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.