Up to Me (Shore Secrets) (14 page)

“True.” She gathered up her tools and put them back in the tote bag. “But giving up forty-nine percent ownership is worth it if it means the hotel flourishes again. And ultimately, even though the decision affects so many people, the decision is all up to me.”

“Why don’t you table that idea as a last resort? Cause I’ve got another one.”

Graydon Locke, brainstormer extraordinaire. “Just like that?”

“It’s been bugging me for a couple of days. The Memorial Day party you throw for the town—”

She cut him off with a pointed finger/steely glare combination. “I won’t cancel it. It means just as much to me as it does to the town. We have a symbiotic relationship.”

“Got that message loud and clear the first time we discussed it. Don’t get all pissy. I’m not suggesting you should. I found a work-around.” Gray rested his forearms on his thighs. “Why don’t you move it? From a business standpoint, it is insane to give up the guaranteed profit of a holiday. If you sold out for the entire three-day weekend, it’d give you a good bump to kick off the season.”

Ella didn’t hate the idea of a compromise. But she wasn’t sure others would have the same lack of reaction. The last thing she needed was to rile up her friends and neighbors. “Move it where?”

“When, is the question. You could still hold it at the Manor.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the hotel. “Just move it off your profit-center weekend. Turn it into something fun and themed, like moving it to National Hamburger Day. That’s the first week in June.”

“National Hamburger Day?” It tickled her that he knew. Ella happened to have National Donut Day—June 28—inked into her calendar.

A shrug full of nonchalance. God, it was sexy. “I looked it up. I wanted to be able to give you a viable option.”

“Tell me, how did you come up with this idea?”

“I had a mentor who drummed into me the theory that a filled room, even at a bargain price, is worth more than an empty one.” His thick, dark eyebrows slashed upwards. “You could even offer a discount if they return before Labor Day.”

Ella had to admit it was brilliant. Pack ’em in, then pack ’em in again. “Your mentor—was he the Obi-Wan of the hotel industry?”

“Basically. I started out working in a hotel. Then I got a better offer.” He pushed on his knees to stand up. Then Gray walked a few steps away, without a word, to peer down at another headstone. Or at least pretend to. Ella knew the grave. Knew it wasn’t historic or intricately carved or even held an interesting epitaph. Just an ordinary couple that died a few years ago. No, she suspected Gray walked away to signal an end to the sudden sharing of his history. She even wondered if he might label it oversharing.

The two of them had covered an amazing amount of ground in four days. But the connection they’d forged had a big, gaping hole at the center of it. Gray knew all about Ella. Her past, her family, her hopes and dreams. What did she know about Gray? None of the above. She knew he was a great kisser. A respectful listener. Caring and thoughtful. Funny. Sexy. Good with her friends, which was huge. And with an almost hyper-allergic aversion to small towns.

What she didn’t know was the usual first date minutiae they’d skipped. Where he was from, what he did for a living, what his major was in college. At first, Ella thought it cute they were avoiding those clichéd topics. Now she was starting to question if he’d embraced skipping them for a reason. What didn’t he want to share with her? Just what was Gray hiding?

The silence between them was growing weird, so Ella put her burning questions aside to concentrate on the hotel. But if they did have an official, by-the-books first date soon, he wouldn’t be able to escape her interrogation. She stood and bridged the few steps between them.

“Moving the party would work, in theory. I just don’t want to upset anyone by breaking with tradition. You should’ve heard the ruckus the year we finally got rid of carrot-and-raisin salad and replaced it with coleslaw. They look forward to it all year, like a touchstone. Some people have attended for literally decades. I feel such a responsibility to the town.”

Finally, he turned back to face her. “Sounds more like a burden than a responsibility.”

Ella looked around in an exaggerated fashion, from the butterfly landing on the sad spectacle of a teddy bear on a nearby grave to the flagpole spearing from the middle of the veterans’ circle to the drive winding a circuitous route throughout the cemetery. She lowered her voice to a whisper, and stood on tiptoe till her mouth was at his ear. “Some days, it is. A little.” It felt good to admit it out loud to Gray. He wouldn’t judge her for speaking the thought her parents would’ve branded as ungrateful and downright mutinous. He was the first person she’d been able to talk this candidly with about the Manor. With a rueful laugh, she stepped flat and brought her volume back to normal. “Not many days, though. The people of Seneca Lake are wonderful.”

