Boomer's Bucket List
Page 23
“A few of them cried, though,” she said. “Bad form.”
Todd popped an olive into his mouth and grabbed a dish towel.
“They were sad clowns. That doesn’t count.”
“Too bad Gwen couldn’t come,” his mother said. “Another big project at work?”
“Mmm. Something like that.”
“Well, I suppose work comes first,” she said. “You know what they say: ‘The difference between ordinary and extraordinary is that little extra.’ ”
“Right,” Claire said. “And hard work never killed anyone, but why take the chance?”
Fran took out a stack of Tupperware containers and began lining them up on the sideboard.
“Are you sure you want to take Archie?” she asked Todd. “Claire says there’s room for him on the plane.”
“I’m sure,” he said, setting the turkey platter back in the cupboard. “And even if I wasn’t, there’s no room for a dog on one of those little puddle-jumpers.”
“But you and Gwen just got settled. Don’t you think it’d be better not to add another complication?”
Claire was scraping the last of the Jell-O mold into the sink. “Give it a rest, Ma.”
Todd gave his sister a grateful smile. He loved his mother, but it was hard to get her off a subject once she got started.
Fran was indignant. “Why? What did I do?”
“You’re butting in.”
“Who’s butting in? I just think it’s the considerate thing to do, especially if he wants to marry this girl.”
Todd shot Claire a dangerous look. “Who says we’re getting married?”
“Oh, don’t blame your sister,” Fran said. “Anyone could see you’re crazy about Gwen, and why not? A girl like that doesn’t come along every day.”
“I agree,” he said. “But I’d still appreciate it if you’d let me handle this my own way.”
“Well, I suppose you know best,” Fran said, looking doubtful.
“I do,” Todd said, kissing her cheek. “And don’t worry. Gwen’ll be thrilled.”
*
Archie was quiet on the way to the airport. As the car inched its way through traffic, he lay on the backseat, shifting his gaze between the two people in front. Todd watched him in the rearview mirror.
“I think Archie misses Uncle Bertie.”
Claire glanced back over her shoulder.
“What makes you think that?”
“I don’t know. He just looks kind of sad.”
“He’s probably just carsick. Bob says dogs don’t really have feelings like we do.”
Todd held his tongue. Bob was all right as a brother-in-law—he was a good provider and he loved Claire and the boys—but he had a habit of stating his opinions as facts, and God help you if you disagreed with him. If his sister wanted to believe that Archie had forgotten Uncle Bertie, that was fine, but Todd knew a sad face when he saw one.
Claire opened her purse and started rifling its contents.
“So, why didn’t you call Gwen?”
“I didn’t want to bother her at work,” he said.
“There’s still time to change your mind, you know.”
He shook his head. “No, thanks.”
As he waited for the cars around them to start moving again, Todd’s mind began to wander. In a little over forty-eight hours, he’d be asking Gwen to marry him. If she said yes, he thought, he’d be the happiest man on earth. If she turned him down …
“I see you’ve bought your girl a ring.”
He jumped. It was like his sister had been reading his mind.
“How’d you guess?”
“You’ve had your hand in your pocket all day, Todd. I just hoped it was a ring you were holding.” She held out her hand. “Can I have a look?”
He took the velvet box from his pants pocket and passed it over. Claire snapped the lid open and gasped.
“Holy moly! Where’d you get this, Buckingham Palace?”
She took the ring out and watched it catch the light.
“Gwen saw it in a jeweler’s window a couple of months ago,” Todd said. “I’m going to pop the question this weekend.”
He stuck out his hand. “Now, give it back.”
Claire kept the ring just out of reach.
“Not so fast. I haven’t had a good look yet.”
Todd’s embarrassment turned to pride as he watched his sister’s reaction.
“You like it?”
“Of course I like it,” she said. “But, Todd, it must have cost a fortune.”
He shrugged. “Not quite.”
She put the ring back in its box and handed it over.
“Are you sure about this?”
“Why, you think she’s too good for me?”
“No, I think you’re too good for her.” Claire tapped her forehead. “You’ve got a brain. All she does is gossip about people she doesn’t know and prattle on about the stuff she owns or wants to buy.”
Todd felt his lips tighten. “How can you say that? You’ve only met her once.”
“Once was enough. I don’t know what you see in her, but I certainly know what she sees in you.”
Todd pretended he hadn’t heard. If Claire thought that Gwen cared only about his money, there was nothing he could do to change her mind.
“Sorry,” she said. “I know it’s none of my business. I just don’t understand the attraction. There was a time when you would have seen right through a girl like that.”
There it was, Todd thought. The unspoken accusation that he suspected Claire had been holding against him for years. When was she going to let it go?
“This is about Emma, isn’t it?”
She crossed her arms and looked away. “Not necessarily.”
“When are you going to get it through that thick noggin of yours?” He reached over and tapped her temple playfully. “That girl doesn’t exist anymore.”
Claire’s eyes flashed. “How would you know?”
Todd felt a stab of guilt. Things had happened back then that his sister wasn’t privy to, but if she was going to blame him for something he didn’t do, he figured she should at least know the truth.
