Second Love

by Gould, Judith

  Located in such varied paradises as Hawaii, Mexico, Belize, the Aegean, Fiji, the U.S. Virgin Islands, and the Great Barrier Reef, the resorts offered all-inclusive family vacation packages at affordable prices.

  Dorothy-Anne said, 'I noticed the Vacation Villages were particularly hard hit with cancellations.'

  Heather winced. 'Tell me about it,' she said glumly. 'We're in the same boat as Hale Lines, since our bookings are done entirely through tour operators and travel agents. Except we're feeling the heat even worse!'

  Dorothy-Anne nodded and sat back down. 'That stands to reason. After all, the Villages are family-oriented resorts. That puts things in an entirely different light.'

  'That's what I keep telling myself.'

  'Well? It's only natural that parents should be concerned about their children's health and well-being. If I were a travel agent, I'd want to err on the safe side, too.'

  'I suppose you're right,' Heather gloomed. 'Amazing, isn't it, the speed with which bad news travels?'

  'What would amaze me more,' Dorothy-Anne replied, 'is if good news traveled even half that fast. Unfortunately, like no news being good news, good news amounts to being no news. Only tragedies make good copy.'

  'In that case,' Heather said darkly, 'at least we have one thing less to worry about. Tragedy won't be striking the Vacation Villages anytime soon.'

  'Oh?' Dorothy-Anne looked perplexed. 'And why is that?'

  'The way cancellations are piling up, there won't be anybody there, that's why. They'll be ghost towns.' She sighed deeply. 'With what you're spending on the Eden Isle Resort, you need this like a hole in the head!'

  Dorothy-Anne made a painted face. 'Which reminds me . . . '

  She glanced at Kurt Ackerman, director of Special Projects, who was doodling on a piece of paper.

  'Kurt?' When there was no reply, she repeated his name more sharply: 'Kurt!'

  Her raised voice did the trick. Kurt Ackerman, shoulder-length hair held back in a brown-and-gray ponytail, looked up with a startled expression in his usually dreamy, cinnamon-colored eyes. Tall, lean, and in his forties, he topped out at six-foot-three, and was the only man present not dressed in a business suit.

  Which was fine with Dorothy-Anne. She hadn't lured him away from his job at Walt Disney World, where he'd created rides and fantasy worlds, just to turn him into another 'suit.' God knew, executives were a dime a dozen. What she needed was a creative genius, and after raiding Disney's talent pool for the best, she wasn't about to stifle him by sticking him in a Brooks Brothers, Hickey Freeman, or even Savile Row suit. That would have defeated the purpose.

  In fact, she found Kurt's artfully casual manner of dressing both reassuring and inspiring. Today it was a tobacco-brown cashmere shirt, a lamb suede baseball jacket the precise shade of French's mustard, black Levi's 501s, striped pink and yellow socks, and white Mephistos.

  He looked exactly what he was, this Steven Spielberg of amusement rides—a grown-up kid who'd never lost his sense of wide-eyed wonder, a man who preferred the innocent merriment of delighting children of all ages to using his technical talents to think up destructive playthings for the military, a man whose imagination created a kinder, gender, and more laughter-filled world.

  'Sorry,' he said, with a sheepish little grin. 'I just had this totally brilliant idea for improving the raft ride. You were saying . . . ?'

  'I was saying there won't be a raft ride if we don't do something about this company's finances,' Dorothy-Anne said severely. 'The hotels and resorts are our bread and butter. Without their income, we can't even meet our interest payments, let alone decrease our debt load. What we've got to do is complete Eden Isle—while cutting out as much pork as possible.'

  'I'll see what I can do about scaling back the costs,' Kurt promised, with a sigh. 'Talk about creative thinking.'

  'I'd really appreciate it,' Dorothy-Anne said. 'I think we all would.' She added: 'On my way back from Huatulco, I'll stop off at Eden Isle and see how things are progressing. Maybe I'll get some ideas, too.'

  'Want me to be there?' Kurt asked.

  'I'll call and let you know if I do,' Dorothy-Anne answered.

