No Forever Like Nantucket (A Sweet Island Inn Book 6) Page 11

  The trouble was that this time, Mae worried the pieces would be too far gone. Too bent out of shape. Or worse: that she wouldn’t have the heart to do it all over again.

  “It doesn’t do any good to worry about it, dear.”

  “It also doesn’t hurt to look into what your options are,” Brent said, the retort locked and loaded.

  Mae sighed and smoothed down a wayward lock of Jessa’s hair. “I guess you’re right.”

  “Of course I am,” he said with a gentle smile. “I’m always right.”

  Mae shook her head. “Tomorrow, I’ll call a lawyer.”

  “Good. And tomorrow, I’ll learn how to discretely start a fire big enough to take down a hotel.”

  “Brent!” she gasped, reaching out and slapping his shoulder. “That’s not funny.”

  He shrunk away from her, laughing. “Only kidding.” Then he sobered and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “But I will be here for whatever you need, Mom. That’s what family is for.”

  13

  Eliza

  Late That Night—Oliver & Eliza’s House

  Oliver was asleep. One arm was draped over his head, hand gripping the armrest of the couch, the other laid across his chest. The girls were asleep, too. Eliza had checked on them three times to be sure.

  Light flicked from the muted television, painting the living room awash in blue like an aquarium. She could hear the wind picking up outside, rustling the leaves in the trees, rattling the shutters.

  Something in her chest itched. Something felt wrong.

  She wanted to relax back into her floral armchair, turn on the lamp, and read the cozy mystery Dominic had picked up for her at the bookstore. Or maybe bake the scone recipe that was laying out on the counter. Her mom’s friend, Debra, had called a few days earlier looking for the recipe. It was her mom’s recipe and Eliza didn’t know why Debra couldn’t just ask her. She’d texted a picture of it to her, anyway. Hadn’t asked any questions. Maybe a buttery pastry would ease the strange feeling in her chest.

  But Eliza couldn’t imagine herself doing any of those things. She felt too jittery. So instead, she pushed herself to her bare feet and padded into the bedroom. She squatted down in front of the closet and reached into the dark where her purse always sat.

  When Eliza had gotten home, Oliver had asked questions.

  Where were you?

  What did you forget?

  Why didn’t you answer your phone?

  Eliza had planned for the interrogation on her way home. She told him she’d forgotten to buy tampons. Explained that she needed a very specific brand, but the three stores she’d gone to had been sold out. Oliver frowned but ultimately accepted the excuse.

  Now, rifling through her purse, it wasn’t a tampon Eliza pulled out. It was a pill bottle.

  The lid was scuffed from where it had landed on the concrete outside the pharmacy. The sticker with her name on it bore a spot of dirt. But the pills inside were fine. Whole. Untouched.

  Useless, though.

  Why had she even come in here to get them? She didn’t need these. She’d completed the homework Dr. Silver had given her, and now it was done. Over. She could move on.

  Eliza dropped the pills back into her purse and walked across the house into the kitchen.

  The mixed berry scone recipe sat on the counter where Eliza had left it. She pushed it aside and reached into the cabinet above to pull down a bottle of wine. It was a gift from Sara when they’d moved into the house. It bore Little Bull’s logo on the label and the bottle was warm and dusty from years spent forgotten.

  That was fine. She only wanted a glass or two, anyway. Like any mom unwinding after a long day. Nothing in the world wrong with that.

  When the cork popped free, she froze, waiting to see if Oliver would wake up.

  He didn’t.

  Eliza grabbed a glass, poured, and drank. It was wine o’clock.

  14

  Sara

  The Next Morning—Nantucket Memorial Airport

  Leather reclining seat, three cupholders all to herself, and a seemingly endless supply of nuts, pretzels, and ginger cookies. Sara was in heaven.

  Actually, she was in a private jet, but when you really thought about it, what was the difference?

