Chapter 6 - A Job Earned Beyond the Morel Name

The laboratory results came back on a Tuesday morning.

Cassian read them in the greenhouse because he had begun to suspect bad news became easier to understand around living things.

The contamination was real.

It was also limited.

Petroleum compounds had migrated through a section of soil beneath the south maintenance yard, but groundwater samples were clean. The environmental consultant recommended excavation of the affected soil, removal of the old tank, replacement with certified clean fill, and two years of monitoring.

Estimated cost: $1.18 million.

Estimated time: six to eight weeks.

Cassian called the board meeting for that afternoon.

Before he left the greenhouse, Thomas came in carrying a crate of propagation trays.

“You got the report.”

Cassian looked up. “How do you know?”

“You read bad news with your jaw.”

“My jaw?”

“It gets more expensive.”

Cassian almost smiled.

Thomas set down the crate.

“How bad?”

“Manageable.”

“That is not a number.”

“One point one eight.”

Thomas froze.

“Million?”

“No, dollars. We found loose change under the maintenance shed.”

Thomas gave him a flat look.

Cassian handed him the summary.

Thomas read slowly.

“They can clean it?”

“Yes.”

“And the roses?”

“Most of the formal beds are outside the excavation zone.”

“Most?”

“Two beds near the south wall have to come out temporarily.”

Thomas looked toward the glass.

Those beds contained some of the oldest red roses on the estate.

Cassian knew because Thomas had taught him how to recognize their canes.

“We have cuttings,” Cassian said.

Thomas nodded.

It was not grief exactly.

But Cassian recognized the shape of letting go.

“They can come back,” Thomas said.

“Yes.”

Thomas returned the report.

Then he hesitated.

“My interview is at two.”

Cassian checked the clock automatically.

It was twelve forty.

“I know.”

“You remembered.”

“I have been forbidden from asking questions, influencing panelists, reviewing materials, or breathing near the recruitment portal. Remembering is still legal.”

“So far.”

Cassian stood.

“Are you nervous?”

“Yes.”

That answer surprised him more than confidence would have.

Thomas crossed his arms.

“I left college once. I’ve worked jobs where nobody cared what I knew as long as I could carry mulch. I know this greenhouse better than anyone they’re interviewing, and somehow that makes it worse.”

“Why?”

“Because I want it.”

Cassian understood that too well.

He stepped closer but stopped before touching him.

“You don’t have to pretend not to.”

Thomas’s eyes met his.

“Neither do you.”

Cassian frowned.

“You want me to get the job.”

“Yes.”

“That’s allowed?”

“I checked.”

Thomas laughed.

Cassian continued.

“I want you to get it. I also want the panel to choose without considering what I want.”

Thomas studied him.

“That sounded difficult.”

“It is.”

“Good.”

Cassian lifted an eyebrow.

Thomas smiled.

“Now I’ll congratulate you.”

The interview took place in the foundation’s temporary office downtown, twenty miles from Morel House.

Cassian deliberately scheduled himself into a three-hour finance review at the same time.

It was one of the longest meetings of his life.

At four thirty, his assistant placed a quarterly revenue sheet in front of him and asked whether he wanted the revised forecast.

Cassian’s phone buzzed facedown on the table.

He did not touch it.

At four thirty-one, it buzzed again.

He still did not touch it.

The finance vice president stopped speaking.

“Should you get that?”

“No.”

Everyone in the room looked alarmed.

Cassian realized they had never seen him ignore a message.

He turned the phone off.

At the board meeting later that afternoon, Adrien opposed the remediation plan.

Not because he denied the contamination.

Because he wanted a cheaper remedy.

“Excavate only the highest concentration zone, cap the remainder, monitor,” he said. “It is compliant and cuts the cost nearly in half.”

Miriam Cho shook her head.

“The consultant recommends full removal before transfer.”

“Because they were asked to prepare the site for transfer.”

Cassian sat at the head of the table.

“That is what we are doing.”

Adrien looked at him.

“That is what you want to do.”

“Yes.”

“Your preference is not a corporate obligation.”

“No. The contamination is.”

Marc flipped through the report.

“Can we separate the two questions? Clean it because we own it. Decide the garden later.”

Cassian looked at him.

It was the first useful thing Marc had said in three meetings.

“Yes.”

Adrien’s face tightened.

Marc continued.

“I don’t care about roses. I do care about finding out in five years that we knew about contaminated soil and chose the cheapest possible fix because nobody forced us to do more.”

Celeste nodded.

“So vote on remediation without the transfer.”

Cassian agreed immediately.

That mattered.

It removed his personal project from the motion and forced each director to decide what responsibility meant without using the foundation as cover.

The debate lasted ninety minutes.

When the vote came, full remediation passed narrowly.

Adrien voted no.

Cassian did not enjoy winning.

He simply wrote down the next deadline.

Excavation would begin Monday.

The land-transfer vote would wait until cleanup was complete.

At six twenty, he turned his phone back on.

There were twenty-seven messages.

The first was from Thomas.

