McCormick's Creek Sweet Romance

by Jen Peters

  Ree fumed as she drove the short distance home and stalked to the greenhouse. “Mom! You’re not even at the store!”

  Her mother looked a little sheepish. “I know, Ree, but it was so quiet, and I didn’t have anything to work on. And I was itching to get out here and get my hands dirty.”

  Ree’s frustration spilled over. “Come on, Mom. You just escape out here when you don’t want to do the grunt work. Do you really think a sign on the door is going to keep your customers? Did you even get the new ad done?”

  Mrs. Swanson glared at her. “Yes, Ree, I did. Just because I can’t work the clippers or wire flowers doesn’t mean I shirk my responsibilities. People know I can get back to the shop in a jiffy, and they’ll wait. They have before. The garbage is out, the workroom is clean and the ad is off to the newspaper. Anything else you’d like to ask about my shop?”

  It was Ree’s turn to look abashed. “Only what you want me to work on tonight,” she said quietly.

  Her mother’s face softened. “Actually, honey, nothing. No funerals, no weddings, no birthday flowers. And I know you’ve been working hard at the mansion. So take the night off and do something fun.”

  Fun? What was there for fun around here? Especially with a certain dark-haired gentleman on her Do Not Think About list? All she really wanted to do was collapse in a chair and brood.

  She trudged back to the house for a good pity party, but then grabbed her keys and headed to Robin Cooper’s instead. She rang the doorbell, listened to the cacophony of dogs ready to welcome her, and sighed. Nothing changed around Robin’s house, but right now that felt good.

  “Ree!” Robin cried as she flung open the door. She enveloped her friend in a long hug. “I’ve been working. I found three more magazines to advertise in, but I haven’t gotten all the online stuff finished yet.”

  Ree just shrugged. She wasn’t sure she even cared.

  Robin led the way to the kitchen where they made custom soda combos, then out to the back porch. When they were settled in deck chairs with a multitude of dogs lounging around them, Ree leaned back and sighed. “It feels so good just to sit and not think.”

  “Tough stuff?”

  “You have no idea.”

  Robin eyed her over her glass. “So what about the delectable Mitch?”

  Ree’s gut tensed as she took another slurp from her straw. “Delectable? Mr. Mitchell Blake?"

  “The one and only. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten how hunky he is?”

  Ree tightened the grip on her glass. “His custom-made suits only fit so well because they’re sharkskin!”

  “Wow,” Robin said. “That doesn’t sound like the Ree I know and love.”

  Ree sighed. “I’m just tired of men pretending they’re one thing when they’re really the exact opposite.”

  “And Mitch is the opposite of generous and helpful? Not to mention Adonis?”

  Ree stared into her now empty glass, then across the backyard to where the dogs tussled. “He’s a nasty shark, the same kind of slimy killer attorney that took my dad’s business." She didn’t care if her metaphors didn’t match up.

  Robin was silent for a few minutes. “I’m so sorry, Ree. That makes it hard to work for him, doesn’t it?”

  Hard to work for him, and hard to fight the attraction she somehow still felt. Ree kept her eyes on the dogs and tried to blink back tears.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Hide my feelings behind a professional face, do a great job managing the inn, and get out of here as soon as I can,” Ree growled.

  Chapter 13

  By the time Mitch got through the Portland traffic Sunday night, all thoughts of Ree and all the excitement of helping McCormick’s Creek businesses had been replaced with the apprehension of telling his grandfather he hated his career. How could he explain what was in his mind? And, although he’d never have admitted it before, in his heart.

  Granddad had cheered and pushed Mitch to succeed in law—to be skilled and meticulous and ruthless. How would he react when Mitch said he hated it? He didn’t think it would trigger another stroke or he wouldn’t even bring it up. But disappointment? Mitch had to steel himself against what he’d see in Granddad’s eyes.

