Chapter 19 The Setback
The Setback
Jackson
* * *
The Henderson dinner starts well. Maren's food is excellent, and their dining room fills with the sounds of satisfied guests and clinking glasses.
I'm stationed near the fireplace with a bourbon I'm nursing slowly, watching my wife work the room in her professional capacity hoping she'll have time to sit beside me once her staff takes over.
Sarah Henderson corners me near the dessert table, which should have been my first warning. Sarah is a lovely woman, but she has a talent for turning casual conversation into complicated negotiations.
"Jackson, I've been meaning to ask you something.
" She touches my arm with the particular grip of someone who isn't going to let go until she gets an answer, and I brace myself for whatever's coming.
"Jenny's graduation is in May, and we're planning a party.
Fifty people, maybe sixty. I was hoping Maren might be available. "
"You should ask her directly." I say it easily, proud of myself for the redirect. "She handles all her own bookings."
"Oh, I will, but I wanted to get your thoughts first." Sarah waves her hand like we're discussing something as simple as the weather. "You know her calendar better than anyone, and I wasn't sure if May would conflict with anything at the ranch."
This is where it happens. Later, I'll replay this moment and hate myself for it, but right now, in the warm glow of the Hendersons' dining room, I let my guard down.
"May should be fine; we're past calving by then, and Maren's spring bookings are usually lighter.
" The words come out before I register what I'm doing, and I'm already halfway through the next sentence when I see Maren freeze across the room.
"I'm sure she could work out a family discount, given how long our families have... "
Maren has stopped beside the dessert table, and her voice carries clearly across the room. "Jackson."
Just my name. Just that. But Maren's voice cuts through the conversation like a blade, and I stop talking mid-word.
She crosses the room with the controlled grace of someone trying very hard not to make a scene, and I watch my mistake register in real time. Her jaw is tight. Her eyes are focused on me with an intensity that makes my stomach drop.
"I'm sorry," I say immediately, turning to face her fully. "I shouldn't have said any of that. Sarah, you should talk to Maren directly about her availability and her rates. I don't speak for her business."
The words come out right, but I can see they're not enough. Maren's expression doesn't soften.
"Sarah, I'd love to discuss Jenny's graduation party." Maren's voice is professional, warm, everything mine wasn't. "I'll put together a quote based on your guest count and preferences. Why don't you email me the details, and we can set up a call next week?"
"Oh, that sounds perfect." Sarah beams, oblivious to the tension radiating between us. "I'll send everything over tomorrow. Thank you so much, Maren."
Sarah drifts away toward another cluster of guests, and Maren turns to me with an expression I can't quite read.
Maren steps aside so another guest can pass, then points toward the staging area. "Kitchen. Now."
I follow her through the Hendersons' house to the catering staging area, where her staff is packing up equipment. She waits until we're relatively alone, then faces me with her arms crossed.
I start to tell her I caught myself, then hear how that will sound. She had to stop me. "I shouldn't have offered a discount. You shouldn't have had to correct me."
"You were negotiating my rates." Her voice is level, but I can hear the edge underneath. "To people I might work with again. At an event I'm actively catering."
She gestures toward the dining room, where Sarah can still see us. "You were speaking for my business like you own it." I have to stop myself from adding an explanation. It would sound like another excuse.
"And the family discount?" She laughs, but there's no humor in it. "Jackson, I don't offer family discounts. I offer fair prices for excellent work. If you want to subsidize the Hendersons' party budget, write them a personal check."
"You're right." I don't try to defend myself because there's no defense. "I wanted to be the helpful neighbor with a quick yes. It wasn't mine to give."
"You were." She unfolds her arms, and some of the tension leaves her shoulders. "Thank you for apologizing directly. That helped."
I hear the hesitation in her thanks and wait for the rest. "But?"
"But I need a minute." She runs a hand through her hair, a gesture I recognize as frustration working its way out. "I'm going to finish packing up here and head home. I think I need to skip tomorrow."
Friday. The date I've been looking forward to all week.
"Okay." The word costs me more than I want to admit, but I keep my voice steady. "Whatever you need."
Maren looks directly at me instead of at the equipment waiting to be packed. "Don't say it like that."
I force myself to ask without turning the question into a challenge. "Like what?"
