When ten minutes had passed after their agreed-upon meeting time and Bruce still hadn’t shown up, Faith opted to start without him. She opened the laptop Ellie had brought from the city and turned it around with a flourish to display the new website: Campaign to Save The Mermaid’s Purse.
Connie and Ellie gasped, absorbing the elements of the home page. Intent on crafting an honest message from the start, Faith had designated an up-to-date photo of the inn as the page’s focal point. A smaller photo of Maeve cropped from the Beacon’s recent feature appeared alongside, while a commanding cherry DONATE bar drew the viewer’s eye to the top right of the screen.
Below the bar, viewers could click to take a virtual tour of The Mermaid’s Purse, while underneath the video, a crimson thermometer tracked donations in hundreds of dollars.
“This looks great, Faith,” Ellie said.
Squinting, Connie pointed to a link below the thermometer. “What are ‘Naming Opportunities’?”
“Chances for donors to dedicate portions of the inn for themselves.” Faith clicked on the link, and the screen displayed a list of the inn’s common rooms as well as each upstairs accommodation, along with a “naming” cost for each. “So, for example, a person donating five thousand dollars could name the dining room for himself. Or herself. Or their dog, if they wanted,” she explained. An entire floor could be memorialized at a substantial discount, she added.
Connie scanned the items on the list. “You mean to tell me someone can dedicate a step on the staircase?”
“Why not?” Ellie chimed in. “Other donation sites do that. A step is a bargain at the five-hundred-dollar pledge level. But if you think that’s too low—”
“What about some items in the fifty-to-one-hundred-dollar range?” Connie suggested.
“Already done.” Faith scrolled to the bottom of the lengthy list. “Here you go: ‘Name a porch rocker for a hundred dollars.’”
“That sounds more reasonable.” Connie counted aloud as she reviewed the list. “And if all of these items were accounted for—?”
“There’d be enough money to pay off the inn’s entire mortgage, and then some,” said Faith.
“Imagine being able to tell Maeve that,” Connie said.
“Wait. That’s not all.” Faith clicked another tab, loading a “Memories of The Mermaid’s Purse” page laid out around an image of a lush garden wedding. “We’ll ask guests to share memories from their visits here, with pictures if they have them. I’ll bet there’s been at least one marriage proposal on the grounds over the years. And more than a few babies conceived. This was Ellie’s idea, by the way.”
“Nice touch, Ellie.” Connie patted her hand.
Besides “Welcome” and “Memories” pages, the site would feature the inn’s history, the story behind the fundraising effort, and a profile of Maeve, with each page linking back to a “Reservations” page to entice new business.
Leaving the laptop open, Faith rose and circled the dining room table, ticking off other proposed campaign elements like e-mail marketing and social-media outreach. Caught up in the campaign, Ellie’s team had proposed a line of commemorative swag, but Faith demurred, citing the costs involved and preferring to focus on their core goal: raise a lot of money in a hurry.
“So that’s what it looks like right now.” Faith dropped into her chair, searching the women’s faces for reactions. “And we never would have gotten here if it hadn’t been for Ellie pushing the team the way she has, so thank you very much.” Faith reached across the table to fist-bump her friend.
“Thank you for making me feel useful. I still feel awful about what happened with Mona, but helping to launch this campaign—well, I feel as though I’m making a contribution.”
“And just what do you call that little slugger you’re carrying around?” Connie teased.
Ellie rubbed her belly. “I guess he’s not quite real yet. But being in the trenches here with you guys . . . well, it doesn’t get much more real than that.” She swiped at her eyes. “Sorry. Hormonal.”
“You’re forgiven. And keep in mind this is only the first draft,” said Faith, taking back the laptop. “But if you like this direction . . .”
“Like it? I love it! Don’t change a thing!” said Connie.
“Great. I’ll tell the team to keep going with it. We’ll show it to Maeve once it’s polished.”
“This is so exciting.” Connie went around to Faith’s side of the table for another look. “I can’t wait to get the word out.”