  But you didn’t live to the ripe old age of 88 without gaining some wisdom, and Mitch had always been able to confide in his grandfather. Granddad had helped him put some rough teasing into perspective in high school. He had listened and counseled when Mitch toyed with dropping law school and heading for investments. This situation shouldn’t be any different, but he hoped he wasn’t putting their whole relationship on the line.

  He slept restlessly and woke too early for the cloudy Monday ahead. A fast run through Garfield Park and the consultation with Mr. Bidwell left him eager to see his grandfather, despite his anxiety.

  He let himself in to the penthouse apartment and hesitated outside his grandfather’s bedroom door. Shoulders back, deep breath. He rapped on the door, two staccato notes answered immediately by Marcus, Granddad’s aide.

  “He wondered how long you would stand there,” Marcus said, his deep voice rumbling.

  Mitch chuckled. Trust his grandfather to still know everything that was going on.

  Granddad lifted a shaky hand, beckoning him to the chess table by his bed. They chatted while they played, inconsequential things until the old man began quizzing him about the latest client.

  Mitch gave the details. His grandfather waited.

  Mitch shook his head and sighed. “I do it, Granddad. I’m really good at it, and the clients are pleased. But…”

  He met his grandfather’s piercing eyes, saw the old man’s tightened lips.

  “Something more you want to say, son?”

  Mitch looked down and shook his head. And then muddled words came out anyway. “I can’t keep on. I see the devastation to the families, and it’s sucking the soul out of me.”

  Silence.

  “I know it’s just the way of things,” Mitch said, “and I should be professional—”

  “You should. And you should finish what you start.”

  Mitch closed his eyes. How else could he explain how much this was affecting him? He had to pull the words from somewhere.

  “I know that’s what you always taught me. It’s how you’ve lived your life. However…” His voice trailed off. The words weren’t there.

  “However,” Granddad picked up after a moment, “there are times in a case when we find new evidence, or the evidence we have causes us to take a new direction.”

  Mitch jerked his head up.

  “You were always so driven to succeed, wanted to be on the top. You wanted to make everything fit your way, to design the outcome and see it happen. Mergers and Acquisitions was a good fit, and you thrived. Not to mention the benefit to the firm.

  “But there was something generous in you when you were little. You used to stop and pick up a younger child who had fallen. You helped a poorer kid set up his own business fixing bikes, do you remember?”

  “Ricky.” Mitch hadn’t thought of him in many years.

  “I’ve pushed you, I know, and you’ve succeeded well. But I suppose, as a grandfather, I’m also glad to see this side of you come back.”

  It took a moment for Mitch to find his voice. “So you don’t think I’m crazy?”

  “We’ve got 55 attorneys in this firm—plenty enough to fill another Mergers and Acquisitions team if we wanted. Those are important, but there are plenty of other places for you, lad. We don’t do a lot of criminal law, but you could head for defense work if that would be more—what’s the word they use these days?—fulfilling. Or they could use you in Estates—you could help people keep their wealth in the family instead of yanking it away from them."

  Mitch tried to picture himself in estate planning. It seemed like masses of paperwork to keep things steady, with no chase, no hunt, no pleasure. He had to admit those were things that gave him satisfaction. And criminal law—no! There were ti
mes you were defending an innocent person, but much of the time you were trying to get a guilty person off with as few consequences as possible. And unless you were passionate about it, that could be just as soul-sucking as M&A.

  So what was he passionate about? There were divisions upon divisions in McCormick & Associates. He had only just admitted he needed a change, hadn’t thought through the next step.

  “I’m not sure where I want to be, Granddad, I just know it’s not M&A anymore."

  Granddad patted him clumsily on the hand. “Never you mind, lad. You’ll find your way, just don’t take too long about it. Now how about one more game of chess before this old man takes a nap?”

  Mitch wandered the library while his grandfather slept. The bookcases stretched to the top of the tall ceilings, filled with leather-bound law books that attested to his grandfather’s long career. Alongside those were treatises on history, politics, and philosophy, and others on sailing and opera. He chuckled as he browsed through a book of Oscar Wilde quotes.

