by Pamela Ford
“He called this morning to make an offer.”
“That’s wonderful.”
“Maybe.” He sat back into the chair and put his feet up. “Something doesn’t feel right.”
“You don’t trust him?”
“He’s okay. His vision for developing the land doesn’t mirror anything I would do, but, no, I think he’s on the up and up, if that’s what you’re asking.” There was a troubled undertone in his voice.
“It sounds like the perfect solution. What do the others think?”
“I haven’t told anyone yet. It’s like…if nobody knows about the offer, it can’t happen.” He rubbed his eyes.
“Yeah. White Bear has been in your family a long time,” she said.
He shrugged. “I wish this wasn’t all happening under the gun. That I had more time to think it over.”
Think what over? His grandparents and brother had made their decisions; they didn’t want to stay.
“Look around here.” He gestured at the woods. “When I compare this to places I’ve been, it’s hard not to see it as a piece of heaven. I know this sounds crazy—I mean, who in their right mind would want to take on a struggling resort? But every time I think about giving it to someone else…”
He couldn’t possibly be changing his mind about staying here…could he? It had been such a relief to know his family was choosing to leave White Bear Lodge, that her parents wouldn’t be throwing them out of their home. “What are you saying?” She held her breath.
“I’m thinking,” he said slowly, “that I should try to make a go of it here. I have an idea…hardly more than a couple of thoughts right now. This would be an incredible place to hold retreats, training seminars, corporate team-building programs.” Enthusiasm crept into his voice. “We have plenty of sleeping capacity. And the lodge can accommodate some pretty big groups. But…it’ll never work if the woods are gone and we only own a small piece of land with limited beach access from the sprawling condo development next door. If I’m going to do this, I’d have to own all the land.” He leaned toward her, his expression intense. “I need a completely unbiased opinion. Izzy, do you think it will work?”
She looked at him, stunned. How could she encourage him when she knew he probably wouldn’t qualify for a loan to buy the land? “I don’t know what to say. It isn’t my opinion that matters so much—it’s the bank’s. That’s who you need to ask,” she said quietly. If he got turned down, this man who had lost so much already would lose even more. Her heart wrenched. “Gib, a few days ago you said you’d never stay here. You liked not knowing what the next day would bring. This is such a sudden change of heart.”
“People change all the time.”
Not usually overnight. “But what if your wanting to stay is only a response to what you went through in Iraq. And to your friend dying recently…and to you not taking pictures anymore.”
His brow furrowed. “Who—”
“Matt. He only mentioned it once. Didn’t say much. Gib, maybe you’re just reacting—”
“But is that wrong? People change their lives, their direction, all the time because of something that happens to them. A circumstance sends them down a new path. Hasn’t that ever happened to you?”
Yes. It was the reason she was here. A letter she’d written herself ten years ago had propelled her into making a movie, into taking charge of her life, into making love on a hillside with Gib on a summer afternoon. “Actually, it has,” she said slowly.
“Then I value your opinion even more. What do you think, Izzy?”
Her heart slammed against her chest. “You can’t ask me that. I don’t have a crystal ball. I don’t want to be responsible—” She stopped. No matter how she tried to spin it, she—her family—was responsible for him being in this position.
“So you really don’t think it will work?”
“I’m worried that you want to stay because of all the bad things that have happened in the past few months. With everything you’ve been through, it’s only natural to want to hang on to your past. It’s security, a safety net. But what happens if you stay and in six months decide you’ve made a mistake?” She gazed into the branches overhead and hated that she had to say the words coming out of her mouth. “You asked what I think. Well, here it is. You should take some pictures again. If for no other reason than to make sure you aren’t choosing something just because you’re running from something else.”
He didn’t say anything for a long minute. “You think I’m running?”
She shrugged.
“Maybe you’re right. I guess it’s time to tell the others about the offer.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
HE PUT OFF TELLING ANYONE until the next morning, until he’d had a chance to make lists, compare pros and cons, and determine whether his interest in staying was simply a reaction to what had happened to him in Iraq. After hours of analyzing himself from every angle, he finally listened to his gut and made a decision. He wanted to go for it.
He crossed the southwestern-design rug in the living room and positioned himself in front of the TV, blocking the Brewers-Cubs game that his grandparents and Matt were watching. From where he stood, he had a perfect view of the room, its American Indian framed paintings on the walls, its comfortably worn, overstuffed furniture in terra-cotta and turquoise blue, its black wrought-iron table lamps. This was home. It had always been home. He wanted it to stay that way.
“You make a better door than a window.” Matt lounged full length on the couch, a bottle of water in his hand. He took a drink. “Get out of the way.”
Gib grinned but didn’t move.
Matt lobbed a throw pillow at him and Gib knocked it out of the way. “I heard from the developer,” Gib said. “You want to talk about it now or after the game?”
“Now,” all three said simultaneously. Matt sat upright and clicked off the set.
