Runaway Tide

by Julie Carobini

  “What do you mean?”

  “I think his life makes you worry. I have seen a far-off look in your eyes for as long as I can remember. It’s not your fault, you know, his addiction.”

  Her mother extricated herself from Meg’s touch and patted her daughter’s hand. “Meghan, there is no need to point fingers any which way. I think we need to change this subject right now.”

  Meg bit the inside of her lower lip. She had seen this kind of reaction from her mother before, a strange sort of agitation. Rather than push an issue that she had been wanting to explore for most of her life, once again, Meg let the subject go.

  * * *

  The next morning a quote popped into Meg’s mind. “Hard times prepare ordinary people for the extraordinary.” She sat at her desk, tired of the cast that hung on her leg like a soggy sling of cardboard. At least, that’s what she pictured the insides of the cast to look like now. She hated to think about what her leg looked like—probably an overcooked sausage.

  The quote was something William said often, though she had not realized until now that she had memorized it. She was feeling quite ordinary at the moment, which was likely why this particular quote speared her.

  She glanced around her office, aware that the upgraded furniture and reading material had been brought in as a sort of peace offering. The bookcase held classics, such as books written by Jane Austen, Charlotte Bronte, and Frances Hodgson Burnett, and her coffee table was strewn with back issues of Forbes. She could not imagine having the time to enjoy any of it, but if she found herself suddenly homeless, her office at the inn would make a comfortable studio apartment.

  Sally appeared in her doorway. “Jackson has requested that you join him for a staff meeting in his office in ten minutes.”

  Meg checked the time and glanced at the blinking light of voicemail on her phone. She had planned on answering email and phone messages and then meeting with the catering department to review incoming conferences. But she had to remind herself that life had changed for her at the inn, and like it or not, her calendar was no longer her own. “Hard times … ordinary people.” Maybe she was on the right track. She was feeling far less than extraordinary now.

  Ten minutes later, Meg wheeled into Jackson’s office. He had not yet arrived, so she parked herself next to Trace, who sat in front of Jackson’s desk.

  Trace stifled a yawn. “Hey, Meg. Obviously, I’m a team player and all, but I still don’t understand why I am needed in this meeting.”

  Same here. “I guess we’ll soon find out.”

  Jackson strode into the room, his expression brooding. He brushed by them both without saying a word, taking a seat at his desk where he began to scribble on a notepad. Just like his father. The familiar sight caught Meg off guard and she swallowed a sudden lump in her throat.

  He tapped his pen on his desk and looked up. “Liddy coming?”

  “Hello, everyone,” Liddy said as she rushed into the room. She took a seat next to the others.

  Jackson cleared his throat. “I called you all here for a pre-con meeting. Actually, this is more of a pre-pre-con meeting for CartCo.

  Meg stiffened at the name of the company that Jackson had so brazenly courted right from under her. She avoided eye contact, forcing herself not to care.

  “Adele will be stopping by in a few minutes,” he added before zeroing in on Liddy. “We will need you to create a way for the group’s guests to reserve rooms online.” He swung his chin toward Trace. “I would like you to assist Meg with some logistics of the breakout space—there will be a general session and many smaller meetings throughout the weekend.”

  Meg sat there, silent.

  “You’re our best with these types of events,” he said to Meg, interrupting her thoughts. “What do you have to add to this conversation?”

  You mean, like, what in the world was the head of Riley Holdings doing acting like a meeting planner?

  Sally arrived at the door before Meg could betray herself. “Excuse me, but is there anything more you need for today’s meeting?”

  Jackson rocked in his chair like he was thinking, and the rest of the room fell silent. Sally caught Meg’s eye. “Anything you can think of?”

  “Yes, there are a few things I can think of. Please bring us copies of CartCo’s working agenda and the map of the space they would like to use. And if you could ask catering to bring in waters and coffee for our meeting with the client, I think we would all appreciate that.”

  Sally nodded. “Absolutely.”

  Meg turned back to Jackson. “What was it you were asking?”

  He stared at her for a beat. Before he could answer, Adele Grant strolled into the office wearing acorn-gold athleisure, her icy blonde hair pulled back into a sleek ponytail. “Jackson,” she drawled, “how lovely to see you again.” From the top of her shiny head down to her white Y-3 sneakers, the woman appeared ready to play hard.

  Jackson came out from behind his desk and offered Adele his hand, but she pulled him into a hug instead. Trace leaned toward Meg and whispered, “Pretty cougar-licious, if you ask me.”

  Liddy reacted to Trace’s observation with a squeak and a slap of a file folder on her knee.

  Sally hurried into the room and handed Meg a file labeled “CartCo Event.” Behind her a black-vested server named Jorge slipped in with a pitcher of water and a tray of glasses.

  One-Mississippi-two-Mississippi-three … That’s how long it took until Jackson could extricate himself from Adele Grant’s embrace. Huh. Though Meg had been in contact with Adele for months with calls and proposals regarding her company’s event, something told her that Jackson’s “magic” touch was less about the magic and more about the … touch.

