by White, J. L.
Marcia Carmichael has a little glint in her eye. It only pisses me off and strengthens my resolve.
“I’m not interested in placing these on the Historic Register,” I say with more certainty than I feel. I’m operating under the assumption she can’t force my hand in this, whether that’s the case or not. Judging by her reaction, I’m wondering if I’m correct. Is that a chink in her armor I see? “We are, however, going to honor the historic feel of—”
“Pardon me for interrupting,” she says curtly, “but who is ‘we’? Do you have a qualified contractor?”
It’s taking every bit of my mother’s training to keep my cool with this insufferable woman. “My contractor is Rod Gilbert.” We were going to use him to build the casitas.
“Still?” Marcia says as she starts digging in her bag. She doesn’t even take a breath as she continues. “You’re rather fond of him, aren’t you? However, Rod is a general contractor with no experience with historical structures.”
I stiffen. Rod Gilbert is more than just a general contractor. He holds an LEED credential, and has been recognized several times for his sustainable building practices. “He—”
“Nevertheless,” she continues, talking over me and pulling a card out of her purse and handing it over. “I would agree to keeping these structures off the registry so long as you subcontract a qualified historical expert.”
I’ve taken the card—out of polite habit more than anything—but haven’t even looked at it, incensed as I am that she has the nerve to presume it’s her right to “agree” to anything. All the while, I’m well aware she may be offering me an avenue that doesn’t involve yet another media circus and the potential threat of a legal battle.
“That’s an excellent historical contractor with ample experience,” she says, gesturing. “You can call him at the number on the card.”
Suddenly, I’ve had enough. A deadly calm settles over me and I look this pain-in-the-ass woman right in the eye. “I agree that your suggestion to bring on an expert is a reasonable one, and I’ll take that under consideration. But this is my property. Who I hire is up to me.”
A half smile works its way onto her face, as if she’s pleased I stood up to her, though I can’t imagine why. “Well, so long as the expert you hire really is an expert, I’ll consider the matter settled.”
Oh, thank you, your Royal Highness.
Without so much as a ‘goodbye’ or a ‘fuck off’, she turns and heads to her car. I don’t wait to see her go. I roll my eyes and head back between the cottages, tearing the card in half without really looking at it. I shove it in the pocket of my purse that I reserve for gum wrappers and used Kleenex. I’m not hiring anyone she recommends.
“Obnoxious woman,” I mutter.
By the time Rod shows up five minutes later, I’ve Googled the issue at hand and determined that, as the owner, I could block any movement to put the property on the register if I wanted to. Still, if it keeps her from making trouble, there’s no harm in bringing on a specialist, and that might even be a good idea anyway. It still makes me grit my teeth. I’d really rather tell her to go hang.
Rod approaches with a wave of one hand and a “Hello, Elizabeth.” He’s a hearty man in his upper fifties. He has short, salt and pepper hair, weathered skin, and a friendly countenance. He’s worked with the resort before, and was the contractor my parents preferred. The last time I saw him was at their funeral. He wore a dark suit, a navy tie, and took my hand between both of his when he came to greet me. He kept my hand tucked warmly in his when he expressed his sorrow over our loss in such a way that made it clear to me that it was his loss as well. I didn’t know him as well as my parents did, but that simple, sincere gesture warmed my heart to him.
We’ve only spoken on the phone as we’ve gone through the process of securing him as the contractor for this project, so this is the first we’ve met in person since the funeral ten months ago.
I don’t bother telling Rod about my confrontation with Marcia Carmichael—mainly to save my pride, to be honest—but when I suggest he subcontracts an historical expert as part of his team, he readily agrees.
“I was going to ask you about that anyway, since these buildings are so old. I’ve worked with Renaissance Restoration several times before. They’re generally considered the best in the business.”
“Perfect.” Marcia Carmichael can’t complain about that. “I’ll let you handle it.” Trying to shake off all this unpleasantness, I dig through the keys in the manila envelope and nod toward the pink-colored cottage on the end. “Let’s start with that one there.”
Chapter 2
Lizzy
I end my meeting with Rod invigorated, the incident with Marcia Carmichael nearly forgotten. In fact, I quickly saw the wisdom of bringing an expert onto his team (and am comforted by the fact that he was going to suggest it anyway). All we really accomplished today was a preliminary examination of the cottages, but this first step has given me the kind of hopeful courage all first steps tend to give. I can’t stop smiling.
I drive my little BMW i3 hybrid up the road that climbs the bluff, and when the magnificent, sweeping Rivers Paradise Resort comes into view, my smile widens. The long approach is surrounded by the resort’s wide front grounds, sculpted with graceful Cyprus, twisting Monterey pine, and blooming flowerbeds of fuchsias, chrysanthemums, iris, and lavender. The bluff’s edge is to my left, and gives a broad view of the sparkling Pacific Ocean.
Straight ahead, the resort itself consists of a long, ten-story building in the center and two, seven-story wings angling back on either side. In the rear, which is not visible from this side, is what my father called the resort’s “playground.” Manicured grounds dotted with several different pools, a teen game lounge, courts for basketball, volleyball, racquetball and others, and of course the award-winning golf course, which I appreciate more for its beauty than anything. (I never have warmed up to golf.)