Interview done. Nobody died.

The second came forty minutes later.

Also, your outside panel asks terrifyingly specific questions about fungal sanitation.

The third was from Arthur.

He says he did not embarrass himself. This usually means he embarrassed himself.

Cassian smiled at the screen.

He typed: I am legally prohibited from asking how it went.

Thomas replied: Correct.

Cassian: I hate governance.

Thomas: Growth is painful.

Cassian put the phone away before he did something improper like ask whether Thomas had smiled during the interview.

Excavation started under a white temporary enclosure at the edge of the garden.

The two affected rose beds came out first.

Thomas supervised the removal even though the plants still belonged to the estate.

Each mature bush was cut back, lifted with as much root mass as possible, tagged, wrapped, and moved to clean holding beds beyond the work zone.

Cassian spent the morning beside him.

At one point, an excavator exposed the rusted top of the old tank.

Thomas stared at it.

“So that’s the expensive villain.”

Cassian looked at the corroded metal.

“Disappointing, isn’t it?”

“I expected a mustache.”

“Adrien has considered one.”

Thomas snorted.

Cassian had learned to treasure that sound.

By the end of the week, the contaminated soil was gone.

The hole left behind was enormous.

Cassian stood at the fence after the crew departed.

His mother’s south garden looked wounded.

Beds removed.

Earth torn open.

Orange barriers where roses had once climbed trellises.

Thomas came beside him.

“It looks worse before it looks better.”

Cassian gave him a look.

“That sounds suspiciously like a metaphor.”

“It’s literally excavation.”

“Good.”

Thomas rested his forearms on the fence.

“Your mother hated this part.”

“What part?”

“Hard pruning.”

Cassian turned.

“She’d stand over me and ask if I was sure every three minutes.”

“She told me pruning was necessary.”

“Other people’s pruning.”

Cassian laughed.

Thomas smiled.

“She wasn’t a monument.”

“No.”

“Still miss her?”

“Every day.”

The answer no longer felt like falling.

Thomas reached over and took his hand.

They stood that way until the security lights came on.

The foundation called Thomas the following Monday.

Cassian was in New York for a lender meeting.

He knew the final panel was meeting that day, so he had placed his phone inside his briefcase and instructed his assistant not to tell him anything unless someone was injured, arrested, or the building was on fire.

At eleven fourteen, the assistant entered the conference room.

Cassian’s heart stopped.

“What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Then why are you here?”

She placed a folder beside him.

“You asked for the revised covenant schedule.”

Cassian stared at her.

She stared back.

Then the corner of her mouth twitched.

“You are enjoying this,” he said.

“Immensely.”

At twelve thirty-two, his phone rang.

Thomas.

Cassian left the conference room before answering.

“Hello.”

A pause.

Then Thomas said, “They offered me the job.”

Cassian closed his eyes.

He felt joy first.

Then pride.

Then the immediate instinct to ask salary, start date, benefits, reporting line, and whether the board had offered enough.

He swallowed all of it.

“Congratulations.”

Thomas exhaled.

“They sent the scoring summary.”

Because the foundation had promised transparency, finalists received anonymized category scores. Thomas had ranked first in plant health management, public-program operations, and site continuity. He had ranked third in fundraising experience.

“They asked if I can start in three weeks.”

“Can you?”

“I think so.”

Cassian leaned against the hallway wall.

“Are you going to accept?”

“Yes.”

The answer was quiet.

Certain.

Cassian smiled.

“Then yes is the only part that matters.”

Thomas was silent.

“What?”

“You didn’t ask what they’re paying me.”

“I am evolving.”

“You sound physically ill.”

“It is taking everything I have.”

Thomas laughed.

Cassian let the sound travel through the phone.

When he returned from New York, the foundation board held a small staff welcome in the greenhouse.

Cassian attended as donor and neighboring landowner.

Nothing more.

Thomas wore a new work jacket with the foundation’s simple rose-leaf emblem stitched above the pocket. No Morel name.

Cassian looked at it longer than he meant to.

After the others left, Thomas found him by the propagation benches.

“You’re staring.”

“I’m observing.”

“The jacket?”

“The absence.”

Thomas understood.

No family crest.

No casino logo.

No gold plaque.

Just a leaf.

“It feels strange?” Thomas asked.

Cassian considered.

Then shook his head.

“No.”

He touched the brass greenhouse key hanging from a plain hook beside the office door.

“It feels right.”

Thomas stepped close.

“This is technically my workplace now.”

Cassian sighed.

“So kissing remains prohibited?”

“During working hours.”

“What time do you finish?”

Thomas checked the clock.

“Two minutes ago.”

Cassian’s hand settled at his waist.

“Excellent governance.”

Thomas kissed him before he could say anything more.

Outside, the south garden was still torn open.

The full transfer was still uncertain.

Adrien was still organizing opposition.

But the foundation had a manager.

The greenhouse had a future that no longer depended on Cassian waking up every morning and choosing it.

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For the first time, that did not feel like losing control.

It felt like success.