by White, J. L.
Copyright
TITLE
Author’s Note
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Epilogue
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Published by Velvet Pen Books
Amazon Kindle Edition
Copyright © 2016 J.L. White
ISBN 978-1-945261-10-7
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. You must not circulate this book in any format. Thank you for respecting the work of the author.
Beautiful Fall
by J.L. White
Author’s Note:
This is a complete story with a HEA, and the love story between Brett and Lizzy does NOT end with a cliffhanger. However, a minor subplot does not get resolved until the next book in this series, Beautiful Dark.
Chapter 1
Lizzy
I’m standing in front of a long row of beach cottages, the cool sea air lapping at me from behind, hoping I haven’t just made an epic mistake. Though, if I have, it’s too late now. I came here straight from closing, a manila envelope full of keys now tucked under my left arm, so it’s all a done deal. I’m wasting no time either. My contractor’s due to meet me in just a few minutes.
The Cottages, as they’ve been so simply called in Swan Pointe for decades, have been part of the town’s landscape since they were built in the 1950s, and part of the community’s heart for nearly as long. It’s a quiet central California destination for tourists, as well as a popular retreat for local Monterey County residents.
And I’m about to change it all.
As of this afternoon, The Cottages—which are on a narrow strip of land at the base of a high bluff—now belong to the Rivers Paradise Resort—which sits atop said bluff. As relatively recent heirs of the resort, my brothers and I own these cottages jointly, but this project? She’s my baby.
There are twenty-three cottages in total, two-story clapboard structures that vary considerably from one another but which all provide an unobstructed view of the ocean. The beach comes almost up to their back steps, with only an old, wooden boardwalk serving as a sand break.
Just nine short days ago, I walked this narrow boardwalk as I’m doing again now, looked at each cottage as I passed, and allowed an intoxicating vision to swallow my better judgement. There was no resisting it. I could see what these cottages would look like if they were brought under the umbrella of the resort. Instead of faded paint and slightly-sagging front porches that felt like an afterthought with their cheap plastic chairs, I saw brightly-colored cottages, solid-wood patio furniture with thick cushions, and interiors so luxurious and comforting they’d compel everyone who entered to leave their troubles at the door.
The details came to me in rapid-fire fashion. We could expand the resort’s services so guests at the Cottages would enjoy the benefit of housekeeping, in-room dining options, and regular shuttle services to the resort and its activity hubs. We could add private, outdoor showers to each structure, giving guests a place to rinse off the beach before going inside. I saw improved landscaping here, the rebuilding of wooden staircases there.
The details of my vision were so clear, they were like a shimmering overlay to reality. It was a familiar, invigorating, reckless thing. Especially considering I was still pretty bruised and battered from a recent property battle that played out on the local media scene, and which ended with my pride (and my confidence) taking a hearty hit. I’m still a little raw from the whole thing, truth be told.
Maybe that’s why, now that there’s no going back, I’m walking along the boardwalk, passing one old cottage after another, worrying about whether or not I can really pull this off. I’ve never done anything like this before. What if I’ve bitten off more than I can chew? What if it’s all an astounding failure? What if the community doesn’t like the changes I’m going to bring to their long-beloved institution? Though the cottages have received the occasional fresh coat of paint or new roofing over the years, no one’s ever proposed the kind of grand overhaul I’m about to undertake. What if my vision gets dragged around town and through the papers and is stomped all over until it’s tossed back at me like the pipe dream I fear it is?
It wouldn’t be the first time.
Still, I try to tell myself this is probably just a normal case of buyer’s remorse. A temporary panic.
Only partially believing this, I stop, face the ocean, and close my eyes. Taking in a deep breath of the salty sea air, I let the sound of the ocean waves wash over me. Eyes still closed, I hug the envelope to my chest, and focus on the sensation of the breeze caressing my face. An unexpected swell of emotion reveals my deepest fear.
What if I pull it all off, just as I imagine, but in the end it’s still not good enough to live up to the Rivers family name? And by ‘Rivers family’, I really mean my parents. They’re the ones who, twenty-six years ago, bought a neglected and sprawling grand hotel and converted it—almost magically—into the luxury resort that’s now famous around the world. My parents didn’t just renovate that old hotel, they transformed it. They didn’t just resurface the pool, as some might have done. They tore it out and put a modern, luxurious one in its place. When my father first saw the old hotel, he envisioned elevators with glass backs that gave occupants a sweeping view of the resort’s grounds and the sea beyond. Even though the original hotel had interior elevator bays, my father found a way to make it happen. The formerly one-story, rather straightforward lobby became a two-story domed space so magnificent it takes the breath away. My mother, an experienced hotel executive, still acted as her own interior designer, and her work was so well-done, some of her spaces even received awards.
