Page 68 of Always Meant for You
I find my father and search his expression.
He gives me nothing.
I’m standing on my own up here.
“Sure, some people fake it on social media,” I say, letting the silence breathe before I continue. “But when it’s used with intention, it’s the fastest and most cost-effective way to reach new customers and build lasting visibility. You can target precise areas of the country. You can seek out people with similar interests—cooking, organic food, gardening, recipes. That’s how you zero in on your customers.”
A few murmurs spread. Heads tilt. Nods ripple through the room.
Cal doesn’t look away from me. I hold his gaze before I let it fall to the notebook in his hand.
Jamie’s notebook.
I slip off my hat and let the murmurs settle.
“If you want the co-op to survive, you need to be seen. And you’re beautifully positioned. You’re tucked between two major cities—St. Louis and Chicago. Restaurants love to brag about farm-to-table food. They want to show off where their ingredients come from. You have that story. You just haven’t learned how to tell it yet.”
Margaret’s brow creases. “You seem to know what you’re talking about.”
Betty nods. “Mm-hmm.”
Margaret flips through a binder. “What would you charge to do that for us, Mabel? We’ve got ten thousand budgeted for marketing.”
Ten thousand dollars.
My breath catches. This money could be my way back to New York or even Paris.
Ten thousand dollars could fund a new project. A fresh start.
I clear my throat, steadying myself. “I could do it for that,” I say. “For ten thousand.”
Cal steps forward. His movement is controlled, but his voice lands with force. “Hiring Mabel is out of the question.”
The air leaves my lungs. It’s that same hollow drop I felt under the willow tree—rejected by this man, again. But we’re not kids. And neither of us can run.
Anger stirs, but it fades the moment I look at him. His hand trembles around Jamie’s notebook. I expect to find cold indifference etched onto his face. But that’s not what I see. There’s frustration and a touch of shame, yes. But beneath it, clear and quiet, is fear. And it’s not fear of me. It’s the fear of letting Jamie down.
“Cal,” Joel Martinez says, voice calm, “everything Mabel is saying makes sense.”
Margaret nods. Betty does, too. Even the oldest Sperry leans forward.
Margaret taps her pen against her pad. “We’ll treat it as a trial. If Mabel can help us turn a profit at the next farmers’ market, she stays on through August. Half the pay now, half at the end.”
More people nod.
Not a soul shakes their head.
I look to my dad again. He remains unreadable.
“That’s eight weeks,” I say.
Margaret stops writing. “Is that going to be an issue?”
I can feel Cal’s attention on me. Watching. Waiting.
Did I plan on staying this long?
Honestly, I don’t have a plan.