  * * *

  The remainder of the meeting was spent watching Adele bat eyes at Jackson while the rest of the women in the room—dubbed “the forgotten three”—tapped away on their phones, ostensibly taking notes. It was an exhausting experience watching her boss try to finesse his way through negotiations with a woman who knew what she wanted and how to get it.

  After the meeting ended and Meg had returned to her office for more follow-up calls and a drive-by meeting with catering staff members who happened to be on-site that afternoon, fatigue set in. She could either succumb to an afternoon nap—probably not the best option if she expected to conquer her to-do list today—or take a stroll outside. “Stroll” being the operative words since using the wheelchair would likely be the most efficient, painless way to make her way around the property.

  The air had cooled some and whatever day’s heat remained was tempered by a soft breeze. She loved this view—light dappled waves, cloud-white sails hoisted in the distance, a canopy of blue above her. She cranked both rims of her chair forward.

  Jackson’s familiar voice interrupted her thoughts. “May I help?” He didn’t wait for her answer, but instead began to push her chair gently forward along the winding path.

  She kept her eyes focused ahead and attempted to relax. A squirrel skittered out of the way, lightening the mood.

  “You were quiet in the meeting,” he said.

  “Mm-hm.”

  “Reason?”

  She thought about this. “Well, I could have done a tree pose in a corner wearing a bikini and that woman would not have noticed me.”

  “I would have.”

  She sucked in a breath and forced herself to exhale. Goosebumps alighted on her skin so she crossed her arms, rubbing them with both her palms.

  “Did the others have any input I should know about?”

  “Other than Trace’s ‘cougar-licious’ comment, you mean?”

  Jackson let out a sarcastic laugh. “She did not.”

  Meg smiled at Trace’s bravado. “She did.”

  They continued on the undulating path, mostly in silence. Meg shaded her face with one hand, keeping her gaze on the horizon. It would be easier to ignore the struggle between them—at least, she thought he struggled too.

  Fin
ally, Jackson spoke again. “Give it to me straight, Meg. What did you think of my performance in there?”

  Did it matter what I thought? “Was that before or after your client jumped you?”

  He swore softly. “You’re being ridiculous.”

  “Ridiculous … crazy … hysterical. That’s me, I guess.”

  “Not fair. I’m not a mansplainer … if that’s what you’re not so subtly hinting at.”

  She laughed. “Fine … though I did not accuse you of that.”

  “I asked you to give it to me straight.”

  “Right. Okay. Here it is: You gave away the store.”

  He scoffed. “I did not.”

  She groaned. “You asked what I thought.”

  “I asked what you thought of my performance, my ability to land the big fish, so to speak.”

  “Or shark.”

  “Whatever.”

  She crossed her arms again, noting that though the sea was within reach, her mind had decidedly gone elsewhere. “Jackson, you are a professional. I assure you that you looked the part and said what you needed to say.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  She should have stopped there, but her mouth kept working. “In the end, CartCo has signed a large contract with Sea Glass Inn and, I guess, that’s all that matters.”

  “And you don’t sound very sure about that. Why?”

  He had slowed now. She turned and said what had been percolating in her mind all afternoon. “The promises you made her will stretch our staff to their limits. They will be running around relentlessly—and you cut their gratuity by a third. You gave them every spare bit of space in the hotel without setting industry-acceptable food and beverage minimums.” She paused. “Should I go on?”

  “No. You’ve said enough.” An edge returned to his voice and he picked up the pace, causing her to look forward again. She momentarily feared she would end up in the cold waters of the Pacific.

  “You said you wanted my opinion. If it helps any, your father asked me for mine on occasion, too.” Her windpipe tightened. She missed William Riley, more than she had ever told a soul. Everywhere she looked she saw his mark upon this inn—and all the others in this family-run chain. She just wished …

  “That’s funny,” Jackson said, a flatness to his voice. “He never asked mine.”

  “Maybe it’s because you chose to leave him.” And me.

  He stopped the wheelchair and stepped out in front of her. “You don’t understand a thing about those days, Meg.”

  Carefully, she stood.

  “You should stay put.”

  She shook her head and used the back of the chair to keep herself balanced. He rooted himself in place, a scowl marring his mouth. His eyes flitted to her face, but he crossed his arms as if to give a “hands off” stance.

  “What don’t I understand? That you and your father were constantly at odds?”

  She searched those hardened eyes of his, his set jaw.

  “You think I didn’t hear you and your father arguing? About money? About Pepper? About how to run inns?

  “Stop it.”

  “You were kind of a pain in the butt back then, but …”

  “May I remind you? William Riley was my father—not yours.”

  She was going to finish by saying that she had seen changes in him, changes she thought his father would have appreciated. But he had drawn blood with his remark. She fought the torrent building behind her eyes. Though she might not be able to physically run, she could certainly walk away—or sit back down in that darn chair.

  She wobbled and his hand darted out to steady her. She leaned into his strength while alternately fighting it. Beneath heavy lids, his eyes searched her face, his breath upon her cheek like a magnet, holding her in place. He brushed a strand of flyaway hair from her forehead and hooked it behind her ear. The touch of his skin on hers stirred up turmoil she didn’t care to revisit.

  “You have no right to criticize my relationship with my father.”

