Chapter 8 - We lost the Harbor Crown contract.
Technically.
For eleven minutes.
I learned this on a Tuesday morning while standing beside six hundred white roses and a delivery driver named Dennis who believed turn signals were a government conspiracy.
Tessa Franklin called at eight seventeen.
“June, I wanted to speak with you personally before the formal notice goes out.”
That sentence was never followed by anything enjoyable.
I put down my invoice sheet.
“Okay.”
“The committee completed the evaluation yesterday.”
“And?”
“Bellamy Events ranked second.”
Second.
I looked through the glass wall into our new events workspace.
Three months had passed since Lydia and I had decided to create Bellamy Events.
We had leased the unit next door.
Knocked through one wall.
Installed additional refrigeration.
Hired two full-time designers and three seasonal assistants.
Lydia owned twenty percent of the new company.
She had wanted twenty-five.
I had wanted fifteen.
Our attorney had suggested twenty.
Sometimes the law existed simply to stop families from arguing at lunch.
We had spent weeks preparing the Harbor Crown proposal.
Samples.
Budgets.
Sustainability plans.
Emergency staffing procedures.
Holiday installation concepts.
Lydia had built a miniature winter lobby design with white branches, amaryllis, and brass lanterns.
I had called it excessive.
She had called me visually timid.
The selection committee had apparently agreed with her more than me.
But not enough.
“Who won?” I asked.
“Fenwick Floral Group.”
I knew them.
Large operation.
Excellent reputation.
Three locations.
A warehouse twice the size of ours.
“That makes sense.”
Tessa hesitated.
There it was.
Something else.
“What?”
“We haven’t executed the agreement.”
“Why?”
“There was an objection.”
My stomach tightened.
“To what?”
“Your scoring.”
“Our scoring?”
“One of the other bidders raised concerns that Bellamy received preferential consideration because of your personal relationship with Adrian Mercer.”
I closed my eyes.
Of course.
“Did we?”
“No.”
“Can you prove that?”
“Yes.”
“Then what is the issue?”
“The issue is not the scoring. The issue is perception.”
I hated perception.
Facts were difficult enough.
Perception required managing what people believed about facts.
“Adrian recused himself.”
“He did.”
“He wasn’t in the selection meetings.”
“No.”
“He didn’t score anything.”
“No.”
“So what exactly are they arguing?”
“That your existing relationship with the hotel gave you access to operational information other bidders did not have.”
I sat down.
That was less ridiculous.
We had worked events there.
We knew the loading docks.
The freight elevators.
The lobby temperature in winter.
Which ballroom entrance became crowded during large conferences.
Which service corridor had terrible lighting.
Those things had influenced our proposal.
Not because Adrian told us.
Because we had experience.
“Is that considered unfair?”
“Not normally. Incumbent vendors always have institutional knowledge.”
“But we aren’t the incumbent.”
“No.”
I rubbed my forehead.
“What do you want from me?”
“Nothing yet. Legal is reviewing it.”
I disliked those words too.
When the call ended, Lydia came through the doorway.
“Well?”
“We came second.”
Her shoulders dropped.
“Damn.”
“Also someone filed an objection because I’m friends with Adrian.”
Her shoulders went back up.
“Damn.”
“Different tone?”
“Very different damn.”
I explained.
Lydia became progressively angrier.
“We did not cheat.”
“I know.”
“He stayed out of everything.”
“I know.”
“We submitted the highest labor estimate because we refused to pretend installations build themselves.”
“I know.”
“We provided references from other clients.”
“I know.”
“So why are you making that face?”
“What face?”
“The face you make when you’re about to volunteer for something unpleasant because you think it proves you’re ethical.”
I stared at her.
“I don’t have that face.”
“You absolutely have that face.”
I called Tessa back.
“I want our proposal rescored.”
There was silence.
“What?”
“Blind.”
“That isn’t necessary.”
“It is to me.”
“June, your submission includes operational details. It would be difficult to fully anonymize.”
“Remove the business names. Remove identifying client references. Give the committee the parts that can be compared without knowing who wrote them.”
“That would require rescoring all finalists.”
“Yes.”
Lydia whispered something beside me that sounded like a threat.
Tessa sighed.
“I need to speak with legal.”
“Good.”
I hung up.
Lydia stared.
“You just requested a process that could move us from second to fourth.”
“Yes.”
“You’re exhausting.”
“Yes.”
“What if they say no?”
“Then we decide what matters.”
The bell rang.
Adrian entered.
He had the expression of a man who already knew something had happened and disliked not controlling the room.