"Like you're being punished." She shakes her head, and I can see exhaustion underneath the frustration. "I'm not punishing you, Jackson. I'm telling you I need an evening to myself."
I want to argue that I didn't mean it that way. She's tired; arguing will only make her more tired. "Take whatever time you need. I'll be here when you're ready."
She studies me for a moment before she picks up the last packing list. "Thank you for not arguing."
I don't know what to say to that, so I just nod.
She leaves her hand on the open door a moment longer before getting into the truck. "I'll call you."
* * *
Maren drives me home because we came together, and the silence in her truck is heavy enough to taste. I want to fill it, apologize again, explain myself, say something that will make this better, but I've learned enough to know that more words aren't what she needs right now.
When she pulls up in front of my house, I unbuckle my seatbelt and turn to face her.
I keep my hand on the door handle instead of reaching across to her. "I'm sorry I put you in that position with Sarah."
She keeps her eyes on the driveway ahead. "I can handle Sarah. I wish I hadn't needed to."
I have no useful excuse to offer her. "You won't have to go back and correct a second price from me."
Something flickers across her face, surprise, maybe, or something softer.
She eases her foot onto the brake while I open the truck door. "Goodnight, Jackson."
I step down onto the drive, giving her room to leave. "Goodnight, Maren."
I close the door and watch her drive away, her taillights disappearing down the long road toward town. The house feels too big when I walk inside, too quiet, and I leave the kitchen light on rather than sitting in the dark.
I set a glass of water on the kitchen table and sit down, replaying the evening in my head. The moment Sarah asked about the party. The moment I opened my mouth and said exactly the wrong thing. The moment Maren said my name and I knew I'd failed.
I keep trying to give myself credit for stopping. She had to say my name first. And she thanked me for correcting it, so why am I acting as if she owes me more?
I pull out my phone and start typing a text. I know you need space, but I wanted you to know I'm thinking about you.
My thumb hovers over send. Then I delete it, word by word.
She didn't ask for my thoughts. She asked for time. Sending a message now, no matter how well-intentioned, would be about making myself feel better, not about giving her what she needs.
I set the phone face-down on the counter and drink the water I poured.
* * *
On Sunday morning, Tom Henderson calls.
"Jackson, I wanted to thank you again for Thursday night." His voice is warm, the easy friendliness of a neighbor who doesn't know he's walking into a minefield. "Sarah can't stop talking about the food. She's already planning Jenny's menu in her head."
I leave my coffee on the counter, alert to where this might be going. "Maren does incredible work."
Tom lowers his voice as if that makes the request any less about her rates. "She mentioned getting a quote together. I was wondering if you had any thoughts on pricing...just ballpark, you know. So we can set expectations."
Here it is. The moment where I prove whether I actually learned anything.
"Tom, I really can't speak to Maren's pricing." I keep my voice friendly but firm. "That's between you and her. She knows her business better than I ever could."
"Oh, sure, of course." Tom sounds slightly surprised but not offended. "I just figured since you two are family..."
"Her business is her business." I say it like it's the simplest thing in the world, because it should be. "She'll give you a fair quote. I trust her completely."
"Well, all right then." Tom chuckles. "Can't blame a guy for trying to get inside information. I'll wait to hear from her."
I leave it there instead of promising him a favor. "You won't regret it."
After we hang up, I leave the phone on the counter. I want to tell Maren I got it right this time. She doesn't need another task, even the task of congratulating me.
I leave my phone where it is. She said she'd call me when she's ready. That has to be enough.
* * *
Wednesday morning, I wake up to a text that makes my chest tight.
Rodeo Saturday. Want to come?
She's asking me. She's the one reaching out, setting the terms, deciding when she's ready. I type my response with hands that aren't quite steady.
Yes.
Three dots appear, then her reply.
Pick you up at noon. I'm driving.
I smile at my phone like an idiot, alone in my bedroom with the sun barely up.
Yes ma'am.
Don't call me ma'am.
Yes dear.
Worse.
Yes Maren.
Better. See you Saturday.
I set the phone down and stare at the ceiling, letting the relief wash over me. She wants to see me. I reread the invitation, then put the phone down before I can start asking for more.
* * *