“Isn’t that enough? How about you—you’re glowing.”
“Yes, well, I’ve got Beau’s baby growing inside of me.”
Meg wrinkled her nose. “Sure, but what about the addition at your house? Isn’t that a lot to deal with while pregnant?”
“Not really. Except our contractor is mighty chipper in the morning. Plays church music.”
“You like church music.”
“But he smiles constantly. Very weird.”
“You would prefer the opposite?”
“All I’m saying is he’s loud and happy at 7 a.m. Who does that?”
“Um, babies?”
Liddy groaned. “Don’t remind me. I’m not exactly a morning person!”
Meg laughed. Her friend would no doubt become one very soon.
“Speaking of loud and happy,” Liddy said, “the staff seems to be in a better mood these days. “
“I know what you’re getting at. I was pretty upset the way Pepper swooped in and commandeered my travel schedule, but even I admit that life is much calmer around here without her.” How would her friend feel, though, if she knew how much she itched to get back on the road again? This, of course, meant Pepper would have no further reason to stay away. “Jackson and I were having lunch when she called and started berating him.”
“Lunch? You had lunch with Jackson? Do tell.”
“Please. It was business.”
Liddy gave her best mafia impression. “Nothing personal … strictly business.”
“Don’t you have some reservations to take or something?”
She pressed the home button on her phone until the time lit up. “Nah, I’ve got time.”
Meg made her way to her desk. “Not me. The local chapter of the True Grit Legal Society is in tonight for their annual dinner. I’ve decided to stick around to see if I might be able to be of assistance.”
Liddy curled up her nose. “At a legal dinner?”
Meg flashed her friend a grin. “I Googled and learned that there are TGLS chapters all over this state. Sounds to me like they might be in the market for a statewide conference. Wouldn’t you think?”
“Now, see? This is why you are good at what you do. I hear that lawyers are going to be here and can’t run away fast enough. You, on the other hand, see the potential for business—maybe even for years to come.” Awkwardly, Liddy pushed herself up from the couch. “Excuse me while I practice my waddle on the way back to my office.”
Meg watched Liddy leave, a twinge of envy needling her. With a quick chastisement, she brushed away the thought and opened the True Grit Legal Society file that waited on her desk.
* * *
The legal society dinner turned out to be more entertaining than she had ever imagined. In little more than two hours Meg had heard terms such as “vigilante justice” and “uncoverers of truth” being bandied about. She’d learned that these were men and women who were not afraid to plow over anyone who got in their way, and more importantly to Meg, that they had been thinking about holding a statewide conference. By the time closing remarks had been delivered by the outgoing president, Meg had drafted a proposal complete with date options and delivered it to the incoming president to take back to his board.
She hustled into her house, surprised to see a light on and her mother on the couch, wrapped in her fuzzy robe, working on a crossword puzzle.
“Hey, Mom. Is Uncle Greg still incarcerated?” she asked, her mind still abuzz with legal jargon. “Is he doing okay?”
Deena put down her puzzle. She removed her readers from her nose and set them on her lap. “Well, hello to you, too.”
Meg grimaced. “Sorry. I know it’s late, but I’ve been thinking about him and wondered how he’s doing.”
“He’s in jail, Meg, not in the hospital. He has no nurses fussing over him”—she drew out the word “fussing” until it hissed—“only guards and bars to keep him from leaving on his own.”
Why did I open my big mouth? She longed to slip out of her long skirt, soak in a warm tub, and curl up in a robe herself. Did she dare try to extricate herself from further discussion and her mother’s gaping stare?
“I understand. He is still not doing very well,” Meg said. “I am sorry about that, and even sorrier that I brought it up.”
Her mother crossed her arms. “There’s a lot of stuff that shouldn’t be brought up.”
Meg narrowed her eyes. “What kind of stuff? Stuff about Uncle Greg?”
Silence.
