“I know the numbers, baby. I helped create the spreadsheet.”
He looks up. Grins, blushing, and it makes me want to bite him in that way you want to bite puppies because they’re so damn cute. “Sorry. Nervous energy.”
“Channel it into something useful. Quiz me on the presentation.”
He does, and I nail every question. The look on his face—pride, genuine pride, not the patronizing kind I grew up getting from my father but the kind that saysyou’re incredible and I’m lucky to be in the room with you—sends a warmth up my spine that wraps around my heart like the coziest blanket on the coldest day.
The meeting starts well.
Better than well. The mayor leans forward during Peter’s revenue projections, and Neve whispers to me that this is a “very good sign,” based on her extensive study of municipal body language, which is a sentence I never thought I’d hear. Theharbor master nods along to my structural assessment of the waterfront buildings. Two of the bureau members ask follow-up questions that are engaged rather than combative. Cole looks genuinely happy to be here.
We’re winning. I can feel it. Our presentation is tight, the data is compelling, and every counterargument we anticipated has been answered before it’s raised. The environmental assessment didn’t raise any red flags, so it won’t delay any of the work.
Peter is in his element—calm, articulate, authoritative without being condescending—watching him work a room is like listening to someone speak a foreign language fluently. This is what he was built for. And the fact he’s using it for this, for a small-town marina in Nova Scotia instead of a corner office in Toronto, brings up feelings I refuse to dissect in a municipal building.
Then my father stands up.
He’s been quiet throughout the entire presentation. Sat in the back row with his arms crossed and his jaw set. I’d been so focused on the other bureau members I’d almost forgotten he was there. Almost.
“If I may,” Tim starts, and his voice carries the easy authority of a man who’s been part of this community long enough to think that entitles him to the final word on everything. “I appreciate the work that’s gone into this proposal. It’s… thorough.”
The pause before his final word is deliberate. He says it the way you’d compliment a child’s art project. No, the wayhe’dcompliment a child’s art project. My fingers curl under the table.
“However, we need to be realistic about what this town can support.” He’s addressing the mayor now, not us. Smart. “A marina revitalization of this scale is a gamble. It’s speculativerevenue based on tourism projections that may or may not materialize. What I’m offering is certainty.”
He pulls a folder from his bag and passes copies to the bureau members, handing one to me, Darcy and Neve to share. “I’ve secured private funding for a storage facility on the waterfront lot. The developer’s ready to break ground next month. No public money required, no risk to the town, guaranteed lease income from day one.”
The room shifts. I can feel it—the gravitational pull of a sure thing versus a vision. Bureau members flip through Tim’s folder, and I watch their brains do the math. Safe versus bold. Guaranteed versus possible.
Peter’s hand finds my knee under the table. Not squeezing, not urgent. Just there.
“With respect,” he says, his voice steady in a way mine wouldn’t be, “storage units represent a fixed, low-ceiling revenue stream. The marina project generates compound economic benefits, like tourism spending at local businesses, seasonal employment, property value increases along the waterfront, and grant eligibility for coastal developments?—”
“With respect,” my father echoes, and the mimicry is so pointed I feel it in my teeth, “you’ve been here, what, a few months? I’ve been part of this community for nearly sixty years. I thinkIhave a handle on what Balsam Bay needs.”
The silence that follows is excruciating. Peter doesn’t flinch—his face is perfectly composed, boardroom-calm, not a single crack—but his hand tightens on my knee, and I know that restrain cost him something.
“We’ve heard compelling cases for both proposals,” the mayor says, and I can already hear it in her voice—the pivot, the dodge, the political calculus of not wanting to pick a side. “I’d like to call a vote.”
The vote splits.
Even.
All eyes turn to the mayor for the tiebreaker, and for one suspended moment, I let myself believe she’s going to choose us.
“I think we need more time,” she says instead. “I’m tabling both projects for thirty days. We’ll reconvene with any additional data or community input and vote again.”
Thirty days. She’s tabling us for thirty days. Which means Tim has thirty days to lobby, to schmooze, to do what Tim Cameron does best—work the room when no one’s watching.
Neve’s hand lands on my arm. Peter’s is still on my knee. I’m being held together by the two of them, and I need it because the expression on my father’s face as he gathers his folder is one I’ve known my entire life.
Satisfied. Not victorious—he didn’t win. But satisfied, because he didn’t lose, and in Tim Cameron’s world, not losing is the same as being right.
After gathering our things, we say goodbye to Neve, and I make it to Peter’s car before I fall apart.
Not crying. Worse. That hollow, buzzing stillness where your body hasn’t decided whether it’s going to rage or grieve, so it does neither, just vibrates at a frequency that rattles your bones.
“That was a good presentation,” he praises from the driver’s seat, hands on the wheel, not driving. His voice is measured. Controlled. The boardroom voice again. “The data was strong. The harbor master was on board. The mayor was clearly leaning our way before Tim?—”