I’m often too involved in the day-to-day running of the place to fully appreciate it each time I see it. But today I almost feel as if I’m seeing it anew. This was my parents’ lifeblood. And now mine.
I’ll try to make you proud.
The end of the drive circles a shallow, manmade pond, which is ringed with colorful ground flowers and occupied by its permanent residents, our white swans, Rhett and Scarlett. I pull under the sweeping portico, past smartly-uniformed bellhops, and descend the ramp that leads to the valet and employee parking. I park in the spot with my nameplate in front, in between my brothers’ vehicles, both of which are still here, of course. It’s not quite five yet.
Taking the elevator to the first floor, I lean one hand on the brass interior railing and look out on the rear grounds, proud of what my parents accomplished in their lifetimes and grateful we’ve somehow managed to keep it all going. It’s in moments like this I feel closest to them, a mix of happiness and longing burning in my heart.
The elevator lets out into a broad hall that goes in two directions, right and left. The towering lobby is straight ahead, but I head right toward the executive offices. When I come through the door, my cousin Corrine spies me and pops up from her desk, which is part of a cluster of cubicles in the center of the large room. All around this room are doors leading to the offices of our various managers.
Corrine gives me a mischievous grin and hurries toward my older brother Rayce’s office, which is at the far end and flanked by my office on one side and my younger brother Connor’s office on the other. Meanwhile, three other of our administrative staff spy me and leave their cubicles as well, splitting in different directions toward one manager’s office or another.
Well something’s up.
I’m nearly halfway down the room by the time Corrine makes it to Rayce’s office, but only take one more step before she’s hustling back out and sticking her head into Connor’s.
“What are you up to?” I call to her as she turns to face me, clasping her slender hands in front of her. She’s a love
ly, little sprite, my cousin Corrine.
“Nothing,” she says, grinning and tucking a strand of her bob behind her ear. Her dark brown hair has bold blonde streaks, which she feels adds interest to a style that’s otherwise too short for her taste.
I laugh. “Uh huh. Sure. Is it safe over here? I don’t know if I trust you people.”
But she only extends her arms toward my office door, indicating I’m to keeping coming and go in.
My brothers emerge from their offices, grinning at me. We’re often told how we look related to each other, and it’s not hard to see why. We all have dark hair and similar facial structures, which look strikingly handsome on them and (I’ve been told) pretty on me. The shape of our eyes are the same, but I’m the only one who inherited grandma’s green eyes. Both my brothers (and our parents) have blue. In spite of the surface similarities, I’ve always thought my brothers still look different because their personalities are so different, which comes out in the way they carry themselves.
Rayce looks commanding and impressive in his dark suit, as he always does. He’s the oldest, and only a year older than me, but he’s always seemed much older than the rest of us. That used to irk me, when we were growing up and I sometimes felt he was too damned bossy, but things are different now. I’ve often questioned my own ability to follow in our parents’ footsteps, but never his ability to do so. I swear, he’s been destined for this from the day he was born.
Connor, by contrast, has always exuded a youthful free spirit—the same spirit that prompted him to leave the family business and live in his boat so he could travel the world unimpeded. He did that for four years with no intention of slowing down until our parents died and he had to come back to help out. For nine long months we didn’t know if he was back temporarily or if we’d get to keep him long term, as we all desperately hoped we could. Then that blessed girl Whitney came along, captured his heart, and somehow planted his wandering feet firmly in one place. I will forever and ever love her for that alone.
Still, even though my younger brother doesn’t have the same countenance Rayce does (which I know some people define as “intimidating”), Connor’s always had this way about him when he puts on his business hat. He’s still friendly and inviting, but manages to wear an unmistakable authority with ease.
I envy and admire both of them, and sometimes wonder how people see me in my role here. I honestly don’t know. Before our parents died, I was still in executive management training, something I figured I’d carry on with for a while. But when our parents’ boat sank at sea and the three of us were suddenly faced with trying to keep the family business from sinking right along with it, Connor and I were both thrust unexpectedly into much heavier roles. There were moments when we damn-near cracked under the pressure. Rayce was the one who kept us steady on.
In fact, it was only after we’d gotten a handle on things enough that the resort was safe, after our wandering brother Connor finally committed to staying on at the resort permanently, and (okay) after I sprayed those two with a water hose one night, that Rayce finally let go enough to start his own vulnerable process of grieving. (In my defense, those boys had been bickering for months and I’d had my fill. They totally deserved it.)
As soon as I reach my office, I see the source of everyone’s mysterious behavior. My office has been transformed. Sitting on top of my desk are silver trays and plate stands piled with colorful cookies, mini tarts, and Petit-Fours. Across the front hangs a blue satin ribbons—from the bowels of events storage, no doubt—that match the satin banner they hung on the far wall, which reads “Congratulations.” My office has one large window with a view of the pretty landscaping that lines the front of the west wing. Blue and silver helium balloons adorn each corner, with blue draping in between. Parked next to my desk, a wide cart from banquet is stocked with bottles of chilled champagne and neatly lined with several crystal glasses.
