Page 33

My handwriting. Ten feet wide. A ballpoint sketch of the west wing with arrows and doorways and a long table drawn in blue ink, with a caption in my own crooked block capitals. East windows. Long table here. Beneath it in clean type the words Operations Plan: R. Brewer.

I can't breathe at all.

"Eighty-one percent," I say.

Five faces turn. Roman turns last, and when he sees me his whole face goes blank and then gets a look that makes my knees go. His mouth opens and nothing comes out. For the first time since I've known him, Roman Caldwell has nothing to say.

I walk the length of the table with the foil package in my hands. I set it down beside his laptop, and without deciding to, I put my free hand on his shoulder, on the warm cotton of his shirt, and I feel the muscle under it go rigid and then, slowly, give.

"Mr. Hallett," I say to the screen. "You asked on what basis you should trust the numbers. Eighty-one percent first-quality yield on the Bloomfield Blue lot when Dolores Pike runs it. Sixty-four when she doesn't. That's ninety thousand dollars a year and it's not on a spreadsheet because nobody wrote it down. It's sixteen years of watching her work."

"And you are?" says Hallett.

"Rosemary Brewer. Operations manager, for what that's worth." My voice is steady and I don't know how. "Roman's west-wing estimate is conservative. I've had three inquiries since July, a ceramics studio in Albany, a wedding planner who wants the east windows, and a woman in Hartford who makes soap. I've been ignoring them because Mr. Whitcomb wouldn't pick up the phone. I'll pick it up Monday morning. As for the retirements, I've worked beside every person in that building for sixteen years and I know which ones are tired. I can have eight signed by Friday and every one of them will leave with a handshake and a package they'd be proud of."

"And Harbor & Pine?"

"If Maine wants yarn, she'll have it. I can start a lot tonight, and Dolores can have sample throws off the Drapers by Wednesday. I'll drive them up myself."

"She called at four," says Roman so quietly I almost miss it. "She asked for samples."

I look down at him. He's looking up at me with something in his eyes that I can't bear.

"And Ms. Pike?" says Margaret.

"Ms. Pike has offered to stay on as loom-master and trainer," says Roman. "Fridays only. She'd like to train an apprentice."

"She told you that," I say before I can stop it. "She never told me."

"She said you were too proud to ask and too stubborn to let her volunteer."

A laugh breaks out of me, wet and startled. It's true, God help me, it's the truest thing anyone's said about me all year. I tighten my hand on his shoulder.

"I'd like something on the record too," I say to the faces on the screen. "Whatever you vote tonight, I want you to vote it knowing that these people were asked. Not told. Asked. Nobody decides anything about this mill without talking to the people who work in it first. That was the one thing that was missing on Friday."

There's a pause. It stretches, fat with the hum of the wall and the hush of the empty building.

"Ms. Brewer," says Margaret Hale at last. "Do you understand what you're asking this board to approve? Six months, no forced layoffs, and if Harbor & Pine hasn't closed by the fifteenth of December we revisit the entire plan."

"I understand."

"And that you're putting your name on it?"

"It's already on it." I tip my head at the wall. "He put it on every slide."

"So he did." There's something almost like warmth in the dry voice. "Hallett?"

A long, put-upon sigh. "Oh, for God's sake. Yes."

"The rest?"

One by one they say it, aye, yes, aye, and the word is as light as a leaf and it knocks the legs out from under me. I'm gripping Roman's shoulder so hard my knuckles ache.

"Approved," says Margaret. "Ashgrove will defer its fee for six months. Mr. Caldwell, you'll be on site as interim CEO at the salary you proposed, which I consider insulting and I'm leaving it as it is. Ms. Brewer will run operations." A pause. "Roman. I'll take that check."

"It's in the mail."

"Make it out to the Bloomfield Harvest Festival." The faintest edge of a smile. "I understand they could use a new gazebo."