  He finally reshelved the book and stared out the window, watching the light summer rain drip from tree leaves onto the pavement, morphing into rivulets that led to puddles. Would he morph into something completely different? Or would he stay mostly the same, just flow from a rivulet into something bigger?

  What did he want? He turned over different ideas, pondered various areas in the firm, but none of them clicked. He just knew he didn’t care so much about power and prestige as he had when he’d earned his J.D. His mind drifted back to McCormick’s Creek and the inn. And Ree.

  Ree. What would she want him to do? Something honorable, not something that made her lip curl in disgust. Something that would make her look at him with respect in her eyes.

  Why was that so important to him? Sure, she was pretty, and she made him almost as breathless with the light in her eyes. But he’d been attracted to women before and never cared what they thought about his work. And they didn’t care either, as long as he was earning the big bucks.

  But Ree was different. She was an unsophisticated, home-town girl, which was more enticing to him than he’d ever expected. The way she laughed over little things, the eagerness she had about making the inn something that would help the town—she was generous and kind and…

  He gave himself a mental slap. He needed to stop thinking about her. His career, his life was in Portland. He should finish up in McCormick’s Creek, make a shift in his field of practice, and get on with his life.

  McCormick’s Creek. The inn could be a big boost to the town if it brought tourists in. But the tourists wouldn’t stay if there weren’t restaurants and things to do. What else was there? How would someone spend their day before returning to a beautiful room at the inn?

  The bowling alley wouldn’t cut it. There wasn’t a place for a concert venue. There were trails to hike, though, even if he hadn’t explored many for himself. Could they be developed into something?

  Was there a way to entice other businesses up the mountain? What would it take to bring them in? Boutique shops? A small museum? Outdoor rentals? Just who were the clientele who would come to the McCormick Inn and use the other businesses?

  He scribbled notes on a pad, his mind finally engaged to good purpose.

  An hour later, Marcus let him know that Granddad was up and in the sitting room. Mitch hurried in, phrases forming in his mind. “I don’t know what kind of a career shift I want, but I’d like your help with something else first.”

  “Well, good afternoon to you, too.” Granddad smiled.

  Mitch looked sheepish. “I’m sorry. I hope you slept well. I suppose I’ve been thinking the whole time, and it just popped out.”

  Granddad chuckled. “Not a problem, lad, not a problem. What’s got you all excited?”

  “McCormick’s Creek. It’s got problems—you saw it before we made the offer on the mansion.”

  Granddad’s eyes narrowed. “It seemed fine to me, much like I remembered.”

  “It’s a nice little town on the surface,” Mitch agreed. “But underneath, it’s struggling. Did you notice the boarded up windows on a couple buildings? Businesses have closed, people are out of work, and there’s nothing in sight to change that.”

  “Go on.”

  “We’ve got the inn opening in a month, but the only restaurants are Nora’s Place and Ling’s Lucky 8. Plus McDonald’s and Pizza Hut, of course. The old movie theater plays second run movies, although the video rental store does great business, and there’s a bowling alley. That’s it for entertainment.”

  His grandfather steepled his fingers, listening intently.

  Mitch glanced at his notes. “I’d like to make a proposal. I’d like to use Foundation money to set up some low-interest loans, maybe even grants, to local businesses. With an advisor, they could update, streamline, do what’s necessary to modernize and stay in business. I’d also like to look into incentives to bring new businesses to town. If the inn is going to be a success—if the inn is going to bring success to McCormick’s Creek—they need more amenities.

  “Guests need a wider variety of places to go for dinner,” he continued. “They need things to do that will make them want to come. Shops, maybe a little theater. There are hiking trails in the mountains that can be developed, so perhaps some sort of outdoor activity company.”

  “You’re talking about turning it into a tourist town.” His grandfather frowned.

  “Only partly, but isn’t that what you thought would happen when you turned the family mansion into a B & B? I’m just trying to think of other things that would give residents the ability to stay in town if they want.”

