It Started At Christmas…. Jo McNally
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memory of him and his sister laughing over that name.
“And yet you think Michaela should raise Tiffany’s kid. What sense does that make?”
Nathan had a point. Blake had qualms about Michaela raising her own children. As if Blake was some kind of expert.
“He shouldn’t be at Beakman Academy by himself, a week ahead of the other kids.”
“The upperclassmen are there this week,” Nathan sighed. “The headmaster said he’d be fine.”
Blake slowed to pass a farm tractor driving up the road. Was that thing even legal? He stepped on the gas after he passed it, going too fast for being this close to the village. Sheriff Adams must have been busy somewhere else because Blake didn’t see any flashing lights. Benefits of a one-cop town.
“So Zach’s at school with a bunch of kids four grades ahead of him? That’s perfect, genius. What could possibly go wrong?”
“Jesus, Blake, I’m not an idiot. He’s not in the dorm—he’s staying with the headmaster and his family for the week. Feel free to drive over and get him if you don’t like it.”
Blake chewed his lip. Zach was ten years old. He’d lost his mother less than a year ago. Blake had a feeling everything was a big deal to the poor kid. But still…being at school gave him more structure than he’d have with Blake, or even Nathan and Butt Stick.
“Can you guys at least take him for the holiday break?” Tiffany had died at Christmas. Zach deserved a much happier holiday this year.
“No way. We’re taking the girls on a cruise for Christmas, and Michaela already said—”
“Yeah, yeah. I can imagine what Michaela said.” Blake let off the gas pedal and hung up on his brother. He reached for his coffee and bit out a curse when some spilled on his pants. What a perfect freakin’ day. He saw a flash of pink when he looked up and swore again. A petite blonde stepped off the sidewalk, directly into his path.
Blake swerved. The engine on the big vehicle roared. He’d drifted pretty damned close to the curb, scaring the daylights out of himself and no doubt her. After he passed, he glanced in the rearview mirror and winced. He’d hit a puddle and sent a tidal wave of water over her. She was stomping her feet and gesturing to the taller woman behind her, pushing long, wet hair out of her face.
A nice person would have stopped and apologized. But Blake had learned the hard way that being nice in Gallant Lake got him nowhere. He was not popular, and he’d only attract an angry mob if anyone saw him stopped in the middle of town. He felt bad about ruining the woman’s afternoon, though. Driving away without stopping made him feel uncomfortably similar to the ogre some of the locals painted him as. He didn’t like it.
Speaking of angry mobs, there were five or six picketers just setting up at the entrance to his resort. The small Gallant Lake Preservation Society liked to show up with their handwritten signs, especially if they knew Blake was in town. They loved telling him, loudly and often, that they “weren’t giving up the fight” when it came to his plans for the casino. They didn’t seem to realize the town had given up on itself years before. That had nothing to do with him. Their signs proclaimed the same old mantra.
Save Gallant Lake!
No Casino!
Leave Our Lake Alone!
They were usually well behaved and didn’t interfere with resort traffic. But guests would be asking questions. He saw a scruffy pair of guys at the edge of the group. They didn’t fit in with the generally older protesters, but it wasn’t the first time he’d seen them hanging around. The two always looked ready to take up torches and pitchforks rather than neatly lettered signs. Their anger simmered a little closer to the surface, like it was personal, but Blake had no idea who they were.
The group recognized his vehicle and pressed closer to the entrance, forcing him to slow down to avoid hitting them. He could call the sheriff, but that wouldn’t do any good. The protestors always stayed back off his property lines when the guy they affectionately called “Sheriff Dan” was around. Blake had a sneaking suspicion the sheriff supported the locals more than him when it came down to it.
Once past the entrance, he parked in the employee lot and came in the side door. The old place had character, along with a stellar view. The previous owners had maintained the resort well, even if the interior needed updating everywhere. Those updates would be pointless now since it was slated for demolition as soon as the state senate gave its blessing to the casino plans. He was only a few votes away.
When he’d made the purchase originally, sight unseen, he’d assumed the resort was one of those tired old Catskills resorts whose glory days ended with the Dirty Dancing era. It was a pleasant surprise to see the place actually making a little money with a modest marketing campaign, which took some of the sting out of waiting for those last few votes.
It was smaller than his other hotels, but he ran it with the same attention to detail. He was known for his No Surprises approach to business, and the employees here had been quick to catch on—they took care of little problems before they became big ones.
He saw the muddy footprints as soon as he entered the lobby on his way to the front desk. What the hell? The sun was shining outside, but this looked like someone had walked through here after swimming in a ditch somewhere. He caught a glimpse of pink ahead, stepping inside the elevator. Well, he’d be damned. The blonde he’d almost mowed down in town was a guest at the resort.
It seemed she’d rewarded his behavior with a trail of mud across the lobby carpet, almost as if she knew it was his place. Blake couldn’t help the smile that tugged at his mouth. It served him right for not stopping to apologize.
Amanda paused by the lobby windows to settle her nerves. The resort’s lawn swept down to the lakeshore. A morning mist rose from the water still in the shadows of the mountain. Resting the palm of her hand against her stomach, she focused her energy on pulling air in and letting it out. In with the good air, out with the bad. She’d hardly slept all night, and her nerves were jangling so much she could practically hear them rattling in her head.
She held a cup of coffee in her other hand—one last boost of caffeinated courage. Counterintuitive to her attempt to calm down? Maybe. But she needed to be sharp. It was almost time for her to meet Blake Randall and inform him that he’d been corresponding with someone other than her ex-boss. That he’d sent blueprints for his historic mansion to her, not David Franklin. His request for proposals asked for suggestions on how to put the building to use, preferably as a commercial space, with no indication where it was actually located or what the exterior looked like. It was all very mysterious. When she “accidentally” intercepted the RFP and intentionally responded, she’d provided plans for residential use instead. She loved period architecture and felt the home should be used for its original purpose.
Randall had liked her plans enough to request a meeting to discuss them. Her shoulders straightened. They were her ideas, and they were good ones. What did it matter who they came from? She tried to dismiss the panic fluttering in her chest. She could do this. She had to do this. This job was the key to her being able to start her own design firm. One where she didn’t have to rely on lying, cheating bosses who preyed on their employees.
Her summer had been almost laughable in its horridness. The panic attacks were happening more frequently. Nightmares left her afraid to go to sleep. She jumped at every little thing. No wonder her nerves were on a razor’s edge. She felt like a canvas left out in the sun too long—stretched and dry and brittle.
She turned away from the windows and nearly collided with a guy in a Gallant Lake T-shirt and shorts. The twentysomething came out of nowhere, arguing loudly on the phone with someone about a canceled flight and a job he needed to get back to. Even though he’d nearly knocked her