by Sue Gibson
Ethan searched the blue-green expanse for the fish but only found his own disbelieving face mirrored back. He waited for his thudding chest to settle before straightening. Trading stocks on the floor of the TSX had nothing over this.
"I lost it. Didn't set the hook fast enough," Lily stated flatly.
No excuses. And somehow he doubted she'd accept them from anyone else either.
A tumble of blond hair fell across her cheek, shadowing her eyes, as she set the rod aside and began to ransack her tackle box.
He shifted on the hard seat and fought an urge to reach forward and pat her knee. After all, she is a professional guide, he reminded himself, not a regular woman.
He watched her absorbed search and decided her looks went beyond ordinary. Glamorous? No. Refreshing would be a better description. And nothing like the women he dated.
Not that he'd had a date lately. Ever since they'd struck a shovel in Loon Lake's shoreline he'd been too busy and had way too much riding on the project to worry about the state of his social life.
"What's going on?" Lily's hand was cupped over her eyes as she looked toward the rising sun.
Warmth rushed from his neck to his hairline, and he quickly swiveled to follow her gaze.
A flat-bottomed barge chugged steadily toward their anchored boat. Already? He glanced to his watch, surprised at how fast the morning had passed.
"Ahoy, Mr. Weatherall," a slim young man with shoulder-length hair called out through a megaphone.
The loaded barge continued to advance, an enormous wake rolling from each side. Lily watched in amazement as Ethan's hand rose in response.
"You know these people?" she spluttered.
He flashed a look of irritation toward the barge. "They're with me," he admitted, a trace of defiance edging his tone.
She straightened in her seat. The itsy-bitsy spark of appeal she'd been trying to ignore since she'd collected the tall, dark, and surprisingly young CEO from the Nirvana's dock sputtered unceremoniously out.
When she'd neared the dock and spotted her client, she'd been taken aback. Most CEOs were older, grayer, and had spent decades slugging it out in the corporate trenches before earning their stripes. But this man had stood, feet spread on the concrete, confidently claiming his space. Any woman would sit up and take notice. Even a woman completely disillusioned with the moral fiber of today's male gender.
"They're from my marketing division," he continued, as if that excused the interlopers from accountability and sensible boating practices.
Marketing? Questions hammered in her head. What had that to do with their fishing trip? Obviously he'd instigated this floating three-ring circus, but for what reason?
She sunk her arm to the elbow in the frigid water and grabbed for the anchor line.
Her first tug produced nothing, and she realized the anchor was stuck on the lake's weedy floor. Banking down her panic-I can do this-she crouched in the space between the motor and the seat and yanked with all her strength.
Ethan's body blocked out the sun, as his arms circled her frame. His large hands covered hers on the thick line, and together they lifted the line in heavy, wet lengths.
His life jacket's zipper tab pressed into her back as he continued to apply his strength, and she wondered briefly if he worked out. He obviously was a power player in the boardroom and his considerable upper-arm strength suggested he held his own in the gym too.
As the coiling rope piled at their feet, she decided, if nothing else, that he was a chivalrous man. She drew her hands from the line and tucked them close to her sides.
In seconds, he plopped the dripping anchor next to her feet, like a cat presenting his master with a juicy mouse, and slid back to his seat.
A little voice in her head singsonged, "He's trying to impress me," and she repressed a smile. Men were really just oversized boys sometimes.
Her fingers tightened on the pull-cord's plastic handle. She yanked hard, the engine fired, and she brought the boat around.
"Lily," he said, a touch of remorse deepening his tone, "I apologize for my employees' carelessness" He nodded toward the now idling barge. "I should've told you that Link, my photographer, would be joining us this morning."
Yes, that would have been nice. "Photographer?" she almost yelled.
"A high-profile corporate face on promotional material sells. Basically we need a shot of me holding up a big fish"
At least he has the good sense to be embarrassed, Lily credited, noting his sudden inability to look directly at her face.
