Page 4 of The Maine Event (Romancing the Workplace #2)

My heart thunders so loudly in my ears that I barely hear the chatter of the other passengers around me. I stare at the letters, trying to force them to rearrange themselves, to magically morph into the correct airport code. But they don’t. Because they can’t.

I clutch the ticket like a lifeline, my brain scrambling to piece together what the hell had just happened. How did I not notice this? How did I let this happen? I’m always so meticulous, so organized—I double-check everything, triple-check, even.

I feel lightheaded. I look around, as if someone might pop up and tell me it’s all a joke, that I haven’t just flown to the wrong damn side of the country—it’s just a hidden camera, YouTube prank channel.

But there’s no one to laugh with me, no friendly face to reassure me it’s not as catastrophic as it seems.

Frantically, I pull out my phone and scroll to the confirmation email from Emily.

There it is, plain as day—Portland, ME. My stomach lurches.

How did I miss that? How did neither of us catch it?

I thumb through the flight information again, as if somehow the words will change, but they’re still the same damning coordinates pointing to Vacationland instead of the West Coast.

My knees go weak, and I stumble toward a bench, collapsing onto it. The gravity of my mistake hits me like a freight train. I’m in Maine. I’m supposed to be in Oregon. I’m supposed to be pitching to one of the biggest potential clients of my career tomorrow morning.

I can’t breathe. I press my palm to my forehead, trying to calm down, but it’s no use. The reality is suffocating me, stealing the oxygen from my lungs.

“Oh, my good God.” The words escape my lips, disbelief and panic rising simultaneously in my chest. “What have I done?”

Frantically, I rush to the airline’s service desk, my mind reeling with the gravity of my mistake.

The line seems to stretch on forever, and every passing second feels like an eternity.

I tap my foot impatiently, my eyes darting to the departure boards, hoping against hope that there’s a flight that can get me to Oregon in time.

As I wait, the TVs above the desk flash with breaking news.

The anchor’s grave tone fills the air. “The ash cloud from the eruption of the Alaskan volcano is rapidly spreading across Canada and the Northern United States, causing unprecedented disruptions to air travel. Experts predict massive delays and cancellations in the coming hours.”

My stomach churns as I watch the departure board flicker, the word “DELAYED” morphing into “CANCELED” next to flight after flight. The reality of the situation crashes over me like a tidal wave. I’m stranded, and there’s no way I’ll be flying to the pitch.

With shaking hands, I pull out my phone and start searching for alternative routes. Train schedules, bus timetables, anything that could get me to Portland, Oregon. But deep down, I know it’s futile. The distance is too vast, the time too short.

I step out of the line, my legs feeling like lead. The bustling airport seems to fade away as the weight of my failure settles on my shoulders. I find a quiet corner and sink into a chair, burying my face in my hands.

“Think, Rachel, think,” I mutter to myself, desperately trying to come up with a solution. But the more I rack my brain, the more apparent it becomes that there’s no way out of this mess.

The disappointment is a bitter pill to swallow, but I know I have to accept the reality of the situation. The pitch, the partnership, the future I’ve worked so hard for—it’s all slipping through my fingers, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.

With a heavy heart, I pull out my phone again, my fingers hovering over Helen’s number. I hesitate, dreading the conversation that’s about to unfold. But I know I can’t put it off any longer.

As the call connects, I steel myself for the inevitable fallout. “Helen, it’s Rachel. I have some bad news…”

While I explain I’m in Maine, she mostly remains calm, although it would be fair to say her choice of language is zesty. However, the magical solution I was hoping she could conjure from thin air isn’t forthcoming.

“TSA is shutting down all flights. There’s no way you’re getting to Oregon.”

My heart sinks. “But the pitch?—”

“Don’t worry about it. Given the circumstances, Zoe will handle the presentation instead. She can drive from Seattle.”

“Zoe?” I feel a surge of frustration. “But I’ve been working on this for months, Helen. GreenShoots is my client.”

“Not yet, they’re not, Rachel. I don’t have a choice. The pitch is happening tomorrow, we have to be in the room.”

I pace, my mind racing. “What if I use my influence with GreenShoots to change the pitch day? I’m sure they’ll understand, given the situation.”

“No, Rachel,” Helen says firmly. “They’ve set the date, and we have to comply. We’re sending Zoe.”

“But Zoe doesn’t have my green credentials,” I argue, desperation creeping into my voice. “She primarily works on Big Oil accounts, for God’s sake. And she drives a 5-liter Mustang GT. Wouldn’t it be better to Zoom into the meeting, to reduce our carbon footprint?”

My arguments fall on deaf ears. “Rachel, this is not up for discussion,” Helen says, her tone leaving no room for debate. “Zoe is the next-best closer in the company, and GreenShoots is a must-win client for Channing Gabriel.”

I feel my anger rising, but I try to keep it in check. “So, if Zoe closes the deal, does that mean she’ll get the partnership?”

There’s a pause on the other end of the line. “Rachel, I suggest you enjoy your two-week vacation in Maine and forget about work for a while.”

“But Helen?—”

“That’s an order, Rachel. Send your presentation and notes to Zoe. Now.”

The line goes dead, and I’m left staring at my phone, seething with frustration. I can’t believe this is happening. I’ve worked so hard, and now Zoe is swooping in to steal my thunder.

I want to scream, to throw my phone across the airport, but I force myself to calm down. Losing my cool won’t solve anything.

I glance out the window, watching planes that were supposed to be departing return to the terminal to offload their passengers. None of us are going anywhere.