“Then you lucked out. The ones in my hometown, not so much.”

She wanted to keep it light. Not run the risk of scaring him into silence a second time in as many minutes. But the words popped out anyway. “That can’t be true.”

He jammed his hands deep into his pockets. Began to pace, two graves down and back. “Want to know how I got all wise about blame and guilt and burdens? Because I lived it. Still would be, if I went back home. Doubt they’d even let me back across the city limits, though.”

Ella saw through the cold flippancy to the deep-seated hurt beneath. She ached for him, without even knowing the reason why. “When did you leave?”

“The day I graduated from high school. The town practically threw a parade and stuck me on a float to get me out of there.” Again, it was as if his subconscious reminded him not to go too far, say too much. He stopped pacing. Breathed in, and that breath brought a smile back to his face. “This isn’t the time for my sordid tale. We’re concentrating on you now. Fixing your problem. So move the party, Ella. What have you got to lose?”

“If I do it? How about the respect of everyone I know? People may say I caved to chase the almighty dollar. That I spat in the face of tradition.”

“It’ll be a blip. Forgotten as soon as the city planner screws someone else’s wife. And believe me, that scandal
will
break. Adultery is like a can of Pringles. Once you start, you can’t stop. So use that titanium backbone I know you’ve got. You can weather a couple of days of nasty looks.” Gray pocketed her hands between his. Warmth seeped into her, as if he were lending her some of his own strength to take this leap. “I repeat, what’ve you got to lose?”

“If I don’t do it?” Ella closed her eyes, but wishing away the truth hadn’t worked for three years straight. No reason to expect it would suddenly work today. She forced herself to confront the worst-case scenario that grew more likely every day she continued to do nothing. “I could very well end up losing the hotel, sooner or later. Probably sooner.”

In other words, she’d lose
everything
. Everything she’d never wanted in the first place, that is. Funny, once the first horrible wash of grief subsided, one of Ella’s biggest realizations about her new reality was that her parents were getting the last laugh. Despite her years of protestations to the contrary, she’d ended up in charge of the hotel. Parental control being wielded from the grave—how was she supposed to fight that?

Gray’s hands tightened around hers almost to the point of pain. Then, with a swift motion, he folded her into an embrace. “Since you’re not a quitter, I’ll take that as an affirmative to moving the party and taking bookings for the entire holiday.”

Strength and certainty flooded through her. Her decision not to run the hotel all those years ago had been the right one for her. And here and now, Ella decided—for herself and by herself—that just because she didn’t want to run the hotel didn’t mean she wanted to lose it. “You know what? It is. In fact, I’m going to fight tooth and nail to maintain my family legacy. If that means disappointing the town with a party three days too late, so be it.” Doing this wouldn’t solve all her financial woes. But it would be a start. Something to build on, with the dangling carrot of returning guests in the fall. Happy guests this early in the season also raved to friends, creating more reservations throughout the year. It was the first solid step towards turning things around she’d come up with...all thanks to Gray.

“It’s the brave and smart move, Ella.”

“We’ll see.” Brave? Sure. Smart? Only time would tell. But at least she’d have no regrets.

“I’ll even volunteer to help you word the change for the invitation. Breakfast tomorrow?”

“It’s a date...or not,” she said in an echo of his words the day before.

Chapter Eight

Windows down, sunroof of the SUV open—he’d learned long ago that flirting with the rental car agent always netted him a sweet upgrade—Gray decided there was much about his current assignment that did not suck. The warm sun and cool air combination made both running and driving a pleasure. Even to an avowed city guy, the views were breathtaking. Clumps of purple flowers dotted the roadside. Blooming trees spread a carpet of petals out in front of his car, like he was a prince from ancient Rome. Row upon row of grapevines lined the slope down to the water’s edge. On the other side of the road, more vines, plus occasional clumps of cows or the wide expanse of horse pastures.