“I don’t know why I even try anymore …” her mother said and put her slippered feet up on the coffee table, crossing them at the ankles. A bottle of red on the table tipped. Meg lunged for it. Empty. A single “old fashioned” glass rested near one of her mother’s slippers. Empty, save for a ring of burgundy in its bottom. Meg gathered both the glass and the empty bottle from the table without comment.
As she entered the kitchen, Meg heard her mother say, “Don’t judge me.”
Meg’s mind swirled. Don’t judge her for what? She put the glassware in the sink. For having a brother with addiction problems? For sipping some wine to take the edge off? Meg stood at the kitchen door, one hand on the doorjamb, a cacophony of emotions running through her. Don’t judge me. She’d heard this often when she was young, but when? And why? Meg stood beneath the door’s frame, trying to pull the memories from somewhere deep and covered over.
A bath and sleep would have to wait. She approached her mother and knelt by her side. A mixture of tears and redness marred the whites of her mother’s eyes. How had she missed this when she’d walked in? “Mama, what’s happening?”
Her mother took both of her cheeks in her hands. A tear trailed down her face, and she bent forward until her forehead touched Meg’s.
“What happened to Uncle Greg?” Meg asked. “Why did he get so addicted to drugs?”
Her mother hugged her close, her breathing ragged in her chest. She kept her eyes closed, and her voice had become a whisper. “Meghan,” she said, “some things are better left buried.”
Without opening her eyes, she kissed her daughter on the forehead, then found a soft place to lay her head on the couch and went to sleep.
Chapter 9
In the past two weeks she had learned to wield her booted foot like a speed walker. Stepping in as conference services manager demanded that she be on the move, and though she enjoyed the fast pace of the position, she wanted to throw out a whoop at Judy’s return to the hotel after having her sweet baby, Amelia.
“Here’s the last of them,” Meg said, handing over a thick stack of files to Judy. “You may want to lock your office door for a day to get through them all.”
Judy laughed as she left the office. “Thanks so much for all your help. Appreciated!”
Meg turned to her desk, which looked more like a storeroom for unwanted paper. She could stay and tackle the outburst of files and documents that needed a proper place or go home and see what her mother was up to.
Her mother. She had hinted, then outright told her mother she was fine, but Deena had not appeared to be interested in leaving. She swallowed back the confusion that welled inside of her every time she thought about the night she’d come home to find her mother in tatters about Uncle Greg’s situation. What had she meant about things untold? She hated to admit It, but her mother had always been so dramatic with no real reason behind it. Surely there was nothing earth shattering buried?
She blew out a long sigh, still considering her evening’s options.
“You look like you could use some cheering up,” Jackson said, entering her office wearing beat-up jeans and a tee that looked worn and soft. He had been gone all week taking potential investors from Miami on site tours.
“You’re back,” she said.
“I’m back.”
“Good trip?” She carefully avoided letting her eyes sweep over him. When he didn’t answer, she swung around to find him staring at her. “Was it?”
A slow smile spread acr
oss his face. He held her eyes with his gaze. “Sure. Good trip. Better to be home, though.”
Her cheeks warmed and she looked back at her desk, but nothing came into focus. “I bet.” For someone who preferred travel to home, she knew the emptiness of her response. But what was she to say with him looking at her like a slice of chocolate cake? It was wrong in a million ways for a boss to assess an employee like that, but Jackson wasn’t just any boss. They had a history. A history she didn’t dare repeat … as tempting as it may be.
Jackson crossed the office and half-leaned, half-sat against the edge of her desk. Oh boy. Eyes on her desk, she kept shuffling paper, praying she didn’t lose something important while at it.
“I reviewed your notes about the spa while on the flight back.”
“And?”
“How many times have you been to a spa?”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“Don’t look so annoyed. You made some great observations, which made me think you must be a regular visitor to top spas.”
She didn’t reply.
“So. Are you? Which are your favorites?”
