“There you have it,” says Simone. “There’s your answer.”
Jordan chews her lip. “It’s not that simple.”
“Why not?”You always make things so complicated, Jordan.
“Well. This is my job, Simone. This is my career. My income. This is what I’ve been working for since college.”
“Wouldn’t someone else snap you up? Another firm that does what you do?”
“Bernadette’s tentacles reach far and wide in our world,” says Jordan. “She knows how to bury people. If she wants to destroy me, she can.”
“But if you want to destroy her,youcan do that,” Simone points out. “You know all the tricks she knows. And you can call this journalist right now and tell her everything.” They both look at Jordan’s phone, lying face down on the bar between them.
“I don’t think I’d do that.”
“Doesn’t even matter if you do,” says Simone. “It matters that she knows that you can. You have her over a barrel the same way you think she has you.” Jordan imagines Bernadette, in wide-leg trousers and a stretch-linen waistcoat, her arms jacked from the time she spends in the upper-body section of the Peloton app, holding Jordan over a barrel.
Simone is right!
“But maybe you don’t want to go to another firm anyway,” says Simone. “Maybe you want to start your own. Be your own boss.”
This has always been a dream of Jordan’s, as tender and precious as a new plant shoot, so fragile she’s never even said it aloud. It’s like Simone has peered into her soul.
“I want to do that,” she whispers.
“So do it!” Simone slaps the bar, flushed and triumphant. “Do it, Jordan. I know you can. You’ve always had this drive and ambition, always. Don’t waste it. Use it.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
There’s a long, long pause while all of this sinks in: Simone’s kindness toward her, her belief in Jordan, and, in turn, Jordan’s burgeoning belief in herself. “What are you thinking?” asks Simone eventually.
“I’m thinking that I’m hungry,” Jordan realizes. “I’m so hungry!” She thought she’d never want to eat again after lunch and beer at Petey’s, but suddenly she’s ravenous.
“I know exactly what you need,” says Simone. She calls over Hector, who has had the nerve to turn his attention to new customers at the far end of the bar, and says, “One order of Parker House rolls, please, Hector.”
“You got it.”
When the rolls arrive, Jordan decides they are the best things she’s ever, ever tasted, so soft and buttery, with flavors of garlic and rosemary: heaven in a basket.
“Simone!” says Jordan as they’re making short work of the rolls. “I’m such a jerk. I’ve only talked about myself. Let’s get one more. I want to hear what’s going on with you.”
Simone looks at her watch. “I’d love to, but I’m meeting someone.”
“But I want to hear more about your business! Your life!”
“We’ll talk about me next time, I promise. And you have to get home for dinner, right?” Jordan has told her that they only have two family dinners left. On Saturday, to keep things looking good for the open house, they’re going to go to a restaurant. Maybe they’ll come here! She imagines Caspian knocking over the delicate cocktail glasses or squishing the buttery rolls in his chubby hands. Maybe they’ll go to Flatbread in Portsmouth instead.
Then it hits Jordan like a sack of rocks: What next time? Calvin is selling the house. All at once she feels as desolate as she knows her sisters have felt all week.
“We’ll probably get an offer on Sunday, Simone. I’m not sure I’ll ever be back here.”
Simone slides off her barstool. “You’ll be back, Jordan Shipman. The state of New Hampshire isn’t going anywhere.”
Outside, at the edge of the parking lot, they stand close to each other. “Do you need a ride home?” asks Simone.
“It’s, like, a two-second walk.” Jordan laughs. “I think I can make it.” But she doesn’t move. “You smell the same,” she tells Simone. “Like limes.”