  Heather Solis was wringing her hands in agitation. 'If only the Vacation Villages and Hale Hotels weren't so inextricably linked in consumers' minds!' she lamented. 'That's what's killing us. If we could somehow separate the one from the other . . . '

  'That's asking for the impossible,' Dorothy-Anne said, 'short of selling the Vacation Villages, or divorcing them entirely from the Hale Companies. As far as selling is concerned, it's out of the question. I won't hear of it. And separating it would be counterproductive in the long run.'

  'But—'

  Dorothy-Anne waved her to silence. 'You're forgetting the reason the Villages have been so wildly successful in the first place.'

  'The Hale name,' Heather admitted, giving a pained sigh.

  'Precisely.' Dorothy-Anne nodded brusquely and sat back.

  'But now we're paying the price,' Heather reminded her edgily. 'With these cancellations, our overhead's shot through the roof. I've calculated that before we left for the airport, our operation costs had already mushroomed to double our income . . . and are no doubt rising as we speak!'

  Heather caught sight of Owen Beard as he sat as loftily remote and above it all as a weather satellite tracking a hurricane from the safety of its peaceful orbit in outer space.

  'I must say I envy you, Owen,' she said moodily. 'Managing a subcontracting division sure looks good from where I'm sitting!'

  Owen looked startled, taken aback by the sudden vehemence of Heather's usually mild tone.

  'Admit it, Owen,' Heather snapped, pursuing the subject as doggedly as a Rottweiler. 'If your trucks didn't have 'Sky Hi Catering, A Division of the Hale Companies,' plastered all over them, the public at large would never even equate Sky Hi with the Hale Companies, now, would they?'

  'Heather . . . ?' Dorothy-Anne said in a faint, uneven tone that barely managed to hide the jolt of excitement that had all but robbed her of the power of speech.

  Heather turned to her. 'Y-yes?'

  'Could you . . . would you mind repeating what you just said?'

  'What?' Heather frowned. 'About Owen's being a subcontractor?'

  'No, no, no,' Dorothy-Anne responded impatiently, shifting in her chair so that she faced Heather directly. 'About the trucks.' Her eyes positively glowed. 'The trucks, Heather!'

  'Oh. You mean, if they didn't have 'A Division of the Hale Companies' emblazoned—'

  'Exactly!' Dorothy-Anne blurted. 'That's it!' Her voice trumpeted such blaring triumph, such combative spirit in the face of defeat, that it electrified the very air and galvanized the others, Owen included, into sitting up straighter and taking notice.

  A tangible frisson rippled through the cabin. There was an exchange of knowing glances, looks of eminent relief. For the first time in ages, Dorothy-Anne was truly her old self—taking control, real control, and they could each pinpoint the last time she'd been this highly charged and inflamed—right before Freddie Cantwell's tragic, final flight.

  Now, witnessing her old fighting spirit reasserting itself, they found it a wondrous thing to behold and felt giddily infected, like battle-worn troops rallied into action by a new, charismatic commander-in-chief.

  'This company,' Dorothy-Anne declared, 'will not, I repeat not, go quietly into the night!'

  Too excited to stay seated, she jumped to her feet and prowled restlessly, like a caged animal, gesticulating urgently as she spoke:

  'I refuse to sit back and watch the decline and fall of this empire. Yes! Somehow we must—we shall—stem the tide. In the immortal words of John Paul Jones, 'I have not yet begun to fight!' Well, neither have you.'

  She whipped around and stood there, lighting up the cabin like a beacon, then pointed a quivering, all-encompassing finger from one end of the table to the other.

  'Neither have any of you!' she completed, pausing just long enough t
o draw the quickest of breaths. 'Venetia!'

  'Boss?'

  'We need to get that publicity mill churning—and I mean churning. I want to see a flood, an avalanche, a veritable tidal wave of positive articles about us in every major newspaper and magazine in the Western world. Also, we have to shore up our current advertising. By that, I mean a saturation bombing by radio, television, and print in the neighborhood of . . . hmmm . . . for starters, shall we say . . . double our usual volume?'

  'Double what!' burst out Bernie, hoisting himself from his seat. 'Th-that's not even meshuggah!' he sputtered. 'That . . . that's certifiably—'

  'You're right, Bernie,' Dorothy-Anne soothed, bestowing upon him the most understanding and winsome smile in her vast repertoire. 'We shouldn't double it. Venetia? Scratch that, will you?'

