19.

 

“Save Beachwood Bay!”

I thrust a button into the hand of an older woman as she leaves the diner. It’s three days later, and my campaign to keep the B&B is in full swing. “Will you help keep big business from spoiling our beaches?” I ask, from behind my makeshift booth.

“Now, this is about that hotel, isn’t it?” She knits her forehead in a frown.

“That’s right. A big New York company is planning on building over two acres in town.” I grab a flyer and show her the proposed construction site. “It will cause noise and pollution, and bring all kinds of noise and disruption. There’s a town meeting tomorrow, and I’d love your vote to keep them out.”

“Hmmm.” She squints at the text, and then back at me. Then her eyes widen in recognition. “I knew your grandmother. Such a wonderful woman. How are you doing, sweetheart?”

“I’m doing well, thank you.” I nod. “I’m trying to keep her business running, but small businesses like Rose Cottage will be hurt by the development. Will you at least take a look at the information?”

“And take a cupcake!” Kayla adds. She’s working the booth with me, trying to woo votes with flyers and fresh-baked goods.

“I shouldn’t… But go on.” She takes one with a smile. “Good luck, sweetie, with the vote. I’ll be sure to come to the meeting and hear it out.”

“Thanks!” I reply, grateful. “Every person counts!”

I watch her walk away. Ash may have his fancy plans and big budget, but I’m doing this the old-fashioned way: one handshake at a time. After my brainwave on Friday, I swung into action, getting leaflets printed and buttons made. I’ve been going door to door ever since, talking to people about the proposals and big meeting tomorrow. With time running out, I’ve set up right here on Main Street outside the diner to reach the last few townspeople I haven’t already spoken with.

I turn back to Kayla. “How are we doing on supplies?”

“We’re almost out of buttons,” she checks. “Want me to run back and make some more?”

I shake my head. “That’s OK, what’s important is that they read the flyers and understand just what the impact of these plans is going to be…”

I catch sight of Ash across the street. My voice trails away. He’s striding towards me, and he looks mad as hell.

“You should go take a break,” I tell Kayla quickly. “Thanks for your help this morning!”

“Sure.” She looks back and forth between Ash and me, then steps out from behind the booth. She grabs a stack of posters. “I’ll pin up some more of these. I missed a spot down by the harbor before.”

“Thanks!”

She leaves, just as Ash reaches me. His expression is set in frustration, his dark eyes flashing angrily.

“What the hell are you playing at?”

I turn away, straightening up the stacks of flyers and buttons. “What does it look like? I’m campaigning against your development. Would you like a button?” I add to a passer-by. I give her one with a big smile. “Let’s keep big business out of Beachwood Bay!”

Ash waits for them to leave before exploding. “Noelle, this is crazy!”

“No.” I fight to keep cool. “What’s crazy is you planning to destroy my business, and then acting surprised when I don’t just roll over and let you. I said I wasn’t going to let this happen without a fight.”

“But it’s a done deal.” Ash rakes his hand through his hair. “We’re going to get approval. This is all a massive waste of your time.”

“Really?” I counter, trying to ignore how good he looks, even ruffled and clearly angry. “Because I’ve been talking to people for days, and they have a lot of concerns about your plans. The noise, pollution—”

“Jobs,” Ash interrupts me. “Have you even thought about the benefits here? The hotel will bring all kinds of new employment and tourists to the area. It’s exactly what the local economy needs!”

“Maybe,” I shoot back. “But who knows what kind of tourists you’re going to attract? The last thing people here want is to be overrun with drunk college kids on Spring Break—”

“Oh, that’s bullshit and you know it.”

“Do I?” I glare at Ash, arms crossed. “I don’t know anything, remember: because you didn’t tell me.”

“Is that what all of this is about?” He gestures around, frustrated. “You’re mad at me, so you’re going to sink my whole project? How many times do I have to tell you, this wasn’t personal!”

I feel a calm settle over me. Standing here, yelling in the street, he still doesn’t realize. Part of me even pities him, to be so locked into his neat little compartmentalized life he can’t see the truth that’s right in front of him.

“You’re wrong,” I tell him simply. “It’s all personal.”

