by Jordyn White
The emotions kept coming: wonder and pity for Lizzy and her family for having to deal with this on a regular basis, anger at Rita Becker for having the balls to write such a bald-faced lie, embarrassment when my sister called and I had to endure her teasing over the whole thing, relief when she found it a small enough thing to tease me about, and frustration when I had the inevitable conversation with my mother.
That, ironically, was the thing that set me to right.
By the time I got a chance to talk to her to see if she’d seen the article—she hadn’t—it was nearly noon and I was in the construction office writing up a spec sheet for the custom window makers in Wisconsin. I’d left her a message earlier and she was returning my call.
Our conversation wasn’t horrible, exactly, but it wasn’t fun either. She was angered by the article, and hurt I hadn’t told her about Lizzy yet. I was coddling her a bit, trying to soothe her ruffled feathers, but the conversation took a different turn when she said, “I didn’t think you’d be interested in a woman like Elizabeth Rivers.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? A woman like what?”
“Now, you don’t need to get upset. She just doesn’t seem your type. I didn’t think you’d want to put up with that sort of person.”
My blood ran hot and I said firmly, “You need to stop judging people based on what you read in the papers.”
“My information about her doesn’t just come from the papers,” she said brusquely, “as you well know.” Those damned Christmas Angels again. It all seems so stupid now.
“Well that was just gossip too, as far as I’m concerned. You don’t know the whole story and came to your own conclusions, but I’m telling you. She’s not like that.”
An exasperated sigh came across the line.
“Don’t you trust me to make up my own mind about a person’s character?”
“Yes, but—”
“Good. Because I’ll be seeing plenty more of her and I’d appreciate your support.”
There was a little huff, then, “You always have my support, son, but—”
“And if you get to meet her, I expect you to play nice.”
“Now, watch your tone.”
“I mean it, Mother. You don’t know her.”
“I think I’ve had enough of this conversation.”
“Me too.”
When we ended the call, my heart was thumping in my chest. I don’t typically speak to my mother like that, but when she started in on Lizzy, something primal in me jumped to her defense. There are many things I love about my mother, and she has always supported me, but she’s not perfect, either. One of her flaws is her occasional tendency to damn people to a certain category and never take them out again. The Rivers kids have been in that category for some time now, thanks to the cumulative effect of various things she’s heard about them. As I sat there thinking about it, I wondered just what it was that made her pay attention to the occasional nasty rumors and dismiss the good stuff as nothing more than self-serving PR.
In contrast, I thought about my aunt and my sister and their admiration for the Rivers family. As a resident of this town, I’m not ignorant to the fact that they’re not alone. There are plenty of people in Swan Pointe, and beyond, who think highly of the entire crew.
That said, it’s been an adjustment, I think, for the community to shift its attention from the parents—who they’d known for decades—to the kids, who’d been in the spotlight a little less. Lizzy and her siblings are their own people, different from their parents, and the community as a whole still seems to be trying to figure them out.
So, yes, there have been rumors. The kind my mother has latched onto for some reason, and which I’d given more weight than they deserved simply because of her tendency to repeat them. Within the community, there have been declarations that the kids are more materialistic than their parents and not as interested in contributing to the community in a meaningful way. The youngest, Connor, has been painted as a spoiled, rich kid who’d rather spend his time traveling the globe and bedding women than working in the family (or any) business. There have been whispers that the oldest, Rayce, is a skirt chaser as well, even trolling within the lower ranks of his own employees and taking advantage of his power over them. Thanks to my own mother, Lizzy was cast as a typical corporate skirt only interested in further lining her pockets.
Yet, there have been articles and community events sponsored by the resort, that paint a very different picture of the Rivers kids. A picture that portrays them as accomplished, competent, generous, thoughtful heirs of their parents’ legacy. Why does my mother ignore that side of things? Why did I? Why does anyone?
After my conversation with my mother and the impassioned defense of Lizzy she triggered, it was suddenly easier to dismiss it all, and focus on the Elizabeth Rivers I’ve come to know so far. A woman who is both confident and kind, assertive and unsure, down-to-earth and exacting, passionate and soft.
Good, bad, or in-between, the papers don’t even begin to capture her.
So she is who I focus on as one o’clock approaches, not Becker’s column. She’s who I think about, not my mother. Or anyone else. I let her sink into my veins and transform that storm of emotion from the article into nothingness.
By the time I’m sending her a text to let her know where I’ll be working this afternoon, since she’ll be on site with the graphic designer, I’m ridiculously excited by the prospect of seeing her. Even if it’s just for a few minutes. I’m wondering how soon I can arrange to see her alone again without seeming too eager. She’s the most invigorating thing to ever happen to me, and I already can’t get enough. I already can’t imagine an end to it.
Chapter 20
Lizzy
Just before one o’clock, I get up from my desk trying not to have too obvious a spring in my step, but failing miserably. I’m grinning like a school girl, and feel like one too. I’ll be coming through with the designer, so Brett and I aren’t really even going to be able to talk, probably, but I’m happy just knowing I get to see him.
I’m a gone girl. I know.
