Page 31 of The Maine Event

Dan’s words hurt, but I take a step closer. I grew up without a dad and would have given the world to have a father like Dan be involved in my life. “No, I don’t. But I do know that Chloe needs you to support her, to trust her, to let her grow.”

Dan runs a hand through his hair, his eyes searching mine for answers I’m not sure I have. “I want to, Rachel. I want to give her the world, but I’m scared. I’m scared of losing her, of not being enough, of failing her like I failed Rebecca.”

The admission hangs in the air, raw and painful. I close the distance, my hand finally finding his, squeezing it gently. “You haven’t failed anyone, Dan. From what I’ve seen, you’re an amazing father, and Chloe loves you more than anything in the world. But part of loving her is letting her find her own way, even if it’s not the path you would have chosen for her.”

He nods, a single tear escaping down his cheek. “I know. I just… I wish I had more time, you know? More time to hold her, to keep her safe, to be her everything.”

I smile softly, my vision blurs. “You’ll always be her everything, Dan. No matter how old she gets, no matter where life takes her, you’ll always be the man who showed her what love looks like, who taught her what it means to be strong and kind and true. But you’ve got to let her grow up.”

“I should go talk to her, apologize for overreacting. Don’t go. Please.”

I nod. “Take your time.”

As soon as he climbs the stairs, I collect my purse and my jacket from the kitchen chair. I’m glad he’s gone to apologize to Chloe. And I’m sorry he’s still trying to navigate life without Rebecca, but damned if I’m going to hang around to be disrespected again.

EIGHT

The imposing, if slightly tired, brick and tiled facade of Harcourt Foods’ headquarters soars before me as I step out of the cab. This time I pause to take it all in, already thinking about which angle we should use in the photo to announce the partnership with Channing Gabriel. My heels click confidently across the well-worn concrete plaza, the spring breeze whipping strands of hair across my face. It’s a far cry from the glass and steel office towers I usually visit. But that’s one of the reasons I like the company. They’re not trying to impress, or pretend to be something they’re not—they manufacture frozen food and sell it at an affordable price. This straightforward, no-frills approach is refreshingly honest and nets them hundreds of millions of dollars a year in revenue.

I allow myself a small, triumphant smile as I reach the front doors. Securing a meeting with the patriarch himself, Old Man Harcourt, after one presentation to his product team? I must have really wowed them with my pitch. I like to think I’m good, but boy, if I pull this off, it will be the fastest close. Like, ever. Not to mention winning this account will dwarf Zoe’s accomplishments with GreenShoots—hello healthy meat-alternative frozen food, hello even healthier monthly retainer… Hello Rachel Holmes,partner.

I try to calm the butterflies in my stomach as I approach the reception desk. This is it—the chance to impress the real decision-maker and seal the deal. All my hard work is about to pay off.

The receptionist flashes me a bright smile, genuinely pleased to see me. “Welcome to Harcourt Foods, Ms. Holmes. You’re expected in the executive boardroom.”

She escorts me down the hallway and I follow her, my heart rate increasing with each step. When we arrive, she gives me a bright smile and a thumbs up. I pause outside the heavy wooden door to collect myself before entering. I go through my mental checklist, check the buttons on my jacket, adjust the cuffs of my blouse, and push open the door.

Inside, a long mahogany table stretches before me, surrounded by high-back leather chairs. The seats are empty except for one. A man with slicked-back hair and a too-bright smile rises to greet me.

“Ms. Holmes! Pleasure to meet you. I’m Vincent Adler, VP of Marketing.” He clasps my hand a little too long, his gaze flickering over me in a way that makes my skin crawl.

I glance around the otherwise vacant room, trying to mask my confusion. “Mr. Adler, I was under the impression I’d be meeting with Mr. Harcourt and the executive board today…”

“Change of plans!” Adler claps his hands together. “The old man got pulled into some emergency golf—I mean, Gulf—oil spill… situation. You know how it is. But lucky for you, it’s my opinion that counts around here.”

He winks conspiratorially, and I have to physically stop myself from recoiling. This isn’t at all how I pictured today going. I force a polite smile as he gestures for me to take a seat.

Adler leans back in his chair, hands behind his head like he’s relaxing at his pool in the Hamptons instead of in a corporate office. “So, I hear you’ve got some big idea to turn us all into a bunch of tofu-eating hippies, eh?”

His dismissive chuckle grates on my nerves. This guy clearly hasn’t bothered to even skim my proposal. But I’ll be damned if I let his arrogance derail this opportunity. I didn’t get where I am, by backing down from a challenge.

I straighten up and meet his gaze head-on, mustering every ounce of professional charm. “Actually, Mr. Adler, plant-based proteins are the fastest growing sector in the food industry. If Harcourt Foods wants to stay relevant, you can’t afford to ignore this market…”

I only hope I sound more confident than I feel as I launch into my pitch. All I can do is give this my best shot—even if it means convincing a cocky marketing bro instead of the man actually in charge. I’ve come too far to let anyone dismiss my vision. Harcourt Foods needs me, whether they realize it yet or not.

“… and that’s why partnering with Channing Gabriel on a line of chicken alternatives positions Harcourt Foods perfectly for the future of sustainable eating,” I conclude, my voice ringing with conviction as I gesture to the final slide of my presentation.

The boardroom falls silent. I search Adler’s face for a reaction. His expression is unreadable, and for a moment, I allow myself to hope that maybe, just maybe, I’ve gotten through to him.

Then he laughs. A loud, mocking guffaw that echoes off the polished paneled walls.

“Sustainable eating? Come on, sweetheart. People don’t want a plate of spinach and quinoa after a hard day at work. Not really. They want real food.”

Heat rises to my cheeks at the condescension dripping from his words.Sweetheart? Who does this guy think he is? I bite back the retort on the tip of my tongue, reminding myself that losing my cool won’t do me any favors.

“With all due respect, Mr. Adler,” I say evenly, “the data shows a clear trend towards plant-based options. And it’s growing exponentially. Ignoring that shift could mean missing out on establishing your brand as the category leader and with it, a huge opportunity for growth.”

He waves a dismissive hand. “Data,schmata. I’ve been in this business longer than you’ve been alive, missy. I think I know what sells. We don’t produce food for the liberal folk of California, we produce real food for working families.”

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