Chapter 5 Atlas
five
Atlas
Post-storm Silver Ridge looks like a town that took a hit and is getting up.
I have three crews running simultaneously and I'm the fourth. The difficult jobs are mine: steep pitches, unstable sections, the two commercial properties where the scope is complex enough that I need to be on-site. Danny's house is done. Margaret Okafor's porch overhang is rebuilt and solid.
Danny finds me on Wednesday morning while I'm loading materials.
He doesn't ask about Willa. Which means he's clocked something and is giving me room, which is a thing Danny does — eight years together and he's learned when to push and when to load the truck and wait.
To his credit, he waits about four minutes.
"You seem good," he says, lifting a bundle of ice-and-water shield onto the bed.
"I am good."
"Specifically good."
"Load the truck," I say, forcing myself not to grin.
Willa's supplemental review request went through the provincial regulator on Friday.
Her company came back Monday with something I didn't expect: a full review approved, a senior file handler assigned, preliminary notice issued to all six affected Silver Ridge clients that back payments may be forthcoming.
The process will take time. She's explained this to each client individually, in person, where she can. The framework is in motion.
Margaret Okafor calls me on Tuesday afternoon, crying with joy.
"They're sending a review letter," she says. "A real one. She filed the claim correctly, Atlas, the full scope from three years ago—"
"I know," I say. "She's good at her job."
"She's a lovely person." A pause. "She came by Tuesday." Another pause. "She didn't know how to take a compliment. I told her she was extremely competent, and she looked at me like I'd said something in a foreign language."
She does not know how to receive a compliment. This is accurate. I've watched her deflect three of them in the past week with the efficiency of someone who's had a lot of practice.
I go to the hotel in the afternoon.
She's in the side room, on the phone, and I hear her register before I hear her words — professional, careful, managing something. I wait in the lobby.
"Calgary," she says when she sees me.
"Business?"
"Offer." She sits in one of Maple's wingback chairs. "Regional director position. Prairie and interior BC files. Staff, budget, stability."
I absorb this.
The lobby is warm. Maple runs the sconces on warm whenever it's grey outside, and today it's grey, the tail end of the storm system still sitting over the valley. I've been in this lobby a dozen times, and I've never stood in the doorway thinking about what I was about to say before I said it.
I know what the careful version looks like. I've given it before — this is your decision, I support whatever you choose — and I've meant it, and it was right, and it protected everyone, including me. The careful version is not dishonest. It's just incomplete.
"I'm not going to pretend I want you to go," I say.
She looks up.
"You can factor it in or not. That's yours." I stay in the doorway. "But I'm not giving you the careful version."
She looks at me for a long time. The light in here is doing something to her eyes — somewhere between green and gold, the hazel shifting the way it does when she's working something out.
"I haven't decided," she says.
"Okay," I say and leave it at that.
It takes all my strength to get through the rest of the day. I wasn’t looking for love, but now that I’ve found her, there is no way I’m letting her go.