Head games. Whether he knew it or not—and she suspected he did—Jackson’s questions played with her head. Everyone knew that one of the best ways to assess the competition was to, well, partake of their offerings, i.e., taste their food, try on their clothes … visit their spas. But Meg had gathered her information on observation alone. Whenever she worked a trade show, she would either ask for a formal site tour of the hotel, or give herself one. She kept detailed notes of these visits, listing meeting space square footage and on-site amenities, such as cafes, fitness centers, swim facilities, and of course, spa services. She rarely ever used any of the services herself—work always took precedence.
“Well, there’s one in Monterey that’s gorgeous. Small, but it’s on the top floor and guests can use workout equipment while watching the sunrise over the bay, then have a massage right in the next room.”
He moved closer to her, his voice like a balm. “I hope this is not something that is just on paper, but that you have experienced their services for yourself. Have you?”
She slid him a sideways look. “Not exactly.”
He nodded once. “And the reason is …?”
“I-I’m too busy. This is no complaint, because I do love my work here at the inn, but my plate here is very full.”
His brows contracted. “We should change that.”
“Are you saying my notes were lacking?”
“On the contrary, your observations are well taken. I was impressed by your impassioned plea to keep the spa on guest room floors, rather than on the main floor …”
“Impassioned plea? Now you’re just teasing me.” She shook her head, hiding a smile. “All I meant was that no woman wants to be seen in a robe down on the main floor, especially if she’s attending a conference.”
“And your idea to dedicate an elevator to the spa area is a great one, too. Expensive, but good.”
“Can you imagine running into a colleague after having just had a chemical peel?”
“No, not at all. My chemical peels are between me and my esthetician.”
“Ha ha ha.”
He was grinning at her now, which caused unexpected weakness in her knees. She reached for the back of her desk chair and sat down.
He winced. “Foot bothering you?”
“Yes, that’s it.” It wasn’t a lie—her foot was connected to her legs, right?
“Tell you what. When you get rid of that boot, I want you to visit some spas. Have the works and we will pay for it.”
Pepper showed up at the door, those thin black brows of hers attempting to assault the ceiling. “We will what?”
Meg’s neck spasmed and she bit back a groan.
Jackson continued to lean against Meg’s desk but turned his chin in response to his sister’s sudden appearance. “I see that I’m not the only Riley who has returned to the roost.”
“I am gone, what, two months and already we are adding spa vacations to our employees’ benefits?”
Jackson’s expression hardened. “We can talk about this over dinner.”
“Absolutely we will. I am ready now, if you can tear yourself away from—” she waved a dismissive hand in Meg’s direction—“your crush.”
He pushed himself away from the desk, a grunt barely audible. Yet he stayed rooted in place. “Go on over,” he said with a flick of his chin. “I’ll see you when I’m finished here.”
Pepper twisted her lips into an annoyed smirk. “Yes, you will.”
“The time away has been restful for her, I see,” Meg said when she had gone.
The scowl on his face turned to surprise. His mouth relaxed into a grin and he leaned toward her and bumped her with his shoulder. “Want to take my place?”
She shook her head slowly, smiling. “Not a chance.”
This time he groaned audibly. “You had your chance,” he said as he stepped toward the door.
“Jackson?”
He stopped, a question in his eyes.
“Have the grilled cheese and tomato soup. Some of the best comfort food out there.”
“Good advice,” he said with a laugh. “May have to get the chef to make up a double batch.”
After he left, she found herself thinking of him—the way he looked in his battered denim, the way he’d moved closer to her as if it were natural. Suddenly, she could no longer concentrate. The avalanche of paper on her desk dissolved into further chaos until she wanted to reach for a lighter and burn the whole thing down. Her mother had texted her that she wasn’t feeling well and would be going to bed early. Might as well head home, too, and make it an early night.
