Douglas made a mock-leering face at her. "Very sexy."
Lucy jabbed her fork in the air at him. Gina thought Lucy was crazy when she and Douglas stopped dating but continued to see each other as friends.
"Friends with benefits?" Gina had asked.
"Nope," Lucy had replied. "We never got that far."
"So you're just hanging out with him?"
"We like each other. There's just no chemistry. That's all."
Lucy and Douglas had tried to find the chemistry, had given it their best shot. They had even gotten as far as being naked and in bed together—and still it was nowhere to be found. That's when they called it quits, as they laughingly put their clothes back on, then ordered a pizza delivery. Sarah Matthew was still holding out hope that Lucy and Douglas might someday be a match.
Douglas shook his head suddenly. "I remember how all the girls at camp had such huge crushes on him. And all the guys swore that if he ever laid a hand on any of the girls, we'd pound him. We were so jealous of him, with his pretty boy looks and all that money." He shook his head again. "When I took this job here, it never even crossed my mind that he'd be running the place someday."
Lucy laughed. "You were going to pound him, huh? That would have put a quick end to your stay at camp."
"Yeah well, we didn't think the plan all the way through."
By the time Kelly gently set their dessert—tiramisu, two forks—and coffees down on the table, Lucy knew she couldn't put it off any longer. She had to tell Douglas. She took a sip of coffee, considering her words carefully.
"Douglas, there's something I need to tell you," she began. "When I met with Sterling Matthew this morning, to go over the marketing plans ... well ..." This was hard, she thought. This was going to break Douglas' heart. She felt her eyes well up with tears and she took another quick sip of coffee in the hope that Douglas wouldn't notice.
"He's getting rid of the camp, isn't he?"
Lucy nodded, without looking up.
"That bastard! Now I am going to pound him." Douglas slammed his fork down onto the table. "When? Right away?"
Lucy shook her head, finally able to look Douglas in the eye. "Next summer. He says there are more valuable ways to use that land."
"Depends on how you define the word valuable."
Lucy reached over and covered Douglas' hand with hers. "I'm sorry to be the one to break the news to you. But I wanted you to know."
Douglas flipped his wrist around and grasped Lucy's hand. "It's not your fault, Luce."
"I'm thinking about just refusing to develop plans for that area," she offered.
Douglas shook his head. "You'll lose your job. You shouldn't sacrifice your own career for this."
"I'm not sure I care if I lose my job. Do I really want to work for a man like that? The Inn isn't going to be the same place without the camp. Or without John running it."
"Do John and Sarah know he's planning to axe the camp?" Douglas asked.
Lucy shrugged. "I don't know. I spent all afternoon picking up the phone to call Sarah, then chickening out."
"You probably shouldn't get in the middle of that, anyway. I can't imagine John would ever want the camp to be dissolved, but Sarah ... she did call Sterling back. She may have given him carte blanche to do whatever he wants to do."
"Gina pointed that out, too. We all think of Sterling as the son who abandoned his parents and refused to join the family business. But none of us really know how John and Sarah feel about that. He is still their son."
Douglas' phone pinged. He pulled it out of his pocket and checked the text. "I've got to get back to the camp."
Lucy reached for the check. "My treat tonight, for being the bearer of bad news."
Chapter 7
Sterling was standing in the long narrow corridor that led back to the Blue Crab's men's and women's lounges. He'd excused himself from Elle and the bankers by saying he needed to make an important phone call. Now he stood in the dim hallway, sheltered from view of most of the dining area, pretending to use his cell phone.
How long is she going to be in there? he thought.
He'd been watching Lucy Wyndham all evening. He'd tried not to, but he hadn't been able to keep his eyes off her. Part of him was annoyed by this. He did not want to be attracted to Lucy Wyndham. That had been a teenage thing. He didn't want to be attracted to any woman, for that matter. Not at the moment. He had too much to do at the Inn and he wanted to do it post-haste so he could leave St. Caroline as soon as possible.