I step outside my office to see one of our new employees in a banquet uniform—white button-down shirt and black vest—staring uncertainly at Rayce’s closed office door. One hand is resting on the silver food cart next to her. On top is two dome-covered plates, a carafe of coffee and another of ice water, and a white bowl filled with mixed nuts. Rayce’s lunch, no doubt. He’ll call up for something if he doesn’t have time to go out, and our Banquet Manager, Alice, makes certain it’s delivered to him like he’s a king. About every other month she tries to convince Rayce to let her send someone over to his house to set him up with food on a regular basis so he’s not eating Guido’s Pizza all the time, but that’s where he draws the line.
The employee startles when I appear. I’ve only seen her once before, delivering Rayce’s lunch when the door was open, but didn’t have the opportunity to get introduced. My brothers and I were taught to take care of resort employees like they’re another family—which isn’t hard to do since we’ve known some of them since grade school—and that starts with the most basic thing: learning their names.
“Hi.” I give her a friendly smile. “What’s your name?”
“Julie, ma’am.”
I rapidly concoct a memory aide. I envision her in a broad purple cape that’s completely covered in oversized, multi-colored jewels. Locking that mental image with the image of her face, I see it all together in my mind. There she is, wearing her big cape and looking all jewel-y. Julie. Got it.
I give her a smile and knock twice on Rayce’s door.
“Come in,” he hollers.
“If you’re being sent up with food for Mr. Rivers,” I say, stealing a pistachio from the little white bowl, “you can assume it’s safe to knock on a closed door. The worst that will happen is you’ll be told to wait.”
She gives me a hesitant, but grateful smile and opens the door. “Thank you, Ms. River
s.”
“You bet. Have a good day, Julie.”
But it’s me who’s having a good day. Fifteen minutes later, I’m pulling up to the Cottages, enjoying a secret thrill because I’m able to park right next to Brett’s work truck. God, I feel like such a little kid.
I love it.
Standing near a parked car is a petite blonde with short, Meg-Ryan-esque hair. She’s in a dress skirt and shirt, has a red attaché case hanging from one shoulder, and is holding what looks like a tablet in her other hand. Our eyes meet as I’m getting out of the car, and she gives me a look of recognition. I can only assume this is Samantha Lawson, the graphic designer from The Adelman Group.
She looks professional, but she’s young, maybe around Corrine’s age I’d guess. This surprises me. Given the strength and breadth of her portfolio, I was definitely expecting someone older. That little wisp of doubt I’ve had about her whispers through me again. I went out on a limb, choosing her over the designer we’ve used for years. I’ve been half expecting some sort of fallout from the firm about that alone, but not a word of complaint so far. Maybe our standard designer doesn’t know about this. I don’t know.
I’ve made several decisions regarding these cottages that I’ll sometimes second-guess myself about, but this is one of the big ones. If I made a mistake and she doesn’t deliver on the branding the way we need her to and we have to go with someone else, it would really set back our marketing campaigns. And (that dark little voice in the back of my head whispers) would prove I don’t really know what I’m doing to start with.
But I really did love her portfolio. Her designs are fresh, graceful, confident, and everything I want for the Cottages.
As we draw near to one another, I push away my self-doubt, lift my shoulders, and give her a friendly smile as I extend my hand. “Samantha Lawson?”
“Sam,” she says, shaking it. “Nice to meet you, Ms. Rivers.”
“Elizabeth, please. Thanks for meeting me here, Sam. I know you typically meet with clients in an office.” I glance at the bag slung over her shoulder and the tablet in her hand. “Hopefully this will work all right for you?”
She shrugs and smiles easily. “You’re a big client. I think you pretty much get whatever you want.”
A comment like that could easily come across as offensive, but she says it in such an easy-going, unassuming manner, I can’t help but laugh at it.
“Unless you want to meet at the top of a big tower or something,” she says grinning. “Then I’m out.”
“Not a fan of heights?”
“Yeah, that’s a no.”
I laugh, feeling more at ease already. “Well, let’s start by walking along the back side, and I’ll tell you about my vision for these Cottages.”
She nods and hits the button on her tablet, the screen lighting up to reveal a blank digital notepad. She slides the stylus out of its holder and tucks the tablet into the crook of her elbow so she can more easily take notes. “Sounds great.”
As we walk along the boardwalk between the cottages and the ocean, I describe what we’re doing and what I hope this retreat will represent when we’re done. Then we go through the two cottages I pre-selected to show her. One is framed out with the new layout, and the other almost has its new kitchen installed.
Sam makes notes in her tablet as we go, and asks questions to get a solid understanding of the Cottages’ unique brand. She occasionally punctuates our conversation with some sort of bold comment that makes me laugh. She has a casual, easy-going way about her that keeps me comfortable throughout. I’m grateful for it. I know how to be professional and handle situations like this, nerves or not, but she’s making it easy on me, for sure.
By the time we get to the cottage where I know Brett is working, I have to remind myself she’s a vendor, not a friend. She has me so relaxed, I damn near kiss him right in front of her. Instead, I try not to look at him like I want to eat him all up (I think I mostly succeed) and introduce him as the historical contractor.