She gathered up her belongings and was about to leave when her eyes alighted on the book Liddy had spontaneously given her a couple of weeks before. When she had not found time to browse its pages at home, she had brought it here. Maybe, she thought, she would find time during a break or lunch hour to devour it … to dream a little.
Sadly, it had stayed wedged in the corner of the coffee table where she had laid it when she had brought it to work.
On the cover, a collection of pastel-painted villas hugged mountainous terrain that burst from the sea. She exhaled, seeing the image for the first time. Though the book had been in her home and then here in her office, its beauty had not made it past her eyes and into her heart. If someone were to tell her that she was looking at paradise she would not have questioned them. She ran the pads of her fingers across the smooth and shiny cover. For the first time in a long while, she realized, she did not wonder whether any of the colorful buildings could double as an event destination.
Maybe Jackson had been right about her obsession with business and trade magazines. Had she become immune to life outside of the inn? To life in general? She flipped open the cover, another image drawing her into its iridescent playfulness.
Italy … she will heal you.
Meg smiled at the memory of William’s words.
Another’s words sprang to mind. Domenic Marino, William’s longtime friend and attorney, had called to console her after William’s death. “You meant the world to him, cara mia,” he had said, using the Italian term for “my beloved.” “You must know this.”
“Yes,” she whispered into the quiet now. “I knew.”
Domenic and his wife, Elena, had retired and moved to Italy more than a year ago. She glanced at the clock: 6:07 p.m. Still the wee morning hours there. She sighed and shut the book. She had not taken a vacation in years, well, other than to clean her neglected house or run errands that were past due. She determined to give William’s old friend Domenic a call first thing in the morning. Who knows? Come next spring, maybe she would finally take a real vacation—to Italy.
* * *
The knife in his back twisted. His welcome home dinner consisted of listening to Pepper’s conspiracy theories about why the company was steadily losing money, mor
e than one revolving around Meg. Would her questioning of their sales director and her relationship with his—their—father never end?
“Are you aware that he co-signed for her auto loan?” Pepper had asked with a sneer.
“I am.”
“And you are okay with this?”
Jackson had lifted his gaze to the ceiling, collected himself, then re-engaged. “Father took her under his wing when she was very young. She paid off that car long before he died. Can we talk about something else?”
He spent the rest of the meal listening to her rail against Meg’s fierce protection of her clients, “As if they need protection from me!” She also talked nonstop about what a fabulous job she did running the booths at three trade conventions: one in the north, one in the south, and one in the middle. He’d made a mental note to ask Liddy if there had been an influx of reservations after those shows.
Despite his less-than-palatable dinner companion, his meal was delicious. He smiled thinking of Meg’s recommendation. Because of her, he had ordered the three-cheese grilled sandwich and tomato-basil soup. “That is not dinner!” Pepper had said after he ordered. He’d let it ride, of course. If he couldn’t have Meg sitting across from him, he would at least have something that reminded him of her.
Had he lost his mind? If she never came around, he very well might.
* * *
Meg strolled along the path that wound its way above the ocean. At this point, the boot seemed like overkill, as her foot did not ache at all. She waved to Rudy, who used an old-fashioned rake to clear the path of stray leaves and berries that fell from palm trees after semi-regular windstorms. A few beachcombers moseyed on the sand, dogs in tow.
So this is what early morning sea lovers did.
Admittedly, she woke up early every morning, but instead of slowly joining the world, she dove in to her to-do list—coffee in hand. The thought of calling Domenic had stayed with her through the night, even igniting a bit of insomnia. Part of her simply wanted to hear the lawyer’s gentle voice. She had spoken to him often when she was William’s executive assistant, and he never asked for her boss without first engaging her in small talk. He and his wife were lovely, well-traveled people who had found their forever home in Italy after a lifetime of working in America. She had missed those conversations after she became sales director and no longer screened William’s calls. But the finality of saying goodbye to Domenic and Elena was never more sobering than after William’s passing.
Runaway Tide Page 8