“Thought so.” Even though he’d carefully planned what to say, his stomach was still jumping nervously. “Jack Taylor called me yesterday. He’s made an offer.” Gib handed out printed copies of the e-mail he’d received. “Bottom line, he’s willing to buy the resort from us, lock, stock and barrel. This spells out all the high points. If we agree in principle, he’ll have an official offer drawn up.”
Matt scanned the single sheet of paper. “Sweet.”
Gib dragged a straight-backed chair away from the wall and sat down facing his family. He began to run through the financial terms, keeping everything matter-of-fact, as though simply ticking off the details of a business merger to which they had no personal connection. “He proposes that he buy the buildings immediately and we stay on to finish out the season as managers. Since it’s already August, we’re about done, anyway. We’ll need to decide what we want to keep—furniture, you name it. We can sell everything else in an estate sale or he’ll buy it as part of the package. He’d like to close within the week. That will give him the next week to get financing in place to match the offer the Gordons received for the land.”
He looked into the faces of his grandparents and brother. “It’ll also be the end of White Bear Lodge. Hard to believe after all these years.”
His grandfather drooped as if the air had been sucked out of him, and his grandmother reached between their chairs to take his hand. “You gave it everything you had, honey,” she said. “Forty years. The world is changing. People don’t want to go to places like this anymore. They all want to own cottages now.”
Gib cleared his throat. “There’s a little more.”
“There’s nothing else on the sheet,” Matt said. “I don’t like the sound of this.”
“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking.” Gib stood and crossed the room. “The more I think about letting this place go, the less I like the picture in my head.”
“This doesn’t sound good at all.” Matt waved a hand back and forth. “Hey, Gib? No, this is not a—”
“Honey, let him finish,” his grandmother said.
“I know what he’s saying and it’s not anything you want to hear. Gib, listen to me. Think long-term. Don’t be an idiot,” Matt said.
“Shut up,” Gib said to his brother. “Just because you want to go to Montana doesn’t mean I want to.”
“This isn’t about Montana—”
“Boys!” their grandmother said. “What is going on?”
“Gib’s being stupid—”
“I hate the thought of someone else on this property. I want to take over the resort.” Gib abruptly sat in the hard-backed chair again, like a kid waiting to find out if he was going to be punished.
Absolute silence met his pronouncement.
“Don’t be expecting me to congratulate you,” Matt finally muttered.
“Don’t everyone jump for joy at once,” Gib said.
His grandfather leaned forward, brows pulled together in a deep V. “Ten days ago you were dead set against being the manager. Now you want to stay on for the long haul? Don’t get me wrong, Gib, I’d love you to stay. But feeling guilty about letting the resort go to someone else isn’t a good enough reason to take this place on.”
“It’s not that.”
“And it can’t be because you’re too afraid to pick up your camera anymore,” Matt said pointedly.
His brother needed to learn when to keep his mouth shut. “I’ve been through a lot of stuff this past year. Lost people who were important to me. Coming home made me realize what else I could lose.”
“You can’t use this place to hide out from the rest of the world.” Matt toyed with the remote control. “Have you shot one photograph since you got back?”
“What does that have to do with it?”
“You’re running away.” Matt slouched into the couch and aimed the controller at the TV but didn’t press the on button. “White Bear Lodge is just a place to hide from your feelings.”
“When the hell did you become a psychologist?” Gib snapped, irritated that both Izzy’s and Matt’s responses had been the same. He eyed his grandparents. “I thought you’d all be happy the resort wouldn’t be leaving the family.”
His grandfather pushed himself to standing. “We are. Gib, nothing would make me happier than to know one of you boys wanted to stay.”
“We’re just surprised. It’s such a turnabout,” his grandmother said.
“And stupid,” Matt added. “Come the middle of winter, you’re going to regret it and then you’ll be stuck. You’re making a rash decision because the land’s about to be sold. In six months I don’t want to hear about how—”
“Wait a darned minute.” His grandfather held up a hand. “Are you thinking you’ll accept that first proposal from Taylor? The one that gives him ownership but lets us stay on to run White Bear?”
Gib picked up the e-mail offer. “I don’t think the resort would survive that agreement. There’d be development all around White Bear. We’d lose the best property and only have access to someone else’s beach. The ambience would disappear and so would the privacy.”
“You want to buy all the land?” Matt asked.
Gib nodded. “I know getting the loan is a longshot, but I have a plan for increasing business. If the bank likes it, maybe it will help.” He looked down for a moment. “I want to position the resort as a place to hold training seminars and corporate team-building programs, even retreats. We’ve got the lodge, we’ve got sixteen cabins—two and three bedrooms apiece. That’s accommodations for at least sixty-five. We’ve also got enough land to give people the space they need to find solitude…so they can find themselves.”
“You’re sounding kind of new age-y,” Matt said. “You sure you didn’t get a blow to the head recently? And where does this leave Grandma and Grampa as far as retirement?”
“Matthew!” Their grandmother brought her hands together with a clap. “If Gib wants to stay—”
“He makes a valid point.” Gib walked to the window overlooking the front lawn. “Selling White Bear will give you the money you need to retire. If I take over, it means you’re stuck here.”
