Chapter 5 #2
“It was very small,” she said. “It was very small and very quick, and I’m pretty sure no one else saw. It was fine.”
“Good.”
At eight-fifteen, Marin’s two assistants began to circulate with small notebooks.
At eight-twenty, Donna Acquaviva said a few things at the room about the value of community institutions.
At eight-thirty, Pete said a few things at the room about Tidemark Outfitters that managed to be both effusive and somehow vague.
At eight-thirty-five, Marin herself said a single sentence about the new campaign — “We are very, very excited to spend the next six weeks getting to know Harbor Ice through its people” — and then she stepped aside for Joanna, who said, in her plain, weary, sturdy way, “We are grateful. The rink is grateful. Thank you for being here.”
Joanna did not say the rink is in trouble. Joanna did not have to. Half the room knew, and half the room had guessed.
At eight-forty-five, Cass tapped Wes on the shoulder and said, “Front of the rink, please, you and Ada, coats on, coffees in hand.”
They went.
In the lobby, Ada pulled on her canvas jacket. Wes pulled on his.
She turned to him.
“Hand or arm,” she said.
“Your call.”
“I’d rather hand.”
“Hand.”
They walked outside. Cass had positioned herself across the parking lot, by the sign that said HARBOR ICE in faded white letters on a dark green board.
The sky was bright cold blue. The air had the specific raw smell of a January morning at low tide.
Cass nodded to them. Wes shifted his coffee to his left hand.
Ada shifted hers to her left hand. He held out his right.
She put her hand in his.
Her hand was cold. So was his. They were both wearing coats. Two coffees rose between them in their other hands like small white flags.
“Walk slow,” Cass called.
They walked slow.
Wes did not think about the touch of her hand.
He was good at not thinking about things.
He thought about the line of the parking lot.
He thought about Cass’s left elbow. He thought about the fact that he had four cones of orange light cast on the asphalt by the sodium lamps and that the cones were probably going to be in the frame.
He thought about the way Ada was breathing — slow, even, brave.
Cass said, “Stop. Look at each other.”
They stopped. They looked at each other.
He felt, briefly, the dumb, hot, embarrassed thing he had been preparing for two days not to feel. He pushed it down. He looked at her like she was a person he was talking to, because she was. He did not perform. He just looked at her face and let her be a face for a second.
Her eyes were the color of weak tea in the morning. They were tired. They had a small smile in them that was not for him at all; it was for Cass, and for Marin, and for the campaign, and for everyone watching from inside the Penalty Box.
He gave her the smallest nod, because Marin had said not Method actors and he was not going to start now.
She gave him back a smile. The smile was for the camera, and it was generous to him; she made it look easy.
“Beautiful,” Cass said. “I have it. Thank you.”
They unwound their hands.
The cold air rushed back into the gap.
“That,” Ada said quietly, “wasn’t bad.”
“It wasn’t bad,” Wes said.
They walked back into the Barn.
Inside the lobby, Marin Pell intercepted them at the door, looked at the back of Cass’s camera over Cass’s shoulder, said, “Good — yes — that,” and dismissed them with a small wave.
They stood for a second in the lobby. They were holding their coffees. The lobby was at sixty-three degrees because Wes had adjusted the thermostat at six. The lobby bench was empty. The light through the high front window was thin and cold and clean.
“Berglund,” Ada said.
“Halloran.”
“That was the coffee.”
“I know.”
“It was very good coffee.”
“I know.”
“Thank Bridget for me.”
“I will.”
She started to walk away, toward the staff hall. She stopped after three steps. She did not turn around. She said, with her back to him, “You ordered it without asking what I wanted.”
He did not say anything for a beat.
“Yes,” he said. “I did.”
She paused another second.
“Don’t make a habit of that,” she said, quietly. “I’ll let it go this once. Don’t make a habit of that.”
She kept walking.
He stood in the lobby with his coffee in his hand.
The Tidemark folder Joanna had put away two days ago was sitting open on the front desk where someone had left it for the breakfast. Real Harbor People was printed across the top of one of the pages.
Below it, in smaller print: six weeks. six events. one local story.
The campaign was on.
He drank his coffee. It had gone cold.
In his jacket pocket, his phone buzzed. Mom, the screen said. Saw the breakfast photo. Wessie. Looks nice. xo
He smiled, briefly.
He put the phone away.
Outside, a gull yelled. Somewhere inside the building, a kid laughed. The east wall, when he passed it on the way back to the staff hall, was leaking.
He fixed it. He always did.