Epilogue #3
I can't help but feel good about this comparison.
"I mean, yes. I figure even rich people need to eat, right?
Full stomachs equal generous donors. At least, that's my philosophy.
Food is always the centerpiece of my events.
" I glance at Eliza's closed door. "Our events.
" I meet Hunter's eyes, and then Delia's.
"Please don't get the wrong impression of Eliza.
She's not like that very often. She worked hard on the guest list, and then half of them jumped ship for Tom's event.
So, she consoled herself with the champagne. "
"Well, I'd say you had a successful event anyway, so be proud," Delia says. "And trust me, we don't judge. In my family, it's not a party until someone passes out."
Hunter polishes off one last piece and then wipes his hands clean on a paper towel, sitting back and eying me speculatively. “In the interest of transparency, Miss Kaplan, this was an interview…of sorts. And none of it was an accident."
I blink. "Um. What?"
"Honey, may I?" Delia squeezes her husband's thigh, and he goes quiet, sipping his drink. "We—my family—own a little chain of bars and restaurants, most of them in Alaska."
I nod. "I've heard of Badd's Bars. There's a location in Hollywood, isn't there?"
She nods, smiling. "There is. We're expanding further into the interior—meaning into the heart of Alaska."
“Okay?" I'm not exactly sure what this has to do with me, but I’m willing to let it play out. After all, "interview" suggests employment, and if I could book an event with Hunter Fucking Hawkins? My career as an event planner is locked in.
"We're opening a wilderness resort. It's sort of in the middle of nowhere, actually.
The closest town is thirty minutes away.
The whole idea is an unplugged retreat. There's no cell signal, no wifi, and no televisions.
" Hunter has taken over, now. "The idea is corporate retreats, team building, digital cleanse weekends, stuff like that. "
I frown. "Huh. Interesting. People will pay to be inconvenienced?"
Delia snorts. "Big bucks, yeah. It's a new thing. There'll be hikes into the bush, guided photography hunts, all sorts of events like that. Get people out into nature and reconnecting with their primal selves."
"Sounds…" I struggle for a good word.
"Like a lot of woo-woo bullshit?” Hunter says, laughing. "Maybe. But don't knock it till you've tried it. I've taken several groups on test runs, and we've gotten rave reviews. And I’m talking stuffy suits from Manhattan. It's gonna go gangbusters."
I laugh, shrugging. “Okay, sure, I believe you—you’re the billionaire here, not me. But what does this have to do with me? I'm not a resort runner, I'm an event planner."
"Oh, no." Delia grins. "We've got staffing all sorted out. No, what we need you for is…well…planning an event."
"You've got my interest."
"It's a grand opening, first and foremost, but it's also a fundraiser," Hunter says.
"The nearby town, from which we're drawing a lot of the local, year-round staff, has a fundraiser for cancer victims. They recently had a Guns ’N Hoses hockey game, and we figured it would be a good way to sort of ingratiate ourselves with our new neighbors and labor pool if we pitch in for the cause. "
My nose wrinkles. "Hockey? ew."
Delia covers her mouth, stifling a laugh. "Don't let Alaskans hear you say that. Especially not the folks in Tomlin Falls. It's not just a sport around there, it's a way of life."
I shake my head. “Sorry, I don't mean any offense, I just…I don't sport. And hockey in particular? What kind of sport lets you beat each other up as part of the game? It's barbaric."
Delia laughs like I've said something hysterical. "Oh, man. I happen to agree with you, but that's part of what makes it so much fun to watch."
"We can agree to disagree on that." I hold up my hands. "Let me first say, that regardless of my personal feelings, if the fundraiser is hockey-themed, I’ll show up in a jersey. When I commit, I commit a hundred percent."
"Good to hear," Hunter says.
"So, what's the timeline?" I ask. "I've got events booked out for a good seven or eight months, but I’m wide open beyond the fall."
Hunter and Delia exchange looks. “That's the thing," Delia says. "We're in a bind. The event is in three weeks, and our planner just had an emergency C-section."
I nearly spew Diet Coke everywhere. "Um…three weeks? What's done?"
"The guest list, obviously the venue since we are the venue, and being the venue we’re handling the catering—well, providing, not handling.
" Delia casts a thoughtful glance ceilingward.
“I think she got in a little over her head, to be honest. She's a local woman.
We thought it would be good to keep it local, you know?
But…maybe it was baby brain—god knows I was a spaz when I was pregnant.
