by Verna Clay
After giving Mrs. McGovern the information she needed and hanging up, Michael turned the ignition, grinned at the purr of the biturbo engine, and continued north on the boulevard. At another location, before reaching the intersection of Main Street, he pulled to the curb to scan a portion of the public beach full of beach goers. He grinned. Yep, this is the perfect spot for my next resort.
Leo answered his cell phone and tried to sound friendly. He had just disconnected from a call informing him that his wine order had been delayed yet again, and he was fuming. That particular brand was a house favorite and he was down to ten bottles.
"Leo, you okay? You sound angry. This is Doris."
He puffed a breath. "Damn, but you're good. I was trying my best not to sound angry. How did you know?"
She laughed. "It comes from years of having to read people. And speaking of that…" her voice trailed.
"Yes?"
"Well, I just got a call from a guy who wants to buy the Jones place on Ocean Boulevard. And he's going to pay cash…" Her voice trailed again.
"And that's bad because…"
"The fact that he wants to pay cash isn't bad, but the fact that his name is Michael David Wainwright, III, is. I looked him up on the internet and he's–"
Leo finished her sentence. "–the CEO and major stockholder of Wainwright Resorts. Shit! Ah, sorry about the language, Doris."
"Do you think he wants to infiltrate Somewhere and build a resort?"
Leo didn't want to say too much. "Could be."
Doris was silent again and then said, "But we've had developers here before and the council always turns them away. You don't think the new members could be swayed after almost a century of councils upholding the wishes of the citizens of Somewhere."
Although Leo wanted to say, "Bingo," he instead said, "I sure hope not."
Doris sounded concerned. "What should I do? I can't legally keep this guy from buying the property."
"Can you stall him?"
"Maybe for a while, but if he found out it could put my license in jeopardy. Besides, he could just find another agent."
"That's true. It's better to know what he's up to than to wonder. Stall him if you can, but don't lose the sale. I'll see what I can find out and get back to you."
After he disconnected, Leo hung his head. He had a feeling his beloved Somewhere was in trouble. A few minutes later he called Gabby and insisted they talk. When she asked if it had anything to do with their last discussion his hesitation gave him away. She said, "Okay. Do you want to come over to the B & B?"
"I can't right now. I'm in the middle of a wine debacle. Why don't you come to the restaurant for lunch?"
Now Gabby hesitated. Finally, she said, "All right. I'll come over there."
"Perfect."
Gabby sat across from Leo in a darkened corner of his restaurant selected for privacy and listened to his latest news about a possible corporate infringement on their town. When he finished speaking she said, "That's terrible news. Why do you think the owner of the company would want to buy a home here?"
"Maybe to put pressure on council members?"
"Sounds reasonable."
Leo shrugged. "Or maybe he just loves the ocean and wants a vacation home."
Gabby lifted her eyebrows.
His mouth quirked. "One can hope."
She decided to change the subject. "What's your wine debacle?"
He grinned. "Are you actually making conversation with me, Gabby?"
She frowned. "If you're going to be a smart ass, I can leave since you've delivered the bad news."
Leo reached and touched her arm. "I wasn't trying to be a smart ass. I was making a stupid joke. Don't leave." He then delved into the trouble he was having with his wine distributor and his own search for several cases of the merlot he wanted.
Later, after a delicious lunch of fruit salad, maple salmon over a bed of rice, rolls, mango tea, and rum panna cotta for dessert, Gabby glanced at her watch and was shocked to discover she and Leo had been talking for almost two hours. Breaking into his conversation she said, "I didn't realize it was so late. I've got to get back to the B & B. I have new arrivals expected this afternoon."
As she reached for her purse Leo said, "Maybe we can do this again?"
Gabby shifted her gaze to his and felt trapped by his eyes. She'd always thought them beautiful. He reached to touch her hand and said low, "It's still between us, Gabby. You can run, but it won't go away. Have dinner with me tomorrow. We'll go to Brookings to avoid prying eyes."
Gabby's voice cracked. "No. There's nothing between us and I won't have dinner with you."
The sadness in Leo's expressive eyes was almost her undoing and she quickly left the table.
25: Resolve
Faith sat on the edge of her bed staring at the painting of Owen and Rex. It had been two days since her meltdown with Baxter, and because of his kindness, she'd felt something shift within her. Somehow, her sorrow wasn't as debilitating, and she was actually contemplating a future in Somewhere.
She studied Owen's face and whispered, "What a sweet boy you must have been." As for her encounter with a child named Owen upon her arrival, she'd chalked it up to meeting a tourist's child who happened to resemble Owen, have the same name, and a similar dog. And the voice she'd heard twice at Stone House was something subliminal she'd overheard and carried over into her conscious mind, just as Baxter had suggested. The final hurdle though—the strange things Gabby had told her—well, they had to be more coincidences, because the alternative was impossible. She reached for the painting to rewrap it. She would store it under her bed and go on with life. That was her resolve.
After supper Baxter called to her as she headed upstairs to spend the remainder of the evening writing her pirate story.
"Faith!"
She turned and admonished her stomach to stop doing summersaults, but instead, it did back flips at the smile he gave her.