“Don’t you worry about us. Your grandfather and I will be all right.”
“If you want to stay, we’ll do whatever we can to help you,” Pete said.
Gib ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t have everything figured out yet. I just wanted to let you know about the proposal. And get your reactions to what I’ve been thinking. Let me tell the bank my plan. Show them our progress renovating the first cottage, the Web site, the brochure. See if I even have a prayer of getting the money.”
Matt shook his head and clicked the television back on. “It’s your life. Don’t come crying to me later.”
“You’ll be the one crying to me in a few years. Once you’ve had your fill of unlimited freedom, you’ll be back, begging to be a partner.”
Matt hooted. “In your dreams.”
“Care to make a little wager? A hundred bucks says you’ll be back within ten years,” Gib said.
“Oh, man, the easiest hundred I’ll ever make.”
Gib glanced at his grandfather. “Want to set the odds?”
Pete laughed. “No, I think I’ll stay out of this one. Now, turn that game back on—your brother’s about to lose ten dollars to me.”
“WE’VE GOT SO MUCH FOOTAGE we could make an hour-long documentary if we wanted.” Izzy sat across the table from Shelly, enjoying brunch at a supper club down the road. Their plates were piled with prime rib, baked potatoes, scrambled eggs, pancakes, fresh melon and pineapple. “The only thing left to shoot is the tunnel—”
“Yeah, and you notice none of the Murphys have mentioned showing it to us since the day it first came up.”
“We haven’t brought it up to them, either,” Izzy pointed out.
Shelly picked up her goblet of orange juice. “I don’t know about you, but the last thing I want is for people who may be involved in organized crime to think I’m nosing around in their business. Don’t need any bad karma interrupting the flow of good energy toward me getting a new career in film.”
“It’s so hard to believe. They’re such nice, down-to-earth people.”
“Especially Beautiful Boy.” Shelly rested her elbows on the table and swirled the juice in her glass, taking a sip without saying a word.
Izzy squirmed under her scrutiny. “Now what?” she asked defensively.
“Just wondering where Gib Murphy fits in.”
“Into what?”
“Your life.”
Izzy felt a dull ache behind her breastbone. “There’s no room for him—” She broke off as the waitress refilled their coffee cups and delivered butter pats, sour cream and warm syrup to the table.
“Anything else I can get you?” the woman asked.
“Some antistatins,” Izzy muttered.
“I’ll have another orange juice,” Shelly said. She motioned at Izzy. “Bring her one, too, she needs it.” She poured a liberal amount of syrup on her stack of pancakes, then took a bite and chewed thoughtfully. “Gib?” she asked, bringing the conversation back to center.
“I’m following my dreams.” Izzy put four pats of butter and all her sour cream on her potato and shoved a big forkful of it in her mouth. If this was the direction their conversation was going to take today, she deserved every ounce of high-fat food she could find, even if she lost their weight-loss contest in the end. “You going to use your sour cream?” she asked.
“Help yourself.” Shelly slid the container toward her.
“I’m going to make movies,” Izzy said defensively.
“I’m with you, sister. Just wanted to check.” Shelly raised her nearly empty glass of orange juice. “Here’s to movie premieres and red carpets and dreams.”
Dreams. For about the tenth time since yesterday, Izzy relived the conversation she’d had with Gib, about how he wanted to stay and run the resort. And for about the tenth time since yesterday, guilt stabbed at her. “I think I talked Gib out of his dream of running the resort.”
“I thought you told him you liked the idea.”
“Vaguely. But I also raised objections.” She put an elbow on the table and dropped her head into her hand. “It’s so convoluted. I didn’t want to see him get hurt if the bank refused the loan—which they probably will. I didn’t think he should stay just because he couldn’t bring himself to take pictures again. And…” She hesitated, not wanting to admit the next part and knowing she had to. “I didn’t want him to want to stay.”
“Because then your family would be responsible for destroying his dreams.”
Tears pricked at the back of Izzy’s eyes. “He asked me for an unbiased opinion. I still owe him one.” Her thoughts began to gel into a plan of action. “And I owe him the truth. He needs to know that I think his plan for revitalizing the resort is great. And, he needs to know who I really am.”
GIB HAD MOWED ABOUT HALF of the resort lawn when he spotted his grandmother waving at him from the lodge veranda. He killed the engine and pulled the MP3 player earbud from his right ear.
“Honey, can you come here a minute?” she called as she hurried toward him.
A well-dressed man followed close on her heels. Gib eyed his khaki shorts, faded polo shirt and sockless running shoes. His clothes were too purposely worn, his sandy-blond hair too studied casual. Obviously the guy was plenty self-impressed. Gib untied his T-shirt from the handle of the mower and used it to wipe the sweat off his face, then pulled it on.
His grandmother reached him before he’d even taken four steps in her direction. “What’s up?” he asked.
“This gentleman is looking for someone he thought was staying here,” she said, barely above a whisper. “Elizabeth Gordon.”
Gib jerked back involuntarily and settled his gaze on the man. “She had a reservation, but canceled the day she was supposed to arrive.”