  'Whew!' Bernie sat back down and wiped his glistening brow. 'For a moment there, ya really had me worried.'

  As well you should be, Dorothy-Anne thought.

  'We'll triple it,' she decided, hearing Bernie choke. 'And really, Bernie. Stop acting as if you're having a coronary. It's not your money. It's mine to spend, and I'll spend it as I wish.'

  Blazing circles, like red-hot burners, had ignited on her cheeks.

  'And what I intend to spend it on is saving this company,' she said forcefully. 'Let there be no mistake. I'll do what I must to achieve it— even if it takes every last red cent!' she swore before her impassioned, saber-rattling battle cry ended as she realized she had made her point.

  Pausing breathlessly, she looked around. Bernie, elbows on the table, was holding his head in his hands and shaking it while muttering under his breath, but everyone else stared at her with a kind of rapt, radiant respect.

  'If you'll bear with me,' she said in a deliberately soft, unthreatening voice, 'I'd like to share a short anecdote with you. Many years ago, when my great-grandmother bought her very first hotel, the Madison Squire, she met with all her new employees. To start off on the right foot, do you know the first thing she did?'

  Only Venetia, who was familiar with this tale, did not shake her head.

  'She demanded a letter of resignation from each and every employee. That's right.' Dorothy-Anne stared at each of them in turn. 'A letter of resignation,' she emphasized quietly, so quietly and with such implacable solemnity and authority, that the inherent threat was more potent than any explosion. 'From the manager right down to the scullery maids and the boiler stokers.'

  She could feel the rapt excitement turn to wary unease, could sense the tension and anxiety levels around the table ratcheting up, could catch the faint but unmistakable whiff of fear.

  'And you know what?' she asked.

  No one spoke; the only sound was the muted roar of the jet engines.

  'She proved her point. Almost to a man and woman, her employees worked their keisters off and proved themselves worthy. The few who didn't were provided with references and severance packages. The rest had their letters of resignation torn up.'

  Again Dorothy-Anne paused. If anything, the silence in the cabin seemed to have deepened, as though some powerful alien life form had invaded it and taken up residence.

  She said, 'Before we stop over in Dallas, I expect each and every one of you to hand me your letters of resignation. No one is exempted . . . not you, Mr. Armour—'

  Hearing his name, the heavy, ruddy-faced president of the Hale Real Estate division flinched, the thick flesh of his sagging cheeks puffing like a bellows.

  'Nor you, Mr. Weaver . . . nor you, Ms. Valentine . . . '

  They all sat there in thunderstruck shock, reeling as if they'd been punched by an upper cut from an invisible fist.

  'Then, after a four-week probationary period, during which you'll have hopefully proven your worth, I shall review your performances and either tear up your letters or hold you to your resignations.

  'But it's up to you—each and every one of you—to validate both your departments and your own positions. The best way to do that is through creative management and producing new sources of income. In short, I want you to show me just why I should continue to overpay you so extravagantly.'

  Dorothy-Anne's voice dropped an octave as she once again addressed everyone:

  'You know, it's strange,' she said. 'While not exactly lackluster, our performance certainly hasn't been what it should be. Or, more importantly, what it could be. We've . . . well, let's be honest. We've been able to coast and rest on our laurels for far too long. Sadly, it took two tragedies to shake us out of our lethargy and take notice. But believe you me—I, for one, am taking notice!'

  Her piercing gaze sought out Owen Beard.

  'Owen!' she said.

  He jerked upright as though he'd been goosed.

  'About the catering trucks,' Dorothy-Anne said, hitting her stride and moving about with the authoritative command of a conquering general, a chieftain, a czarina, so certain of her power to triumph that her clipped speech sped up to match her aggressive gait. 'Heather was right. All you have to do is spray over the 'Hale Companies' on the side panels of the trucks.'

  Owen looked taken aback. 'Just . . . spray over it?' he sputtered. 'You don't mean . . . use spray paint?'

  'That's exactly what I mean, Owen. And, in its place, reletter it to read, 'A Division of HCI,' or something like that.'

  'HCI?' he repeated, dumbfounded.

  'HCI or whatever I decide on,' she said. 'And that's only until this blows over. When the Hale name regains its former glory.'

  She stopped walking, planted herself in a foursquare stance, and placed her hands on her hips, sweeping her audience with needle-like eyes.

