Tessa writes something in her notebook without comment. I glance sideways and read two words:allergy risk.
The florist starts talking about flowers on every surface apparently known to mankind, the tables, the chairs, the entrance arch, even the individual place settings, and I watch Tessa’s pen slow to a halt.
"I wonder," she says, in a tone carefully calibrated to sound offhand, "whether it's worth checking for guest sensitivities. Some of these arrangements are quite concentrated, and in an enclosed venue—"
It's a reasonable point, precisely structured and diplomatically delivered. Fran tilts her head and smiles in the way people smile when smiling is a polite way to disagree.
"No offense," Fran says, "but you're a matchmaker, not a florist."
The table goes quiet in the specific way tables go quiet when something slightly too sharp has been said out loud.
Tessa doesn’t flinch. Her face stays composed, carefully neutral. But her grip on my hand tightens for a split second, a small reflex she gets under control almost immediately.
"Tessa solves multi-million-dollar communications problems for a living," I say, and my voice comes out steadier than I expected, which is probably the better outcome. "I'd recommend listening to her."
Fran opens her mouth. Closes it.
Eleanor looks at me with an expression I can't immediately place. Surprise, maybe. Or something that might be approval.
The florist, with the smooth reflexes of someone who knows how to rescue an appointment, pivots neatly into a discussion of alternative arrangement densities, and the moment slips past. Under the table, Tessa’s hand remains in mine. She does not say a word, but after a beat her thumb gives one small, calming circle.
I decide not to analyze what that means.
***
Back at the office, I am reviewing third-quarter compatibility index data. It should require focused attention. At the moment, it is getting something closer to sixty percent.
The remaining forty is occupied, for reasons I have not yet found a useful way to justify, with monitoring the hallway outside my office door.
Tessa passes at 2:14, speaking quietly into her phone, her heels striking the hardwood in precise, even beats. She is already solving something. I can tell by the small vertical line between her brows and the way she nods before the other person has finished explaining the problem.
At 2:31 she passes again in the opposite direction, carrying coffee and listening to someone I cannot see, her expression suggesting she is already three steps ahead of whatever they are telling her.
Noah appears in my doorway, drops a file on the corner of my desk with slightly too much casualness, and leans against the frame in the way he does when he is not there about the file.
"You're watching Tessa," he says.
"I'm reviewing data."
He says nothing to that, which is its own kind of commentary.
Behind Noah, I recognize a man from our intake list in the hallway. He has a difficult case, three failed compatibility cycles, and apparently he's not happy about it. He's moving toward the reception desk with his jaw set and his phone gripped in his hand like a club.
Tessa steps into the hallway before he reaches the desk.
Something in how she angles herself toward him shifts the whole geometry of the interaction. Ninety seconds later, Carver's nodding along with whatever she's saying. She walks him toward the consultation rooms, and he follows without resistance.
I realize I've stopped pretending to look at my screen.
"Ninety seconds," I say, mostly to the room.
"She has a talent," Noah says, as though this has been established for years and I'm simply the last to file it correctly.
A few moments later, Tessa reappears in my doorway. She acknowledges Noah with a brief nod, then her eyes find mine.
"If a couple's PR metrics spike after a negative event," she says, "would you weight that as volatility or engagement?"
It's a precise question. I appreciate precise questions.
