Stella takes a deep breath and clasps her hands at her chest. “I’d like to formally offer you the lead position for the event. I know you’ll have the heart, and the vision, to see this through in a way that these two organizations deserve.” Her voice cracks a bit at the end.
I wipe a tear using the back of my hand. “Absolutely. I’d be honored.”
“What kind of tears are these?” she asks.
Ha! Since I tend to cry more often than not, Stella has started asking me to categorize them. At first, it made me a little uncomfortable to answer but it’s helpful to label them. And, if there’s no words to describe, I say, “they’re just tears."
“These are happy and grateful tears,” I smile at the woman I’m proud to call my boss. There are so many people who hate their jobs and colleagues and I know I’m in the minority.
“This will require travel closer to the event and maybe a few weeks in New York, consecutively. Now that I have you on board, let’s connect next week on details.”
Here I am, in the homestretch of a project that’s completely mine. We’re so close, 24 days to be exact, and the excitementwashes over me like the feel of a warm room when coming in from a cold winter day. The wave of anxiety quickly follows because I have to get this right.
If anyone can do this, I can.
Probably.
Hopefully.
CHAPTER TWO
Holland
“Do not feed himany more scones, Beatrice.” I look over at Slate, licking his lips over and over, crumbs still on his snout.
Bea gasps, “Don’t full name me!” She points at me, with her free hand, not the one about to give Slate another piece of scone. It did feel odd to say her full name, since she’s known me since I was a kid, and she’s worked at the lodge for as long as I can remember. I might be 36 years old but Bea keeps the upper hand like she always has.
Slate, the most spoiled French bulldog, whimpers and tilts his head—more effective than any type of puppy dog eyes.
My phone vibrates and I dig it out of my pocket. The lapse in attention has Bea throwing the last piece of peanut butter scone to Slate. I give her a side eyed look while opening my text messages: a selfie of Ivy and Vivian, eating donuts somewhere in the city. Ivy’s wearing a smile that reaches her eyes. There’s some sort of light in her face whenever she’s with Viv. If she’s not with me, I’m glad she’s with someone like Vivian.
“How’s our girl, Ivy?” Bea questions, petting Slate who is now in her lap.
“How do you know it’s Ivy?”
“No one else makes you smile like that, one, and two, I don’t think anyone else even has your phone number," she jokes.
But she’s sort of right.
Me
your sixth sense is finding donuts
Ivy
lol good thing I love them
you know it’s the only way I can get to yoga
sugar fiend
what are you doing?
I snap a picture, less blurry than a typical first take, of Bea and Slate sitting outside at the lodge.
Ivy
tell them I love them
