by Katie Cross
“My pleasure. This is a complexity I love. Believe it or not, numbers are minimalists.”
He leaned over the counter, the muscles of his back pulling. I kept my gaze trained on the friendly glow of the computer screen. He ran through a couple of phrases that went in and out of my head. Lacking key performance indicators and inefficient lead systems.
Finally, I put my hand on his shoulder. He immediately stopped talking. I pulled back, unable to tell what the blank expression on his face meant. Perhaps I shouldn’t have done that. Maverick was nothing if not professional, and I’d broken some kind of boundary.
“Can you just tell me the bottom line?” I asked, leaning back to put a little space between us. “All of this is too much for me to track right now while I’m worried about what you’re going to say. I don’t know those terms or what they mean. I just want to know.”
He looked at me. “Too much information?”
I nodded.
“That’s good to know, thanks. I’ll need your help telling me what part of this process does or doesn’t work. Bottom line? You have two months before you’ll be forced out.”
The words took the wind right out of me. I stood there, staring at him. In my head, I could only see Lizbeth and Ellie marching away from me with a social worker from the state. Dad’s dreams burnt to cinders.
And me, alone in the wreckage.
The Frolicking Moose and my sisters were officially all I had left. If I lost one, I’d lose the other. I forced myself to stare the monster right in the face.
“That bad?” I whispered, strangled.
“Unfortunately,” he said slowly, “yes, it is. But that isn’t the same thing as hopeless. Bethany, I think we have a chance at salvaging this. I just don’t know if it will be in time. We don’t know what could happen with their father and . . . it’s a variable I’m not sure how to consider.”
Concern haunted his eyes. I forced myself to take a deep breath.
“But there’s a chance?”
“Yes.”
“Then what do I do, besides what we’re already doing now?”
He stared at me for a moment, then motioned to the computer with a little nod. “First, you speak to your representative at the bank. We may buy you a few more months if we can show him what you’re doing.”
“Steven.” I sighed. “Great. Well . . . now’s a good time to take up religion, if you haven’t already. We’re going to need it.”
He studied me but didn’t ask me to elaborate. “Tonight, you and I are going to go over a plan that we’ll put into place while you do the operations manual and straighten the business out. You’ll take this plan to Steven, full disclosure, and show him everything you’re doing.”
“Why?”
“If they see that you’re trying something, that you have a data-backed plan, not to mention a killer business consultant, they may extend some payment grace. We’re going to strip this debt away a little at a time by plugging all the little holes in your company.”
“Through the operations manual?”
“Partly, but other places too. Inventory, for one. You have products that hardly sell at all that you keep stocking.”
“Oh.”
He meant Dad’s specialty coffees, probably. Or his favorite scone that I just couldn’t stop ordering, even though they were a close relative to hockey pucks. He was right. I could get rid of that kind of stuff, but I’d never thought about it before. It was just what I did in the shop.
“There are other places you’re losing money. Employees aren’t, thankfully, an issue now. That will help. Once we get that squared away, we’re going to get more people in your shop and increase your profit. If you can get some grace from the bank, we can cover the minimum payment on the mortgage checks and really focus on throwing that credit card debt down so you’re not getting raked over with interest. Given time and a steady plan, this is doable.”
He spoke firmly, confidently. The even cadence of his words, so assured, calmed my rising hysteria. The details jumbled in my brain. This mess was inherited. Sure, I hadn’t exactly been steering it correctly, but when I took over, Dad’s debt had already been past scary. I’d managed those minimum payments but missed a few mortgage payments in the meantime, and the debt had gone straight to atrocious.
“Okay,” I said when I realized he was waiting for me to say something.
“Okay?”
“I can do this. I’ll text Steven now and meet up with him tomorrow.”
“Good. It’s a start. In the meantime, we’ll keep the operations manual going. That’ll help us find the money leaks, as well as establish your documentation so you’re ready for help when it comes.”
“It makes sense.”
