As Holland pads down the stairs, Slate steals the empty spot of the bed. He nudges my hand, looking for attention, before he plops down, his back to my front—he loves being the little spoon. There’s no way I can get out of bed now, so I set an alarm.
Slate falls asleep quickly; his breathing sets a soothing pace. I embrace the big spoon position and soak in the extra hour of sleep.
The kitchen bar servesas my makeshift office today. While there’s quite a few places I can work, I typically gravitate to the kitchen. The timer beeps—time for coffee—and I plunge down the French press. I pour a cup, only adding a single sugar today. Holland is a bit of a coffee snob—we always have the best freshly ground beans.
I wrap my fingers around the mug and move in front of the floor to ceiling windows that serve as the kitchen wall. This view still surprises me, the way it did the first time I saw it. It always makes me feel so small and there’s so much to conquer. Try. Do.
Sipping the coffee, rich with notes of chocolate and hazelnuts, I breathe in deep, sinking into the slow exhale. Heavy rain drops hit and pepper the windows. Cooler than yesterday, an ice watch shows on my weather appwhenever I open it. There’s a storm system coming, making the November weather much cooler than we’re used to.
Yesterday was a disconnect day; I didn’t check my email or do anything work related. Since I work a more flexible schedule, and am after an optimal work-life balance, I try to mark blocks like this on my calendar. Boundaries are important but that doesn’t mean they’re easy to follow, even when I set them for myself.
I used to think if I worked constantly, always brought my A-game, being prepared for anything, I’d be ready for anything. But real life doesn’t work like that. No matter how much you prepare, something—completely out of your control—can spiral, taking you out in the process. Work is only a piece of my life and it doesn’t get the privilege of owning all of me.
Oh, therapy. How you’ve opened my eyes.
I open my laptop, eager to get into my email. I have my notebook handy, ready to make a list of tasks. Is there anything better than making, and crossing things off, a to-do list?
317 unread emails.
After getting through the first fifty emails, things are kind of a mixed bag. Yes, we got the print materials corrected and they look great, but there seems to be something that isn’t quite right to balance out every win, like the shipping delay for the Delatou wines. It’s no one’s “fault” exactly, just a case of a missing box or two. Don’t weallknow about that. My shoulders are up near my ears and my fingers stab my laptop keys harder than necessary. I go to lick my lips but they’re pressed hard into each other.
The list I’m currently working on is titled “Day of To-Do’s”. Things like picking up—and individually packing—cookies, waiting for the custom drink stirrers to be delivered and get to the bar staff, and finalizing packing the SWAG bags for attendees.
Almost everything on this list is a finishing touch, which I’d argue is one of the most important. People are constantly invited to dinners, for this charity or that, and it’s hard to stand out. Yes, I want to raise a ton of money for Ours and Yours and Chin Up, but I want people to feel like they got their money’s worth, and most of all, had a great time.
I didn’t make a single decision based on budget or something “seeming good enough." If it isn’t something I’d be impressed—or satisfied with—it’s not happening at this event. This is also the first time Sparks Wellness is dipping their toe into this type of venture—some say you live and die by the first impression.
The goal is to always have everything taken care of, before the actual day or start time of the event, but you don’t win them all. We’re working with quite a few vendors and many of them seem to have their own challenges.
It’s official: I’ll basically have a full day of work prior to the actual event. Luckily, my black Chanel dress, which isn’t too long, is hanging on a velvet hanger in my New York apartment. I have everything I need to get myself ready and I’m thankful none of that has gone wrong.
I’m putting my tenth task on my ‘Day of to-do’ list when my pen runs out. There isn’t much else I’m more particular about than my writing utensil. Being left-handed means finding things that don’t smear when you write and typically missing out on the glitter gel pen craze in high school.
My laptop bag doesn’t have any extras—I make a mental note to change that—but I know there are some spares in the kitchen. I open a drawer and see one before it rolls to the back. Holland isn’t one for clutter, so it’s common for drawers to be almost empty. I put my hand in the back, feeling for it so I can get back to my list. When I grab the pen, and what feels like a piece of paper, I pull my hand out.
It’s actually three pieces of paper, folded, and the header makes me freeze.
Formal Offer to Purchase The Emerald Canopy Lodge.It’s dated over a month ago. I open it enough to see a sticky note, with handwriting—not Hollands, that says, “Appreciate the discussion. Let us know what we need to do to move this forward.”
My hand hits my chest as I drop the paper, like it’s going to burn my fingers, on the counter. Air is hard to grab, but I do my best to breathe—all I can muster is something shallow and not satisfying. The fingers on my chest feel my too fast heartbeat. A wave of lightheadedness hits me and I furrow my brows, trying to figure this out. Instinctually, I step back, trying to put as much space between me and what I just read.
What is happening?
There’s no way Holland can sell the lodge. It’s always been owned by the Holt family. Why would Holland step in, after everything with Hazel, just to turn around and sell it? This is what’s left of his sister; he can’t honestly be considering selling it.
Right?
The only thing I can see from here is the date, like it’s taunting me. My brain calculates the amount of days between now and the date and that’s all I can see in my tunnel vision. It’s not like there weren’t discussions or meetings before a formal offer. This has been going on for longer than that.
How could Holland keep this from me? For this long?
I live here. In this house. Part of the lodge. What happens when Holland sells it? Where do we go? Wait, is there still a “we?" Maybe Holland has had enough and this is an exit strategy. Has he figured out that I’m too much?
I know I’m spiraling but being aware and stopping it are two different things. Tears cloud my vision. I try to swallow but it’s like my mouth isfull of sand. I reach for my cup of coffee and take a drink. Setting the mug down, harder than intended, Slate runs in, as if he knows something isn’t right.
It’s not.
This is wrong.
