Page 79 of The Maine Event

I grab the Febreze, take one last look at the snack throne I built—and start wiping it all away.

As I straighten the throw pillows on the couch, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the TV screen. My hair is a mess, and I’m pretty sure there’s a chocolate smudge on my cheek.

“Ugh,” I groan, rubbing at the spot. “You’re a hot mess, Holmes.”

But even as I say it, I can’t help but laugh. If Old Man Harcourt could see me now, he’d probably wonder what he’s gotten himself into.

As soon as I have booked my ticket, this time triple-checking it’s for the right airport, I make my way to the bedroom, flinging open the closet doors. I rifle through hangers, pulling out potential outfit options for tomorrow’s meeting. Business casual? Full-on power suit? I hold up a blouse, then toss it aside.

As I continue to sort through my clothes, I feel a sense of determination settling over me. Whatever this opportunity is, I’m going to make the most of it.

But first, I need to find the perfect outfit. And maybe do something about this bedhead situation.

I finally settle on a sleek navy pantsuit that never fails to make me feel confident. As I lay it out on the bed, my mind races with possibilities. What could Old Man Harcourt want to discuss? The suspense is killing me.

I glance at my phone, half expecting it to ring again with more details. But it remains silent. I’ll just have to wait until tomorrow to find out.

I adjust my dress in the hotel mirror one last time, my reflection staring back with the ghost of a smirk. The heels are polished, the hair’s behaving, and the fitted dress is doing exactly what it’s supposed to—broadcasting competence with a touch of intimidation. My portfolio is tucked under my arm like a weapon.

There’s a flicker of nerves in my stomach, sure. But there’s something else too—electricity. The kind I haven’t felt in weeks.

The cab ride to Harcourt headquarters is short. I step out and look up at the aging façade, and stride confidently into the lobby for the third time.

“Rachel Holmes, here to see Mr. Harcourt,” I announce to the receptionist. She nods and gestures for me to take a seat.

Minutes later, a statuesque woman in a crisp white blouse and pencil skirt emerges. “Mr. Harcourt will see you now,” she says with a polite smile. “Follow me.”

We weave through a labyrinth of hallways until we reach an imposing set of double doors. The brass nameplate reads “J.D. Harcourt, CEO”.

Inside, the spacious, wood-paneled corner office is more like a den. Framed magazine covers line one wall, yellowed with age, each featuring the steely-eyed, and much younger, visage of J. D. Harcourt himself.

“Ms. Holmes, a pleasure.” His voice booms as he rises from behind the massive mahogany desk. Old Man Harcourt is an imposing figure, tall and broad-shouldered, with a shock of silver hair and piercing blue eyes. His handshake is firm.

“The pleasure is mine, Mr. Harcourt. Though I must admit, your call was somewhat unexpected.”

He chuckles, gesturing for me to take a seat. “Straight to the point. I like that.” He leans back in his leather chair, steepling his fingers.

“I’m led to understand that you pitched quite a significant pivot to my new product development team some months ago.”

I glance around his office—at the decades-old production schematics behind glass—and feel the weight of what the Harcourts have built. Three generations of selling chicken. That’s not just a business model; it’s a family identity. Sunday dinners, backyard barbecues, kids tearing into chicken nuggets between soccer games. The idea of convincing Old Man Harcourt from that to… well, mushed-up vegetables… it’s not just a commercial shift. It’s emotional. I have to play this very carefully. There’s an opportunity here. Small, I grant you, but he did request a meeting. I can keep it cordial, spend ten minutes with the man and hopefully leave him with a little niggle in the back of his mind tomaybeconsider augmenting his product range… or… I can believe in the data. Believe in the market. Believe in me…

“Most men I know wouldn’t last ten minutes in a focus group for this kind of pivot,” I say lightly. “If it doesn’t moo, cluck, or come with a side of fries, it’s met with suspicion.”

Harcourt raises an eyebrow, intrigued.

“But,” I continue, “even the most traditional meat-eaters are starting to look sideways at their plates. The truth is, one of the hero ingredients I proposed comes from a fungus—Fusarium venenatum, to be exact. It’s naturally occurring. It’s fermented in a controlled environment and produces mycoprotein. Packed with fiber. High in protein. Minimal environmental impact. And if you handle the seasoning right—honestly? It has a better texture than chicken breast.”

Harcourt leans back, watching me closely.

“It sounds sci-fi. I get that. But it’s also science-forward. And if we frame it properly, it won’t feel like heresy. It’ll feel like progress that respects the past.”

There’s a beat of silence. His fingers tap slowly against the folder on the desk. I wonder if I’ve gone too far.

“I’ll be frank, Ms. Holmes. There’s been some trouble brewing here at Harcourt Foods.”

“Trouble? Of what sort?”

Harcourt sighs heavily. “Seems my VP of marketing had some very lofty ambitions, trying to push me out, position himself to take over.”

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