Still, questions pressed for consideration. Why not just tell her father about the photo shoot when he booked the appointment? Why did he not mention it while they were fishing?
"Want the simple truth, Lily?"
"That would be ... refreshing."
He tracked her hooded gaze until he caught it, full-on. His eyes locked with hers, probing past polite, challenging her to trust his words.
She held her ground, refusing to look away, before finally bobbing her head for him to continue.
"I hadn't considered how our market-driven decision would impact on your space. I won't make that mistake again."
His lingo-laden confessional confirmed her suspicions: He was a self-centered autocrat. One she'd like to dump, clanking pants and all, to the bottom of the lake.
"Mr. Weatherall," Link's voice implored through the megaphone, "we're losing ambience as the sun rises. Chop, chop"
Ethan held his questioning look, his eyebrows slightly lifted, waiting for her response. His mother must have been wrapped around his little finger, Lily thought, his boyish charm bleeding the strength from her anger.
He wasn't asking for the world, after all. Just a few pictures. Her fingers went to her windblown hair and she glanced at her stained shirt and frayed jeans. "But we don't have a fish," she squeaked out, seizing the inconsequential in hopes of dashing the whole ridiculous setup.
"Link can airbrush in a fish back at the shop," Ethan countered quickly.
Lily looked to the photographer. Link was leaping over reels of electrical line and slapping ineffectually at the swarming black flies.
This guy was in charge of choosing a fish for the brochure? Ethan's corporate face might very well end up next to a saltwater halibut the size of a dolphin.
"Don't you even think about printing any brochures without my permission."
"I appreciate that the integrity of the lake is a priority with you," Ethan said, sounding relieved. He extracted a legal form from his breast pocket and stabbed a finger at the final paragraph. "Prior to publication you'll have veto rights on the photograph," he reiterated, raising his flattened palm to halt the advancing crew. "You have my word"
Lily hesitated, afraid to trust his words. Her focus slid from the paper to his coffee-colored eyes. She met quiet integrity there, urging her to accept.
Lily lifted her face to the sun. Perched atop the spruce, she spied Sam, the lake's sentinel blue heron. He chomped contentedly on a yellow perch, seemingly amused by the chaotic scene below.
A giggle rose in her throat. It was all quite ridiculous, really. "I'll hold you to your word, Mr. Weatherall," she said, and reached for his pen.
"Okay! Let's do it," Link shrieked.
A generator growled to life. Tiny chickadees fluttered from the arms of the spruce. Floodlights bathed the morning mist a pale blue.
"He's setting a mood," Ethan shouted over the rumbling generator. "We're targeting the 'upscale, hip consumer."'
There was no way the great marketing wizard was getting off easy. She raised her hands in a gesture of helplessness and held an expression of confusion as he attempted to explain his tactics.
"Yuppies," he bellowed through cupped hands. "We want the yuppies to come. Escape the rat race, connect with nature"-the generator belched a cloud of toxic smoke-"in this unspoiled paradise."
With Ethan safely returned to his dock, Lily set her sights on the end of Greensly Bay. The short ride gave her ju
st enough time to compose herself before facing certain inquisition. She cut the runabout's motor and let the waves carry her boat in to the Hideaway's dock.
Just beyond the shore, the Greenslys' log home nestled into a spruce stand. A row of smaller log cabins lined a worn path that went on to disappear into the bush.
Jared Greensly rose eagerly from an Adirondack chair, one of six circling a stone fire pit, and hurried to meet his daughter. A red plaid shirt tucked into a pair of pressed green work pants signaled today was special; his favorite shirt was generally reserved for the opening day of pickerel season or the fall fair.
Catching her father's eye, Lily puffed a strand of hair from her face and rolled her eyes.
His eyes lit up, obviously anticipating a story.
"So? What happened?"
"You were right, Dad. They're big, they're bad, and they're ugly," she called out, wetting an oar to propel the boat across the final few feet of water.
