Chapter 2
TWO
Max
I spot the woman from my balcony and I’m instantly captivated.
She's staring at a piece of paper, a riot of long, near-black wavy hair tumbling over her shoulders. The wind kicks up and blows it back from her face. An enormous hard-sided black suitcase is parked near her feet, which are strapped into gold sandals that lace up her ankles.
She turns her head toward the resort building, then rattles the paper in her hand, glancing at it again with an adorable furrow in her brow.
She's probably lost. No small surprise, because the signage here is a disaster.
There used to be signs for Riverside rooms and Garden View rooms but they must have come down during the renovations.
We still have a mountain of work before we’re done, and here we are, hosting the first Hastings family wedding in our half-renovated hotel. A wedding that was thrown together in mere weeks.
Classic, for my crazy family.
Another glance at the gorgeous brunette in the cream-colored sundress makes me grin. I must be desperate. It's been two years since I've been in a relationship, and I'm man enough to admit I hate being single.
But I’m not here in Cypress Grove to fall in love. Especially not this weekend.
Though I’ll say this for Cypress Grove: it gets into your head.
The air down here, the quality of the afternoon light, the way everything seems to slow whether you want it to or not.
My mother would say it’s the springs — that the whole area carries an energy, that you can feel the aquifers if you’re paying attention.
I grew up with that kind of talk and I’ve never bought it. Still don’t. But I also concede that I’ve slept better here this past month than I have in the past two years in New York. I don’t have a clean explanation for that, so I’ve filed it under climate and left it alone.
There’s still much to do. I’ll deal with the signs before the wedding. Right after I send a million emails, hire a new landscaper, and talk to City Hall about the remaining permits.
Dad left all these tasks to me. It's your business, preparing properties like this for sale, he'd said when I arrived a month ago. Work your magic.
I couldn't say no. Not to Dad. I promised to oversee the renovations and get the highest price for the resort so he and Mom can have the best retirement possible. Dad would do anything for her, and I would too. After running this place and raising five kids, they deserve all that and more.
Whether I'll live up to Dad's standards is a different matter altogether. It always has been.
This isn't a regular project. It's practically my childhood home. And as each week passes, the idea of selling the Magnolia Grand becomes more bittersweet. Dad's a pretty difficult boss, and that has me stressed, too.
And now life, and the renovation, has ground to a halt because my little brother's decided he's in love and absolutely has to marry this girl one week before he ships off to the west coast as a contract firefighter.
It’s too much to deal with. I'd rather think about the woman down there.
She takes out her phone and taps furiously with her thumbs, a fierce scowl on her face. I wonder who she knows in the wedding party. One of Damien's friends? One of Remy's friends, more likely. My brothers aren't exactly shy, retiring types when it comes to women.
Or maybe she's a friend of the bride's.
I should go help her. Although she'll probably be gone by the time I make it downstairs. I could call down — she's only fifteen or twenty feet below me.
I loosen my tie as I watch her, then undo the top button of my shirt. I'd overdressed for the meeting with the lawyers in Orlando and now it's time to put on cargo shorts and blend in with the locals.
As I'm rolling up my sleeves, one of my younger brothers dashes into view from the direction of the pool. I whistle, and he looks up. The woman glances around suspiciously, trying to figure out where the sound came from.
“Bro,” yells Remy. I roll my eyes because he does that thing. Everyone's bro or dude or some crap. He waves his hands wildly. “Bro, have you seen Mom?”
I ignore him because the woman is staring up at me. I casually lean against the railing and grin, hoping she'll smile back.
“Hi. Are you lost?” I call down to her.
Remy makes an impatient snort. I think he might have stomped his foot, but I'm too busy watching her.
She opens her mouth to respond, but before she gets anything out, my brother steps forward.
“Bro, I need Mom. I thought she was here a minute ago.” Good lord, he’s such a child. There's a six-year gap between us but there might as well be a century.
The woman shoots Remy a grimace, then stares up at me with the same expression, grabs her suitcase and stalks off with a huff.
Or tries to. The wheels aren't working, and she mutters something I can't hear.
I watch her disappear between two squat palm trees, dragging the suitcase over the stone walkway. It makes a loud scraping noise.
“That's the way to the exercise room and the sauna,” I call out. She either can't hear me over the wheels or ignores me entirely, and flings open the door.
“Hey. Down here.” Remy waves his arms over his head. “There's a problem with Damien's tux. Mom needs to fix it. You should come give moral support. You’re the only one in the family who’s ever worn a tux.”
I sigh. “Maybe you two should handle this yourselves. He's your twin. I've got calls to make before tonight's party. Some of us work for a living.”
I love razzing Remy about work. He spends his days on the water as a fishing charter captain. A dang good one, too.
“Max, come on. Damien needs you. He's freaking out. This is his wedding weekend. Try not to be a jerk, okay?” Remy puts his hands on his hips.
“Fine. I'll be there in thirty. Gotta shower.” Of course my little twin brothers wouldn't know how to wear a tux. One's spent his life fighting fires and the other on a boat.
Sighing, I turn and slide open the glass door to my room.
I'm staying here at the resort rather than at home — our actual family home is a couple of miles away, in the town of Cypress Grove — because six weeks ago I figured I should be on-site to keep an eye on the renovations.
Smart in theory. Less smart when the renovations move at a pace that would frustrate molasses.
I pull off my shirt and drop it on the sofa.
Take off my undershirt. Undo my belt. Kick off my shoes.
This suite is my home for another month, maybe two, and it's comfortingly familiar — I spent my entire childhood on this property, going back and forth from our home in downtown Cypress Grove.
I mowed the lawn here as a kid, back when Magnolia Grand were nothing more than an outpost for offbeat hippie travelers.
Now the whole area is a luxury destination, and it's my job to take this place to an even higher standard in preparation of the sale.
I pick up my phone and scroll through emails in my boxer-briefs, pecking out a few terse responses before I hop in the shower.
I’m working on a Facebook post using a photo I’d stopped to take on the drive back — the afternoon light on the Starlight River through the cypress trees, that specific gold-green glow you only get in central Florida.
I’d meant to pull over for thirty seconds.
I stood there for nearly ten minutes before I noticed.
Good light. That’s all it was, a photo to go with a post to let all my buddies from high school know I was in town.
I hear a click and the door to my suite opens a few inches.
What the what? I look up, alarmed. Hasn't anyone trained the new housekeeping staff to knock? One more thing to deal with. And didn't I put the do not disturb sign on the doorknob?
“I don't need room service, thanks.” It's a big, airy suite and the door is far enough away that I have to raise my voice.
A hand shoves a beat-up black suitcase through the doorway. The suitcase tips over, and the door bangs into the handle. A gold-sandaled foot shoves it open.
I freeze, phone in hand.