Halfway to Paradise

by Neesa Hart

  “You’re going to lose the bid if you hack this man off, Maggie.”

  “What’s the worst thing he can do?”

  Mark groaned. Maggie turned the last corner of the long drive. She stopped to stare at Max Wedgins’s house. “Wow,” she said, at the same instant Mark said, “Damn.”

  “Who lives in a house like this?” she asked, opening the door to the Bronco. “It looks like some castle straight from Europe.”

  Mark scrambled out of the car. “It probably is. He probably had it flown in brick by brick and resurrected right in the middle of Massachusetts.” Maggie was walking up the wide stairs that led to the front door. Mark hurried after her. “Look, Maggie. You know how this guy is. I don’t think he’s going to appreciate it if you just barge in on him.”

  Maggie stopped in front of the twelve-foot-plus wooden doors. She looked first at one, then at the other. She giggled. “I don’t think places like this have doorbells. What am I supposed to do, bang on the door?”

  The door opened. A tall, curvaceous brunette, dressed in a black cutaway coat and gray pin-striped trousers, greeted Maggie. “Hello, Ms. Connell. I’m Anita, the butler. Mr. Wedgins is expecting you.”

  Mark watched the butler lead Maggie through the enormous foyer. He had a brief memory of Bobbi the chauffeur and Connie the security guard. His opinion of Max Wedgins rose a few notches. The man certainly knew how to pick a staff. He’d give him that.

  Maggie followed Anita down a long corridor. The butler indicated a comfortable-looking sofa. “If you’ll wait right here, Ms. Connell, I’ll let Mr. Wedgins know you’re here.” She opened an impressive mahogany door and disappeared.

  Maggie sat down on the sofa. She was gripping the handle of her briefcase so tightly, Mark thought the handle might snap off. “It’s not too late, Maggie,” he said.

  Anita stepped back into the corridor. “All right, Ms. Connell. Max is with some people right now, but he said he’d see you.”

  Maggie took a deep breath, then stood up. “Thank you.”

  Anita pushed the door open for her. The room was so large, it took Mark a few minutes to locate the cluster of people at the other end. The black-and-white marble floor seemed to stretch an eternity between the door and Max’s desk. It was the most enormous desk Mark had ever seen. It looked more like a yacht than a desk. Particularly since it was purple.

  Max was dressed in all black, but the various paintings and tapestries and furnishings in the room were all brightly colored. It looked like a giant crayon box gone amuck. Max was seated behind the desk. He smiled at Maggie. To his left was a young African-American woman. She wore wire-frame glasses that did nothing to detract from the classic beauty of her face, and wore a blue business suit that didn’t even begin to hide the curves underneath. Mark grinned.

  Max stood up. “Do come in, Maggie. We were just discussing you.” For the first time, Mark noticed the two people to Max’s right. He frowned. “I believe you know Pete and Irene,” Max said, indicating the couple with a sweep of his hand.

  Maggie nodded. “Yes. Yes, I do.”

  Pete tugged at his tie. “It’s, ah, good to see you Maggie.”

  Maggie glared at him. “I’ll bet it is.” She started across the long room.

  Max looked from Maggie to Pete to Irene, then back to Maggie, with an expression Mark could only call predatory. “This,” he said, indicating the young woman to his left, “is my lawyer, Daphne.”

  Daphne nodded at Maggie. Max’s gaze connected with Mark’s. Mark stalked forward to the desk. Max, he knew, was the only one in the room who could see him. He planted his fists on the edge of the purple desk, and leaned forward. “Look, Wedgins, I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing, but I don’t like it.”

  “Won’t you sit down, Maggie,” Max said, indicating the chair in front of his desk. Maggie dropped into it. Max’s eyes never left Mark’s. “Perhaps,” he continued, “you’re here for some reassurances?”

  Mark glared at him. “You bet I am.”

  Maggie opened her briefcase. She removed a binder. “Actually, no I’m not.”

  Mark ignored her. “This bid is damned important to Maggie, Max. You’d better not be screwing around with it.”

  “I assure you,” Max told Mark, “my judgment is sound.”