“What did you do?”
Lydia pointed at me.
“She requested a blind rescore.”
Adrian looked at me.
“Why?”
“Because someone challenged the process.”
“The challenge has no merit.”
“That is not the same as the process appearing fair.”
His jaw tightened.
“June.”
“No.”
“I haven’t said anything.”
“You were about to.”
He put both hands into his coat pockets.
“I recused myself precisely to prevent this.”
“And you did the right thing.”
“Then why are you behaving as though we did something wrong?”
“I’m not.”
“It looks like it.”
That bothered me.
Because underneath his frustration was something familiar.
The human desire to treat transparency as accusation.
We had all done it.
Graham had once hidden mistakes because he believed admitting them would make him look guilty.
Evelyn had tried to solve her son’s problem privately because public truth felt dangerous.
I had avoided asking Lydia what she wanted because I feared the answer.
“We didn’t do anything wrong,” I said. “That’s exactly why I’m comfortable having the work examined again.”
Adrian studied me.
Then some of the tension left his face.
“You are deeply inconvenient.”
“So I’ve been told.”
He looked at Lydia.
“Do you agree with her?”
“No.”
“Thank you.”
“I think she’s irritating and probably correct.”
“Less useful.”
For eleven days, nothing happened.
Eleven days felt longer when you had hired people partly because of a contract you had not yet won.
Bellamy Events had other work.
Enough to survive.
Not enough to justify everything we had built.
I began checking our bank balance several times a day.
Graham noticed.
He always noticed.
One evening he found me at our kitchen table surrounded by invoices.
“You’re calculating payroll again.”
“I enjoy payroll.”
“No human being has ever enjoyed payroll.”
“Accountants.”
“Not even accountants.”
He sat across from me.
“How bad?”
“Not bad.”
“Then why are you afraid?”
I hated that he asked questions like that now.
Useful questions.
Questions that forced me to be honest.
“Because I expanded before the revenue existed.”
“You have reserves.”
“For five months.”
“That’s what reserves are for.”
“I know.”
“You have other clients.”
“I know.”
“You can reduce seasonal hours if necessary.”
“I know.”
He smiled slightly.
“I understand why that phrase used to annoy you.”
“Don’t become self-aware. It will ruin our marriage.”
He reached across the table.
“What are you actually afraid of?”
I looked at our apartment.
We had moved into a larger place the previous year.
Not luxurious.
Comfortable.
Graham had insisted both our names be on everything.
Lease.
Utilities.
Insurance.
We reviewed finances together once a month.
It had felt absurdly formal at first.
Then reassuring.
“People depend on me now,” I said.
“More than before.”
“Lydia invested money.”
“Yes.”
“Cara turned down another job.”
“Yes.”
“The new designers trust us.”
“Yes.”
“If I made this decision because I wanted to prove I could grow—”
“Did you?”
“I don’t know.”
He was quiet.
Finally he said, “When I was making decisions about the old shop, I always had an explanation that made me look generous.”
I looked at him.
“I was protecting you. Saving you from debt. Getting you a better future.”
His mouth tightened.
“The explanation was useful because it prevented me from asking the uglier question.”
“What did I want?”
“No. What did I want?”
That surprised me.
He continued.
“I wanted to feel useful. Competent. Like the man who solved things. I was afraid if I told you the truth, you might make a decision that proved you didn’t need me.”
I had never heard him say it quite that plainly.
“And now?”
“Now you still don’t need me.”
“Very romantic.”
“But you choose me.”
That was better.
Much better.
He squeezed my hand.
“So maybe ask yourself the ugly question.”
I looked at the spreadsheets.
What did I want?
Not what was good for Bellamy Blooms.
Not what Mom would want.
Not what Lydia wanted.
Not what success looked like.
Me.
“I want to see what this company can become.”
There.
Simple.
“I want to do bigger events. I want to train designers. I want to create installations people remember. I want regular customers to still walk in for twelve-dollar bouquets, but I also want us to be capable of filling a ballroom.”
Graham smiled.
“That sounds dangerous.”
“It sounds expensive.”
“Also that.”
I slept better that night.
The following Monday, Tessa called.
The Harbor Crown had agreed to rescore the three highest proposals using anonymized technical sections.
The committee would not consider prior client names or personal relationships.
Lydia sat beside me when the result arrived two days later.
I opened the email.
Then closed it.
“What?” she demanded.
“I didn’t read it.”
“Why?”
“I became nervous.”
“You opened our tax notice without blinking.”