"Well, that's not exactly what I said, Lily." Jared shook his head in mock exasperation.
Lily hopped from the boat to the dock. "The big and ugly part you've seen, but we'd underestimated the bad part a tad. Ethan Weatherall tricked me. It wasn't so much that he wanted to catch fish as he wanted to look like he was catching fish"
Jared raised his eyebrows and waited.
"He used my services to market his hotel. They're printing up brochures, promoting the Nirvana as some kind of yuppie retreat"
She waited for his reaction.
"Will your face and the Hideaway's boat be on this brochure?"
"I guess. But he's right there beside me, holding up a yet-to-be-determined fish."
Jared knotted the boat's line with practiced ease before straightening and turning to his daughter. "Isn't any publicity supposed to be good publicity?
"Well, I suppose ..." Why does he always turn things around until he finds the good in a bad situation ?
"And isn't the best darned guide in the country front and center on a fancy brochure?" he continued.
"Daaad. Please stop saying things like that. It's embarrassing."
"Okay, okay."
Jared grew serious, "Any news about the 'wedding cake'? Get a peek into the hotel? Bet it's a doozy"
Lily paused briefly, acknowledging his sly change of subject. "No, but he invited me to stop by later today. Said he needs advice on a few things."
"Well, there you go. He's not too stuck on himself to ask for an expert opinion."
She shot a warning glance toward the smiling man.
Jared tipped the rim of his Tilley hat, "You'll have to fill me in tonight. I'm off to Buttermilk Falls. Got a meeting with Henry Faulkner," he said, tugging his cuffs into place.
Henry had been keeping the books straight for the lodge for thirty-five years.
It wasn't year-end yet. She'd wondered about the old fishing boat that needed replacing and his decision to raise the weekly rate on the rental cottages.
A long sigh escaped from her lips. There was no point in even asking. Jared was the epitome of the strong and silent type, convinced it was his duty to protect his family from ugly realities.
Lily fell into step with her father's slower gait as they headed toward the guest cabins. "I'm taking Merv and Ed out again. Those two have fished hard all week. They're determined to make a good showing at tomorrow's fish fry"
Jared nodded in agreement.
She checked her watch. "I hope they're ready. I'm meeting Ethan at the Nirvana after lunch."
Jared grinned. "It's `Ethan' already?"
Lily ignored his jab and hoped the heat suffusing her face would pass without comment. Her father had the annoying habit of assuming every age-appropriate bachelor became smitten with her on sight.
Jared's footsteps slowed to a full stop. "I've got an idea. Why not invite our new neighbor to the fish fry? What better way to get to know the man and his motives."
"Dad, really, he'd hate our party." The image of Mr. Brooks Brothers mingling with the Hideaway bunch was hard to imagine.
Jared's gaze fastened on his daughter's face, urging her to reconsider.
"All right. I'll ask," she said, "but I'm betting our little fish fry won't interest him in the least."
"So what do you think?" Ethan asked, one hand resting on a black marble pedestal, the other pointing toward the etched glass panels fronting the Nirvana.
The pride in his voice evident, Lily pivoted to absorb the room's ambience before replying. Some forty feet above, heavy oak beams not only held the structure together but anchored chandeliers of crystal medallions. Prisms of colored light sparkled throughout the space, as if a fairy had waved her wand and spread stardust everywhere. Aware of his gaze on her face, she took care with her reply. "It's amazing."
He nodded, obviously pleased with her answer. "Wait until you see the dining room. We worked with a Scandinavian designer to develop the opulent yet casual look the demographic is buying into now."
Lily recalled his earlier shouted reference to the "yuppies" he was so desperately trying to attract. Now apparently, in the Nirvana's exquisite lobby, they'd become "the demographic."
"But first, I'll show you my favorite suite." He placed a hand on the small of her back and directed her to a bank of elevators. The warmth of his hand melted through her thin T-shirt and she slowed her steps to enjoy the courtesy. Her exfiance, Doug, generally strode ahead of her, even on their way to pick out her engagement ring, she recalled. His habit of walking ahead of her was irritating, but she'd found it easier back then, in the throes of first infatuation, to blame it on her shorter legs than his bad manners.