Two weeks in Vacationland. You’ll have to forgive me if I’m not jumping for joy.

The taxi swerves through the crowded streets of Portland, and I lean forward, scanning the buildings for any sign of a hotel vacancy.

I try looking again at the multitude of travel apps I have on my phone, but everything is grayed out, mocking me with a ‘sold out’ banner.

The driver glances at me in the rearview mirror, his eyes sympathetic.

“Tough luck with all these flight cancellations, huh?” he says, shaking his head. “Seems like everyone’s stranded.”

I nod, my attention still focused on the passing storefronts. “You wouldn’t happen to know of any hotels with available rooms, would you?”

He chuckles. “Wish I could help, but I’ve been driving folks around all day, and every place is booked solid.”

I slump back against the seat, my mind racing. I can’t spend the night wandering the streets of Portland. I need a plan.

As if on cue, my phone rings. It’s my mother. I hesitate for a moment before answering, bracing myself for the inevitable barrage of questions.

“Rachel, honey, are you alright? Your sister told me what happened with your flight.”

I sigh, rubbing my temple. “I’m fine, Mom. Just trying to find a place to stay for the night.”

“Oh, sweetheart, don’t be like Mary and Joseph and end up in a manger. Why not just rent a car and come join us at Lake Michigan? We’d love to have you.”

I’m not sure Mom fully comprehends just how far I am away from Wisconsin. “Mom, it would take me days to drive back to… Hang on? You’re with Claire?”

“Yes, when they dropped you off at the airport, Richard drove over and asked if I’d like to take your spot. So here I am. Between you and me, I think they just wanted a babysitter, but I’ll not look a gift horse in the mouth. Come on, join us.”

The thought of spending the rest of my vacation with my family is tempting, given that the alternative is spending it alone in a strange city.

I’m about to give Mom’s suggestion some serious consideration when the taxi passes a massive industrial complex, the sign reading “Harcourt Foods” in bold letters.

Suddenly, an idea takes root in my mind. Harcourt Foods is one of the largest frozen food manufacturers in the country. If I could land them as a client…

“Rachel? Are you still there?”

I snap back to the present. “Yeah, Mom, I’m here. Listen, I appreciate the offer, but I think I’m going to stay in Portland for a bit. There’s something I need to take care of.”

“Are you sure, honey? We’d really love to see you.”

“I know, and I promise I’ll make it up to you. But this is important.”

There’s a pause, and I can almost hear the wheels turning in her head. “Well, alright then. I can’t say I understand you at all. Promise you’ll call if you need anything?”

“I will. Thanks, Mom. Love you.”

As I hang up, I lean forward, tapping the driver on the shoulder. “Actually, could you take me to the nearest car rental place?”

He nods, merging into the turning lane. I sit back, my mind already formulating a plan. Partnership or not, I’m not leaving Maine empty-handed.

Harcourt Foods, here I come.

The car rental place is a hive of activity, with frazzled travelers scrambling to secure vehicles.

I join the line, tapping my foot impatiently as I scroll through my phone, gathering as much intel on Harcourt Foods as I can.

Their CEO, Jonathan Harcourt, has something of a reputation as a die-hard traditionalist. Referred to as ‘Old Man Harcourt’ by friend and foe alike, he’s certainly not known for his commitment to innovation and sustainability.

A poultry industry stalwart, it’s going to be a hard sell to convince him to diversify from the frozen chicken nuggets that built his empire.

But… thanks to my market research for GreenShoots and IncrediBurger, I have data.

Lots of it. Compelling, detailed facts and figures that show a shift in eating habits and a growing demand for plant-based alternatives.

If I can pitch CGPR as the agency to revamp their public image and convince him that plant means profit, it could be a game-changer.

Lost in thought, I startle when the clerk calls, “Next!”

I step up to the counter, flashing my most charming smile. “Hi there. I need to rent a car, preferably something electric, compact, and efficient.”

The clerk, a young man with a name tag reading “Ethan,” looks at me apologetically. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but we’re pretty much out of everything due to the flight cancellations. The only vehicle we have left is a pickup.”

I blink, processing this information. A pickup truck? That’s about as far from my sleek, urban, green lifestyle as it gets. But beggars can’t be choosers, right?

“I’ll take it,” I say, handing over my credit card.

Minutes later, I’m staring at a behemoth of a truck, its red paint gleaming under the lot lights.

I clamber into the driver’s seat, adjusting it to accommodate my shorter stature.

The engine roars to life, and, truth be told, I can’t help but grin.

There’s something empowering about being behind the wheel of this beast. It pains me to think it, but maybe, just maybe, I can understand why Zoe chooses to drive her Mustang despite the societal pressure to drive electric.

As I navigate the unfamiliar streets of Portland, my mind races with ideas for a potential Harcourt Foods pitch.

I’ll emphasize CGPR’s track record with green initiatives, our innovative social media strategies, and our ability to connect with younger, eco-conscious consumers.

Driving almost on instinct, I’ve left the city and find myself in the quieter suburbs.

Signs for Biddeford start to appear and as I’m approaching the city limits, I find a quaint motel on the outskirts of town, its neon ‘vacancy’ sign a beacon of hope after a very trying few hours.

The owner, a gentleman in his early forties, introduces himself as James, insists on carrying my carry-on case to my room, and hands me a key with a knowing smile.

“Just call down to the front desk if you need anything,” he says kindly.

I nod gratefully, suddenly feeling the weight of the day catching up with me.

“Thank you. I will.”