Ash opens his mouth to argue again, but I won’t let him.

“No, you need to hear this, even if you ignore everything else I’m saying right now. You keep telling me ‘it’s just business,’ but you don’t understand, there’s no such thing.” I step closer, wishing I could get through to him somehow. If only he would listen, if only he could see!

“What you do every day, that’s personal. The work you set your mind to, all those big goals you achieve. Whatever you put your energies towards, it’s all personal!” My voice rises with passion. “This project right here, it affects my life; all of our lives. So does everything you do. There’s always going to be somebody on the other end of a deal, Ash. A real live person, not some faceless corporation. And hiding behind your company, pretending like it’s just numbers on a page, that’s the biggest lie of all. And you know it.”

I clench my jaw to keep it together, overwhelmed with anger and sadness and frustration for the man staring back at me. This brilliant, flawed, complicated man who has been so busy building up walls to keep his lives separate, he doesn’t even realize he’s boxed himself into a cold, lonely corner.

“This isn’t just business,” I insist, tears stinging in the back of my throat. “It’s my life. Your life. And it doesn’t matter what kind of man you think you are when you’re making these choices like none of that counts!”

I pause for air, my heart pounding. I’m braced for Ash to argue right back at me, to hold his own, but instead, he stands there, silent. For a moment, his detached mask slips, and I see the hollow pain in his eyes; something tormented and dark.

Then he turns on his heel and walks away.

My heart aches. Even after everything, I still feel the chemistry between us. He may be my biggest enemy right now, but that doesn’t stop me from waking up, breathless from a night of passionate dreams; our bodies sliding together, his arms braced tight around my waist. And when I look at him, I can’t help remembering the magical nights we spent together: how being with him gave me the courage to start this journey at all, to strike out on my own and take the risk of following my heart, no matter what the consequence.

I just hate that the path has led us here: on opposite sides of the same fight. Because I’m realizing for the first time that we both can’t win. Either Ash gets his way, and Rose Cottage is history…

Or I win, and he’ll never speak to me again.

 

*

 

I stay campaigning until all my leaflets and buttons are gone, then I pack up and head for home. The town meeting is tomorrow, and I need to prepare my speech: for every permit approval, people are allowed to argue in favor or against the plans, and although it rarely happens—the council usually just takes a basic vote—this time will be different.

This time, I have to convince them all to reject the hotel.

But when I pull up outside the B&B, there’s already a car in the driveway, a shiny rental model. And hauling a case up the front steps is a figure with a rumpled jacket—and a very familiar face.

My heart lifts. “Daddy?”

I brake hard and scramble out of the car, running over to smother him in a hug. “What are you doing here?” I cry, holding him tightly. “You didn’t say you were coming!”

He chuckles, patting me on the back. “I wasn’t planning on it. But I ran into Lexi at the courthouse, and she told me about the problems you’ve been having. I thought we could put our heads together for one final case.”

My tears well up again, but this time, with gratitude. I can’t believe he’s come all this way: dropped everything and hopped a flight just to help me out. “But what about your cases?” I ask, concerned.

Dad shrugs. “They can wait a couple of days. It sounds like we’ve got a lot to do here. I brought some files my clerks pulled, just in case. Do you want to grab the other case from the car?”

I go get the other heavy roll-on and follow him into the house. Dad pauses in the hallway, looking around. “What have you been doing?” he asks, taking in the new decor. “It looks like a whole new house!”

“Not completely. Look, I kept the family photos, and her old needlepoint…” I show him Nana’s old treasures, blended seamlessly with the new decor. “I can give you the tour, if you want.”

“Later,” he promises. “First, let’s get down to business.”

He gets his legal pad from his briefcase, puts on his wire-rimmed spectacles, and settles on the living room couch. “Lexi gave me the basics, but you should start at the beginning,” he says, uncapping his pen. “Who’s planning what, and how do you want to stop them?”

I smile. There’s something so familiar about his expression, it’s the one I’ve seen on his face a hundred times, when he’s getting stuck into a big case, working late into the night. “The Callahan Group,” I answer. “And I have twenty-four hours left before the town council votes.”

“Well then,” Dad looks determined. “We better get to work.”