  The previous afternoon, she had sent off an email to the lawyer at Nelson & Associates expressing interest in the offer to buy out Little Bull. Fifteen minutes later, a reply arrived in her inbox, asking her to select the best time for the private plane to depart from Nantucket Memorial Airport.

  Prior to that email arriving, Sara would have thought herself impervious to most scams or kidnapping scenarios. But now she knew the truth: so long as her kidnappers offered her a private jet, she’d go wherever they wanted to take her.

  With far too few follow-up questions, Sara had selected the earliest time she could for the next morning and gone to bed dreaming of luxury.

  “Miss Benson?”

  The flight attendant was middle-aged, her reddish-brown hair pulled back into a half-ponytail. She didn’t wear a typical flight attendant uniform, but rather a pair of navy-blue dress pants with a light blue collared shirt tucked neatly into the waistband. She looked like a secretary straight out of Central Casting, as if they weren’t currently forty thousand feet in the air.

  Down below, the Atlantic was tossing and turning, gray clouds blocking out the sun as a storm rolled in. But up here, Sara was above all of it. The skies were clear as far as she could see.

  Sara blinked up at her. “Yes. Hi.”

  “Can I offer you another drink?”

  “Just a Coke, please.” Sara smiled as the woman cracked open a soda can and poured the contents over ice.

  Sara wanted a drink. A real drink. Something classy she could sip on, pinky extended, while she stared at the fluffy white clouds idling outside the windows. She made herself promise to stick to the soda, though. She didn’t want to show up to the meeting anything other than stone-cold sober.

  After all, this was going to be a big deal.

  She’d hoped for some more direction or explanation in the reply email from the lawyer, but there was nothing. Just the details of the meeting and her travel information. Whoever was interested in buying out Little Bull had the means to take care of everything. And Sara was happy to let them.

  “Maybe I should come with you,” Joey had said the night before, reading through the email for the second time. “This feels weird.”

  “Only because you watch too many gangster movies,” she’d said. “This is how business works.”

  Joey had raised a dubious brow. “And what would you know about how business works?”

  “Are you saying I’m not a competent businesswoman? You better watch your tone, Joey Burton.”

  He’d laughed. “I’m just saying—between the free trip to Charleston and now a free private jet to Boston, we have to start suspecting something strange is going on.”

  Even though she hadn’t said it last night, Sara knew Joey was right. Something strange was going on.

  Everything was going Sara’s way.

  Sara didn’t want to say that and make it sound like her life had been one giant pit of misery, because it certainly hadn’t been. But it hadn’t exactly been a giant ball pit, either. Over and over again, life had thrown obstacles in Sara’s way, and she’d been forced to dodge them. Or to get wiped out by them and pick herself up again. Now, sitting on this private jet, the air conditioner vent pointed directly at her face, and a cold soda in her hand, Sara felt like she was crossing the finish line.

  Maybe, just maybe, this was where she finally figured things out.

  “Seatbelt on, please, Miss Benson,” the flight attendant chimed, stepping into the cabin again. “We are about to make our descent.”

  Whatever was waiting for her on the ground below, Sara was ready for it. She’d earned it.

  As if the private plane hadn’t been enough, Sara was escorted down the metal stairs and across the ta
rmac by a man in a crisp black suit and led to an awaiting private car.

  Again, Sara was met with leather seats, a plethora of cupholders, and even more drink options. A tiny fridge was situated between the backs of the two front seats, fully stocked with cans of hard seltzers and mini champagne bottles. It seemed someone was trying to dull her faculties.

  She resisted the draw and kept her hands folded in her lap as the car wove through the traffic of the city.

  Before returning to Nantucket, Sara couldn’t imagine ever being away from the hustle of the big city. But now that she was in the thick of it again, she couldn’t imagine ever going back.

  Cars darted from one lane to another, cutting each other off. A constant chorus of honking and music from other people’s radios permeated the private car. It was hectic, and the closer they got to the destination, the more Sara wished for some quiet. Apparently, she’d come to appreciate the slow, quiet hum of life on the island.

