And she did not dream about the board meeting or the acquisition or the 47 emails. She dreamed about a house with a blue door. She woke up at 6:14 Saturday morning, still in her clothes from the night before, shoes on, lights on, phone face down on the nightstand, exactly where she'd left it. For exactly 3 seconds after she opened her eyes, she didn't know where she was. And in those 3 seconds, she felt something she hadn't felt since she was a child waking up at her grandmother's house.
A clean, unlocated sense of possibility, like the day hadn't decided what it was yet. Then she remembered Milh Haven, Georgia, the Birwood Inn, Peck and Waffles downstairs, a school fall festival at 1:00 that she had committed to attending because an 8-year-old had told her she needed the full explanation of a cakewalk in person. She sat up, she looked at her phone, 39 notifications now. She looked at the number, thought about what each one probably contained, and put the phone back down. She went to shower.
When she came downstairs 40 minutes later in jeans and a gray sweater she'd packed on impulse, Susan Greer, 60some, silver hair, the kind of face that made you feel immediately that you'd been expected and were welcome, looked up from the kitchen and said, "Perfect timing. Waffles are just off the iron. " Victoria sat at a table by the window and ate the best pecan waffles she'd had in her life, which she understood immediately was not just about the waffles. It was about sitting alone at a table in a quiet house and having nowhere to be for the next 6 hours and knowing that when she did have somewhere to be. It was a school parking lot with a bounce house. She poured more coffee.
Susan came by and topped it off without being asked. You're the one Marcus called about yesterday. She said car trouble. Victoria looked up. He called.
He calls whenever someone's coming through who might need a room. Susan said he's done it for years. Just gives me a heads up. She picked up the empty syrup pitcher. Good man.
Yes. Victoria said he is. Susan looked at her brief. Perceptive. The look of a woman who had been running a bed and breakfast for 20 years and could read a guest the way a mechanic reads an engine.
Staying through Sunday. That's the plan. Good, Susan said, and walked back to the kitchen. No agenda, no follow-up, just good. Victoria sat with her coffee and her waffles in the Georgia morning and thought about how long it had been since someone had said a simple word to her and meant only the simple thing.
She was at the school parking lot at 12:52. It was exactly what Marcus had said, not fancy, not pretending to be anything other than what it was. Tables with handpainted signs. A popcorn machine that looked like it had been doing this since 1987. Three different games involving throwing things at other things.
The bounce house Marcus had mentioned, occupied by a rotating cast of children with zero interest in queuing. And somewhere near the gymnasium entrance, the cakew walk a circle of numbered squares taped to the asphalt. A table of homemade cakes as prizes. Music from a speaker that was definitely connected to someone's phone inside. She'd barely cleared the entrance gate before she heard her name.
Victoria. She looked left. Ava was cutting through the crowd at a pace that was technically not running, but was working hard not to be. She had her hair in two puffs. A green jacket and the expression of someone who has been waiting for this moment since 6a.
And you came, Ava said. I said I would, Victoria said. Some people say they will, Ava said. And then they don't. The weight behind that sentence from an 8-year-old landed harder than she expected.
Victoria looked at the child and understood immediately that Ava was not talking about the fall festival. I don't do that, Victoria said. Ava assessed her. Okay, she said and then grabbed Victoria's hand and started moving. Come on, I have to show you the cakewalk before all the good cakes are gone.
She let herself be pulled. Marcus was near the cakewalk table talking to a man about his age big guy. Baseball cap, easy laugh, and when he saw her, he raised his chin in acknowledgement. Not a wave, just a recognition. She returned it and felt something juvenile and warm about the exchange that she decided not to examine too closely.
Ava positioned her in front of the cakewalk with the gravity of a museum dosent. "Okay," she said. "So you walk in a circle on the squares. When the music stops, you stop on a square. Then they call a number.
If it's your number, you pick a cake. " She pointed. That chocolate one is mine. If I win, it has buttercream. Maya's mom made it. It's the best one.
Have you won yet? No. I've been saving my tickets until you got here. Victoria looked at her. Why?
Ava said with the simplicity of someone stating the obvious. Because it's more fun with two people. Victoria reached into her pocket where she'd stuffed a handful of tickets from the entrance table. She counted them. I have eight tickets, she said.
How many is one round? Two, Ava said. So, we have four rounds. Enough to win that cake. We have to win that cake.
Ava said they did not win the cake on the first round. They did not win it on the second round either, which was when Victoria noticed that Marcus had drifted closer and was watching them from maybe 10 ft away with his arms folded and an expression she couldn't immediately name something quiet and private that he wasn't performing for anyone. Third round, the music stopped. The volunteer at the table reached into a coffee can and pulled out a slip of paper and read a number. "11," she called.