They stepped in, and the elevator purred them to the top floor with the doors opening directly into the penthouse.
Lily's feet mired in the sumptuous carpet as her eyes absorbed the vista. The expanse of glass was repeated here, and Loon Lake glittered below like diamonds on blue velvet.
This must be how it looks to the birds, she mused.
Picking her way through the artfully placed decor pieces, she pressed her fingertips to the glass.
She swung to face him. "How much would it cost to stay in this room?" she blurted out. She slapped a hand over her mouth, embarrassed by her boldness.
"Not at all, Lily." Ethan waved away her embarrassment. "We're both in business. Upward of a thousand a night. Pretty standard for a penthouse suite in a hotel of this caliber."
Lily's eyes followed the shoreline, reveling in the familiar, until her gaze was jarred by the skeleton of an enormous steel boathouse just to the left of the docks. Uncompleted, the first few feet of the imposing building were sided with gleaming white steel. Granite cliffs, the muddy hue of November storm clouds, towered in a protective stance just behind, the resulting clash of color and form an assault on the discerning eye.
Ethan hovered nearby, rocking on his heels, obviously anxious to continue the tour.
"I knew you would appreciate this view. That's why I brought you up here."
"Thank you. It's magnificent and worth every penny," she added with a smile. "But the color of the boathouse ... Is there some reason it's being built so high and er ... so white?"
Ethan followed her pointing finger to the construction site below.
"I realize the hotel is white, and you're going for a match, but the hotel's glass alleviates the impact of the white walls. The boathouse, on the other hand, looks almost industrial. And unless you're expecting to house the tall ships in there, the height is excessive."
Ethan crossed the room and began riffling through a stack of rolled architectural drawings. He hurried back and spread a sheet open against the glass. "Here it is." He tapped the spot. "We plan to build office space up there for the marine staff and . . " He focused on the fine print. "You're right. The white steel has been color coded to coordinate with the hotel's paint."
"All I'm saying is that I would have gone another way. Lower profile. Made it blend in with the rock" Lily's voice faded. "Too late now."
Catching her reflection in the glass before turning to comment, Lily lowered a raised eyebrow. "What about when your guests are out on the lake fishing? Your stunning frontal view marred by that ... thing." She poked the glass with her index finger.
"Okay, okay. Point taken." He grabbed for her hand. "Come on. There's a lot more to see." He scanned the room for a clock. "I'm taking a conference call in thirty minutes, and I want to show you the brick fish-smoker we brought in from Norway."
She hurried to match his steps, embarrassed at how intrigued she was with the lifestyle of the rich and famous. He showed no sign of dropping her hand as he led her toward a Picasso reproduction hanging adjacent to the elevator doors.
He let go of her hand and began to explain the history of the painting, gesticulating for effect. She stuffed her freed hand into her jeans. Leaning in to hear the story of the colorful painting, she knew she was seeing the real Ethan Weatherall-a man born to the world of sophisticated art and fine living. His animated voice brought the artist's work to life and suddenly she realized-I'm actually having fun.
It had been so long since she laughed spontaneously, or for that matter even smiled without forcing her lips.
She watched his face light up as he talked about the guest list for the grand opening, and listened to his deep voice as he told how couples from China and Paris and the Prairies would soon fill the suites.
She smiled at his enthusiasm, happy today it was only the two of them-she wasn't comfortable in crowds.
Their tour ended on the docks. "So that's it," Ethan stated. "Of course, it still needs the finishing touches. The detailers come in and do their thing and then the Nirvana is open for business."
"Best of luck, Ethan," she said as she fumbled with the tie-line's knot and climbed into her boat. Amazingly, she actually meant it.
Do I ask him? He was leaving for the city now and wouldn't be able to come anyway, she remembered.
