11. Tessa
S o much for a morning run. By the time Tessa had chatted with the breath of fresh air that had blown in from Atlanta, the sun was high and hot. She wanted to run— had to—but she was sure to have two new age spots on her shoulders and at least one fresh wrinkle from the assault of UV rays.
Oh, the battle raged on, didn’t it? What would Tessa Wylie be when she wasn’t…pretty?
As alone as she was now, she presumed.
Tugging the brim of her baseball hat lower to protect her face, she started with a slow trot once she reached the hard-packed sand. And then she started to jog as fast as possible—waiting for the dopamine hit, longing for her runner’s high.
But all she felt was…discomfort. Maybe worse.
“Come on, Tessa!” she chided herself.
With each step, she tried to do her usual mental review of her body, which was feeling okay for fifty.
No, no, no! Not fifty yet. Forty-nine…and a half. She had to smile because that sounded like a three-year-old trying to age up, not a midlife woman trying to age down.
But she had to face facts: fifty loomed and she was…doomed.
Doomed, she thought. Really ? Just because she was homeless, jobless, and…fatherless?
The old sting squeezed her chest, so she slowed to a walk, feeling the sun beating her down like the grief she just couldn’t shake.
Turning from the rays, she looked toward the row of spectacular houses that lined the beach. Homes for successful, smart people who weren’t afraid of spreadsheets and logos that always looked backwards and sideways to her dyslexic eyes.
But did that really have to stop her? Where was her confidence?
Buried in a plot in Ithaca.
She whimpered at the thought, looking up to the blue sky and imagining him—Arthur Wylie—up there in the ether, gazing down from above. Far, far away.
“Oh, Dad, why aren’t you here anymore? I need you,” she whispered. “I need you to tell me Excel isn’t the enemy, that my own head is getting in the way. I need to hear it from you, Dad.”
Burning in the sun, she walked toward the shade of the longest boardwalk over the dunes. It was one thing to have a crisis of confidence and a grief attack, but she sure wasn’t going to ruin her skin while she did it.
As she navigated the soft sand, she imagined her father right next to her. He would be, too. He loved exercise and fresh air, and he loved sneaking time with Tessa to just talk and talk and talk. He’d take her fishing, hiking, skiing. They loved to be outside together.
She’d never had that kind of friendship with her mother—not that she felt any animosity with Jo Ellen. They just weren’t close. Her mother never really understood her and always drifted toward Kate, who was the more logical, brilliant, and far less complicated of the two. Those two liked to stay in and read—Tessa and Dad just wanted air and their long, long conversations.
He knew her heart and her weaknesses. He knew her highs and lows. He certainly knew her secrets, she thought with an ancient pang in her chest.
Always, he generously gave her advice, help, and a shoulder when she needed it.
It had been Artie who’d helped her navigate the job at the Ritz from the beginning to almost the miserable end. She would have never gotten involved with that guy if her father had been alive.
She could just imagine what the ethics professor would have said: “Fraternizing with a client might not be illegal, but it is unethical. It’s a fine line, but one you never want to cross, Theresa.”
She smiled at the name only he was allowed to use. Truth was, if it hadn’t been for Dad, she might have quit—or been canned—a few years ago. But she took every challenge to her father, and he helped her through the whitewater.
Now she was bouncing around without a rudder or an oar or whatever one needed not to drown.
She slipped underneath the boardwalk, able to see that it connected to a glorious house, easily one of the biggest on the beach. The faux weathered clapboard gave off hints of New England, with a massive deck, shuttered windows, and a bay of French doors. Would the people who lived there think she was trespassing if she just sat in the shade of their boardwalk?
She didn’t care. She didn’t care about anything, to be honest.
Closing her eyes, she folded onto the sand, abandoning her attempt to run away—literally—from the punch of pain she still felt when she thought about her father.
What she wouldn’t give to talk to him right now. Anything. Anything at all. And he’d tell her what to do. He’d love the idea of her starting a business. He never saw her shortcomings as flaws.