  “I’m sure it is,” Maggie said, “but there’s something I want you to consider.”

  Max shifted his gaze to Maggie. “Would you like some refreshment? I’ll have Ellen bring you some coffee.” He reached for a button on his phone.

  Maggie shook her head. “No thank you.”

  Mark sat down on the edge of the desk. “I’d like to get a look at Ellen. Does she fit the description of the rest of the staff?”

  “Quite right,” Max said. “Very well, Ms. Connell, what can I do for you?”

  Mark couldn’t help but notice that Pete was starting to look extremely uncomfortable. The look Irene gave Max was nothing short of lascivious. “Max,” she said, laying a red-tipped hand on his knee, “perhaps you’d like us to step outside so you can speak with Maggie in private. I wouldn’t want us to intrude on your conversation.”

  “Yeah, sure,” Pete said, “we could just go wait in the library.”

  Max leaned back in his chair. He stroked his chin. “I believe Helen”—he paused to look at Mark— “that’s my librarian,” he looked back at Pete, “is in the process of a rather extensive recataloging. I fear you’d be in her way.”

  “Well,” Irene said, “we could go into the garden, then.”

  “What’s the gardener’s name?” Mark drawled.

  “Francine,” Max answered.

  “What?” Pete asked.

  “Francine,” Max said again, “my gardener. She informed me this morning that the walks are iced over.” He looked at Irene’s three-inch heels. “I don’t think you’d be very comfortable.”

  Irene muttered something beneath her breath. “Wherever. It doesn’t matter.”

  Max shook his head. “No, I think you’d be better off here. I’d like you to hear what Maggie has to say.”

  Pete coughed. “How do you know what she has to say?”

  “Call it a hunch.”

  Maggie shifted in her chair. “Look, this isn’t some game we’re playing, and I don’t have all day. I just want to get this over with.”

  “You’re right,” Max said. He pushed a button on his intercom. A door to his right opened, and a woman with platinum blond hair, as tall and attractive as the rest of Max’s staff, entered the room. “What do you need, Max?”

  “Georgette,” he said. He looked at Mark again. “Georgette is my housekeeper.” He glanced back at the young woman. “Georgette, would you please ask Iris to check the thermostat? It’s grown cold in here, and I don’t want my guests to be uncomfortable.”

  “Sure, Max.” She turned to leave.

  Mark gave Max a wry look. “They seem happy enough working for you.”

  “I compensate my staff extremely well,” Max said to the group at large. “It’s no wonder I receive such excellent service.” He leaned back in his chair. “Daphne, I have a feeling this is going to be rather important. We might need to analyze its legal ramifications later. I’d like the whole meeting transcribed rather than the usual summary. Do you want me to get my secretary?”

  “No need to bother Janet, Max.” Daphne punched a couple of keys on her laptop computer. “I’ll do it. Ready.”

  “All right, Maggie,” Max said. “What brings you here?” He looked at Mark. “I’m sure it wasn’t an easy decision.”

  “No. It wasn’t,” Mark said.

  Maggie looked first at Max, then at Pete and Irene. “Actually, it was an easy decision. I made it when I got off the phone with Carl Fortwell last night.”

  “Carl?” Pete said. “What were you doing talking to Carl?”

  “Carl and I are friends,” Maggie answered. “We have been for quite some time.” She gave Pete a dry look. “Why wouldn’t he call m
e?”

  Pete blanched. “No reason.”

  Irene was studying Maggie with a dark look in her eyes. “Maggie, Mr. Wedgins is extremely busy, and—”

  Max waved his hand. “Not that busy. I also consider Maggie to be my friend. I had time for your impromptu visit,” he said, sliding an icy look at Irene. “I certainly have time for Maggie’s.”

  Mark grinned at Max. “Nice move, Max.”

  Max looked at Maggie. “What can I do for you, Maggie?”

  Maggie handed him the binder. “This is a complete study on vacation resorts in the surrounding area. I did it when I was trying to put my bid together.”

  Max laid the binder on this desk and began idly flipping through it. “There’s a lot of background work in this.”

  “I’d never done a proposal of this scope before, and I—”

  “All the more reason you shouldn’t worry about it, Maggie,” Irene said.