The only thing not perfect about the morning was the pulsation of his phone against his hip. Anything that forced him to turn down U2 fell into the buzzkill category. He raised the windows and activated his Bluetooth.

“Graydon, do you have your calendar handy?”

His boss was never one to waste time on pleasantries. “Not so much, Martin. I’m driving down Lake Road. Headed to have one of my ostensibly casual chats with a local entrepreneur.”

“That can wait. I need to bend your ear for five minutes.”

As if he had a choice. When Gray worked on a project, he was his own boss. But when it came to the minutiae of office politics and red tape, his boss yanked his strings every damn time. It was disrespectful and disheartening. Yet another reason—a big one, in fact—he’d come to believe this job was no longer the right fit for him. Not that Gray had any alternative in mind. Certainly not one that paid so well and afforded him such a level of financial security.

“My time is literally your money, Martin.” Gray hoped he’d infused the words with enough kiss-ass attitude to hide his actual pissiness. Something that was exponentially harder with every day that passed.

“Damn straight. Now, whatever’s on your calendar for May 15, cancel it. I want you to come to the semi-annual board meeting.”

Gray swerved over onto the dirt shoulder and parked. This conversation had just jacked itself up from tedious to full of worthwhile potential. The May board meeting was a thing of legend. Held at the swanky Nemacolin Resort in Pennsylvania, it was no typical couple of hours around a table with slideshow presentations. Instead, it was two days of networking, golf and gourmet meals. A select group of VIP guests always came—movers and shakers who could bring big new business to the company. Invites to the board meeting were rare. A status symbol you’d made it to the next level in R&M.

He tried to play it cool. Looked out at the big blue lake for fitting motivation. Because thanks to Ella—his own personal tourist board—Gray happened to know that it maintained an almost constant thirty-nine-degree temperature. Her nonstop trivia about Seneca Lake was an earworm. Unwanted, but impossible to get out of his head. “Really? Why?”

“I want you to tell them in person the good news about the deal up there in the Finger Lakes.”

Shit. Martin was anything but subtle. This invite reeked of manipulation. “Slight problem with that plan. I haven’t decided yet what to recommend. We may end up leaving Mayhew Manor untouched. They’ll never even know we were looking to take it over. Bottom line is, there may not be any deal.”

“Yes, there will be,” he snapped. “I usually let you follow your nose on these things, Graydon. But this time, I’m telling you that for a lot of reasons, we need a new project. Now. More than a few board members have been grumbling about our projections for this quarter.”

“That we’re not hitting them?”

“No. That the damn projections were too low in the first place. They don’t know we might not even hit them. So we need the project you’re about to secure for us. We can worry about how to make it work
after
the meeting. Am I making myself clear enough for you?”

“Yeah.” This would be only the third time in all his years with the company that Gray was coerced into producing a report that leaned a specific way. He’d heard the guy before him was fired for not toeing the corporate line, so Gray had kept his mouth shut as he carried out his boss’s direct order. Doing it the first two times left him ethically itchy for months. He had a feeling this time the personal fallout would be much worse.

“And if you do manage to deliver it by the board meeting, there’ll be a bonus in it for you. Maybe more than just a hefty check.”

Gray had been expected to obey the previous orders. No discussion, no thank-yous. If Martin was willing to pseudo-bribe him this time, the Mayhew Manor property was even more critical than he knew. Not that he wanted anything resembling a bribe. What he wanted was to be left alone to do his job. The right way. He tugged on the collar of his blue and black rugby shirt. “What are you saying?”

“That I’m sweetening the pot. The role as a partner you’ve been hinting at for the past year could be in the works. If you bring in the deal.”

Shit. Obeying an order was one thing. Especially because the previous times happened when Gray was still wet behind the ears with the firm. But accepting what amounted to a bribe? It was Gray’s own personal line in the sand. One he would not cross.

He’d decide what to do about Mayhew Manor the same way as always. Compile data, assess the potential. Period. Maybe Gray would still decide to recommend it for takeover, or maybe he wouldn’t. Either way, he wouldn’t take the partnership if they offered it to him at the meeting. No, he’d wait for a real offer. One with no fucking strings attached.