Clustered around the computer, no one noticed Bruce slip into the dining room.
“Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, ladies,” he said. “But you just might have to wait.”
68
“But Maeve hasn’t even seen the website yet,” Ellie protested.
“She doesn’t need to,” replied Bruce. “She doesn’t want us to do this. That’s why I’m late. She wanted to talk to me about it.”
Or did you go there to intentionally poison Maeve against our idea? Rising, Faith squinted at Bruce, trying to figure out why he might want to scuttle their campaign. Certainly he wielded a great deal of influence; Maeve literally trusted him with her money and her life. Perhaps he truly had Maeve’s best interests at heart.
On the other hand, Bruce could be dipping into Maeve’s remaining savings at this very moment to prop up his ailing newspaper, and no one would be the wiser. If the bank foreclosed, he would still oversee Maeve’s take. But if the campaign succeeded in keeping The Mermaid’s Purse open, ownership would likely shift to Connie, eliminating Bruce’s involvement altogether.
“But why is Maeve so set against it?” Connie asked. “Faith’s plan is brilliant.”
“I’m sure it is, but she’s just flat-out uncomfortable asking folks for money,” answered Bruce. “She’s embarrassed. Said she’s never asked for help in her life, and doesn’t want to start now.”
“But she shouldn’t be embarrassed. It’s not her fault,” Ellie said. “That criminal accountant put her in this position.”
“We all know that,” Bruce said. “But Maeve has her pride. She said she took money from those good people already, every time they stayed at The Mermaid’s Purse. She doesn’t think it would be right to take it again.”
Faith tapped her chin. “Bruce, does Maeve truly understand what’s at stake here? Because if we do nothing, her beloved inn will go down in flames. She can’t possibly want that.”
Bruce exhaled heavily and crossed his arms. “She understands. I went over everything. All the documents from the bank. She’s holding out for another option.”
“Outside of a miracle, there is none.” Faith wished she had been there to hear his conversation with Maeve. She didn’t want to believe Bruce would conspire against Maeve, but something wasn’t adding up. She rubbed her lower lip, helpless against her rush to judgment, a defense mechanism honed over years as a spectator at Connie’s parade of dubious partners.
Finally, Faith could remain quiet no longer. “Why didn’t you do something?” she burst out.
Bruce blinked in surprise. “Are . . . are you talking to me?”
“Yes, you. You’re here almost every day. The day we came to visit. The morning after the storm. Every time we turn around, there you are. If you’re such a master at predicting storms, why didn’t you see this mess coming and do something to stop it?”
“I told you: I warned Maeve as best I could without betraying my sources.” Bruce looked taken aback by Faith’s accusation. He removed his glasses and rubbed under his eyes.
“Sources? Really? Maybe you were just hanging around to gather more color for your front-page story. So you could sell more papers, and keep your business from failing.”
Speechless, Bruce looked to Faith’s mother.
“Faith.” Glaring at her daughter, Connie gripped Faith’s arm. “You need to stop right now. You’re being horrible.”
“What are you really after, anyway?” Yanking her arm away, Faith s
at down hard at the table. Unwittingly, Bruce had uncapped something deep within her: years of bottled-up vitriol and resentment against every man in her mother’s life who had come before him. “Maybe it’s not just the inn you’re after. Maybe it’s my mother.”
“I said, that’s enough.” Connie’s palm struck the table, the impact toppling a bud vase. “I’m sorry, Bruce. I don’t know what to say. You’ve been nothing but kind, and yet it appears my daughter has temporarily lost her mind.”
“You have nothing to apologize for, Connie.” Bruce slid his glasses back on. “And, Faith, I can’t think of a single thing I’ve done to make you feel this way, besides trying to help. That’s what friends and neighbors do. I promise you, my intentions with Maeve, and with your mother—”
Faith snorted as Bruce glanced over her head at Connie.
“Are nothing but honorable,” he continued. “And if any of that has offended you in some way, well, I don’t know how I can fix that.”
