Chapter 2
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Joanna left two voicemails before noon and Ada did not return either of them.
She taught two more classes and then drove four blocks to her mother’s bakery, because it was Tuesday, and on Tuesdays at noon Ada always ate a piece of cinnamon brioche standing up at the counter of the Salt a sponsor weekend in Portland; a community Family Skate Night here at the Barn; a Q a black-tie gala dress rehearsal; and finally the gala itself, on the rink floor, the final Sunday in February.
“And Ada said no to Theo,” Pete said, miserably. “Which I understand. Which I am not arguing. Which I would not have asked her to do if I had any kind of — but I have to keep solving the problem.”
“You have to keep solving the problem,” Wes echoed.
“Yes.”
“Pete,” Wes said, in a very neutral voice, “you do not have to ask Theo at all.”
“I have to ask Theo,” Pete said, weakly. “I have to ask. He’s the starter. He’s the public face. He’s the —”
“He’s not the face Tidemark is going to get,” Wes said.
“Even if you ask. Even if he says yes. Theo will say yes and then renegotiate every appearance into something that is good for Theo. I have known him longer than you have. By the time you get to the gala, Theo will be doing a solo bit and Ada will have been quietly moved off the photo wall.”
Ada did not breathe.
“So pitch them me,” Wes said.
“What.”
“Pitch them me. Tidemark.”
“Wes.”
“I’m a Pilot. I’m a local. I am, at minimum, also a man who can stand on ice in a sweater.
If they want Real Harbor People, I am — I grew up on Eames Street.
I work the youth program three mornings a week.
I have not left this town in five years except to drive a kid to a hospital appointment in Bangor.
I am a Real Harbor Person. Pitch them me. ”