“Maybe I should have written to her,” he said, “but when Dad died, things changed. I had to get a job. Then there was the house to take care of, and you and Ma. I don’t remember hearing any complaints about that.”
Todd swallowed the lump in his throat. Looking back, it felt as if losing his father had cut his life in two. He understood why it had happened, knew he hadn’t been the only one forced to adjust to a new reality, but he resented it when Claire accused him of being heartless.
Claire’s voice softened. “I know that, deartháir.”
“And don’t go all Irish on me,” he snapped. “Emma’s home life was a mess; things were never going to work out between us. Ma said it’d be better if I didn’t write to her, so I didn’t. End of story.”
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t know.”
“It was a long time ago,” he said, gripping the steering wheel tighter. “I’ve got a good life now. The last thing I need is to be pining for Emma Carlisle.”
He heard the scream of jet engines; Archie dove for cover as the 747 passed overhead. Todd reached around the seat and patted the little dog’s head.
“It’s okay, boy,” he said, grateful to be changing the subject. “That’s just how civilized people fly: with reclining seats and restrooms and tiny bottles of booze.”
Claire craned her neck, taking note of the bumper-to-bumper traffic that jammed the Interstate in all directions.
“Oh, yeah. This place is real civilized.” She took out her ticket. “Terminal D, smart guy.”
They pulled up to the curb and Todd grabbed his sister’s luggage. As he closed the hatchback, a cold blast of air nearly knocked him over. He set her bag down on the sidewalk.
“You want help with this?”
“I’ll be fine.” Claire’s hair was buffeting he
r face. “But you’d better roll up that window. Feels like a storm’s moving in.”
Todd glanced back at his car. Sure enough, one of the back windows was open.
“Thanks for telling me,” he said. “I didn’t realize I’d left that down.”
They hugged briefly.
“Call me when you get home,” he told her.
Claire grabbed her bag and smiled. “Call me when Gwen says no to the dog.”
“She won’t,” he said. “But thanks.”
“I’ll talk to you later,” she said. “And, Todd? Good luck.”
Todd waited until Claire had disappeared into the crowd before getting back into the car. Archie was sitting up in back, an expectant look on his face.
“How you doing back there?”
The little dog tipped his head and whimpered.
“Must have been cold back there with the window down. You want to move up here?” He patted the passenger’s seat. “Be my guest.”
As Archie settled down on the seat beside him, Todd started the car. Claire was wrong, he thought. Gwen was going to love Uncle Bertie’s dog just as much as he did.
CHAPTER 2
Emma Carlisle was not having a good day. In fact, at that very moment she couldn’t remember the last time she’d actually had a good one. When she inherited the Spirit Inn from her grandmother, she’d thought her life was finally turning around, that all the lousy relationships, rotten jobs, and just plain bad luck in her life had been payment in advance for her once-ina-lifetime windfall. Instead, it seemed as if karma was once again having a big ole laugh at her expense. You thought you were out of the woods? she heard it snickering. Ha-ha! Fooled you again.
This latest bout of karmic deserts was being served up by Harold Grader, her up-until-now friendly local banker, who’d apparently decided that loaning her more money to maintain and upgrade her hotel would be throwing good money after bad.
“I’m sorry, Emma,” he said, looking anything but. “The committee just isn’t going to approve another loan when you’re only making the minimum payments on the one you have.”
“I understand,” Emma said, “and I know it doesn’t look good, but business has really been picking up.”
“Yes, I can see that,” he said, prodding the financial statements on his desk with the tip of his finger. “But your overhead has also increased. If anything, it looks as if you’re making less on a per-guest basis than you were before.”
Emma closed her eyes in silent acknowledgment. It didn’t make sense to her, either, but she’d been over the figures a dozen times and every time it came out the same. It was as if her profits were vanishing into thin air.
Maybe I’m just incompetent.
No doubt that’s what her banker was thinking. Emma had worked at her grandmother’s inn every summer since she was six and could do any job on the property, yet when people heard that it had been gifted to her, they just assumed she was a neophyte, a manager in name only who left the real work to her older, more experienced staff.
It didn’t help, of course, that Emma didn’t look like the kind of businesswoman a bank was used to dealing with. She was a little below average height; her figure was more boyish than buxom; and she considered makeup to be a waste of both time and money. She liked the convenience of shorter hair, but had grown hers out after being mistaken once too often for a preteen boy. At work, she wore a suit and the highest heels she could walk in without breaking an ankle, but her days off were spent in T-shirts and jeans.
Grader was fiddling with his pen. “What does Mr. Fairholm think of your proposed changes?”
Emma tried not to resent the question. Clifton Fairholm had been her grandmother’s assistant manager since the Spirit Inn opened, and Gran’s will had stipulated that he be allowed to keep his job when ownership of the hotel changed hands. He was as stumped by the inn’s problems as she was, but his fondest memories were of the hotel in its heyday, and convincing him to modernize the place was like forcing a fish to fly.
“I’d say he’s on board with most of them,” she said.