  Granddad turned to look out the window, but his eyes were far away. The clock ticked. A car horn blared. Rain started pattering again on the roof, streaking down the window pane.

  Finally the old man spoke. “Talk to Geoff Paulson at the Foundation to set up a few loans. I’ll send a note to expect you. The other ideas…maybe, but don’t do it without the town’s approval. Nothing’s worse than somebody coming in and taking over.”

  Chapter 14

  By Wednesday, Ree looked around the mansion with both satisfaction and trepidation. The dining room was set with the antique table, plus four smaller, more intimate tables. A sideboard, a real find from the 18th century, would hold cereals, bagels, and fruit.

  In the parlor, the sofa and chairs ranged from floral prints in rose and moss green to stripes and solids. There were three conversation areas, and the fireplace was ready to light. That made two rooms ready.

  Out in the welcome hall, the telephone guy was setting up the landlines. The alcove gave space for wet coats, and the check in counter gleamed, but Harriet was still on the hunt for a few chairs to go with the bench.

  Ree glanced at her long list of things still needed: four lamps, the luxurious bath sheets, and all the stationery were ordered but hadn’t arrived yet. Harriet was determined to find “tables with character” for six remaining guest rooms. And she had just gotten a backorder notice on the special herbal shampoo.

  She wished answers about Mitchell Blake could go on her list as easily.

  The telephone installer programmed one last number in and closed up his bag. “All set, Ma’am. Would you like a run-through?”

  “Definitely." Anything that would shortcut hassles was a good thing.

  He showed her the instructions for transferring calls and anything else the front desk might have to do, then walked her through the process. She practiced putting people on hold, transferring calls, and sending calls to voicemail. “Great,” she said. “That helps a lot.”

  “Call me if you have questions later,” he said, handing her another copy of his business card.

  The newly installed phone buzzed as soon as he left, a quiet sound that nevertheless got Ree’s attention.

  “McCormick Inn,” she answered, wondering who would be calling when nobody knew about them.

  “Hello, I’m glad your phones are finally working,” ca
me a strong female voice. “I had to pull some strings just to get your number, and I’ve been calling since yesterday.”

  “What can I help you with, Ma’am?” Ree asked, trying to keep the wariness out of her voice.

  “My name is Emily Markov, and I’d like to book a wedding.”

  A wedding already? That was incredible. And a very good sign of the outlook for the inn. She flipped her new appointment book to next year. “Of course. What date are you looking at?”

  “August 17th.”

  Ree turned the pages. “But…a Thursday?”

  “No,” the woman said, “this year. In four weeks. Can you do that?”

  She had to say yes. Any other answer would devastate their early reputation. “Saturday, August 17th, of course. How many guests at the wedding?”

  “Small, only 30-35. We’re looking for the wedding outdoors, followed by a dinner and dancing.”

  Ree made notes but knew there were a million things to finalize. “Mrs. Markov, would you like to come up and see the inn in person? We’re not ready to open yet, but there are many details that are easier to discuss if we were together.”

  “I’m tied up this weekend, but are you free Monday afternoon? About three?”

  This woman was certainly decisive. That could mean things would go smoothly, without a lot of changes requested, or it could mean she would hover over everything. In any case, Ree would make sure she was available.

  She was still glowing with the idea of hosting a wedding at the inn when her cell phone buzzed.

  “I’m sorry, Ree, we’re going to have a load of flowers to do—a little girl died,” her mother said. “Can you come?”

  Ree put Mrs. Markov out of her mind while she worked for two days straight, clipping thorns, wiring stems, arranging beauty in a tribute to a life gone too soon. She didn’t know the family and could only imagine their grief, so if a little extra effort with the flowers might help them, she could certainly give it. Her mother had helped where she could, taping the grid over the tops of vases when she wasn’t taking orders or making calls to keep their supply of flowers stocked. And grumbling at how slowly her hand was healing.