  “Maybe not,” she said, her voice hushed, “but I can’t stand by and let you criticize him either.”

  “On the contrary, as an employee, you have no jurisdiction over who I can or cannot criticize—and you certainly have no license to criticize your boss.”

  He jerked his hand from her cheek, the jolt affecting her like a physical shove. Once he had disappeared, Meg lowered herself into her wheelchair and waited for her heart to still before making her way back to the inn.

  Chapter 7

  “Did you really just use the term ‘gold digger’?” Jackson sat at his desk tapping the tip of his pen on its surface and watching the sun slip into the sea. His sister had been barking at him over the phone for the past fifteen minutes.

  “You need to stop trusting her so much with our company’s information,” she said. “Wherever I go, it’s Meg this and Meg that. That should not be! She is just an employee, Jackson.”

  As an employee, you have no jurisdiction … He winced, recalling how he had thrown similar words into Meg’s face earlier today. Jackson shifted in his chair. “Let’s keep the derogatory terms out of this conversation, Pepper.”

  “Fine, fine. You go ahead and protect Daddy’s little protégé all you want. I don’t trust her at all.”

  “Why not?”

  Pepper sighed dramatically, like his question was a waste of her precious time. “I think she took advantage of Daddy …”

  He hated when she called their father that. William Riley was Father—not Pops, Dad, or Daddy—just Father. Always. Jackson rifled a hand through his hair, trying to shake away some of the frustration this call was causing him. Pepper had known their father how long? A few months before he died suddenly? What did she know about him anyway? Silently, he chastised himself. It was easy to write off a person he never knew … never cared to know. As trying as Pepper’s behavior was—and “trying” was putting it mildly—it was not her fault that she had only known William Riley for a short time. Perhaps if their father had lived, Jackson and Pepper would not have been thrown together like strange ingredients in an unusual recipe.

  “And what is this?” she said as her voice dug back into his thoughts, a pitch higher this time. “This expense account you have given her? She flies here and there, staying in our hotels, drinking our wine, gobbling up our food—”

  Jackson threw the pen, like a dart, at the wall across from his desk. “That’s enough, Pepper. You are making this something bigger than it is. You are only angry that none of her clients were available to talk to you.”

  “Exactly. So tell me! Tell me why it is that each and every client of hers that I have tried to speak with on my travels has been unavailable. Doesn’t that strike you as odd?”

  That Meg would have warned them of his meddlesome sister’s impending arrival? Not at all.

  Technically, he could see Pepper’s point. It would not be unusual for the general manager or other executive of a hotel to reach out to a client before the onset of an event. Some might say it would be expected and welcomed. Yet he understood why Meg would become concerned about his sister’s sudden interest in her clients’ affairs. His sister was a miser when it came to hotel spending. She wanted the moon—but only if she could wrap one of those fancy scarves of hers around its surface and pull it down without spending a penny. Meg’s plans were derailed when she tripped and fell at the beach, and she no doubt worried that Pepper’s overbearing interest in her clients’ agreements with the hotel would further hinder her efforts to close a deal or finalize plans, whatever the case may be.

  After ending his call with his belligerent sibling, Jackson sat in the silence. Had Meg really told him to his face that he had been a pain in the butt? He scoffed and leaned his head against his chair, remembering the first time he had seen her, way back when, for someone other than his father’s assistant.

  * * *

  He’d been lounging by the pool when he noticed her striding by, head down, eyes on a document. “Must
be something urgent for you not to notice the view today.”

  She looked up, her brow puckered. “I’m sorry?”

  He stood, slipped bare feet in flip-flops, and approached her. She wore a skirt, a blazer, and pointy-toed shoes despite the mid-July weather. “It’s a beautiful day. Where are you headed in such a rush?”

  “To talk to Chef.”

  “Forget about that. Come paddle boarding with me.” He flashed her the smile that had netted him more dates in college than he could count.

  “Chef is waiting.”

  “Let him. He’ll be here until, what, eleven? Later? There’s a whole ocean out there and you’re missing it with all these—” he grabbed the stack of files from her arms and hid them behind his back— “papers.”

  “Jackson.”

  “Call me Jack.”

  “Okay … Jack. Your offer is tempting, but I really do have to get these banquet orders over to the chef.”

  He lifted the files over his head and searched the perimeter of the pool area until his eyes landed on one of the servers. He motioned her over.

  Meg shook her head and reached for the files, but he dodged her, grinning.

  “Sir?” the young woman asked when she walked up to them. Her gaze stroked his bare chest.

  He reveled in the title that he neither deserved nor embodied and handed the woman Meg’s stack of files. “I’d like you to take these to the restaurant. Chef is waiting for them.”

  “Absolutely. I would be happy to.”

  She sidled off and he turned to Meg. “So, you’ll come with me?”

  She had crossed her arms by now. “I really can’t.”

  “And the reason is …?”

  She peered toward the ocean beyond the inn. A longing mixed with something else softened her face. It was as if something troubling had crossed her mind.

  He reached for her hand. “One drink then. My father won’t mind. Trust me.”

  She hesitated and he could tell by the way her eyes lit slightly that she did not want to turn him down. “And you will clear this with your father?”