Who cares if you have trouble reading, Theresa? You’re charming and funny and beautiful! Find someone to read for you!
She could hear every word right now.
You just go out and find that client! If not you, then who?
He’d always said that to her—it was his motto for her. If not you, then who?
Artie Wylie systematically built confidence in a little girl who had trouble reading and cried in math class—somehow understanding how hard it was to be the twin sister of the student who won every academic honor and got a nearly perfect SAT score.
She sat up straighter at the sound of a man clearing his throat, which reminded her of Dad. A million goosebumps exploded on her bare arms despite the heat. Was he here? Watching over her?
She heard noisy footsteps on the boardwalk, too loud to be the spirit of Artie Wylie. Great. She was about to be caught squatting again. This time literally, in the sand.
Cringing, she stayed perfectly still and listened to a man’s voice, deep and strong.
“Of course I can do that, but dragging him all the way here? That could easily be a complete waste of time, and my time is valuable.”
Valuable enough to buy this multimillion-dollar house , she mused.
As the footsteps came closer, she cocked her head, waiting for a response, but there was nothing except silence and more footsteps.
“Yes, yes. Anything can be done for a price. So now I’m wasting time and cash.”
Ah, he was on the phone, she realized.
“Fine, I’ll call someone. But who? I don’t know a soul in this God-forsaken town.”
His voice was low, confident, and just a little irritated with whoever was on the other end.
“Okay, okay. I’ll throw myself a stinking birthday bash and invite the guy. If that’s what it’s going to take to get him and close the Bank of Boston deal, that’s what I’ll do. How hard can it?—”
He stopped right over her. So close she could look through the slats of the boardwalk and see the bottoms of his feet and muscular legs in khaki shorts.
Oh, man ! Why was she always in the wrong place at the wrong time?
“Invite fifty people, Brian? To my own party? Jeez. Okay. Fine, if you think that’ll get him where we want him, but I absolutely do not have time for this.”
Wait. Did he say fifty people…for a party? She sat up a little straighter, closing her eyes to hear every nuance in the guy’s voice.
“All right, all right. I’ll figure it out. Just get the paperwork ready to get him on the board. I’ll call the lawyers and…a caterer.” He punctuated that with a dark curse.
Could this be possible? Could Tessa Wylie have been in the right place at the right time for the first time in her forty-nine-and-a-half years?
Or… did Dad just send her a client?
Of course he did, because even from his angel’s perch in heaven, he was the greatest guy who ever lived. And he wouldn’t let her be stopped by a spreadsheet or a logo.
Suddenly, the man pivoted and marched back toward the house, leaving her to finally exhale one long breath.
Now what? How could she get this job without making it painfully obvious she’d been trespassing and eavesdropping? Would that be unethical or illegal, Dad?
Well, her father had clearly pulled some saintly strings to help her get a client, so she had to believe Artie would look past a transgression or two.
Stepping out into the sunshine, she pushed back her hat and peered toward the house. She spotted the man instantly, leaning on the deck railing, looking at his phone. She couldn’t quite tell his age from this distance, but guessed over forty and under sixty.
An age she could definitely work with.
Squaring her shoulders, she started to jog toward the dune, like any runner out on the beach. In a few hundred feet, the rise put her right at the same level as his deck. As she got closer, he looked up from his phone and did a double-take—always a good sign—and she flashed him a smile and a wave.
“Don’t tell me,” she called as she stopped to jog in place. “It’s a private beach and you’re going to have me arrested.”
He lowered the phone and adjusted his sunglasses. “It depends. How do you feel about handcuffs?”
Oh, puh-lease, honey. Don’t even suggest it.
But she just gave an easy laugh because that’s what he expected, and she wanted a client. Not bad enough to do anything stupid, but she could humor him.
For a moment, they just looked at each other, both of them eyeing one another, waiting for someone to say something. If she didn’t, Mr. Bank of Boston Deal would go right back to his phone, and she’d be forced to admit to eavesdropping.
“Nice house,” she said, gesturing toward his mansion. “Reminds me of Newport or Nantucket.”