Ellie sat with Faith in silence for a while after Connie left with Bruce. Finally, Faith took a deep breath, holding it until her diaphragm protested in pain and she had to expel it. “Well, I guess I told him,” she said weakly. “Oh, my God, Ellie,” Faith cried, dropping her head into her hands. “What the hell have I done?”
“I think the question is how are you going to fix it?” Ellie said as she rubbed Faith’s back.
After submitting to her friend’s calming touch for a few moments, Faith sat up again. “I just wish I knew where that came from.”
“I don’t think it’s a huge mystery. Obviously, you had some things to get off your chest.”
Faith rubbed her face. “About my mother? That’s for sure.”
“Actually, I was thinking more of your father.”
Faith stared at Ellie. “How is this about him? I don’t even remember him.”
“Exactly. He abandoned you. Okay, officially your mother left him, but he gave her no choice. He’s where all this distrust comes from.”
“So you think I’m projecting my daddy issues onto Bruce?” Faith massaged her lip while she considered this. “I suppose it’s possible. But it still didn’t entitle me to rip Bruce a new one. I’m sure he’ll never speak to me again.”
“He seems like a decent guy. He’ll come around. As long as you apologize.”
“Ugh. I’m too embarrassed to think about that right now. But as far as this place goes, I’m not giving up this campaign without a fight. No matter how Maeve feels. This inn is my mother’s future. It’s all she has. I didn’t put my life on hold and come down here only to watch her hand over The Mermaid’s Purse to the bank.”
Rising, Faith scooped up the laptop and headed out of the dining room.
“Where are you going?” Ellie called.
“To have a little sit-down with Maeve. She needs to hear this whole thing from my perspective.”
69
After navigating the maze of halls in the rehabilitation center, Faith eventually located Maeve sitting alone in the facility’s solarium. She sat down at the table, asking Maeve about her recovery and making small talk, then cleared her throat. “Maeve, Bruce told us how you felt about the campaign.”
“I come from a long line of hard workers. We don’t ask for handouts.”
“I respect that, but I thought you might want to have a look at it before you make your final decision. Will you at least let me walk you through what we’ve done so far?”
“I’m not too sure about all this technology,” Maeve said.
“I’ll handle that part. You don’t have to do a thing but watch.”
Reluctantly, Maeve agreed. “But only because you’ve made the trip to see me, dear.”
“You’ll see we’ve tried to be sensitive,” Faith said, launching the site. “And honest.” As she demonstrated the campaign, she watched Maeve surreptitiously, hearing the woman’s breath catch when the “Memories” page displayed. “It might be nice to hear from some of your guests after all these years, don’t you think?”
“Perhaps,” was all Maeve would say. When they moved on to “Naming Opportunities,” she balked. “The place might feel a bit like a museum, what with all those plaques with people’s names hanging everywhere.”
“They wouldn’t be that intrusive. I promise. And remember,” Faith said softly, her hand on the arm of the wheelchair. “If this plan works, you wouldn’t be living there. My mother would.”
“I suppose you’re right. But still . . .” Maeve pulled a crumpled tissue from inside the sleeve of her sweater and dabbed her nose.
“I understand your reaction. And your pride. But, Maeve, there’s not a lot of time. This campaign is our best shot at turning things around. If you don’t let us do everything in our power to rescue the business you built, there won’t be any more Mermaid’s Purse. And that’s something you might regret it for the rest of your life.” Faith watched the tissue in Maeve’s hand begin to quiver.
Emboldened, she pushed on. “If you don’t fight, it would be like . . . like handing another victory to that swine, after he’s already harmed you so deeply. You’d just be giving more satisfaction to a monster who tried to destroy you and everything that mattered to you, just to feed his miserable addictions.”
Faith sat back, shocked for the second time that day by the intensity of her emotions. Even Maeve blinked at her in surprise. Months ago, Faith hadn’t even heard of The Mermaid’s Purse; today, she was pleading for its life.
