Runaway Tide

by Julie Carobini

  Meg hobbled toward the couch and sat down on the end opposite Trace.

  Jackson poked his head in through the doorway as if it were completely natural for him, a daily occurrence. “There a problem in here?”

  Meg eyed him. “There is. Pepper asked Sally for my travel schedule—”

  “And her list of clients,” Trace chimed in from her cradled position.

  Sally rattled those pearls of hers one final time. “Well, if you will all excuse me, I will leave you to sort all this out.” She closed the door behind her.

  “I’m not giving your sister my client list,” Meg muttered, hoisting her cast onto the coffee table. Heat and sweat broke out on her skin. Why had she not stayed in bed this morning?

  Jackson looked from her to Trace and back again. Trace must have taken that as a sign to leave and stood up, dropping her blanket to the couch. “My break is over, so I’ll be heading back.” She turned to Meg. “If you need me to come wheel you out of here later, all you have to do is text me.”

  Meg nodded at Trace, but barely. She was still too horrified at the thought of Pepper meeting privately with her clients. Jackson sat down across from her in an oversized chair that had seen better days. He wore no tie today, and the top button of his shirt was open, exposing sun-kissed skin. Meg looked away.

  “Pepper’s harmless, you know. Said she just wants to help you out while you’re grounded.”

  “And you believe her?”

  He scowled. “Why wouldn’t I?”

  Something flashed in Jackson’s eyes. She was frustrating him and she knew it. Sometimes she had to remind herself that he was her boss and she just a lowly peon. Part of her wanted to brush up on her Italian—she’d taken a year of it in high school—and book a flight to Rome. She glanced again at her oversized leg, the one that ached with a ferocity whenever she moved it. Italy wouldn’t be happening anytime soon.

  “Listen, I didn’t come here to talk about my sister. She’s probably too busy booking sightseeing tours to bother with your clients.” He leaned forward, his hands clasped, his eyes prying. “And I didn’t come here to talk about the kiss either.”

  “Could we not?”

  “Talk about it? Sure. Done.”

  As usual, she noticed, Jackson could turn off his emotions as if they were powered by a switch.

  He continued, “As you know, Judy, our CSM, is going on maternity leave. I think you’d be the perfect person to step in for her, with help from the rest of the team, of course.”

  “You want me to take the conference services manager job?”

  “Temporarily. You can still make sales calls by phone and follow up with current clients.” He looked at her elevated leg, a grim line to his mouth. “That hurting a lot?”

  “Not really,” she lied.

  “I will help you with the CSM thing and with your calls—especially if you have any site tours coming up.”

  An arrow of pain sliced through her. She stilled her breath, hoping he would not notice the sheen of perspiration breaking out across the bridge of her nose. “You’re going to help me? The head of Riley Holdings?”

  “I have decided to stay on-site for the time being. What better place to run the company from than my father’s flagship operation?”

  This news should have thrilled her because Meg knew how much this place had meant to Jackson’s father. Up until now, though, Jackson’s interest in it seemed to be more about talking big and then running off to another site. Case in point: He had asked for her opinion about updating the property and even putting in a spa, but dropped the subject after the chef debacle. It was as if he had grown tired of the subject and moved on.

  “Are we on the same page?”

  “I could help out temporarily, but I just don’t think I will be around long enough to fully service the CSM position. It might be good to bring in someone else and let me help them.”

  “Meg, you need to stay put for a while.” He paused. “I saw your fall … your reaction … and … just give yourself a chance to heal, okay?”

  He didn’t owe her an olive branch, and yet it appeared that this was exactly what he was offering. If she were not in such excruciating pain—pain that was growing by the minute—she might have protested more. Instead, Meg nodded her head, agreeing to work with Conference Services, all the while wondering what Jackson was up to.

  Chapter 3

  Jackson pulled his Mercedes to a stop in front of Meg’s home in midtown. She turned to him. “Thank you again for the ride. It wasn’t nec—”

  She didn’t finish her sentence because he had already hopped out of the car and opened the trunk to retrieve her crutches. She had tried to beg off when he insisted on driving her home tonight, but by the time she had made it out to the valet stand, he was waiting there, engine running. In front of her home now, he came around and opened the passenger side door, extending his hand to her.

  She slipped her hand into his. He steadied her and she avoided his eyes. “I’ll take my crutches now,” she said, and slipped each one of them beneath her arms.

  Jackson followed behind her carrying her briefcase. She wanted to see him leave quickly and was about to turn to him and offer her thanks again when she noticed her front door ajar. She stopped.

  Jackson must have noticed too, because he moved on ahead of her. “Wait here,” he called back over his shoulder.

  Had she left her door open this morning? Maybe so. Pain, mingled with a hurried meeting with an Uber driver in front her home, may have distracted her. Disheartening as it was to think of her house being open to the world all day long, the explanation made so much sense.

  Jackson pushed open her door, an annoying creak greeting them, like something out of a B-rated horror flick. Confident that he would find nothing other than her living room in its normal disarray, she leaned forward and whispered, “Johnny, don’t go down into the basement.”

  He flicked her a brief look of concern, followed by a mischievous wink. “I’ll be sure not to.”