The three of us talk for a few minutes about the efforts we’ve been making to preserve the historical character of these cottages and Sam makes more notes in her tablet. Every time she looks down, Brett and I exchange heated looks.
Too soon, we have to say goodbye and Sam and I head back to our cars. I have to admit, I’m a little distracted. I wonder if it would be too bold to ask Brett if I can see him tonight. We haven’t actually set up anything concrete for seeing each other again, but whenever it’s going to be, it’s not soon enough.
When we stop near our cars, I realize Sam’s giving me a shrewd look.
I feel the heat rising to my cheeks. Crap. I think I know exactly what she’s thinking. “You don’t read the Voice do you?” I don’t know why I care. I know people will see it. And it’s certainly nothing I’m obligated to discuss with a vendor. But my normal professional barriers don’t seem to be fully operational with her.
She grins and shrugs. “I keep telling myself to stop reading that trash column of Rita Becker’s, but it’s like a train wreck. You can’t look away.”
I groan.
“Don’t worry. I know most the stuff in there is crap and I think most other people do, too.” I smile, surprisingly comforted. “The ones who don’t know better aren’t worth worrying about anyway. Besides, he’s kind of a catch, right?” She waggles her eyebrows at me and I laugh.
“You just say whatever’s on your mind, don’t you?”
“More or less,” she says easily. “I keep the swearing in here when I’m with clients though.” She taps her temple. “Especially big shots like you.”
I smile and put my hand on my hip, regarding her. “You’re blunt. I like it.”
She grins. “Then we’ll get along fine, because there’s no off button for it. Sorry.”
I cross my arms, regarding her further. “You know, I took a real chance, hiring you.” Since we’re being blunt.
She nods, her face softening, though she’s still smiling. “I appreciate that. I really do.”
“I need you to knock it out of the park for me, Sam. If I don’t launch these Cottages without a hitch, Rita Becker won’t be the only shark circling the waters.”
She tilts her head at me. “Don’t worry,” she says seriously. “I won’t let you down.”
I extend my hand and she takes it. “No. I don’t think you will.”
She grins again. “If you’re nervous, I hear whiskey’s a grand cure.” She winks at me, turns, and heads for her car.
“If you screw it up, you’ll owe me a bottle,” I call after her. “A whole case!”
She laughs and I do too, then head back to my own car. Even if I did screw up the choice of designers (though I don’t think I did) at least I know who to call if I’m ever in need of a stiff drink.
Chapter 21
Brett
Around five-thirty, I pick Max up from daycare, a preschool run out of a squat ranch home built in the 1960s. The front room is adorned with little tables, low shelves, and colorful throw rugs. When Elaine opens the door, I see Max on the red rug, yellow Tonka truck in hand. There are half a dozen other kids still in the room—sometimes I’m one of the last parents to pick up, but not today—but he’s not interacting with any of them.
“Hi, Brett.” She opens the door wider and steps back to indicate I should come in. That’s never a good sign. Usually, we just call Max over and I go on my way. If she’s asking me in, she wants to talk about something, and half the time, it’s not for a good reason. It’s either something Jessica did, or less often, something Max did.
“Hi, Elaine. How’d he do today?” I step inside and close the door behind me.
“He’s struggled a bit.” I glance at Max, who still hasn’t acknowledged my presence. That’s not a good sign either. “He’s been a little defiant, then this afternoon he and Hunter got into a fight over a toy and he smacked him on the face.”
“Wait, who smacked who?” Hunter has a reputation for being aggres
sive—biting and hitting—but apparently he’s improved since starting with Elaine a couple months ago.
“Max smacked Hunter, but I got them calmed down and talked to him about it. I already let Hunter’s mom know.”
I sigh. “What’d she say?”
“She’s just glad it was someone else’s kid doing the hitting for once.” She smiles and I unclench a bit. “I just wanted you to be aware. He’s been kind of quiet today in general. I don’t know if there’s something bothering him or if he’s just having an off day or what.”
Elaine is always so kind about Max’s “off days,” which seem to come pretty near to any major disruption in his schedule with his mom. Not always, but often enough that I’ve learned to recognize the pattern. Hell, my lawyer’s had me document the fucking pattern.
“Thanks for letting me know,” I say, not giving up any details, as usual. “I’ll talk to him.”
She nods and her attention goes to a pair of girls in the corner who look like they’re starting to have a dispute over the cars they’re playing with. She gives me a farewell wave and heads over.
“Max,” I call. He looks up at me. “Come on, buddy.”
“No.” He returns his attention to his truck. “I want to play more.”
“Don’t tell me no,” I say calmly, heading over and doing some quick thinking to determine how to get out of here without a scene. It’s definitely an off day. On more normal days, he’s not so defiant and is eager to come home. “You may ask politely for another minute,” I remind him.
He runs his truck in a circle around himself, pivoting on both knees. He does it again, ignoring me.
“Max...” I say, in a careful, warning tone.
“Can I play one more minute?”
“Say please.”
He pinches down his brow and runs the truck rapidly back and forth. “Please.”
“Yes, you can. I’ll count to sixty in my head and then we’ll go.”