Her phone vibrated.
Garrett had sent a message.
Dennis is sending me home. We need to talk about what Willa did.
Miranda read it without answering.
Claire watched her face. “Is he coming?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want me to stay?”
Miranda looked toward Owen, then at Nolan’s proposal spread across the table beside the employment documents from Halcyon. The morning had already given her more important questions than whether Garrett finally believed Willa was dangerous.
“For a little while,” she said. “I want you here when I tell him about the proposal.”
Claire nodded and reached for the legal pad.
Miranda took the YSL lipstick from her purse and reapplied it in the dark reflection of the laptop screen.