“Oh, how sweet!” I press one hand to my chest.
“We figured we needed a toast to your big day,” Connor says as they come in after me.
“Our big day.”
“Yeah, but it’s your baby,” Rayce says. “We can’t wait to see what you do with it.”
I swallow past an unexpected lump in my throat and give him a grateful smile. He’s sort of quietly taken on the role of patriarch in our family, and his vote of confidence is almost as good as getting it from dad. Almost.
As our managers and other office staff start to pile in with us, I reach for the champagne to start pouring but Corrine stops me. “Alice left strict instructions to wait for her. She wants to be the one to serve you.”
At that moment, Alice herself comes through the door, making a beeline for the cart. “That’s right,” she confirms, as if us pouring our own champagne would be the highest form of blasphemy. She’s a thin, no-nonsense woman in her mid-forties and our fantastic Banquet Manager. She tends to spoil us in all sorts of ways, though we’ve told her not to. I don’t mind it today, though.
She’s trailed by one of her employees, a young man named Sebastian. They make short work of pouring and serving the managers and employees who’ve filled the space. I place my hand on Alice’s arm to stop her before she can pour her own glass and do it myself, pouring one for Sebastian while I’m at it.
He responds to my “Thank you for your help” with a startled “You’re welcome, Ms. Rivers.” He’s only been here a few months, so still new enough to have stars in his eyes about the owners, I suppose. Alice is good about keeping as many members of our base staff within our orbits whenever the opportunity presents itself. It’s good for them to know us better and I like it that way, too.
With a glass now in everyone’s hand, Rayce takes half a step forward and that’s all it takes to draw everyone’s attention to him. He looks at me and raises his glass. “To an exciting new branch of the Rivers Paradise Resort, and the visionary who’s making it possible.”
“Here, here,” everyone says, raising their glasses in a toast.
I blush at Rayce’s use of the word visionary, but raise my glass as well, looking around at my two families: my biological one, and our resort family. I’ve once or twice been accused of thinking everyone’s family, as if that’s somehow a bad thing, but those accusations haven’t come from anyone in this room.
Our employees are family. Always have been. Some of our employees have been with the resort almost from the beginning, and so have an extra special place in our hearts. But our parents taught us how important each employee here is, and how regardless of how we might be viewed by them, it’s our job to care for them like family.
In turn, they often care for us right back. God knows we felt their arms around us when we lost our parents.
As I drink my champagne, surrounded by so much love and support, I’m further infused with courage. There’s a lot of work to be done, but with the help of those around me, I think we can pull it off.
It’s a Wednesday morning when Rod and I are in the kitchen of the pink cottage, cottage one. We’re chatting and waiting for the guy from Renaissance Restoration to arrive so we can all walk the cottages together. Fortunately, Rod had no trouble bringing him on board and was able to set things up pretty quickly.
We’re at the kitchen’s little bar, which is a dated pale yellow Formica laminate. In front of me is a manila folder containing some specs and other documents, and my fresh Moleskine notebook, which will be a dedicated notebook for this project.
Rod opens his metal clipboard. “Here’s Brett’s card, in case you ever need to contact him directly.” The historical contractor is technically under Rods’s umbrella—in fact, it’s the first I’ve even heard his name—but since he’s actually a contractor it makes sense I might need to communicate with him myself from time to time.
I scan the card Rod just handed me:
Renaissance Restoration
Bringing the Past into the Present
Brett Carmichael
Owner and Licensed Histo
rical Contractor
“Wait.” In addition to the name catching my attention, the card looks vaguely familiar too. “Carmichael?” I ask urgently, digging through an inner pocket in my purse. “Any relation to Marcia Carmichael?”
“I think he’s her son. Why?”
“Her s—” I pull out half a torn card—the one Marcia Carmichael so arrogantly handed me last week. It matches the card in front of me.
I throw my hands up. “Great, Rod. Why don’t you hire the son of the devil while you’re at it?”
“Better than a son of a bitch,” I hear behind me. I spin to see a man who’s coming into the kitchen. He’s an inch or two over six foot, has thick brown hair that’s just long enough to suggest some natural curl, and nicely tanned skin. He’s wearing the casual slacks and collared shirt so typical of contractors, but wears it better than most, being broad-shouldered as he is. He comes forward, clipboard in one hand, and as he draws near, I’m struck by his dark blue eyes, which are rimmed with light blue.
“Brett Carmichael,” he says, extending his hand.
Well, shit.
He’s wearing an amused grin, clearly pleased he’s caught me off guard. Geez, just like his damned mother.
I take his hand and offer him a firm, curt handshake. “Elizabeth Rivers.”
“I know who you are.” It’s all I can do not to scowl at him. Still grinning, he nods his head in greeting to Rod and sets his clipboard on the counter.
Rod glances between us uneasily, but I say, “Rod, may I speak with you for a moment? Please excuse us.”
Blood pounding, I lead him out the front door and off the porch. Glancing behind us to make sure Brett freaking Carmichael hasn’t followed us out, I say, calmly as I can manage (which isn’t as calmly as I’d like), “Why on earth would you hire him?”