Yet, here he was, standing outside the ladies' room, waiting for her to come out so he could see her up close. Maybe she wouldn't look as fetching from this distance. Maybe her hair wouldn't look so soft and glossy. He'd nearly choked on his filet mignon when she reached back and pulled out the elastic band from her ponytail, allowing all that sexy hair to cascade down around her shoulders. And those shoulders. Maybe up close, they wouldn't appear quite so smooth and gleaming, wouldn't make his hands itch to touch her skin.
Ah, what was he doing here? Elle was going to be furious if he didn't get back to the table soon. He had enough people furious with him. He didn't need Elle mad at him, too. He tapped the touchscreen on his phone to "hang up" on his pretend call when the ladies' room door burst open. The next thing he knew, Lucy Wyndham was standing directly in front of him.
He regrouped quickly, nodding at her. "Ms. Wyndham."
"Good evening," Lucy replied and moved to step around Sterling.
He shuffled his feet to the left to block her path. "Good evening? That's all your boss gets?"
"Good evening, sir?"
"Your boyfriend left. Is everything okay? Do you need me to call a cab?"
Lucy laughed. "Were there cabs in St. Caroline when you were growing up?"
Sterling smiled sheepishly. "Not really, no. I forgot where I was for a moment. But is everything okay? When a man ditches a woman in a restaurant ..."
"Douglas is not my boyfriend. A. And B, everything is fine. He did not 'ditch me.' He had to get back to the camp."
He recognized the challenge in her eyes, but he was not taking that bait. "My mistake. The two of you looked pretty cozy."
"We are good friends. Not that it's any of your business," Lucy replied. Her blue eyes flashed at him. She pressed her lips tight, in a stern line. She was annoyed, and all he could think about was how much he wanted to kiss those luscious pink lips, tease them apart, see if he could make her respond the way she had back ... he had to stop that train of thought.
"I suppose you told him he's losing his job at the end of the summer," he said.
Lucy shrugged. "I wasn't told not to. And it was not something I relished doing."
"No? My recollection of Inn employees is that they do relish gossip."
"This wasn't gossip. I have the information on very good authority." She stepped forward to leave, but he blocked her with his body. Now they were standing mere inches apart. It was all he could do not to reach out and place his hands on her bare shoulders.
"I noticed the new pier at the camp today," he said. "Any idea what that cost?"
"The pier was donated to the Inn."
"Donated?" Sterling gave her a skeptical look. "That's a lot of money to donate to a charity camp."
"The camp has some influential friends. Surprised you don't know that."
Sterling cocked his head back toward the dining room. "They'll have to be more influential than those 'friends' out there."
"They might be."
She is challenging me, he thought. But he'd call her bluff eventually. There was n way the camp's friends were more important—or held more sway over the Inn's future—than the bankers waiting for him in the private dining room right that very minute.
"You'll have your revised marketing plan on Friday, as agreed." Lucy stepped to the side to go around him. "Now if you'll excuse me."
He reached out and grasped her arm. She stopped, then gracefully pulled her arm away.
"I look
forward to reading it," he said and stepped aside to let her pass.
Chapter 8
Lucy attached the revised marketing plan to an email and hit send. It was Friday evening. She'd stayed late to meet Sterling Matthew's deadline. It had been an intense three days of talking to colleagues and former coworkers in the hospitality industry, of comparing the offerings of other luxury resorts, and brainstorming with the Inn's department heads. But she had made the deadline—and she was certain the plan was good.
There were more special weekends for couples, equestrian and sailing camps for affluent kids, and—at Gina's suggestion—pastry competitions for both adults and teenagers. Winter, which had always been a slower season for the Inn, was going to hum with indoor activities—painting seminars, cooking classes, spa retreats. She even revived the 50th anniversary celebration, an idea John Matthew had dismissed as too pretentious and self-serving.
Lucy had beefed up the usual advertising plans with more tv and direct mail, and recommended upgrading the existing Inn newsletter to a slick, PDF magazine. She added more outreach to wedding planners and bridal magazines. When she ran the projections, both bookings and revenue should increase. Sterling ought to be happy with that.