  Max gave her a glacial look. “This shows very good business sense. No one should go into a large project without sufficient background research.”

  “I thought you would feel that way,” Maggie said. “That’s why I wanted to show you the numbers on the resorts in Connecticut, Massachusetts, northern New York, and Rhode Island. I think we can safely say that the demographic profiles of those areas are most like the profiles of Cape Hope.”

  “I’d agree,” Max said.

  Pete shifted in his chair. “I don’t see what this has—”

  Maggie glared at him. “Be quiet, Pete. This is my meeting.”

  Max glanced at Mark. “Very impressive,” he said.

  Maggie obviously misunderstood him. “It’s just simple background research,” she said. “I wanted to know how similar resorts were faring.”

  Max took a few minutes to study the data. “According to this, only the Burlington project is in the black.”

  “That’s right.” Maggie leaned across the desk and pointed to a row of figures. “The others are having trouble attracting a consistent repeat clientele. That’s the lifeblood of modern hotel facilities.”

  Max shut the binder. “You have a theory on this, I suppose.”

  “I do.” Maggie reopened her briefcase. She pulled five hotel brochures and handed them to Max. “These are the brochures of the hotels I studied. Look at the Burlington resort compared to the other four.”

  Max flipped through the brochures. “The Burlington is smaller.”

  Maggie shook her head. “No, I mean, look at the structure. Only the Burlington fits the historic and cultural profile of the surrounding area. The others have more of an Atlantic City look. This one,” she said, pointing to a particularly glossy brochure, “is one of Jason Challow’s projects. It looks like it should be called the Soap-a-rama.”

  Max looked over his shoulder at Daphne. “Make sure you get ‘Soap-a-rama’ in the notes.”

  “Got it, Max.”

  Maggie tapped the Burlington brochure with her index finger. “All I’m saying is, if I were you, and I was planning to invest over three billion dollars on a project, I’d think long and hard about what forces I let influence my decision.” She looked meaningfully at Pete and Irene.

  Irene glared at her. “That’s a very simplistic approach, Maggie. You must know that Max would have considered all the options before making an investment of this size. He has been rather successful so far. I’m sure he’s not in need of your business acumen.”

  Max frowned at Pete. “I don’t like rude people,” he said.

  Pete flinched. “Now, Max, I’m sure—”

  Max held up his hand. “Save it.” He looked first at Mark, then at Maggie. “So what you’re saying, Maggie, is that you think perhaps I’m not considering certain external circumstances in awarding the structural bid for this project?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Aren’t you worried about the interior bid?”

  Maggie paused. “I’d be lying if I didn’t say I’d like the chance to work on this project. My business could use the work, and I could use the opportunity, but frankly, that has nothing to do with why I’m here this morning.”

  Max steepled his fingers under his chin. “Then why are you here?”

  “Because even if you awarded me the bid, I wouldn’t do it unless Scott Bishop was the architect.”

  Irene smirked. Max didn’t take his eyes off Maggie. “That’s a rather large sacrifice on your part, isn’t it?”

  “Scott believes in this project. I’ve seen his work. His designs are brilliant.”

  “Are you threatening me, Maggie?”

  “Hardly,” she said. “It isn’t as if you couldn’t get another decorator at the drop of a hat.” She indicated Irene with a wave of her hand. “I’m sure Irene would be delighted to work on the project with any architect you choose.”

  “Undoubtedly,” Max said.

  Mark nodded his agreement. “This is a selfless thing for Maggie, Max. Don’t hold it against her.”

  “But you really need this bid, don’t you?” Max asked.

  “Without it, I’ll have to give up By Design.”

  Mark was starting to feel desperate. “She needs it for personal reasons, too, Max. She’s got to know she can make it. When we were married, I never gave her the chance to stand on her own.”

  Irene drummed her nails on Max’s desk. “I think you’d have to think twice about giving a project this large to someone with so little experience, Max. She can hardly make a go of her business.”

  Max ignored her. “So why are you doing this, Maggie?”

  “Because Scott Bishop deserves this project. He at least deserves to be considered fairly, without outside influences driven by greed and”—she looked meaningfully at Pete and Irene—“whatever else.”