  'The clock's ticking, ladies and gentleman. I suggest you make every second count.

  'This meeting is hereby adjourned. Now get to work.'

  35

  Mexico's gold coasts have long been legendary for luring sun worshipers to their sandy shores and tropical seas. Each decade has seen the birth of a major new resort. In the 1950s it was Acapulco, and in the sixties Richard Burton and Liz Taylor put Puerto Vallarta on the map. The seventies heralded a monstrously overbuilt Cancun, and during the eighties Mazatlan, Manzanillo, and Ixtapa became all the rage.

  Now, for the coming millennium, a new eighty-mile stretch of virgin beaches and jungle shores have been discovered: the unspoiled Pacific coast of Oaxaca. Encompassing the still untrammeled fishing villages of Puerto Escondido and Puerto Angel, the true jewel in Oaxaca's crown are the nine glorious, crescent-shaped bays of Huatulco.

  Hale Hotels, which had gotten in on the ground floor, had been among the first big investors on the Oaxacan coast, an area that, according to projections, would be Mexico's largest resort by the year 2018. Having learned their lesson the hard way with Cancun and Acapulco, Mexico's tourism development agency had enforced strict building codes and pollution controls.

  The Hale Hotel and Resort went one better. Even a height restriction of six-story buildings had been too high for Dorothy-Anne's taste. She had worked closely with the architects in planning the development.

  'I want you to reach back,' she had instructed the architects in the fall of 1986, as they followed a machete-wielding guide who wandered ahead of them, clearing a swath for their walking tour of the near-vertical, jungle like site. 'And by back, I mean way, way back. Think pre-Spanish colonial. I won't have acres and acres of glaring, blinding white stucco sugar cubes like at Las Hadas, so don't even try to sell me on that! Brrrrr!'

  She pulled a face to go along with her dramatic shudder.

  'God, no. I want something entirely . . . you know . . . indigenous. Sensuously organic and environmentally in tune with nature . . . '

  Before she realized it, Dorothy-Anne was off and running, fervidly spinning concepts that blossomed with vivid details of the exacting shapes, styles, and tonalities she envisioned. Launching into a celebration of pueblo chic, she touched on the regional Mexican vernacular, before singing the praises of the simple rustic beauty found in the local roadsid
e vegetable and fruit stands. Not once pausing for breath, she proceeded to paint glorious verbal color samples of the precise shades she had in mind—delicious pale ambers and evocative turquoises, ceruleans and pinks, and native sands, terra cottas, and clays. Carried away by the intensity of her vision, she went on to describe rooms that suspended the barrier between indoors and out, where strong saplings supported thatched roofs and each three-walled guest cottage had its own small private pool, going on to construct orally a hotel of individual huts with individual pools cascading down the steep hillside all the way to the golden beach far below.

  'With just a touch, a soupcon of Mediterranean thrown in,' she waxed poetically. 'But everything has to fade into the hillside. And, I want no building higher than one story. That's your brief, gentlemen. Now use your imagination.'

  The architects first looked at one another, and then turned to her in unison, their faces reflecting undisguised horror.

  'If it'll help inspire you,' she said sweetly, 'think hemp and straw and rattan. Woven Indian fabrics. Ceiling fans and mosquito netting. Clay sinks—'

  'Clay!' One of the architects, who had been driven from the airport past shallow brown rivers where local Indians bathed and washed their clothes and did God only knows what else in plain sight, recoiled in genuine horror.

  'That's right, clay,' Dorothy-Anne insisted, undeterred. 'Good, old- fashioned, honest, plebeian clay. Earthenware, which, I needn't remind you, has been around and servicing mankind quite nicely for millennia. Now, taking that as your cue, I want everything distilled down to its basic, most simplistic, and primitive purity . . . its very essence, if you will. That, gentlemen, is what true luxury will mean here.'

  'Hmmm,' one of the designers murmured thoughtfully, tapping his lips. 'I can almost see it. Jacuzzis with vast ocean views—'

  'No Jacuzzis,' Dorothy-Anne decreed firmly.

  'What! None?' The designer was scandalized.

  'Absolutely not!' She withered him with a glare. 'Who do I look like? Donald Trump? And need I remind you that whirlpools are noisy, vile pieces of machinery?'