 

We spend the next few hours outlining my case against the development. Dad brought all kinds of case files with him: records of other applications, legal precedents, and dense reams of local planning bylaws. We’re deep in the reading when his stomach suddenly lets out a loud rumble.

I laugh, then catch sight of the clock on the wall. It’s almost 8:00 p.m.; we’ve been sitting here for hours! “When did you last eat?” I demand, leaping up. “I can’t believe I didn’t even offer you a drink! Some hostess I’m turning out to be.”

Dad chuckles. “Don’t worry. Your mom has me on one of those low-cholesterol diets, I’m used to going hungry.”

“Well, let’s see what we can do about that.” I beckon him through to the kitchen. “What are you in the mood for?”

“Nothing too rich. I swear she’s implanted some kind of tracking device,” Dad tells me wryly. “She can tell when I so much as look at a steak.”

I laugh. “Sounds like Mom.” I pour us a glass of iced tea, then check the refrigerator. I stopped by the farm stand yesterday, so there’s a ton of produce, rich and glowing with color. I pull out bell peppers and onions and a fat head of garlic. “How about some pasta and homemade sauce?” I ask. “That’s pretty healthy.”

“Sounds good to me.” Dad takes a seat at the counter, watching as I put a pan of salted water on the stove to boil and begin washing the vegetables. He gets a funny look on his face.

“What?” I ask, setting out the old wooden board to chop.

“Nothing. It’s just…you’re so much like my mother. Seeing you in the kitchen like this.” He gets a nostalgic look. “It was always her favorite place. Whatever house we were living in, and back when she had the diner too… You couldn’t drag her out.”

“She taught me everything I know,” I smile, “even how to chop, just like this.” I cut the peppers into bright chunks, and throw them into a heavy iron-bottomed pan with some oil and diced onions to start a sauté. “Do you want to take a look around the house?” I ask, suddenly feeling shy. “We have some time while the water boils.”

“Sure.” Dad agrees. He squeezes my shoulders in a hug. “You can show me what was worth leaving the city and your old pa far behind.”

I start downstairs, then show off the B&B from top to toe. With the Peterson couple being my only other guests right now, I put him in a room overlooking the beach, and show him every new touch in turn, ending up back in the kitchen.

I pour us some iced tea, still feeling nervous about his reaction. I know my parents didn’t approve of my plans, and I want so desperately for him to see what I’ve been doing with all my time and energy—and for him to approve. “Well, what do you think? I bake everything fresh here, just like she used to,” I tell him, chattering anxiously. “And the guests tell me it’s all just the way they remember.”

Dad slowly exhales, looking around the room. “I have to admit, I wasn’t sure about this move. Packing up and quitting your law job after all the work we’ve done… But you’ve done a wonderful job here,” he admits, finally giving me a smile.

“I really do love it,” I say quietly, still nervous. “The B&B, all the baking. I know it’s not the career we planned, but I feel like I’m doing something real; creating memories for people—and myself.”

“You sound just like her.” Dad gives a wistful smile, then reaches across and squeezes my hand. “I’m proud of you, sweetie. This is all beautiful. My mother would have loved it.”

I relax, overwhelmed with relief—and happiness. I took a risk striking out on my own, and although I had to ignore what my parents wanted from my life to make it this far, his praise still means so much to me. I’ve always looked up to him, at everything he’s achieved, and I can’t help wanting his approval, even now.

I hide my emotions, busying myself by adding pasta to the boiling water, and cutting fresh tomatoes up into a rough chop. “Can you please grab some basil?” I ask him. “It’s in the box on the window ledge.”

Dad goes to pick a bunch from the plant growing there. “Is this OK?”

“Perfect. Just tear it roughly and throw it in with the veggies,” I instruct him.

He does as I say, then sniffs at the pot. “Smells good.”

I give it a stir. The veggies have softened now, breaking down into a thick, fragrant sauce that makes my mouth water. “Shouldn’t be long,” I decide. “I’ll just throw together a salad, and that should be it.”

“Please,” Dad pretends to groan, “no more salad. I’ve been living off rabbit food for weeks!”

I laugh. “Don’t worry, I found a recipe for an amazing dressing. You won’t even notice how healthy it is.”