He paused, studying me. “It does make sense, but it seems like there’s something bothering you.”
For the love . . . he had to be beautiful and perceptive? My gaze dropped to my fidgeting fingers. How did I explain how stupid I felt? How ridiculous this entire thing had become?
“What is it?” He nudged me with an elbow. “Now is not the time to hold back. If you want my help, you have to be all in.”
There was no wavering in his tone. Nothing that screamed safety in most regards, but I felt safe enough to not hold back. Dad had been the same way in emotionally charged situations.
Keep it to facts, then feel it once you understand it, Bee.
“I just . . . I feel really stupid. Like I should have known this. Like this is all my fault and I could have prevented it.” I peered at him through my eyelashes. “Does that sound insane?”
To my surprise, his expression softened. “You took Entrepreneur 101 in college, did you?”
“No, I guess not.”
“They don’t teach you this in a formal way when you inherit a disaster.” He shrugged. “No one expects you to step into a new role and naturally know everything. This mess was handed to you. You were given a dumpster fire, and now we’re just trying to keep your dumpster.”
Unable to help myself, I burst out laughing. The image of the Frolicking Moose as a dumpster wasn’t drastically far off. He relaxed, chuckling and rolling his shoulders.
“You were Army, too, weren’t you?” I asked. “You were being facetious, but I can tell.”
He didn’t seem startled by the question. Nothing seemed to surprise him. His deep voice rolled like a river when he said, “Yeah.”
“MOS?” I asked, trying to decide what kind of job I could picture him having.
“Infantry captain.”
“Usual story?” I gestured to his leg, expecting shadows and reticence. At the very least, a hesitation to speak about what happened. Neither came.
“If IED is the usual story, yes.”
“How long have you been out?”
“Ten years.”
“Medically discharged?”
He nodded.
I reached into my back pocket, pulling out a torn, tattered, slightly rounded picture of me and Dad that I carried with me everywhere. Having it eased the ache that made it hard to get out of bed. I lived in Dad’s world, but I still carried him with me.
The picture showed the two of us in front of the Frolicking Moose, just after he’d bought it. I’d just graduated high school—was still wearing my cap and gown, in fact. I was kissing his cheek while he gave the camera a thumbs-up. He wore his favorite board shorts, and his prosthetic leg was apparent.
The moment Maverick’s eyes registered it, his expression changed. I grinned with one side of my lips when his eyes met mine. Something in them had shifted. A darkening, like uncertainty.
“IED?” he asked.
“When I was twelve.”
The memories were bitter and terrifying. I’d been staying with Mama on my weeklong spring break instead of with Pappa, who came to live with me whenever Dad deployed. When the news arrived, Mama had been pale. Shaking. Something in her eyes had been terrified.
I didn’t sleep for days.
“He calle
d as soon as he could after it happened,” I said, my voice suddenly thick, “but it was days after that I found out. Pappa knew but didn’t tell me. I felt like I aged ten years waiting to hear if he’d die. He had infections and complications, and was in Germany for . . . forever.”
The words tumbled off my lips with a sigh. I could still feel Pappa’s leathery arm wrap around my shoulder when he finally came to pick me up from Mama’s. He’d pulled me into his lean body that smelled like tobacco and hay, and I felt instant comfort and relief. Jim lingered in the house, hidden in the shadows. Mama had hugged Pappa with tears in her eyes that I’d never understood.
He’ll be fine, kid, Pappa had said, holding me tight. He loves you too much to die, you know. And even if he did die, you’ll always have me.
I blinked out of the memory with a deep breath. But, of course, Pappa died. Mama died. Time had been peeling away all the people I cared about.
Maverick watched me intently.
“Eventually, Dad made it back,” I continued, “and we found a new normal. He got out. Started trying different careers but could never settle. Pappa lived with us while Dad flew around, going to various appointments. Within a year and a half, he was back to his usual dorky self, just with one leg instead of two. Sometimes he’d pretend to hit me with it. Was worried I’d be embarrassed to be seen with him.”