What he wasn't going to be happy about, however, was that Lucy had kept the Kids Kamp. In past years, the marketing plan didn't go into much detail about the camp. John had never needed it; he understood the outreach, publicity and fundraising efforts that were conducted for the camp. There had been no need to explain that every year. But clearly, Sterling was a different matter. So Lucy had spent hours carefully detailing what was done on behalf of the camp, who did it and how much it cost. Because, frankly, most of the work was done for free by the Episcopal Church in St. Caroline. The church's minister had years ago offered to work his ministry connections to get the word out about the camp.
Lucy also had a list of churches, schools and social workers she emailed periodically to remind them of the camp and the deadlines for applying—that didn't cost anything. In December of each year, she mailed past guests of the resort a winter events calendar with a note asking them to remember the Kids Kamp in their end-of-year tax planning. That always triggered a flurry of checks. Each spring, she sent packets of camp counselor applications to east coast colleges. The jobs didn't pay well but there were always just enough college students who wanted to spend the summer in a place like St. Caroline.
And for the past three years, Derrick Jones, a Washington Post reporter who had been a camper himself at the Inn, wrote an annual article about the camp and the camp fund. That brought in thousands of dollars in contributions every year. That reminded Lucy; she needed to call Derrick and find out when he was visiting the camp this year.
We'll see what he says, she thought as she shut down her computer. Then she texted a dinner order to Mike, the bartender at Skipjack's, turned off her office light and closed the door.
Skipjack's was busy tonight. Lucy waved her way past the hostess and headed toward the bar.
"Five more minutes," Mike said and slid a mug of steaming coffee across the bar to her. "You're working late. Thought you'd be down at the Friday night bonfire." Lucy spent every Friday at the camp, eating, listening to the campers' stories, helping the counselors pass out awards, and dancing around the fire.
She took a sip of coffee, willing the caffeine to zing straight to her brain. "No, I'm here tonight. The new boss wanted a revised marketing plan. The Inn isn't making enough money apparently."
Mike lifted his head to look out over the dining room. "Well, we're hopping tonight."
Lucy followed Mike's gaze. "Yeah, the middle of June with schools barely out of session and we're fully booked. I just don't see what has to be changed."
Tonight, even though it was the beginning of the summer season, every table was occupied. Couples were tucking into the large surf-and-turf specials. Families were munching on crabcakes and fish and chip platters. In front of every child stood one of Mike's special nonalcoholic kids' cocktails—colorful concoctions of juices and soda topped with plastic sharks and paper umbrellas.
"What did you name the kids' drinks this year?" Lucy asked Mike.
"This year we've got the Monster Claw, the Haunted Skipjack and the Crabby Lady."
Lucy laughed. "Hope the inspiration for the Crabby Lady isn't anyone I know."
"Well it could have been inspired by that consultant lady. You know, the redhead." Mike disappeared to the other end of the bar suddenly, to wait on a customer.
When he returned, Lucy asked, "What is she making you do?"
"Oh, she's not bothering the bar too much. She quizzed me on the drinks I know how to mix but—" Mike laughed—"I'm up on the latest drinks in New York and LA. She doesn't know anything about running a bar. But she does want to redecorate the restaurant."
"You're kidding! Next we know she'll have Chef Ramsay in here, putting us on the next episode of worst kitchens in the universe."
A waitress skittered up to the bar. "Table seven sends their compliments on the Haunted Skipjack."
Mike waved at table seven and the set of triplets seated at it, enjoying their fizzy, bubbly drinks. The triplets' parents smiled and waved back, the entire family looking happy, relaxed and slightly sunburned. The remains of a demolished blooming onion lay in the center of the table.