“That was predictable suffering.”
“Give me the phone.”
“No.”
“June.”
I opened the email again.
Bellamy Events had ranked first.
Not by much.
Three points.
Lydia screamed.
Actually screamed.
Cara came running from the workroom holding pruning shears.
“What happened?”
“We won!”
Cara screamed too.
Within thirty seconds, seven employees were yelling inside the shop.
I stood in the middle of them laughing.
Then my phone rang.
Adrian.
I answered.
“You knew.”
“I was informed five minutes ago.”
“Did you interfere?”
“June.”
“I enjoy consistency.”
“No.”
“Good.”
“Congratulations.”
“Thank you.”
“Now please remember that the contract requires twelve-foot holiday installations and do not call me in December claiming you were surprised.”
I hung up.
Lydia was crying.
She pretended she was not.
“You’re crying.”
“I have allergies.”
“In November?”
“Seasonal.”
“To success?”
“Shut up.”
The contract transformed Bellamy Events.
Not instantly.
Transformation in business mostly meant additional work.
We hired.
Trained.
Made mistakes.
A hotel guest once received a sympathy arrangement instead of anniversary roses because two delivery tags were switched.
A corporate event requested “subtle autumn tones” and then complained the flowers were not orange enough.
One bride changed her color palette four times in eleven days.
Lydia developed an alarming tolerance for spreadsheets.
I developed one for delegating.
That part was harder.
The first time I watched one of our designers finish a ballroom centerpiece without changing a single stem, I experienced physical discomfort.
“What?” Lydia asked.
“The roses are too high.”
“They’re not.”
“They might block conversation.”
“They don’t.”
“I should check.”
“You should go away.”
“I own this company.”
“Eighty percent.”
“You weaponize equity.”
“Go arrange the lobby.”
So I did.
By December, Bellamy Events employed nine people.
Bellamy Blooms remained busy with neighborhood customers.
We created separate production schedules so the hotel contract did not consume everything.
And Lydia became something I had not realized she had been waiting to become.
A leader.
Not my helper.
Not my cousin who worked Saturdays.
Not Aunt Margaret’s niece.
Lydia Kaplan, Director of Bellamy Events.
She hired people.
Corrected me.
Negotiated suppliers.
Once told Adrian Mercer that his holiday installation deadline was unrealistic.
He moved it.
I nearly framed the email.
Then, three days before Christmas, Lydia walked into my office carrying an envelope.
“I have something.”
I looked up from invoices.
“What?”
“A resignation.”
My stomach dropped.
She stared at me for two seconds.
Then laughed.
“You’re terrible.”
“That wasn’t funny.”
“It was a little funny.”
“What is it?”
She sat.
“The event company that offered me the job.”
“Yes?”
“They called again.”
I waited.
“They offered more money.”
My stomach tightened again.
This time I did not speak.
I remembered our conversation.
What do you want?
Not what do I need from you.
Not what would be best for the shop.
What do you want?
I folded my hands.
“What do you want?”
She smiled slowly.
“I already told them no.”
Relief hit me so quickly I almost laughed.
Then I stopped.
“Why?”
“Because I don’t want their job.”
“Because of Bellamy Events?”
“Because I’m building Bellamy Events.”
The distinction mattered.
She placed another paper in front of me.
It was a proposal.
She wanted to buy an additional five percent ownership over the next three years using profit distributions.
I read the first page.
Then the second.
“You prepared this yourself?”
“With an attorney.”
“Our attorney?”
“No.”
I looked up.
She smiled.
“I learned.”
Pride moved through me.
Not because she wanted to stay.
Because she had protected her own interests before coming to me.
“Twenty-five percent,” I said.
“If we agree.”
“Why not thirty?”
Her eyes narrowed.
“That feels like a trap.”
“It isn’t.”
“You don’t offer money casually.”
“Neither did my mother.”
“That does not reassure me.”
I laughed.
“We’ll have it valued independently.”
“Obviously.”
“We’ll review responsibilities.”
“Obviously.”
“And if we disagree?”
“We negotiate.”
“And if we still disagree?”
“We remain cousins.”
She held out her hand.
“Deal.”
I shook it.
At that exact moment, a customer entered carrying a dying poinsettia and asking whether we could save it.
Lydia looked toward the front.
I looked at her.
“Director of Events?”
“No.”
“Twenty-five percent future owner?”
“Still no.”
“Beloved cousin?”
“Absolutely not.”
I took the poinsettia.
Some things changed.
May you like
Some things did not.
And I was finally learning that a good life required room for both.