Mav half-smiled, still looking at the photo. “Thanks,” he said, meeting my gaze. “Thanks for sharing that with me.”
But he meant so much more—I could read it in his eyes. Like whatever professional ice lay between us had cracked. Nothing drastic.
But a definite crack.
“I’ll text Steven tomorrow.” I cleared my throat and glanced at his computer to avoid his intense expression. “But there’s so much here I don’t understand. Will you go with me? I’ll . . . I’ll feel better if I’m not trying to tackle this meeting on my own.”
He smiled. This time, it reached his eyes.
“I will. Have a seat. You may not understand now, but you will. We’re going to walk through all of this together.”
16
Maverick
“Act confident in the process,” I told Bethany as we strode into the bank together the next afternoon. “It will go a long way.”
Five hours of work lay behind us. While Bethany and Lizbeth wrote down a few more processes for the operations manual—ordering coffee through an online portal for starters—and Ellie read a Boy Scout guidebook, I’d poured over a spreadsheet template that detailed every aspect of the process I’d set up. Then I’d sent a copy to my VA, who would make a system out of it for the next company I helped.
Bethany wasn’t the only one creating a plan. If this company could work and allow me the freedom to move, I had my own manual to make. Moving every three to four weeks wouldn’t be easy, but it would be easier than roots. Relationships, while cuddly, were a breeding ground of issues and expectations.
And expectations really sucked the f-u-n out of life.
Already, holes in my business approach were apparent. I’d scoured too much financial data yesterday and needed to make a skeleton structure for future clients. It had wasted my time and overwhelmed her. Bethany had been right; I’d given too much information.
I also had to remember to use different vocabulary—another system to develop.
Not having an instant grip on this idea frustrated me. Until I executed it well, it was just an idea. Bethany would have to prove me out. It might never prove out, of course. Then I’d go to Mallory, fully prepared to throw myself into CRO and wait for the semi-truck of corporate life to plow me over again.
Molding a company all by myself, however, felt like a dream. No layers of corporation to move through, or teams to assign to the work I wanted to execute.
Mallory looked farther away every day.
“What if I mess this up?” Bethany whispered, pulling me out of my thoughts. As if afraid Steven would hear us from inside the brick building. A dry wind scuttled past us, stirring her hair, which she’d worn down. The smell of fresh cotton filled my nose. Lipstick brightened her face, eternally drawing my eyes to her perfectly sculpted lips. I pulled my gaze away from her legs.
For being raised by a single father, she certainly had a shining feminine appearance.
“He’s either going to help, or he’s not,” I said, striving to stay nonchalant. “You do the best you can. It always works out.”
Nerves never served. While there were controllable aspects to every negotiation, over time, I’d learned that you couldn’t control what came before your meeting. A late morning. Spilled coffee. A crappy post on social media. Often, those little things had the greatest impact on negotiations. They were totally out of your control.
A skeptical expression crossed her face, then disappeared. She drew in a deep breath. “Okay.”
Her unusual, quick trust impressed the hell out of me.
I reached for the door into the bank before she could, nudging her inside with a tilt of my head. My hand touched the small of her back as she passed. I instantly regretted it when an unexpected smile stretched across her face. I felt it all the way to my gut.
“Thanks,” she said, and slipped inside.
At least she wasn’t wearing yoga pants today, but that lipstick sure wasn’t doing me any favors either.
While the receptionist walked into Steven’s office, Bethany’s forehead crinkled. “Should I tell him about the girls?”
A question I’d debated in my head last night. In a small town like this, gossip spread like wildfire, and that could potentially harm the girls later. But the truth built trust. In the end, this was about me teaching her how to read the situation. Even though I wanted to fix this for her, she had to do it herself.
That wasn’t easy. But, if I knew anything, it was how to work a negotiation.
“Feel it out. You’ll know if it’s the right thing.”