He slid a quick glance over his shoulder. “Then there would be a widow’s walk, but thanks.” He studied her for another few seconds, probably deciding if she was worth the effort of a conversation. “You live near here?” he asked, giving her a shot of relief.
“In the new one about a half a mile that way.” She pointed toward the Summer House. “Where they’re noisily building a boardwalk.” She made a fake grimace. “Sorry about that.”
He abandoned the phone, interested. “Don’t be. I was happy to see that ramshackle cottage was finally condemned and a decent house went up. You built it?”
“No.” She shook her head. “My friends did. I’m staying with them.”
He came a few steps closer, allowing her to see he was probably mid-fifties, maybe sixty—hard to tell with his shades on. In decent shape, good bones, and light brown hair. He had a short, salt-and-pepper goatee that might have just been a refusal to shave, but it looked okay.
“How long are you here?” he asked, giving her just enough of a crack in the door to push her way in.
“Hard to say. I’m doing a little work for some clients…” Sorry, Ethics Professor Wylie. Little white lie. Very little, very white. “I’ll be here for a few weeks, at least. Are you full-time or a snowbird?”
“I’m from Boston,” he said. “I just came down for business. What kind of clients?”
All right now, here we go. “I’m an event coordinator.”
“What?” he choked, taking off his sunglasses. “You are kidding me.”
She raised her hands in feigned innocence. “It’s what I do.”
“You’re…like a party planner?” His voice rose with disbelief.
“I’m not like a party planner, I’m the best darn one around.” She carefully navigated the sand of the dune, walking closer to the boardwalk. “My name’s Tessa Wylie.” She extended her hand as she reached the railing. “President, CEO, and employee of the month at…” She echoed what she’d heard Vivien say, but hesitated as his large hand closed over hers, ready to say Good Time Girl .
But suddenly, she didn’t want that to be the name of her pretend company. Not this time.
“Tessa Wylie Events,” she finished. “So, if you are planning a, uh, St. Patrick’s Day bash later this month, I’m your girl.”
“Holy…” He finally let go of her hand, crossing his arms and shaking his head. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think Brian sent you here but even he isn’t that good.”
Someone sent me but his name isn’t Brian.
“I don’t know anyone by that name,” she replied. “Are you looking for an event coordinator?”
“Can you throw a cocktail and dinner party for fifty people in less than three weeks?”
She gave a dry laugh. “With my eyes closed and my hands behind my back.”
His lips kicked up in a half smile that she instantly recognized, bracing for a sexual joke about tying her hands. Because if he did, then she was going to say no. She would not, under any circumstances, encourage that. This was business .
But he just nodded. “I may want to hire you, Tessa.” He reached into his pocket, pulling out a wallet. “I’m Garrett Fischer and this is my cell. Text me your number and we’ll set up a meeting. How’s tomorrow?”
She nearly toppled over, fighting the urge to throw her hands in the air and yell hallelujah. Instead, she took his embossed business card and slid it into her back pocket with her phone.
“Let me check my calendar, Mr. Fischer, and I’ll text you.”
“Perfect.” He put his sunglasses back on, but she knew he was checking her out. Well, you can look but you can’t touch, Garrett Fischer.
She’d just started her new business and nothing—especially not a man—was going to derail it.
With a super-professional nod and a crisp goodbye, she stepped away and headed down the dune back to the beach. She didn’t turn and look to see if he was watching. She didn’t take out his card to check out his title. She didn’t do anything unprofessional, flirtatious, or dumb.
She just ran like the wind and thanked her dearest, darling father for helping her from heaven, where she knew he was.
“Vivien, where are you? Lacey, I need your help! Kate, you’re not going to believe this!” Tessa called out as she ran up the back stairs to the second level to find…no one. “Where is everyone?” she whispered, let down that they weren’t there waiting to celebrate with her.
“I’m here.” Kate stepped out of the pantry, holding a bag of flour. “Just making homemade pasta. Want to help?”
“No. I want to make a website and a logo and I need a client work order and—where are Lacey and Vivien?” She marched through the house. “Where’s my new business team?”
