The question stings, but it’s fair.
“I don't know,” I admit. “I hope it helps. I'm trying to make introductions that matter, to people who'll see her talent. But you're right—there's risk. Some people might assume she's using me for access.”
“And if that happens?”
“Then I'll make it clear that's not the case. That she's exceptional regardless of who she knows.” I meet his eyes. “Your daughter is one of the most talented people I've ever worked with. The Durst Group would be lucky to have her. With or without me.”
Michael studies my expression. “You believe that.”
“I know it.”
He nods slowly. “Okay then.”
“Okay?”
“I needed to hear you say it. That you see her value.” He glances toward the dining room where Holly's helping Rebecca with dessert. “She doesn't let people take care of her. Doesn't ask for help. Always thinks she has to do everything alone.”
“I know. She'll spend thirty minutes debating centerpiece heights but won't mention she skipped lunch to meet a vendor. She'll ask my opinion on a seating chart but not whether she's taking on too much.” I pause. “I'm learning to pay attention to what she doesn't say.”
Michael claps me on the shoulder. “Good. Now come on, Rebecca made her famous apple pie and if we don't get back out there, Tom will eat your slice.”
* * *
HOLLY
After dessert, Marie drags Evan to the wall of family photos.
“That's Aunt Holly at my age,” she says, pointing. “And that's her at her first recital. And that's when she won the planning award at school.”
I'm helping my mom in the kitchen.
Evan's studying each photo.
“What was she like?” he asks Marie. “At your age?”
“Mom says she was bossy.”
“Organized,” Emma corrects from the couch. “We call it organized now.”
“She made everyone play school at recess,” Marie continues. “And she was always the teacher.”
Evan smiles. “That sounds right.”
“She's still bossy,” Marie stage-whispers. “But in a nice way.”
My mom notices. “He's good with her.”
“He's good with kids in general.”
“That's not what I meant.” She hands me another dish. “He's interested. In you. In understanding who you are.”
“Mom—”
“I'm just saying.” She's smiling. “It's nice. Seeing someone curious about my daughter instead of impressed by her.”
She pulls a loaf of bread from where she's been keeping it warm in the oven, wrapped in a towel. “I'm sending him home with this.”
“You don't have to?—”