  “Are you nervous?” Joey had asked her early that morning, laying his hands on her shoulders just as she’d been heading out the door.

  “Not a bit.”

  “Good. Don’t be,” he’d said, even though his mob theory had grown some roots in her brain. “You’re going to do great. They are the ones chasing after you. Don’t let them forget it.”

  Buildings soared up on either side of the one-way road, towering giants of power-washed stone and brick and concrete. Endless panes of glass reflected the buildings back at each other, a never-ending optical illusion. The financial district looked as resolute and powerful as the name sounded.

  During prior trips to Boston, Sara hadn’t ventured far beyond the Downtown Crossing, preferring to spend her time dashing in and out of stores rather than walking amongst stuffy business types. But now, Sara herself would be one of the stuffy business types. So long as she didn’t trip on her heels or dribble coffee down the front of her one and only nice dress shirt, she’d fit right in.

  The car cut sharply across two lanes of traffic, and as it did so, the driver reached for a cell phone in the center console of the front seat. He hit one button and put the phone to his ear. “Two minutes.”

  Without another word, he dropped the phone back into the console.

  The man behind the wheel was a young guy with dark brown hair and a thick neck. Since he hadn’t turned around or made any attempt at conversation, that was all Sara could tell about him. She wanted to ask him what she should expect upon arrival and try to ferret out some information from him in order to quell the thrashing-on-a-water-bed feeling going on in her stomach, but she doubted he’d answer.

  Besides, there wasn’t time. Just as he’d said on the phone, exactly two minutes later, he pulled along the curb and shifted it into park.

  Before Sara could even slide across the seat, the back door opened, and a woman in wide-legged tan dress pants and a tight white shirt ushered Sara out to the sidewalk. “Miss Benson, welcome to Boston Investment Group! We’re delighted to have you.” She gestured at the building behind her as though she was unveiling a new ride at an amusement park.

  Compared to the towering high rises lining the block, this building in particular was short—only three stories tall—but the stone arches above the windows and flushed pillars that spanned from ground to roof kept it from appearing stodgy. Rather, it looked historic. Chic. Sara stared up at it with an unexpected reverence, as though she was gazing up at a church.

  “I’m here to lead you to the meeting,” the woman continued. “My name is Caroline. I’m Mr. Greene’s assistant.”

  “Mr. Greene?” Sara asked instinctively. Perhaps she should have made an effort to sound as though she knew who Mr. Greene was, but there were too many questions burning inside of her to play it cool.

  Caroline smiled. “Sorry, I should have explained. Mr. Greene is one of the partners interested in your business.”

  “Of course,” Sara nodded, repeating the name to herself three times so she wouldn’t forget. Greene-Greene-Greene. “I should have known.”

  Caroline smiled. “Hardly. I shouldn’t have expected you to recognize his name. Mr. Greene and the other partners at BIG don’t like to advertise their interest in a project until the ink is nearly dried.”

  Boston Investment Group. BIG.

  Sara stifled a laugh. She couldn’t help but hear Joey’s voice in the back of her head, once again raising the alarm. They sound like the villains in a science fiction movie.

  “That makes sense.”

  Caroline nodded politely and tipped her head towards the doors. “Follow me.”

  Considering the building was only three levels, Sara couldn’t imagine why she needed a guide. However, as soon as she stepped foot into the lobby, it all made sense.

  It wasn’t that Sara would get lost. It was that she would have been distracted.

  The moment she walked through the revolving door—a treat in and of itself, likely tied to her childhood fascination with spinning revolving doors as fast as she could until she felt sick—Sara stopped, heels frozen to the granite floors. Everything in the lobby was polished to a reflective shine. The floors, the windows. Even the desks! A rounded front lobby desk sat off to the right, and Sara could see the bottom of her black skirt and her slim calves perched atop her delicate heels. Like looking in a mirror at a shoe store.