  Behind him, she hopped up the solitary step, nearly losing her balance. She let out a yelp and grabbed a handful of his shirt before he had made it all the way into the house. He turned partway and reached out to steady her, his eyes gleaming. “Let me save us from the killer first, and then I’ll carry you over the threshold.”

  His voice was soft, like butter, giving her an unexpected thrill despite the odd predicament they found themselves in.

  He opened the door wider and stepped fully inside while she waited on the stoop. Within seconds, she became acutely aware of the aroma of … what was it? Sautéed garlic … maybe even some tomatoes. She frowned. The crook cooked?

  Meg pushed her way in. A woman hustled out of the kitchen holding a wooden spoon and wearing a tomato-splattered apron. At least she hoped the bloody mess was tomato … “Mom?”

  “Of course, it’s me! Who else would be cooking your dinner?”

  “Wait … what?” She searched her brain, trying to recall her mother saying anything about coming for a visit. She leaned her head to one side. “Did I know you were coming?”

  “I assumed you would know. After you told me you broke your leg, I couldn’t leave you here all alone to fend for yourself. What kind of mother would I be?”

  “When did I tell you I—actually, it’s my foot, Mom. When did I tell you?”

  Her mother furrowed her brows, staring at her. She always did that when she was annoyed. A light went on in Meg’s head. “Oh right. You called me the night of the accident … but I was sleepy from all the meds.”

  Her mother shut her mouth and nodded once. “That explains it. I forgive you for forgetting. Good thing I had a key.”

  Meg slid a glance at Jackson as if to offer a silent apology, but Jackson stepped toward her mom and held out his hand. Her mother grasped it with her free one. “I’m Deena.”

  “Hello, ma’am,” he said. “I’m Jackson Riley.”

  “Very polite! So, you’re the son of the famous Will
iam Riley.”

  “You knew my father?”

  Her mother seemed to startle at his question, but she recovered. “No, not really.” She smiled and glanced at Meg. “Just from what my daughter has told me.”

  Surprising. Meg and her mother did not speak all that often. They weren’t at odds, exactly, but different in about every way imaginable. Meg had decided long ago that her mother spoke in code, while she tended to hit topics head on—most of the time anyway. While it was true that Meg usually spoke in positive terms about her former boss, she never, until now, realized that her mother was listening. The thought brought her some comfort.

  A sudden onset of pain and confusion rocked Meg and she tossed her crutches onto the couch and plopped onto it. “I’m so sorry to have scared you, Jackson. Thanks for bringing me home.” She waved a weary hand toward her mother. “As you can see, everything’s under control here, so you can go now.” Was that too pointed?

  “Absolutely not. I won’t hear of it.” Her mother jabbed a fist into her side. The wooden spoon dripped sauce all over the floor. “Jackson, you are staying for dinner.”

  Meg let out a gasp in protest. “Mother, he does not want to—”

  “Dinner smells delicious. I will be glad to stay.” He turned to Meg, a smile so devilish she thought she saw tips of horns. “I’ll help your mother. Can I get you something to drink?”

  Her mother spun away and headed into the kitchen, calling out, “I’ll get the wine!”

  Would it be too much if she were to call out for her mother to hurry?

  * * *

  Meg’s mother did not look a thing like her. Instead of Meg’s petite frame and blunt-cut brown hair, Deena was pleasantly shapeless, like an old-fashioned grandmother, though her unlined face made him think she could not be much older than mid-fifties. She wore her straw-colored hair pulled tightly into a ponytail and drank her wine with a hearty fervor.

  He sat across from Meg, allowing his attention to pass over the dining room décor. Decidedly modern, but not stuffy. No harsh lines anywhere. Solid wood table with elegant legs that met dark wood floors. Faint blue walls and crown molding painted white. A purple orchid rose from a blue-and-white cloisonné vase. He reminded himself to reignite their discussion about adding a spa to Sea Glass Inn.

  Deena popped up from the table and, without asking, piled a second helping of spaghetti onto his plate and added more Cabernet to his glass. She was as sure of herself in the kitchen as one of the cooks at the hotel’s restaurant. From his brief relationship with Meg, he knew she only made salads at home; otherwise, she ate out. He wondered if her eating preferences had changed.

  He slid his gaze to Meg, whose eyes had lowered to slits. Was his presence boring her? Though he regretted her injury more than he dared think about, he held out hope that the trauma of the past few days played a factor in her inability to stay conscious—rather than his acceptance of her mother’s dinner invitation.

  “Have another helping, Meghan,” her mother said, reaching for her daughter’s plate.

  Meg wagged her head no.

  Deena halted. “How will you get better if you don’t eat?”

  “By not stuffing myself with gluten.”

  “Don’t tell me you are gluten free now!”

  Meg shrugged. “Would that be so surprising? Plenty of people have discovered gluten to be at the root of their problems.”

  “And that’s why you broke your leg? Because of all the gluten you eat?” Her mother’s faint brows rose.

  Meg sent him an almost imperceptible look before shaking her head and releasing an exasperated laugh. “My foot, Mom. I broke my foot—not my leg.”