"Come walk with me on the beach."
She bit her bottom lip and then realized he might get the impression that she was trying to find a way to say no. "All right. Give me a minute to change my shoes."
"Great. I'll meet you on the front porch."
Two minutes later she was hurrying back downstairs and outside. Baxter was talking to his mother and when he saw her, his face lit with another smile. She glanced at Gabby to see that she, too, was grinning like a Cheshire cat. Gabby said, "You kids have fun."
As Baxter held Faith's elbow and guided her down the porch steps to the sidewalk, he chuckled. "I think I'll be a perpetual kid to my mother, even when I'm fifty."
Faith replied, "You better get used to it. That's how mothers are." When they reached the crosswalk that would take them to the B & B's private beach, Baxter didn't step onto it. Instead, he bent his knees until he was Faith's height. "How are you doing?"
Faith had the notion he was asking because of her comment about mothers. If she'd said something like that a few days ago, it would have been heartrending, but now it was just a remark. She almost reached to cup his cheek. "I'm doing very well and that's the honest truth."
He reached for her hand. "Good. Now let's play tag with the waves." He playfully pulled her across the street and onto the sand. They paused long enough to remove their flip flops and then jogged to the water, splashing up to their knees. Later they walked to the tree line and Baxter asked if she wanted to follow the trail into the woods, but she declined by saying, "I'm having too much fun on the beach."
He grinned and grabbed her hand. "I am too." They ran back to the shore and he splashed her. She sputtered and called out, "You'll be sorry."
For maybe an hour they cavorted until Faith sat in the sand exhausted and Baxter sat beside her. He smirked, "I'm still waiting to be sorry."
She laughed and met his gaze and was about to make a snarky reply, but his expression held such intensity that she couldn't breathe, and when his gaze dropped to her mouth, she felt like he was touching her. He bent a
nd grazed his lips across her forehead. Speaking softly, he said, "I want to kiss you. May I?"
Tears flooded Faith's eyes.
He moved his mouth to her ear. "I want to kiss your tears away."
Slowly, Faith nodded and closed her eyes. She felt the gentle touch of his lips on hers and marveled at her response. She wanted him to kiss her, hold her, touch her, and she wanted to do the same to him. His mouth moved over hers and she whimpered. He deepened the kiss, but not much. She reached to touch his shoulder and became braver, lifting her arms around his neck. After that the sound of the ocean, laughter of beach goers, cars in the distance, everything faded into nothingness. She and Baxter were the only people on earth.
Gabby stood at the third floor window in her sitting room and watched her son and Faith lying in the sand kissing. A tiny smile lifted the corners of her mouth. Maybe Baxter and Faith could heal each other's sorrow. Maybe someday she would have grandchildren.
She closed her eyes and remembered another kiss that shouldn't have happened, and although it had been decades earlier, in her mind it was as fresh as the day it transpired— and so was her guilt. At that time she had just married a wonderful man that she adored. Was it possible to love two men at the same time? She opened her eyes and a tear trickled. Her luncheon with Leo had been wonderful and she wondered for a moment what her life would have been like had she met Leo before Marcus. Even now, however, she knew she would have made the same decision. Marcus was a man of stability, and since Gabby had been raised by hippies, she needed constancy. And Leo, a young, handsome surfer, was exactly what she didn't need or want.
But what did she want now? Although vestiges of her hippie years remained, she was an upstanding business woman with an orderly life, and well respected in Somewhere. She'd had a wonderful marriage that produced a son she adored. What more could she ask for?
Her wayward mind refused to be silenced. How about a man who adores you and makes your heart race? A man who loves adventure and still surfs. A man devoted to you. A man…
She shut her thoughts down with just one thought: You're too old for this.
26: Commission
Michael said goodbye to Doris McGovern and disconnected his cell phone. He was well aware that she was trying to postpone his purchase of the beach house. Of course, he could contact another realtor to finish his acquisition, but he liked the McGoverns.
No doubt she had researched him on the internet and connected the dots. She may have even made inquiries of someone with inside knowledge of his private meeting with council members. He chuckled because he knew how small town politics worked. Over the years, he'd been through the process many times trying to get approval for his resorts.
He stepped away from his desk and walked to the expansive windows overlooking the Willamette River. He'd known that constructing a resort in Somewhere would involve an abundance of headaches, and that another location along the coast could easily be negotiated, but there was something about Somewhere that touched his heart.
He turned from the windows and scanned his spacious office. His company leased the entire top floor of a mid-rise in the Pearl District of Portland, and although he'd considered buying his own building, one of the reasons he was at the top of the food chain was because of wise investments, calculated spending, and low overhead in comparison to the magnitude of his company.
He had been born with a silver spoon in his mouth, but his father had been foolish with the management of the company inherited after his own father's untimely death. By the time Michael had taken over the reins the business had been well on its way to insolvency. And although his lifestyle had been luxurious growing up, he'd often wondered when his family would become tabloid fodder as he watched his father's business ventures and personal life become irrational.
And then it happened. His father put his family and business forever on the "scandalous" map when he'd met his demise at the age of fifty-two in a car accident with two hookers. The hookers survived and sold their stories to sleazy newspapers, which ended his mother's social status, and she'd committed suicide a year later.
