CHAPTER FIVE
Ford
I throw a forearm over my eyes to shield me from the sunlight.
Christ, it’s bright outside.
Why does my back ache?
Why are the trash trucks so fucking loud this morning?
Then it hits me. Where I am. Last night. The storm.
Ellery.
Why she’s my first thought when I open my eyes is beyond me, but when I look beside me, she’s not there.
Nor is her bag.
Or any goddamn trace of her other than a pile of pretzels beside a half-empty bowl.
And I don’t know why it bugs me so fucking much that she isn’t here.
I twist in my seat to look around the room.
Most people are still in the same positions they were in last night when I dozed off.
Curled into balls. Leaned against walls with legs kicked out and crossed at the ankles.
Lying on the floor, using their spread-out rain jackets as a barrier between them and the old carpet.
The sun is out. Clearly. Which means the storm’s passed on. And if the room is emptier than it was last night, then that means maybe the road has been cleared.
“Christ,” I murmur and scrub a hand over my face, the scrape of my stubble a reminder of just how rough I must look.
It’s then that I see the napkin with the scribble on it under my half-finished whiskey bottle on the table in front of me.
I lean forward to pick it up and smile when the pretzels on its corner fall to the floor.
Fordham the University—
It was a pleasure meeting you. I had to hit the road early and deal with “stuff.”
Thank you for the company, the advice, and the ear. I’m sure everything will work
itself out with your brothers. Maybe our paths will cross again someday. Until
then . . .
—Celery Ellery
I hold the napkin in my hand and lean back again on the couch, staring at her handwriting.
She didn’t leave me her phone number.
Then again, she is engaged.
So why do I have the distinct memory of waking up last night and she was tucked under my arm with her head on my chest? And why do I remember liking it?
I scrub my hand through my hair.
My phone’s dead. I’m in desperate need of a toothbrush, a shower, and a shave. And by the looks of the clear sky and Ellery’s absence, the road appears to be open.
Let’s just hope it’s open in the direction I need it to be.
I’m in the parking lot within minutes, bag in my hand and eyes darting around. The sun may be out, but there’s still a chill in the air from the breeze from the ocean.
Debris from the storm is everywhere. Tree branches. Trash strewn about. Sand blown around by the wind.
It’s when I look back toward the inn that I notice it as a whole for the first time. In the past, the gray clapboard building was something off in the distance of the road when I drove past. Last night, the hotel was something I ran into to escape the storm.
But this morning with the sun out, the sound of seagulls in the distance, and my current stance in the middle of its parking lot, I take a closer look.
White Sands Inn.
It’s what the faded sign says. There’s a lighthouse for a logo on said sign despite there not being a single one in sight.
I guess they took some creative license.
The place has curb appeal. Its overall size doesn’t overpower its backdrop of blue skies and what I can assume is the boardwalk and beach on the other side.
Too many places make that mistake. They think the size of the structure and the capacity it can hold is what’s most important because more rooms equal more revenue.
What they don’t understand is that if the hotel isn’t in an appealing location—in this case the beach on one side and the lush foliage of the New England trees surrounding the other—people don’t want to stay at the actual hotel to do more than sleep.
And it’s the guests staying at the hotel—to order room service, to drink at the bar and watch the surf crash on the beach, to eat at the hypothetical boardwalk café—that earns the added profit.
Potential.
That’s what Ellery said it had last night.
She’s right. That’s what I see when I look at the weathered facade that’s worn and needs some attention.
The immediate landscaping could be improved, the entry to the facility made more attractive, and the retaining wall to the west redone so it fits the inn’s overall style.
My thoughts are reflexive. Curb appeal. How to draw people in.
How to make a lasting impression so customers come back.
It’s what I’ve been taught to assess and correct and refine.
It’s what we, my brothers and I, all have actually.
It becomes second nature when you grow up with a father who’s a hospitality mogul and who would quiz you at random.
What’s wrong with this place?
What would you change to attract more customers?
How would you increase their revenue?
What do you think they’re doing well?
I can hear my father’s voice asking the questions, and it’s a bittersweet, hollow feeling I don’t expect to have.
Just Ford.
Did he see me as that when I answered those questions of his? Did he hear the thought I put into my responses to prove to him that I knew my shit? That I had made certain I was worthy of the last name I was dually blessed and cursed to be given?
Lost in thought and brought back to last night and that goddamn biography, I wander to the rear of the property.
There’s a meandering path that like everything else, could use a lot of attention.
Add some flowers to the beds on either side and throw in a few benches for the social media crowd to take pictures and tag the resort.
You can never go wrong with built-in marketing opportunities like that from guests.
But thoughts—of my dad, of the biography, of the shitshow that was last night—fade to the background when I look up to find a gorgeous beach.
If you’ve seen one beach, you’ve seen them all is a bullshit misnomer.
Some are littered with garbage. Some have shitty sand. Some have rocks and kelp and everything in between.
But this beach, shit, this beach lives up to the inn’s name even after a violent storm. In fact, maybe the wind and the rain added to its beauty. The sand has been windswept into waves of white, not a footprint to be found on its perfect surface. The water is a deep blue that laps at the shoreline.
I can picture what summer could look like here.
Umbrellas and cabanas set up for guests.
Servers carrying rum punches and daquiris across the boardwalk and into the sand to keep them happy.
Add a horseshoe pit and a volleyball net for those who can’t keep idle.
Team up with a bike rental or electric scooter company to supply guests at a discounted rate.
Out of habit when I’m looking at sites, I lift my phone to take pictures. “Shit.” It’s dead.
You’re not supposed to be working, Ford.
But the instinct to observe and assess and improve has been ingrained in me my whole life, so it’s easy to slip back into that mode without thinking about it.
On that note, get the fuck out of here. Go to Sag. Figure out . . . whatever you need to figure out.
And eventually, deal with the endless texts from Callahan and Ledger.
I shove my hands in my pockets, and my fingers hit the napkin Ellery left me. The one I kept for some reason. The one that reminds me it will all work itself out.
That remains to be seen.
With one last look at the unexpected view, I turn on my heel and head toward my rental car.
It’s then that I see the sign posted in the window of the inn. For Sale. Huh. Guess that makes more sense why things haven’t been kept up here. But you’d think you’d make it look its best to get a higher sale price.
Then again, maybe it has been dressed up and it was worse before.
Not your problem, Sharpe.
And it’s not. S.I.N. deals in sophisticated, luxurious resorts that are massive in scale, not mom-and-pop hotels on postage stamps of land like this. It’s not our brand. Not our expertise.
But it doesn’t stop me from taking one long, last look before I climb behind the wheel and start the engine.
Potential.