Chapter 6 - The Logistics of Hope
The North Boston terminal of Callaway Freight Systems was a massive hive of steel, diesel smoke, and roaring engines. It was the opposite of the quiet mansion on the hill. For Grace, the first week in the compliance office felt like learning to swim in a whirlpool.
She sat at a desk covered in shipping manifests, customs declarations, and safety logs. Her hands, now free of bandages and showing only pink, healing skin, flew across the keyboard. She was determined to be perfect. She didn't want anyone saying Nathaniel Callaway had given a job to his maid out of pity.
On Thursday afternoon, a shadow fell over her desk.
She looked up to see Nathaniel standing there. He wasn't wearing his boardroom suit; he had on a dark wool sweater and jeans, looking more like a foreman than a billionaire.
"How are the numbers?" he asked, leaning his hip against the edge of her desk.
"The late shipments from the Halifax port have a three-day backlog due to the customs check," Grace said automatically, pointing to the spreadsheet. "I’m rerouting the perishable containers through the land border at Maine. It will cost four percent more in fuel, but it saves the inventory from rotting."
Nathaniel looked down at the screen, then at her. A slow, rare smile touched his lips. "My senior VP took three days to think of that last year. You did it in twenty minutes?"
"I used to manage the delivery schedules for my husband's construction firm," Grace said, her voice softer now. "A late truck meant thirty men standing around drawing wages for doing nothing. You learn to move fast when every minute costs a week's groceries."
Nathaniel’s smile faded into something warmer, deeper. "You're under-utilizing yourself here, Grace."
"I’m grateful to be here at all," she said simply.
"Lily missed you today," he said, changing the subject abruptly. "She spent two hours in my office this morning while I was on a call with Tokyo. She drew another lion. This one has green hair."
Grace laughed, a bright, clear sound that made two clerks at the next desk look up in surprise. Nathaniel Callaway's office was usually a sacred space where vice presidents went to sweat. The idea of a three-year-old girl in a yellow dress coloring with crayons on his glass desk was nearly impossible to picture.
"You're spoiling her, Nathaniel," Grace said, using his name for the first time without shaking.
"She’s hard to corrupt," Nathaniel said. He straightened up, his eyes lingering on her face. "I’m having dinner at the house tonight. Alone. I’d like you and Lily to join me. Not in the cottage. In the main dining room."
Grace froze. "Nathaniel... the staff will talk."
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"Let them talk," he said, his voice dropping into that low, heavy register that made her heart skip a beat. "I own the house. I own the tables. And I’d like to have dinner with my compliance manager and the girl who draws friendly lions. Seven o'clock, Grace."
He turned and walked down the glass corridor before she could find an excuse to say no.