“Most, but not all?”
Emma chewed her lip. She’d only said “most” because she wanted her answer to sound plausible. The truth was, Clifton Fairholm didn’t think much of any of the changes she was proposing. But then, she thought, her assistant manager probably wouldn’t agree to add indoor plumbing if there’d been a choice.
“Well, you know Clifton.” She chuckled. “Always a stickler for historical accuracy. Anything new puts his knickers in a twist.”
Grader pursed his lips. “So, he’s had some objections?”
“A few. Yeah.”
She squirmed. Don’t ask, don’t ask, don’t ask.
“May I ask which ones?”
Emma sighed. If she hadn’t been so desperate, she’d have gathered up her financial statements, told Grader what he and his committee could do with their money, and walked out. As it was, however, she didn’t think she could stay in business much longer without it. If she didn’t turn things around soon, she’d be forced to sell the Spirit Inn to pay her creditors. It’d be like losing Gran all over again.
“What about the coffee bar?” Grader prompted.
She realized that she’d dug her fingernails into the arms of the chair and released her grip. Relax, Emma told herself. There were good reasons behind every penny she was asking for. Grader was only doing his job. This wasn’t personal; it was just business.
“He thinks it’s unnecessary,” she said. “He says we already serve coffee in the restaurant.”
Grader considered that. “Does he have a point?”
“Yes, but people like coffee bars. Having to go into the restaurant, wait for a table, and then sit down to order is a hassle when all you want is a latte while you read a book.”
The banker’s face was impassive. “Anything else?”
She took a deep breath. “The automated key cards. Clifton thinks they’ll ‘diminish the historic ambience’ of the inn,” she said, making air quotes with her still-stiff fingers.
“Won’t they?”
Emma frowned. She’d have thought that improving the hotel’s security was a no-brainer. Was Grader just trying to be difficult?
“Did they have key cards in the nineteenth century?” she said. “No, but people want to know their stuff is safe when they leave their rooms. Plus, guests steal our keys all the time.”
Grader seemed taken aback. “Surely not.”
“Okay, maybe steal isn’t the right word. Let’s just say that a significant percentage of our guests leave without returning their keys, which means that before I can rent the room again I have to get a locksmith to come out, replace the lock, and make new keys for everyone on staff.”
“You could charge the guest for that.”
“I could,” she said, feeling her temper rise. “But I’d have to spend a lot of time on the phone listening to them complain about it, and in the end we’d probably lose the chance to have them back. Believe me, the costs are significant.”
“More than an automated system?”
Emma was losing patience. She’d gone in there with a simple business proposal. Why the inquisition?
“Obviously not,” she said, “but there are some things that our guests want and need that can’t be amortized.”
She saw heads turning her way and shrank back.
“Sorry.”
“That’s all right,” he said. “I know you feel strongly about this, but a well-run hotel shouldn’t have to borrow to cover its overhead, and there’s no guarantee that any of the changes you’re proposing will improve your financial position. Unless and until the Spirit Inn can show a profit, I don’t see how we can give you another infusion of cash. It’s just too much of a risk.”
Emma looked down, refusing to concede defeat. So what if Grader turned her down? There were other banks out there. She didn’t care how long it took; she would not take no for an answer. The Spirit Inn meant too much
to her to give up now.
She started gathering the papers from the loan officer’s desk.
“Thank you for your time,” she said, placing them back in the Pee-Chee folder that served as her briefcase. “I guess I’ll just have to find the money somewhere else.”
Grader shifted in his seat and stared at the pen he was twirling in his fingers.
“Look, maybe I could run your request by the committee again.”
Emma’s heart leaped; she could have kissed him. Instead, she gave a dignified nod.
“Thank you. I appreciate it,” she said, handing him the Pee-Chee folder.
“Don’t thank me yet,” he said. “To be honest, I doubt it’ll make any difference.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Emma said. “Just the fact that you’re willing to ask means a lot.”
Grader waved away the compliment and set the folder aside.
“I admire your spirit,” he said. “But I think you’re making a mistake. You’re a young woman. Why hang on to a white elephant like that? You could sell it, take the money, and see the world. If she were still alive, I think your grandmother would agree.”
“I know that,” Emma said. “But I don’t want to see any more of the world than I’ve got right here. I know that sounds crazy, but it’s true.”
“All right.” Grader sighed and shook his head. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
He walked her to the door and they shook hands.
“I’ll submit your request tonight and call you when the loan committee makes its decision.”
As the door closed behind her, Emma almost wilted with relief. Maybe things hadn’t gone as well as she’d hoped, but at least he hadn’t said no. Harold Grader was probably just making sure that she knew what she was doing. Why else would he have asked her all those questions? He was a banker, after all. Bankers were supposed to be careful with their money. If he didn’t think the committee would approve her loan, he wouldn’t have agreed to run it by them.
The more she thought about it, the surer Emma was that her loan would be approved. She could pay off her bills, give herself some breathing room, and start moving the Spirit Inn squarely into the twenty-first century. And after that, she thought as she got back into her truck, there’d be no stopping her.