That's what Sterling Matthew didn't understand, Lucy thought. Kids had always been important to the Chesapeake Inn. John Matthew had never treated them as an afterthought, as a nuisance to be accommodated at his upscale establishment. He understood the Inn's clientele—affluent parents who wanted to vacation somewhere nice with their children. The Inn was a place where families could spend the afternoon fishing and swimming together, then mom and dad could have a quiet, elegant dinner in Evangeline's while their children enjoyed a group cookout and movie night with other visiting kids. Or everyone could pile into Skipjack's, exhausted and sunburned from a day of sailing or cycling, for a leisurely dinner and shared desserts. Kids made friends for life at the Inn. More than a few had even come back to the Inn for their weddings—to each other—and now they bring their own families here every summer.
And John and Sarah had always made room at their little slice of paradise for the kids whose parents couldn't afford a vacation in St. Caroline. Or a vacation anywhere for that matter. Some of the camp kids hadn't even seen their parents in years. They lived with grandparents or aunts and uncles.
"Speaking of trouble," Mike said.
Lucy looked toward the restaurant entrance. Sterling Matthew and Elle Scott-Thomas were standing just inside the double captain's doors. Sterling was dressed in khakis and a pressed golf shirt. Elle Scott-Thomas was the epitome of New England prep in a short madras plaid skirt and white blouse, tan leather flats. At least they're not wearing business suits, Lucy thought. No one wore business suits at the Inn, not even John Matthew.
Sterling caught Lucy's eye and nodded his head. Lucy returned the gesture with a quick, professional smile. Elle Scott-Thomas methodically surveyed the restaurant; Lucy could tell she was counting heads at each table.
She turned back to Mike just as he laid her carefully wrapped dinner on the gleaming wooden bar. The bottles of wine and spirits behind him sparkled through the sudden veil of tears that filled her eyes. She swallowed quickly and blinked several times to dry the tears. She loved this place, loved the Inn, loved the people who worked here, loved her job. And now this man and his henchwoman were going to destroy all that.
Mike reached out and covered her hand with his. "It will all work out, Lucy. Things always do."
She smiled wanly at him. That hadn't really been her experience of life. Things didn't always work out. Her marriage, for starters. There had been no happy ever after there. "You're probably right," she said anyway and picked up her dinner.
"No dinner for two tonight?" Mike asked.
"No, just me." She smiled again at Mike. Now there was a good man. Too bad he was married to Gina.
Chapter 9
Sterling surveyed his mother's setup for Sunday brunch. When she'd said that his aunt and uncle were sailing in from Annapolis for the day, he'd envisioned a small casual meal with family. He should have known better, of course. His mother did not entertain in a small way, ever. Unless the Matthew family had grown exponentially while he was in Europe, this was not a family-only affair today.
Good grief, he thought, as he strolled amongst the perfectly placed tables on the lawn—each topped with a starched white tablecloth and vase of fresh flowers. She'd even put name cards on the tables. He sighed. He wasn't feeling up to this level of socializing today. Needless to say, he'd had a tiring week. Between trying to appease the bankers and getting the Inn's staff on board with the need for change, he was working around the clock. This was not how he had planned to spend his summer.
"Hey, here's our table." Elle plucked a crisply folded name card from the tablecloth. Sterling walked around the table, surveying the other names his mother had chosen to seat him with.
"Oh no. I don't think so." He picked up the card with Lucy Wyndham's name on it and turned it around for Elle to see. "I am not sitting with her." He walked off with Lucy's card and found a card with a distant cousin's name on it and switched the seats. Lucy would now be sitting next to one of the family's attorneys. Perhaps he could explain his parents' financial situation to her.
He and Elle had stayed up 'til three a.m. reviewing various staff plans for next year, including the marketing plan. God, Lucy Wyndham had chutzpah. He'd told her in no uncertain terms that the kids camp was ending this year and what had she done? Kept it in the plan, even explained in greater detail—which he did not need—how it cost so little to run.
He looked out toward the water and the Matthew family's small fleet of sailboats bobbing in the sun. She just didn't get it, he'd fumed to Elle last night. The cost of the camp wasn't the issue. It was the lost opportunity cost. That land was worth too much money to just give away every summer. Out of all the staff at the Inn, she was being the most obstinate.
Fallling for the Prodigal Son Page 4