My parents, in short, were amazing. And I’m not quite sure how I measure up. Are these cottages going to be a worthy addition to the legacy my parents left behind?
I wish they could tell me. I wish for so many things.
It’s been ten months since my father’s boat capsized somewhere in the Swan Point bay just down the coast to my left, and he and my mother drowned at sea. Ten months. In some ways, it’s shocking that it’s been that long. That horrible night is still so fresh in my memory, it
could’ve been last week.
Then again, so many things have happened since, it seems much longer than ten months. I can’t believe my siblings and I have gone on and done so much living without them. They didn’t even get to see my wandering younger brother, Connor, settle down with someone like he’s a normal person after all. Mom and Dad had a bet about whether he ever would. Mom never did get to collect. I think they would’ve loved Whitney too, like we all do.
I take a few more deep breaths and try to settle my nerves. I’m in this now. There’s no going back. And in spite of my fears, there remains a persistent fluttering of excitement inside me.
I turn back toward the cottages, looking up and down the row. A soft burst of wind tugs my long, dark hair past my face. I smile, and tuck it behind my ear. God, I love these little cottages. I love this stretch of beach, sheltered by the tall bluff behind it and kissed by the ocean in front. My vision for these cottages returns and the quivering excitement in my chest swells. It’s all tumbling around with my nerves, it’s true, but I’m determined to be my parents’ daughter.
I can do this.
The crunching of gravel announces an approaching car. I head toward it to see who’s coming up the private drive that runs between the cottages and the bluff. It’s either going to be my contractor, Rod, or one of the renters (we’ll stop taking any bookings for the next several months while we renovate, but will work around the reservations the previous owner had already secured).
I catch a glimpse of the blue Subaru in between the cottages, and my blood drops.
God. Not again.
My jaw tightens as I tuck the envelope back under my arm and march back through the open space between two of the cottages and toward the drive. Please let me be wrong. Please let it be a renter driving that blue Subaru.
But no. It’s come to a stop and who should be getting out but Marcia Carmichael.
Fuck me.
Just like that, my recent past comes back to haunt me.
A month ago, I started the process of buying a plot of land that’s adjacent to the property the Rivers Paradise Resort already owns, and bordered on the other side by a conservation area that reaches into the foothills. I’d long thought it’d be nice if the resort had something we could provide for long-term vacationers, and when the property went up for sale, I consulted with my brothers about building little casitas on that land. I’d had a vision for that land, too.
Initially, I’d considered the location next to the conservation area to be an asset. The area surrounding the casitas would remain pristine, without any further development crowding what I envisioned as a peaceful getaway for our guests. What I didn’t know when we put in an offer, was the conservation group wanted the land, too. They decided to try to block the sale, in spite of lacking sufficient funds to purchase it themselves.
The woman to deliver this news was, of course, Marcia Carmichael. Conservation land has nothing to do with her jurisdiction, but that didn’t stop her. She has no problem sticking her nose into other people’s business.
At first, I dug in my heels, determined not to let her or anyone interfere. In response, she took the matter to the papers and it quickly became a local media sensation. In addition to painting me as a “greedy, profit-hungry corporate skirt with no regard for basic values or the environment,” she managed to quickly organize a few dozen protestors who parked themselves just at the border of our property so they could wave hand-painted signs at our guests.
Meanwhile, I was not blind to what else the papers had to say about the situation. The conservation area was legitimately smaller than it needed to be, and they felt the additional land would help alleviate some of the encroachment issues they were facing.
I happen to care about the environment, regardless of what Marcia Carmichael said about me, so I quietly called the head of the Westridge Conservation Refuge, to find out if a compromise could be reached. He’s a much more reasonable person than Marcia, and we had a rather heartfelt conversation that lasted over two hours. Initially, I was hoping we could adjust our building plans to provide a greenbelt between the casitas and the refuge as a buffer, but the more I listened to him talk the more I saw what needed to be done.
My pride almost got the better of me. I didn’t want to admit defeat to the likes of Marcia Carmichael, especially in such a public battle. That was part of not wanting to let go of my plans. But the other part, of course, was it had been the first thing I’d done to try to build on the legacy my parents left behind, and it was killing me to see it so quickly go up in flames.
Still. By the end of our conversation, I offered to let go of the land and put in the extra money they needed to make their bid on the property competitive. Mom could’ve been proud of that, at least.