In a nutshell, his home life had been absurdly dysfunctional, which was one of the reasons he'd never married. Now, sixteen years later, after assuming the reins of the family business at the age of twenty-three, his company was successful and he was fabulously rich. He had much to be proud of, but as of late, it seemed to matter less and less.
Making a spur-of-the-moment decision he strode across the room and opened his door. "Leticia, how many appointments do I have this afternoon?"
"Two, sir."
"Can they be cancelled?"
His secretary knew the company as well as he did and replied without looking at his schedule, "They sure can. Are you taking the rest of the day off?"
"I'm thinking about it."
"Well, I say go for it. George can handle any emergencies."
Michael smiled at the sixty-one year old, gray haired secretary that had been with him for fifteen years and sometimes acted like the mother he should have had. "I'm outta here."
"Where are you going?"
"Somewhere."
Michael enjoyed the three hour drive to the coastal town and arrived a little after three. He drove through downtown and turned onto Ocean Boulevard. After passing the public beach he admired the homes, especially his, as he headed toward the marina. He felt excitement over knowing he would soon join the neighborhood. When he reached the marina, he scanned the many vessels, from sailboats to fishing craft, to dinghies, to small yachts, and decided it was a nice enough marina for docking his smallest yacht. He reentered the boulevard and even considered dining at Seafood Heaven, but decided against it. For now it was best to remain incognito.
Returning to Main Street he saw a sign that caught his attention, Art's Art Gallery, and weighed his desire to stay anonymous with his love of the arts. Art won.
He parked down the street from the gallery and walked back, loving the sun and breeze on such a fine day. Before leaving Portland he'd shed his business suit in favor of tacky jeans, an old T-shirt, and his favorite worn-out tennis shoes. He looked like a beach bum.
Michael entered the gallery and a bell tinkled. A clerk stepped from the backroom, perused his appearance, and seemed disinclined to engage him in conversation. With a bored expression the man said, "Welcome to my gallery. I'm Art and I feature mostly local artists. Are you looking for anything in particular?"
Michael was an excellent judge of character and knew he was getting the spiel for unimpressive tourists. He replied with the usual comment, "No. I'm just browsing."
When the proprietor appeared utterly uninterested in even making polite conversation about the weather, Michael inwardly fumed. His resorts were successful because he catered to customers, and, without a doubt, he would fire any employee who treated a customer like Art had just treated him.
The man waved toward his desk at the back of the room. "I'll be at my desk if you have questions."
The only reason Michael didn't leave was because he was interested in local artists. He always displayed their artwork at his resorts. In fact, several artisans had become well known after their pieces were discovered in his world-class accommodations.
He wandered the room perusing the artwork and picking up business cards until he'd accumulated maybe six or seven. He would research the artists online. When he came to an alcove, he was more than impressed by the paintings displayed there. The artist had created wonderful scenes of the past juxtaposed to the present within the same paintings. One scene was that of Main Street with half the street being current day and the other, early 20th century. Some of the paintings were whimsical, others dark and mysterious. He particularly liked the one of Hope Bed & Breakfast with modern day tourists on the porch and sidewalk, contrasted with its beach full of Victorian beachgoers. He stepped out of the alcove and called, "Art, what can you tell me about these paintings signed by Vee?" He heard the man's chair scrape the floor and imagined th
e rude curator being irritated by an interruption.
With a phony smile, Art walked to the alcove. "They were painted by Victoria Patterson who runs the Museum."
"She's very good."
"Yes. But she said she wasn't going to paint anything else for a while because she's trying her hand at sculpting. Maybe it isn't going so well. So far she hasn't brought any sculptures in." He motioned toward the paintings. "I tried to get her to lower the prices on these, but she refused."
Michael fumed again. The impolite man was offering up negative information on the artist and disagreeing publicly with her price point. "Wise woman," he reorted. "Wrap them all up; I want them." He heard the curator gasp and turned to stare at him. Cryptically, he said, "Book. Cover. Think about it."
By the time Michael left the gallery, Art was doing everything but somersaults to ingratiate himself with his latest customer. He even gave him a hundred dollar gift certificate toward his next purchase. Other than his veiled rebuke spoken earlier, Michael was polite and friendly. After all, he would soon become one of the locals.
He loaded the five paintings into the trunk of his car, climbed behind the wheel, and made a U-turn at the first stoplight. He was headed toward the sign he'd seen earlier indicating that HOPE MUSEUM was down a side street. As it turned out, it wasn't far off Main and he pulled into the parking lot on the side of the manor. The Victorian home was lovely and the grounds well manicured. The exterior paint wasn't flaking or the porch sagging. Everything, he noted, was geared toward the era of the home, even the WELCOME and HOURS signs were period appropriate. He entered the front door and was greeted by a woman sitting behind a spinet desk. She appeared to be drawing something, but placed a newspaper over the page. She was dressed in a Victorian gown the same color as her emerald eyes and said cheerily, "Good afternoon and welcome to Hope Museum. We close at five, but if you need more time, I can give you a pass for another day and a tour."