  Max nodded. “Duly noted. Did Carl tell you last night that I’ve decided to postpone my final decision until after the holidays?”

  Mark leaned over the desk. “Scott wants Maggie to marry him, Max. She’s not going to unless she gets this bid.”

  “He did,” Maggie said. “I just wanted to make sure you’d heard at least one more side of the argument.”

  “Even if it meant that you had to risk losing the bid?”

  “Even that.”

  Max stared at the brochures on his desk, his expression pensive. The only sound in the room was the ticking of the red lacquer clock on his desk. Finally, he extended a hand to Maggie. “Thank you for coming, Maggie.”

  She hesitated before taking his hand. “Am I dismissed?”

  “You all are,” Max said.

  Maggie shook his hand. Pete leapt out of his chair. “Now see here, Max—”

  Max stood up. “I’ve plenty of things to consider. You’ve overextended your time, Pete.” He looked at Irene. “Good of you to come, Irene. I’ll consider your proposal.”

  She slid her hand into Max’s. “I hope you will, Max.”

  Mark frowned at Max. “Don’t tell me you can’t recognize a viper when you see one?”

  “If you will see yourselves out, I’m sure my footman, Kara, will help you to your cars. Thank you for coming.”

  Maggie scooped up her briefcase. “Thank you for seeing me, Max.”

  He smiled at her. “Do tell that young son of yours I said hello.”

  “Max—” Mark said.

  Max shook his head. “I wish to be alone, now. I can’t think around people.”

  “I’m not a person,” Mark insisted. “I’m a ghost.”

  “Go.”

  Twenty

  Maggie made three more stops before returning home. She hadn’t lied when she’d told Scott she needed to finish her Christmas shopping. She turned into the driveway, feeling surprisingly lighthearted considering the events of the morning. At the sight that greeted her, she started to laugh.

  A full-size, genuine igloo had been erected in her front yard. Ryan was crawling out the tiny front door. “Hi, Mom,” he yelled when she got out of the car.

  “Hi, Ry,”
Maggie said.

  Scott was smoothing a trowel over the side of the igloo. He smiled at her. “Did you get everything done?”

  She nodded. “Yep.” She crunched through the snow toward the igloo.

  “Look it,” Ryan said. “Scott put a hole in the top so I can light a fire inside.”

  “Won’t the igloo melt if you put a fire inside?”

  “No, Mom,” he said, looking disgusted. “The Eskimos have fires. How else would they cook stuff?”

  Maggie couldn’t argue with that. “No fire without my help, okay?”

  “Okay.” Ryan disappeared back into the igloo.

  Maggie looked at Scott. “I see he kept you busy.”

  Scott kissed her. “Yeah. We missed you.”

  “It took a little longer than I thought it would.”

  “How was your client meeting?”

  She felt a twinge of guilt for not telling him the truth. “It went OK.” Not really wanting to discuss it, she decided to change the subject. “Have you guys decided what you want to do for lunch?”

  Scott shook his head. “I was just starting to get hungry.”

  “Can we really light a fire in that thing?” Maggie asked, pointing to the igloo.

  Scott raised his eyebrows. “In theory we can.”

  “So how about if we sit around and roast hot dogs.”

  “I’m game if you are.”

  Maggie laughed. “Let me go change, and I’ll be right out with the feast.”

  They huddled inside the igloo, eating roasted hot dogs and potato chips, until it became apparent it was going to cave in on them. Ryan was the last to leave. Maggie had to practically drag him through the door. The igloo collapsed with a loud whump.

  “Ah, Mom,” Ryan said. “It would have stayed up if we’d kept banking the walls.”

  Scott shook his head. “‘Fraid not, Ry. I think it was doomed. We shouldn’t have lit the fire.”

  “But the real Eskimos do it.”

  “It’s also a lot colder north of the Arctic Circle than it is in Massachusetts,” Maggie said.

  Scott rubbed his hands together. “Wanna bet?”

  Maggie gave Ryan a gentle push toward the house. “Come on, Ry. Scott’s not used to roughing it in the cold.”