I start on the salad, tearing chunks of fresh lettuce into the colander. As I work, I think more about my father, and how reluctant he always seemed to come back here to Beachwood Bay. “I was wondering…” I start, “what made you leave town? You went off to college in New York, right? Didn’t you ever think about moving back after school?”

“Never,” Dad declares grandly. He catches my expression, and softens. “You have to understand, sweetie, you may love this place, but growing up here… It wasn’t all a picnic for me.” He stirs the sauce slowly, and lets out a sigh. “To tell the truth, I was pretty miserable.”

“But why?” It seems so strange to think of my confident, successful father as a teenager—and even odder to imagine him unhappy.

Dad shrugs. “I guess I never quite fit in. I was a nerdy kid,” he explains, “nerdy, and ambitious. I wanted to see more of the world, to do important things. There I was, this weedy kid with hardly any friends, getting picked last for all the sports teams, but I knew I was destined for bigger things.”

“You, weedy?” I can’t help but tease, poking his middle-aged spread.

“Watch your tone, child.” Dad laughs, then pauses, a sad look in his eyes. “But, seriously. It’s one thing to come to Beachwood Bay as an adult, and have people recognize you for the person you are right now, but it was different for me. It felt like no matter what I did, everyone still saw me as that Olsen boy, the one who made straight As but couldn’t get a date to prom. I wanted to get away from that, start fresh on my own terms.”

He shrugs, glancing down, and I realize that for all his security and success now, there’s still a part of him who remembers being unsure and alone.

I reach over and hug him. “And look at you now,” I say brightly. “The most feared trial lawyer in New York City, with a successful wife, and two stunning, creative, amazing daughters.”

Dad smiles at that. “And they’re so modest too.”

“They sound pretty perfect to me.”

He chuckles. “I guess I always saw you following in my footsteps. That’s why it was such a surprise to find you back here, living the life I thought I’d left behind. But I guess it just skipped a generation, after all.”

“I still want to follow in your footsteps, Dad,” I reassure him. “I just want to do it my way. Even if I’m not in a courtroom, I’m still the girl you raised. My argumentative, stubborn streak isn’t going anywhere,” I add with a grin.

“Good. You’re going to need it for this property fight,” he nods. “These development companies don’t mess around. Chances are, they’ll send a whole battery of lawyers to the meeting tomorrow.”

“I don’t think so,” I pause. “Ash Callahan, he’s too independent to put this in someone else’s hands. He’s more a do-it-yourself kind of guy, whatever the task.”

Dad quirks an eyebrow. “It sounds like you know him pretty well.”

I clear my throat. Getting into my love life right now is so not an option. “Apparently, not as well as I thought,” I say, and quickly change the subject. “Pasta’s ready!”

I serve us two bowls, with a generous portion of the veggies, which by now have reduced to a deliciously fragrant sauce. I set the table for two on the back porch; it’s getting dark out now, but there’s still a pale haze over the ocean, and the crisp tang of sea air. Dad brings through the salad and our drinks, and takes a seat across from me. He digs into the food right away, with noises of appreciation, but I pause, looking around at the now-familiar view—and the empty lots next door. Already, there’s construction tape and markers set out on the land, and I don’t even want to imagine what will follow if the town council goes against me tomorrow.

“Thank you,” I tell Dad, my voice cracking a little. “For coming down here, for helping me out. I really appreciate it.”

“Of course,” he says simply. “Are you nervous about tomorrow?”

I nod.

“Don’t be,” he reassures me. “We’ve got some excellent arguments, and it sounds like all your work talking to the people in town will make a real difference.”

“But what if it doesn’t?” I ask, panicked. “What will I do if he wins? The B&B will be ruined for sure!”

“You can’t think like that, not right now,” Dad insists. “The night before a big trial, I only ever let myself think positive. You have to trust yourself to make the best case possible. Then it’s all in the jury’s hands.”

I take a deep breath.

“And luck,” Dad adds, with a twinkle in his eye. “There’s always luck.”

I can only hope he’s right—and that luck is on my side at the meeting. Otherwise…

Otherwise, no amount of work and hope will make a difference. It all comes down to tomorrow.