Though the papers did quote Marcia Carmichael’s declaration that the resort’s donation of funding was “nothing more than a publicity stunt to save face,” the actual reporting itself was much more fair, and some of the commenters on the online articles even came to our defense.
The whole thing was still fresh enough that when I heard that the beach cottages were about to go up for sale, I almost let mention of it go in one ear and out the other. But I knew this kind of opportunity might not come up again, ever. So I dragged my brothers down here, laid out my plans, and convinced them to try again. We kept it all on the down-low though. We contacted the owners, who were delighted by my plans for the cottages, and put in a bid that made it worth their while not to go public in the hope of getting better offers.
So, it goes without saying, the last person I want to see right now is Marcia Carmichael. And frankly, even though we officially own these properties now, I’m more than a little nervous she’ll find some way to create another problem for me.
I remind myself that it’s too late for her to pull another one of her stunts—I think?—but my skin is crawling with trepidation anyway. I linger in front of the nearest cottage and square my shoulders. I’ve never yet cowered in the presence of Marcia Carmichael and I’m not about to begin now, no matter our past dealings or what she might think she has on me.
She hasn’t seen me yet, and is pulling a massive purse out of the car and hefting it onto one broad shoulder. She’s tall, probably pushing six feet, and has thick arms and legs. She’s not overweight; she’s just a big woman, and knows it too. I think she uses it to her advantage. She has smooth brown hair with a hint of auburn, and it comes to her chin in one large, decisive wave. Even her hair is commanding and sensible. She’s wearing slacks, a button-down blouse, and smart, black shoes.
I pull down the hem of the loose, satin top I’m wearing over my knee-length pencil skirt. I had heels on earlier, for work and signing papers at the title company, but changed into my denim docksides when I arrived so it’d be easier to walk the property with Rod. Now I wish I hadn’t. Normally I wouldn’t care in this situation if someone found my shoes inappropriate, but this woman is so good at judging me. I’ve yet to figure out how to truly keep her from getting under my skin.
She finally spots me and puts on that smug grin of hers. God, she’s aggravating. The last time I saw her—and her smug grin—we were standing on the property I almost bought.
“Ms. Rivers,” she says, approaching. She always says “Ms.” like Mizz and “Rivers” like it’s the aftertaste of a particularly bitter medicine. I don’t know what I did to get on her hit list, but by this point, I’m not too fond of her either. “Your hand is already in another pot I see.”
My parents trained us well, so I give a professional smile, even though I want to smack her. “What do you mean?”
“I hear you just closed on these cottages.” God, how does she know this stuff? “I hadn’t realized they were for sale.”
Well, at least I had that up on her. Our spa manager, Dee-Ann, has a son in real estate, and he was the listing agent for these cottages. She considered the pending listing of such a Swan Pointe institution newsworthy and happened to tell me about it in passing
before he had a chance to get the listing live. The woman standing in front of me is, of course, the reason we moved so quickly in the hopes of finalizing the sale before anyone caught wind of it.
I want to point and say, Ha! Too late! even though I’m not entirely sure she is. Still, I keep my composure. “I didn’t know anyone was supposed to notify you that they were for sale.”
She narrows her eyes slightly and gives me an acid smile. “I would think that I would be notified of anything going on the market that is of historical value.” She’s the President of the Swan Pointe Historical Preservation Committee and pretty much thinks she owns the entire town from what I can tell. “Did you know most of these cottages were built in the 1950s?”
“From 1954 to 1955, to be exact.”
“That is correct.” She smiles smugly. “As such, they have been a significant part of Swan Point’s history for many decades.”
Now I know where she’s going with this. And this is within her jurisdiction.
“It is in the best interest of the community,” she continues, “for these structures to be properly preserved for future generations.”
A crawling sensation creeps down the back of my legs. Dammit if this woman isn’t going to try to strong arm me again… “Well then,” I continue calmly, maintaining my well-trained demeanor, “it should please you to know I have every intention of renovating them.”
“I said properly preserved, Ms. Rivers, which is an entirely different matter. That, of course, is best assured when structures such as these are placed on the National Register.”
Shit, can she do that? After I’ve already bought them? Doesn’t that take the consent of the current owner? I wish Rod were already here. He might know the answer to that question. Although, whether she can legally make that happen or not is almost a moot point. This woman is adept at stirring up public protest. The last thing I need is another media frenzy.
But I don’t want these properties on the National Register of Historic Places either. While part of what I love about these cottages is their historic character, and I want to keep that intact as much as I can, I definitely want to modernize them. Being on the register would more than tie my hands. It would change everything.