  Potted plants lined the walls, ranging from white flower blooms set on golden pedestals all the way to ten-foot-tall trees. They brought a sense of warmth to the hard corporate sheen.

  Science fiction villains wouldn’t tend to potted plants, would they? Not a chance.

  Following that line of logic, Sara took a deep breath and let herself relax.

  Caroline didn’t make conversation as they rode the elevator up to the third floor, and for once, Sara didn’t mind. She was busy repeating affirmations to herself.

  They are chasing after you.

  You’ve already impressed them, so be yourself.

  They want your business.

  The second the elevator doors opened, a tall, thin man in a perfectly tailored gray suit stepped forward, hand extended, wide smile cranked up to ten. “Miss Benson, welcome!”

  “Miss Benson,” Caroline said warmly, “this is Mr. Greene. I’ll leave you two to it.”

  Sara took the man’s hand, distantly noting the soft wrinkles around his eyes and the gray hair dusting his temples. He was older than she was, but by how much, she had no idea. “Hello, Mr. Greene.”

  “It’s Parker, please,” he said quickly, giving her hand one last squeeze before he stepped away. “My office is this way. I’m anxious to speak with you.”

  Sara felt a bit like a marble tumbling through a Pachinko machine, bouncing from peg to peg, but she kept her shoulders back and chin up.

  Mr. Greene’s—Parker’s—office was only two doors down, and Sara had to stop herself from bumping into his back when he stopped suddenly to open the door.

  “When our lawyers forwarded me your email yesterday afternoon, I told the team to do whatever necessary to get you here as soon as possible. The other partners and I have been on the edge of our seats waiting for your response.”

  “Sorry, I was out of town at a conference when your letter arrived.”

  “Yes, the Rising Stars Entrepreneurship conference.” Noting the surprise on Sara’s face, he smiled self-consciously. “I may have been keeping some tabs on you while we waited. Saw you were listed as one of the speakers. And an award recipient. Congratulations.”

  Sara made a show of looking back over her shoulder. “So long as you didn’t have me tailed by a private eye,” she joked. Though, in the back of her mind, she wondered if that was a possibility.

  “No, nothing like that,” he laughed. “Clearly, I don’t have a poker face. I’m revealing all of our cards. We are incredibly interested in acquiring Little Bull.”

  Reading the sentiment in a letter and hearing the words spoken out loud were two entirely different things. Despite having come t
o Boston for this exact purpose, Sara still found herself shaking her head in disbelief. “Sorry to be so blunt, but I’m honestly surprised you’ve heard of me at all. Nantucket isn’t exactly the center of the culinary world. And I haven’t made much of an effort to earn name recognition off of the island.”

  “Exclusivity,” Parker said, fanning both hands in front of him. The glimmer in his eyes told Sara he was imagining the words in neon lights. “That’s part of the appeal of Little Bull. Its why people are talking about you. I mean, an up-and-coming chef who left New York City to start a wildly successful business on a luxurious island? It’s not exactly a common story. It makes you unique. And desirable.”

  Wildly successful? “Moderately successful” is the way Sara would have described Little Bull. On a good day, she may have sprung for “decently successful.” But wildly? The suggestion was… wild. Part of her wondered if Parker Greene and his partners hadn’t been given faulty information. If they had, Sara wasn’t going to be the one to correct them.

  “…Which is why we have so many ideas even beyond the buyout for Little Bull,” Parker continued, leaning forward, elbows planted on his desk. “We wrote the stipulation of you remaining on as the head chef for at least a year because we want you to be part of this team. You are the reason Little Bull has become such a success, and we have no desire to cut you loose. So long as you are interested in working with us, we are interested in working with you.”

  A weight Sara hadn’t known was there lifted from her shoulders. She wouldn’t suddenly find herself out of a job or outside the world of Little Bull. She could still be part of the thing she had made. It sounded too good to be true.

  “That’s amazing. Because to be honest, running a business has never come naturally to me. I’m much more comfortable in the kitchen.”