She just…she left a mess, and we need it fixed, ASAP. And here you are."
"Um."
Hunter gives me a long, hard look. "Miss Kaplan, we don't have time to vet anyone else."
"You didn't even attend my event," I say, confused. "You attended Tom's."
"And we regret our choice," Delia says. "We flipped a coin. By all accounts, you won the evening. Therefore, we'd like to hire you. Please."
"We'll make it worth your while to cancel or reschedule everything you have on your books," Hunter says. "And hopefully we've already demonstrated our version of worthwhile."
"But…three weeks?" I stand up and pace to the window, raking my hands through my wavy, blown-out ginger hair.
“To take over an event that is, from what you're telling me, barely planned.
" I turn to face them. "I'd hate to accept and then fail to meet your expectations.
That would be a death sentence for my career. "
"Are you prone to failing?" Hunter asks, eyebrow arched.
"Just the opposite,” I admit. ‘I’m allergic to failure."
Delia leaves the couch and comes to stand beside me.
"Demi, listen. Thomas Langstrom is a big name in the event planning world.
I know this. He poached your guests and hijacked your event date.
And yet you still put on not just a successful event, but you showed up Tommy.
You did more with less. You can do this. "
I let out a breath. "I'd have to go to Alaska?"
“That's where the event is, yes." Delia bumps me with her shoulder as if we'd been friends for years. “You won't have to go to a hockey game if you don't want to, promise."
"I thought they already had the hockey game?" I ask.
"Oh, they did," Delia says, laughing. "But as I said, hockey is a way of life up there. Spend more than a few days in Tomlin Falls, and you'll get invited to a game.”
Ew, ew, ew. No. Sweaty ogres chasing a rubber disk around a frozen indoor pond, with face-punching? Yeah…no. If I have to watch a sport, it'd be tennis. It's sedate, civilized, and most importantly, no one ever gets their teeth knocked out.
I let out a long sigh. How could I say no to this?
I have no doubt that the compensation will be extraordinary, and the next few events are pretty much all set—Eliza can handle them on her own.
She's not just an angel investor or a silent partner; she’s an event planner in her own right, and a damn good one, tonight’s behavior notwithstanding. I'm just…better, to be honest.
Money aside, listing Hunter Hawkins as a client is a major win. And that's what clinches it, for me.
With a sharp sigh, I turn back to them. “When do I leave?"
I hadn't expected the journey to Tomlin Falls to be so…extensive.
There was the flight from San Diego to Seattle, another from Seattle to Fairbanks, after a twelve-hour layover in Seattle.
From Fairbanks, I had a choice: rent a car, hire a driver, or take a bus.
Seeing as it was a four-hour drive from Fairbanks to…
what's the name of this place again? Tompson Falls? Something like that…I decided to rent a car; I’ve paid my dues when it comes to public transportation.
My options? A Geo Metro, a Smart Car, or a Ford F350 with dual rear wheels, mudflaps, knobby off-road tires, a 6” lift kit, LED light bars across the cab roof, and the grille…
why this is an option to rent, I couldn't say.
But upon the rather panicked and insistent advice of the acne-riddled, greasy-haired, one-earbud-wearing teenaged boy behind the counter, I chose the monster-mobile.
It's like driving One America Plaza, the tallest building in San Diego.
“You really, really don't want to get caught out in the bush in a Geo Metro, lady," he told me. "Please, please trust me on that."
When I asked why, his only answer was, "Moose.” As if that explains anything.
Are there, like, moose just running amok across the roadways, attacking innocent California girls? And aren't moose just, like, slightly bigger deer? Deer aren't dangerous. Are they?
Also…the plural of moose is moose. Which is just stupid.
So here I am, on a two-lane highway in the middle of godforsaken bumfuck nowhere, Alaska, in a giant truck the steering wheel of which I can barely see over, wondering what in the uncivilized hell I'm doing out here.
A bird flies by the window—and wait, no, that's a goddamned mosquito the size of a bird. It could suck all the blood out of me in one go, I'm fairly certain.
A swarm of those things could carry me off like the flying monkeys in the latest Wicked movie.
It is beautiful out here, though, I have to admit. I'm not much of a nature girlie, if I'm honest, but I can appreciate a nice vista—if an endless ocean of trees is your thing.
It's peaceful at first. There are few cars on the road, which is weird coming from the traffic hell of SoCal. I find myself driving way too fast, which I wouldn’t have expected to be possible in a monstrosity of a vehicle like this.