Not smart to do anything this instant but pretend to comply. If he blew the whistle, Martin would just send someone else out here to finish the research. That wouldn’t be fair to Ella. Shit.
It wouldn’t be fair to the hotel or the town
, he corrected himself, hands clenching around the leather-covered steering wheel. On the other hand, maybe this would help get rid of the giant millstone around Ella’s neck. Sure, family legacy, blah blah blah. But she swore she didn’t want to run the Manor. Hated making the limited decisions she was still stuck with for it. What if this was the shot at freedom she needed.

Gray cleared his throat. “Don’t worry, Martin. I’ve got this.” There. Purposely vague. No promise one way or the other. Although hopefully Martin would read a whole bunch of promise into his response. No matter what he ended up doing, Gray wouldn’t be going back on his word.

“Then I’ll see you on the fifteenth—and I’ll have the travel department make arrangements for you to join us in Pennsylvania.”

Oh, Gray would be there. The still-tender cut above his eye should be proof enough that he didn’t run from a fight. Fair or otherwise.

* * *

“Well, what do you think of the place?” asked Ward.

Gray turned in a circle. The only thing that kept him from dropping his jaw in awe was the knowledge that Ward would undoubtedly laugh at him. They stood in the distillery’s tasting room. It reminded him of the setup most wineries had; wide, planked floors, shelves filled with local books and crafts. Display tables stacked with a pile of miniature whiskey barrels, coasters and logo-etched glass snifters. Not to mention two entire walls covered with neatly labeled bottles. A long tasting bar sat in front of a wall of windows. And that’s what knocked it out of the park for Gray.

The windows didn’t look out over the spectacular view of bright green vineyards and trees on a downslope straight to the lake. No, the windows at Lakeside Distillery looked down into the room where the magic happened. Running the length of the building were racks upon racks filled with metal-banded barrels. Huge, stainless steel vats filled with some sort of wet grain stood in the middle of the floor. And in the corner, a brass kettle connected to something that looked like a twenty-foot-tall saxophone.

Gray spun in a circle back to face Ward. “This is one sweet operation. I’m blown away. Seriously, man, you built this from the ground up?”

“Every bit.” He shoved up the sleeves of his red Henley. “This was all farmland until a few years ago. I’m no farmer. I don’t give a shit about soy yields, and cows stink up the place too much. But some nice vines I can turn into the best whiskey, gin and vodka on the East Coast? That’s what I always dreamed of doing to this plot of land.”

Gray envied the sureness in his tone. Have a dream, make it happen. Gray’s dream right now was to
get
a dream of what he wanted his life to be. “How long did it take?”

“A year of nonstop work before I could open the tasting room. I’m a one-man operation. Mostly. I’ve got a friend who helps with the finances. Some volunteers who pull shifts pouring for the visitors.”

“And me—willing, cheap labor.”

“That’s right.” His mouth quirked into a smirk. “Whenever I can con some idiot into helping with the bottling and labeling, I do.”

A tall man, as Black Irish as they came with about fifteen years on Gray, bent his head to step through the doorway. He balanced an elaborate wicker picnic hamper on his hip. “Is it really a con? Because I thought I was getting bribed. Or at least bartered. Didn’t you say you’d plow out my driveway next winter if I put in the sweat equity of bottling your homespun hooch?”

Ward scratched the back of his neck. “You remember that, huh? I thought at that point in the poker game you were too drunk to retain whatever promises I made.”

“I wouldn’t forget. Not if I did ten straight shots of Jäger. Or a whole bottle of whatever you’re pouring for us today. Plowing sucks ass. Shoveling’s even worse. Too damn cold.” He set down the hamper and held out a hand to Gray. “Joel McMurray. I’m the guy who won’t be freezing his nuts off when the first blizzard of the season hits.”

“Gray Locke.” They shook. “And I’ve got nothing as memorable as fully thawed nuts going for me.”

“Not true.” Ward jerked his chin at Gray. “This guy’s the one who had my back when Chuck and his crew jumped me the other night.”