“What’s all this?” Vivien came down the stairs with Lacey behind her, both looking far too serious for this big news. “What are you talking about?”
“I did it, Viv! I found my client1 I’m starting my business and I’m not calling it Good Time Girl?—”
“Cute name,” Lacey said.
“If you’re a hooker!” Tessa shot back, making them laugh. “It’s Tessa Wylie Events. Can you do a website for me? Also some forms? And I want one of those logos—maybe a T and W intertwined with a?—”
“Slow down!” Vivien exclaimed, laughing. “Start from the beginning. Who lit a fire under you?”
“You did.” She pointed at Vivien, then turned to Kate. “And Dad. I know this happened because of him, I just know it.”
“What happened?” Kate asked, joining them.
“Well, I met a man.”
Kate huffed out a breath and rolled her eyes. “Of course you did.”
“No, no, this is different.”
But her sister just gave a dubious tilt to her head, and honestly? That hurt.
“Come on, Kate,” Tessa said, taking the excitement out of her voice. “Give me a chance. Give me the benefit of the doubt. I’m done with men like that and this guy, who happens to live down the street, needs a party planner for a fifty-head event, dinner and cocktails, possibly music, in two weeks.”
Vivien gasped. “Can you do that?”
Tessa looked from one to the other, her gaze landing on Lacey. “With a little help.”
“I’m in,” Lacey said without a nanosecond of hesitation, making Tessa instantly love the girl. “Who is this guy?”
She pulled out the card from her back pocket and finally read it. “Garrett John Fischer, no title. Company is Fischer Holdings. Some guy named Brian wants him to have a birthday party so he can close a Bank of Boston deal and I’m going to make that happen.”
“The deal?” Kate asked on a laugh.
“The party,” Tessa shot back. “And, hey, maybe the deal, too, if he pays me enough.”
Kate’s gaze softened, still too doubtful for Tessa, so she turned away and looked at Lacey.
“I’m meeting with him tomorrow. I’d love to show him a website, wow him with some…thing, and close the deal. I’ll need a list of local caterers, rentals, florists, DJs, the works. I can do that if you work on something that will make me look…real. Can you do any of that and do you take compliments and gin for pay?”
Lacey threw her head back laughing. “Done and done!”
Vivien stepped closer, taking her hand. “I’m so happy for you.”
“Well, I’ll be happy when I get a check and a reference and four more clients. Then Tessa Wylie Events will be official. I just hope I can face a spreadsheet.”
“I love spreadsheets!” Lacey said, her eyes bright.
Of course she did. “And I love you!” Tessa threw an arm around her. “How long are you staying, kid?”
She gave a questioning look toward Vivien. “How long am I staying, Mom?”
Vivien lifted a shoulder. “Lacey and I are in no hurry to get back to Atlanta,” she said to Tessa. “You can count on both of us. In fact, one of the design shops I’ve been working with has a side rental business. I’ll get you the number for tables and décor.”
“Woo-hoo!” Tessa raised her hands, snapped her fingers, and did a happy dance. “We are in business now!”
But as she turned, she came face to face with her twin sister, who simply hadn’t caught the fever at all.
“Hey, buzzkill, what’s your problem?”
Kate didn’t smile, but sighed. “Just be careful, Tess.”
“I’m careful.” She frowned. “Why? You think he’s a serial killer?”
“No, but he could be…looking for more than a party.”
“Yes, Kate, he could be. And I don’t care because I don’t want to go out with the guy, I want his business. Don’t you think I can separate the two?”
“Of course you can,” she said, but Tessa heard the note in her sister’s voice. She heard the doubt, the protective and oh-so-wise twin sister who’d spent a lifetime reining in her wilder sibling and watching out for her.
But they were grown now, and Kate didn’t have to protect Tessa or do her math homework or pick her up when a boy got too pushy at a party.
She loved Kate for all that, she truly did. But this time, she didn’t need her sister to save her. She’d do it all on her own. Well, with Lacey, who loved spreadsheets.
Thank you, Dad. Thank you .