Page 25 of The Maine Event

“Well, I’ll let you get back to it,” I say with a little wave. “Thanks for rescuing me.”

He chuckles. “Anytime. And hey—maybe tomorrow’s the day everything goes right.”

I raise an eyebrow. “That’d be a first.”

SIX

The elevator doors slide open, and I follow signs for The Sako Suite. I knock once and push open the door to find a once-grand conference room bathed in morning light. Paint is peeling from one of the walls and the chairs are mismatched. My heart rate increases slightly as I step inside, gripping my briefcase tightly. A dozen expectant faces turn my way.Quelle surprise, they’re all men.

I feel the familiar rush of adrenaline as I approach the group. I know from the specific click-clack of my heels on the tiled floor that I have their complete, undivided attention. Do I like the feeling of power?You betcha. Is it an unfair advantage?Oh yes. I’ve done this so often now that my body and mind are on autopilot. This is Rachel’s patent-pending Madonna-Mistress guide to winning new business:

When I’m trying to convince a predominantly male team that I am the right person to take their product or service to market, I need to exude two things before the pitch even begins. I would go so far as to say, the pitch is won or lost before the first rehearsed word leaves my lips. It’s all on the entrance. So much needs to be conveyed in so little time. One, that I’m a safe pair of hands to entrust their baby with. They need to be absolutely surethat I will nurture it, feed it and wipe its nose if it starts to run. And two, that I have enough vim and passion to be entrusted with their baby and take it out to the world.

I’ve gotten good at reading a room and a glance at my audience confirms my suspicions—scuffed, unpolished shoes, standard-issue blue oxford shirts with button-down collars and beige chinos—for a split second, the vinyl scratches on my mental record player, as I realize that my gathered audience isn’t the upper echelons of the organization. Nowhere near it. These aren’t the decision-makers, they’re the doers.

Not a problem, I shall turn them into card-carrying allies before I’m through.

Alright, Rachel, you’ve got this. Just like we practiced.

I center myself and launch into my pitch. “Good morning, everyone. I’m Rachel, and I’m here to change your mind. As you can see from the data I’ve compiled, plant-based foods are no longer just a fad or niche market. Consumer demand is surging across all demographics and could represent millions of dollars in annual revenues… If you want it to.”

I click to the next slide, displaying colorful graphs and charts. “In the past year alone, sales of plant-based products have grown by twenty-seven percent, outpacing traditional frozen foods by a significant margin. This represents a huge untapped opportunity for Harcourt Foods to expand its customer base, and drive long-term growth.”

The room is silent except for the hum of my laptop fan. I scan their faces, trying to gauge reactions. Some nod thoughtfully, jotting down notes. But a few wear skeptical frowns. Here come the tough questions.

“How do we know this trend will last?” one executive asks, leaning back in his chair. “What if it’s just a flash in the pan?”

I click to another slide showcasing long-term market projections. “While no one can predict the future with onehundred percent certainty, all indicators point to plant-based eating becoming a lasting lifestyle shift, not a passing fad. As consumers become more health-conscious and environmentally aware, they’re seeking out alternatives to meat. Getting ahead of this curve positions Harcourt Foods as an innovative leader, not a reactive follower.”

More nods, a few grudging smiles. They’re starting to see the bigger picture. I shift into my closing argument.

“The data is clear—plant-based foods are the future. Harcourt Foods has a choice: embrace this growing segment of the population and thrive, or ignore it and risk being left behind as the market moves on without you. Fortune favors the bold. This, gentlemen, is your chance to lead the next generation of frozen foods into a more sustainable, health-focused era.”

The product managers continue to ask questions for another twenty minutes. Crucially, they change in tone from combative and outright scathing, to considered and curious. Satisfied I’m leaving them with a clear route forward, I wrap things up. They’re on board. Now the real work begins—making sure my message is passed up the food chain to Old Man Harcourt himself. But after today, I’m pretty confident that I’ve sown the seeds of a plant-powered revolution at Harcourt Foods. I leave the folder with the printed copy of my pitch for dissemination among the wider team and make my exit.

The energy of the pitch meeting lingers as I slide into the driver’s seat of The Big Red Beast, my mind still buzzing with possibilities. I tapWhite Pines Motelinto Maps and then find an appropriately upbeat playlist to match my mood.

As I navigate the streets of Portland, I allow myself a moment to savor the victory. The product team’s enthusiasm was palpable. It’s a major milestone, but it’s not a done deal just yet—convincing the higher-ups to take a leap of faith, particularly thepatriarch of the company, Jonathan D. Harcourt himself, will be a true test. But for that, I need to get into the room.

Lost in thought, I almost don’t notice the elementary school building to my left. But the colorful banner catches my eye: “Sing! Talent Competition - Qualifier Heats Here.”

On impulse, I suddenly turn into the parking lot, earning me a long and angry blast of a horn from the vehicle behind me. I give the driver an apologetic wave of the hand, but he’s already accelerating hard, no doubt cursing me and all of womankind.

Standing in front of the impressive main building, I shake my head, pulling myself back to the present. What am I doing here? I have a million things to do, calls to make, emails to answer. But something pulls me towards the large double doors. I really do want to see Chloe perform, and this is absolutely not at all about possibly seeing Dan again.

I follow the signs to the auditorium, my heart quickening with each step as the excited chatter of children and parents envelops me. It’s silly, I know. I’m a grown woman, a successful executive. But at this moment, I’m also the little girl who once stood on a very similar stage, belting out a slightly off-key rendition of “Tomorrow” from Annie.

Taking a deep breath, I slip inside the auditorium door, and the volume increases tenfold. The air is electric with anticipation, with frantic moms trying to apply a frightening amount of makeup and hairspray to their tween progenies. The stage is bathed in a soft glow, empty save for a single microphone stand, creating a sense of anticipation. I find a seat in the back, settling in just as the lights dim and a hush falls over the room.

As a young performer takes the stage, all nerves and raw talent, I feel a smile spreading across my face. Maybe this unexpected detour is exactly what I needed—a reminder of the joy and innocence that’s so easy to lose sight of in the daily grind.For now, I let myself get lost in the music, the worries of the adult world fading away like a half-remembered dream. The boy sings well. When he’s done, he politely bows and exits stage left.

There are performances from four more singers and a young guitarist before I spot a familiar figure waiting in the wings. When a teacher pats her on the shoulder, Chloe walks confidently to the center of the stage and pauses in front of the microphone. She takes a moment and then gives a little nod to someone who must be controlling the music.

Chloe’s voice is breathtaking. Soulful, sweet, and with bundles of confidence. When I close my eyes, I can’t believe it’s the voice of the same twelve-year-old girl I saw at Dan’s house. Chloe sings the lyrics like they’re her own. Bittersweet regret over love lost and an unsure future. I’m mesmerized from start to finish.

The song comes to an end, and everyone in the auditorium breaks into applause. Chloe grins, bows theatrically, and skips off the stage. Dan’s there in the wings ready to greet her, and he picks her up into his arms for a huge cuddle, fatherly pride etched onto his face.

One of the teachers approaches the microphone and explains that Chloe was the last of the individual performers and that there will be a five-minute break before rehearsals will continue for the groups.

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