She opened her mouth to protest, saw something in my face, and closed it again. “Right. You’re going for this mysterious leader type of thing, aren’t you?”
I laughed.
A few minutes later, an office door opened. A man with salt-and-pepper hair, a sharp nose, and rigid features stepped halfway out. He took us both in with one glance and disappeared back inside.
“Go ahead,” the receptionist said with a little smile. “That means he’s ready for you.”
This would be interesting.
Bethany stopped just outside the office, closed her eyes, drew in a deep breath, and straightened her shoulders. Then she walked inside, head held high, heels lightly tapping on the wooden floor. I followed, more eager than ever.
Steven, head of the Bank of Pineville, stared at me from across a glossy mahogany desk. Warm sunlight blasted from floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out on the nearby mountains. I met his scrutinizing gaze with a nod.
“Who’re you?” he asked, rising.
“This is Maverick,” she said. “He’s a business consultant that I’m working with. He’s here to help me with the Frolicking Moose.”
One of Steven’s dusty eyebrows rose, but he said nothing. Bethany settled into a chair across from his desk but sat on the edge, her hands resting on her thighs. I made myself comfortable, trying to read Steven’s tics.
“So.” He finally looked at Bethany. “You’re in trouble.”
“Good to see you, too, Steven. It’s been a while. How’s Margaret?”
“It’s been seven months and fourteen days. I’m fine. Margaret appreciated the birthday card you sent last week, by the way. You look healthy, and your coffee shop is on its last gasping breath. Does that cover everything?”
Bethany’s jaw tightened. “Not in the slightest.”
Atta girl.
“You can’t be here to beg for more grace. There is no more grace, Bethany. It’s time. Time to accept the inevitable. The Frolicking Moose is dying. Kill it. Sell it. Let it go. Whatever you can do to restore some of your credit befor
e it takes you to the grave as well. Pardon my pun.”
My fingers twitched with a sudden, undeniable surge of annoyance. Who made a miserable death joke like that less than a year after someone lost their father? I could handle this guy in three sentences.
Maybe sitting on this side of things wouldn’t be as easy as I thought. Although I had a feeling I was too emotionally invested in this one. It wouldn’t be like this going forward. I made a mental note to forward a rule list to my VA.
Accept no clients I can’t stop looking at.
Accept no clients whose smell makes me want to stay in their business outside normal hours.
Accept no clients that look like Bethany in yoga pants.
Bethany spoke up while I detailed in my head exactly what I’d say.
“I have a plan.” Her tone rang with confidence. “A good one. I came to tell you about it as a show of faith. I know that our line of credit is out. That the mortgage has three back payments due, and that you know about the credit card.”
He lifted his brow in acknowledgment. Bethany reached into her purse, pulled out a stack of papers, and slammed them onto Steven’s desk with a dramatic flourish.
“I came to talk.”
Never in my Army years or while scaling the corporate ladder had I felt so proud of someone.
Thirty minutes later, Bethany stood next to Steven behind his desk, a strategic display of papers in front of him. The graphs, spreadsheets, and calculations were all familiar to me by now. Steven regarded them like a man of money.
Like maybe she had a breath of hope.
Bethany had warmed into the back-and-forth. I sat back, slightly bored. Maybe she didn’t need me at all.
“I know this is going to work.” She tapped a finger on the paper that detailed my projected profit-and-loss for four months from now. “How could it not?”
Well, a thousand ways, but no need to interject them. He would see them as well as I could. Steven looked at me with shrewd intent as he peered over the top of his thin, black-rimmed glasses. For several seconds, we said nothing.
“It’s something.” Steven leaned back in his chair, waving a hand toward the paperwork. “It’s lovely what you’ve done. Really. But that plan could take months. Your father promised me the same thing. Bethany, it’s not you that’s failing. It’s the shop. The store. The property is bloody cursed. Not even the strongest plan could work there. Nothing ever has.”