Joel clapped him on the shoulder. “You came out of the shadows to fight evil. I’d call that memorable. For Christ’s sake, you’re Batman.”

“It would be if it were true. I don’t have Batman’s billions. Or, even better than his money, his utility belt.” Because what red-blooded American didn’t want electric batarangs, freeze grenades, a bat beacon and goo globules hanging from his hips?

“Yeah. That would be great.” Joel sighed, and it was echoed by the other two men. Great. Now Gray was thinking about Batman. Which really meant his thoughts went straight to Catwoman. And how hot Ella would look dressed up for Halloween in a leather suit with a tail.

Ward looked at his watch. “Tourists are going to start showing up any minute.”

“Better hide. They find out you’re the mastermind behind all this, you’ll get pestered with a million questions. Happened to me this morning.” Joel scrubbed his hand across his face. “Stupid shit, like whether our eggs are organic or not. Why people dip Monte Cristo sandwiches into strawberry preserves. What am I supposed to tell them? That it’s actually called a
croque-monsieur
and American chefs have to dumb down French cuisine?”

“Shit.” Ward opened a door to a narrow staircase and jerked his head to indicate they should follow. “Every once in a while Joel goes on a rant, to remind us all that he graduated from the Culinary Institute of America. Just means he’s stuck wearing an idiotic, too-tall white hat to work. While I get to wear jeans and a Knicks cap.”

Joel hefted the hamper. “It’s called a toque. The one hundred folds represent all the different ways I know how to cook an egg.”

Funny. The guy looked more the type to take a chainsaw to a tree than a filet knife to a sea bass.

“Right.” Ward aimed the sneer over his shoulder. “Like method number eighty-seven is all that different from method fifty-nine. Either way I’m washing it down with coffee and toast, so what does it matter?”

The open weave metalwork of the steps creaked a little beneath Gray’s sneakers as he brought up the rear. “So, you’re a cook?”

Laughter rolled out of Ward. “Nice one. A cook, huh? Joel threatened to kneecap me the last time I called him a cook.”

“Threat. Promise. Whatever. It worked. But, Gray, I’ll let that insult of a question pass. For now. Since you’re a stranger and all. But after you eat the lunch I brought for us hard-working stiffs, you’ll know I’m a
chef
. I’m talking roast beef sandwiches with Gorgonzola mayo and caramelized onions and homemade sweet potato chips. Oh, and peanut butter brownies for dessert.”

Despite the dent Gray and Ella had made in the breakfast buffet just an hour ago, his mouth watered. And he figured that antagonizing a guy who had a couple of inches on him and probably twenty pounds of muscle was a bad idea. “I’ll go ahead and apologize for my ignorance right now. How about you teach me the difference?”

“A cook can nuke a box of macaroni and cheese. A chef has creativity—and gets a fat-ass paycheck for the privilege. Plus, I get to boss around my sous-chefs. Hell, that part’s so much fun, I’d do that even
without
a paycheck.”

“If we’re going to stand around all day jawing, can we at least do it while we crank the labelmaker? Those whiskey bottles don’t turn themselves.” Ward led the way past the racks of barrels to a smaller room. Also lined with shelves, these were packed with boxes and empty bottles. In the middle sat a stainless steel worktable. The whole room smelled faintly like wet cereal. He slapped his hand on something that looked like a rotisserie.

“The process is simple. Assembly line—I’ll place the bottle and turn the crank. Once the label’s on, Joel puts the bottle in a box. Gray, you’ll pull the filled boxes and put out bottles for us. We’ll trade out every ten minutes, because turning that crank’s a bitch.” He narrowed his eyes at Gray. “You sure you’re up for this menial labor?”

Just like his interactions with Ella, hanging out down here could be legitimately classified as research. But Gray knew better. He’d come because it sounded cool to be part of making a bottle of whiskey. Period. Not that he’d mention that in his official Ruffano & McIntosh report. Nah, he’d spin it so that it sounded like he’d bled Joel and Ward dry for info. It was what his company expected. Was what Gray excelled at...and something he was sick to death of doing. Hopefully nobody on either side would ever be the wiser.