Ellie was right. Something primordial had driven her to lash out at Bruce earlier. Saving the broken-down inn was the only way to rescue her mother. And maybe herself.
Ellie was reading a magazine with Mona in the salon, but she jumped up when Faith returned. “So, how did it go?”
Faith patted her pocket, where she had placed the paper Maeve had given her for safekeeping. “By the time I finished, Maeve gave us permission to name the darn toilets if we want to.”
70
It was one thing for Faith to be smug with Ellie, and quite another to face her mother after her earlier outburst. She found Connie upstairs in their room.
“Don’t apologize to me,” Connie barely glanced up from her magazine when Faith entered. “Bruce is the one that needs to hear it.”
“I know. I’ll go and see him first thing tomorrow.”
Connie set the magazine aside. “I can’t help but feel some of your anger down there might have been meant for me.”
“It wasn’t. Not directly.” Faith sat on the edge of the bed. “Let’s face it, Mom. There haven’t been a ton of stand-up guys in our lives. I guess I didn’t really know what to do when I finally met one.”
“You and me both, Faith.”
“So tell me: Do you like Bruce? I mean, like him, like him?”
“I don’t know yet. He’s a gentleman, that’s for sure. But I want to take things slowly for once. See if that makes a difference.”
Faith smiled. “I think that’s a good idea. I hope I didn’t ruin things between you. Because that wasn’t my intention.”
“You didn’t. Anyway, this inn is my priority at the moment.”
“Right. The inn. On the bright side, I did get Maeve’s blessing on the campaign.”
“You did? That’s wonderful! Bruce seemed so sure—”
“Well, Bruce underestimated my powers of persuasion. Anyway, the site will go live in a few days.”
“Maybe it will be so successful we won’t have bad news to tell the boarders.” Connie pulled her sweater around her shoulders.
“I hope you’re right, but we can’t wait any longer to tell them, Mom. As soon as everyone’s back tonight. They deserve to know.”
71
In spite of the mouthwatering Thanksgiving leftovers David took it upon himself to concoct—turkey, brie and cherry-chipotle panini; sweet potato and bacon mash; wild rice, cranberry and cheese-stuffed peppers—Faith’s anxiety over her mother’s imminent announcement prevented her from enjoying a single bite.
Looking around the long table left in place from the holiday meal, Faith realized everyone had taken their same seats from yesterday, like family members at the dinner table—that is, everyone but Gage. According to David, the teen had refused a ride back from the cleanup, saying he’d catch a lift with friends. A subdued Roxanne periodically glanced at the door, Faith observed.
David also must have sensed Roxanne’s anxiety, because he leaned over to reassure her, his dark head against hers. Transference?
Faith yearned to brandish her fork at him. What about me? Can’t you see I’m worried? That my insides are as wobbly as aspic, as slushy as the sorbet in the Blue Osprey’s freezer the day we met? Then again, how could he know? Until today, her emotions had been buttoned as tight as her double-breasted chef’s coat. Maybe if she opened up to him the way she had to his father (but in a far less unhinged manner), she might elicit more of a reaction.
Meanwhile, next to Faith, Connie deliberately prolonged the meal, assiduously collecting every last crumb of pecan pie on her plate with her fork. Finally, after another meaningful look from Faith, Connie picked up her spoon and rapped it against her water glass.
David pushed back his seat. “Go ahead, Connie. We’re all ears. Although I don’t know how you’ll top yesterday’s toast.”
Setting the spoon down, Connie paused a moment, positioning and repositioning the utensil beside her dessert plate. “I agree, David,” she said finally. “Nothing could top yesterday. But that was yesterday, and today—” She paused, gnawing her lip. “Well, I’m afraid today is a very different story. It truly breaks my heart to say what I have to say.”
In tears, Roxanne rose halfway through Connie’s halting announcement and bolted from the dining room, before Connie could even soften the blow with a mention of the pending campaign to save the inn.
“How much time do we have before the bank takes over?” David asked.
At Wave's End: A Novel Page 19