  Deena picked up the ceramic serving bowl from the table. “So, I can dish you up more spaghetti then?”

  “Argh!” Meg handed her plate to her mother. “Fine! Make me fat …”

  Jackson’s chin followed the action. Left, right, left … he felt like he was at Wimbledon.

  “Good. Save room for dessert,” she said, setting down the bowl and taking her own seat again. “I brought us some frozen yogurt—eating that won’t hurt your weight at all.”

  Meg’s countenance fell. She caught him watching her and abruptly looked away. They were funny together, she and her mother, lovable even. But in the short hour or so that they had been together, he had noticed a strange tautness that showed up on occasion. This wasn’t the first time during the evening that he had noticed tears forming in Meg’s eyes.

  Maybe he should go. He scooted his chair back, intending to offer his thanks and leave the two to sort out whatever needed sorting. Deena waved him to stop. “Don’t leave before dessert.” He looked to Meg for some kind of incentive to stay. She held his gaze for several seconds but did not join her mother in the invitation.

  He stood. “I believe I’m going to have to take a raincheck.” He bowed his head to Deena. “Thank you for a delicious dinner, Mrs.— ”

  “Please call me Deena.”

  “Thank you for feeding me tonight, Deena.” He turned to Meg. “Sleep well.”

  Chapter 4

  The pain in her foot had lessened overnight. If she kept her weight off of it, maybe she would heal more quickly. She certainly would not need surgery. Meg sighed and rubbed her eyes, the thought of staying home all day the equivalent of impending doom.

  It was still dark and she couldn’t sleep, so she picked up her iPhone from the nightstand and checked the time. 4:45. No doubt her mother would be in a deep sleep for at least a few more hours. A conflict waged in her mind over her mother’s presence. One part of her wanted to assure her mother that she was fine and encourage her to go back home to her house and her chickens and her stepfather. The other part of her experienced a strange sort of peace about her mother being so close. Meg had moved from the middle of California out here to the coast when she was 17 and never looked back. Ever since last evening, she found her mind wandering back … just a little.

  Gingerly, she slipped out of bed, reached for one of the crutches leaning up against the wall, and limped over to the bathroom. She promised herself to be careful. Less than an hour later, Uber dropped her off at the hotel. Rudy was out front, washing heron droppings from the bricked driveway. He offered her a kindly smile, and she longed for New York City, where Times Square was scrubbed shiny clean every morning. She made her way past the valet station, noting a lone male attendant looking bored and a little sleepy. She then slipped into the hotel, gave a nod to the night auditor shuffling through paperwork at the front desk, then slowly made her way down the long hall to her office. Once inside, she shucked the crutches and made herself comfortable on the couch. She had rarely sat on it before the accident, choosing more often to sit at her desk by the window, but its softness welcomed her aching body.

  One by one, she called the tiny sales office of each property in Oregon, Washington, and Florida. She checked in with each sales manager, casually mentioning her injured foot so as not to alarm anyone, and assured each office that she would be in touch with clients by phone. She asked each of them to forward any calls that needed immediate follow-up.

  Meg then made a list of clients to call, grouping them by how far away they were located. Being on California time, she knew she had a better chance of catching most of them in the office, maybe even before Pepper did any damage. At least she hoped so. She wanted to believe Jackson that Pepper was all talk. Maybe, she thought, he had already warned her not to involve herself in the client base that Meg had already built.

  She started with those three hours away, then two, then one for those closest. One by one, Meg called her clients—and potential clients. Some had booked events with her at Sea Glass Inn or one of their sister properties in the Pacific Northwest or Florida. Some had considered one of her proposals, but not actually signed. All had been contacted by Pepper, but thankfully, not one had agreed to meet with her.

  Loyalty was one of her favorite attributes.

  Still, after each call she found herself
seething a little more.

  Jackson poked his head in through the doorway. “You’re here early. Am I allowed to enter?”

  “You are the boss.”

  “This is true.” He stepped inside, his slacks tan, his dark denim shirt unbuttoned at the top. “You look—how shall I say this?—peeved. Did you and your mother have a falling out after I left?”

  “Pepper told my clients that she is now their main contact.”

  Jackson didn’t react to her sudden change in subject except to say, “I see. Did she tell you that?”

  “No.” She glared at him, noting the amount of energy anger was pulling from her. It was too early to be this upset, and out of character for her, but nothing was normal these days. “They did. I called every single one of them, and thankfully, reached everybody. Well, at least those on my hot list and a few others. I also contacted each on-site sales assistant.” She didn’t mention that she asked them all to run interference, though she suspected he understood.

  “You’ve been busy.”

  “That’s all you have to say to me?”

  His thick grin faltered. “What do you mean by that?”

  “What was last night all about anyway?”

  He gave his head a quick shake, a look of incredulity growing in his eyes. “Last night? You mean dinner?”

  “Why would you take my mother up on her offer of dinner when you knew what was going on behind my back?”

  “Hold on a second.” He paused. “This isn’t like you, Meg.”

  She blinked back emotion. Oh, she needed a pain pill. She grabbed her purse and rummaged around inside of it until she found the bottle of ibuprofen. Two max. She wouldn’t take anything stronger.