Her Best Bet

Harlequin Superromance
October 2009
ISBN: 13:978-0-373-71593-0

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Excerpt ~ Chapter One

     On a bright Saturday morning in August, Elizabeth Gordon opened her mail, spilled her coffee and came face-to-face with her life.  It wasn’t pretty.

     The dark liquid raced across the letter she laid open on the kitchen table and poured over the edge like a mini waterfall to the scuffed hardwood floor below.  She jumped to her feet and snatched a handful of napkins from the holder, blotting at the spill as though she could lift the words from that single sheet and make them disappear.  As if it would make her forget what she had just read…

 Dear Izzy,

     If you’ve gotten this letter, it means you’re coming up to your 10-year high school reunion.  Can you believe it, Iz?  You’ve  been out of high school ten years already.  So, here’s what you’re doing for a living right now: you’re a movie director.  Or, okay, maybe an assistant director.  That’d be all right, too.  Or even an assistant-to-an-assistant.  As long as you’re doing what you want to do–and not what mom and dad want.  Tell me you didn’t marry some guy they thought was perfect and became a trophy wife.  On a shelf.  With 2.5 perfect kids.  Because Izzy, if you did, I don’t know what I’ll do.  I’m 18.  I’m about to graduate from high school and go to college.  I don’t want a husband.  I want to do something fun, exciting, rewarding.  I want to work in film.  You want to work in film.  So Izzy, that’s your future.  The movies!  I can’t wait to get there.  I can’t wait to read this in 10 years and know that I’m doing something I love–just like they said I couldn’t.

     Love and kisses, xxxooo from yourself,

     Izzy

 

     It had been an English class assignment her senior year–write a letter to yourself describing what your life would be like in ten years.  The teacher had collected the letters and said they would be mailed out with the reunion invitations. 

     She’d forgotten all about it.  Slowly she lowered herself back into her chair.  What had happened to her dreams?  Somehow, she’d fallen into a lifestyle–pattern–rut.  How had she let her life come to this, this moment where her loss of direction seemed exquisitely obvious?  Suddenly she had the sensation that she was floating, looking down at herself like they say you do when you die.

     “Izzy?”

     She felt herself snap back into her body and focused on the willowy blond in the doorway, her roommate, Shelly Kent.  Though Shelly had the fine-boned features of a model, she rarely wore makeup outside of work and paid just enough attention to fashion to make sure she wasn’t out of style.

     “The mail came already?”  Wrapped in a pink cotton robe, Shelly padded toward her and reached for the short pile of bills and junk mail.

     “Yeah.”  Years were passing her by and she hadn’t even noticed.  Dreams were passing her by.  She’d meant to get into film and instead…  She cringed. 

     “What’s wrong with you?”  Shelly glanced up from the mail.  “Did you get on the scale this morning?  Because I thought we decided we’d only weigh in every–”

     “I’m the traffic manager at a little cable TV station,” Izzy said with disdain.  “Traffic manager.”

     “So?”

     “So?  I manage the video inventory.  I maintain the advertising logs.  I schedule on-air promotion.  I don’t do anything remotely related to making movies.”

     “And I’m the weather girl.  A weather girl–not a movie star.”

     “Yeah, but traffic manager was never on my list of dreams.  Weather girl was on yours.”

     “Only if I didn’t make it as a movie star.  And you may have noticed, Hollywood hasn’t come calling yet but when they do, I’ll be ready.  Until then, it’s cumulus clouds for me.”  Shelly poured herself a cup of coffee, refilled Izzy’s mug, and slid into the seat opposite.  “I’m sure traffic manager is on somebody’s list of dreams–just add it to yours.  So, what’s this really about?”

     Izzy picked up the damp paper and slapped it on the table in front of Shelly.  “Read this.  How would you feel if you got this in the mail?” 

     As Shelly read the letter, she pressed her lips together.  “Like a loser.  Especially if I got to my reunion and discovered everyone else had succeeded beyond their wildest dreams.”

     “Thanks.”

     Shelly pushed her chin-length hair behind one ear and took a sip of her coffee.  “I was kidding.  I’m sure it won’t be like that.  When you’re eighteen you don’t know anything about life.  You didn’t have a clue how hard it would be to break into directing–”

     “I hardly tried.  My parents knew the manager at the cable station, so I landed there–and stayed.  Dreams be damned, it was just easier.  You were right the first time.  Loser.  At least I have a boyfriend.”

     Shelly made a gagging sound. She tilted her head thoughtfully for a long moment. Then she shoved back her chair, pushed up her robe sleeves and began to pick through the garbage in the wastebasket beneath the sink. 

     “There’s food in the pantry.  Just because we’re dieting doesn’t mean you have to resort to scraps.”

     “Haha.  I finally sorted that mountain of old junk mail and magazines on my nightstand yesterday,” Shelly said, still digging.  “And wouldn’t you know it, today I need something I threw away.  You always wonder why I keep all that stuff for so long, well, this is why.  Because–  Here it is!”  She pulled a brochure from the bag and wiped a swath of coffee grounds off the front.        

     “Here what is?”

     “Your salvation.  The Americana Traditions Documentary Film Contest for amateur and student film makers.”

     Coffee cup halfway to her mouth, Izzy froze.  “What?”

     “Now, if we have any luck at all…”  Shelly opened the brochure and scanned the copy.  “Thank goodness.  The Outline Submission Round doesn’t close for four days.”

     Izzy almost choked on her coffee.  “Are you out of your mind?”

     “Do you want to go to your class reunion as the person who didn’t even try to follow her dreams?  They’ll probably be displaying everyone’s letters and goals in some big Powerpoint presentation.”  Shelly waved a hand through the air.  “I can almost see it.  Column one–what each person wanted to do.  Column two–a gold star for success and a sad face for you because the one thing you accomplished was the only thing you told yourself not to do–settle down with some guy your parents thought was perfect.”

     Izzy stared, dumbfounded, as her friend kept talking without waiting for an answer.

     “Let’s try this, Izzy.  All we need to do is submit a one-to-two page summary describing the documentary film we want to make if we get chosen to progress to the Video Submission Round.”

     “We?”

     Shelly grinned.  “We, baby.  You want to be a director.  I want to be a star.  We might as well chase our dreams together.”

     Izzy snorted.  “Go back to bed and get some more sleep.  You’re delirious.”

     “Delirious?  Replace the r with a c and I’m delicious.”

     “Ohmigod.”

     “Face it, Iz, it’s an absolutely delicious idea.  And since we’re practically starving ourselves to lose ten pounds, delicious is a word I’d like to have in my vocabulary right now even if it only relates to making a movie.”

      This was totally and absolutely absurd. 

     And totally and absolutely tempting.  “What happens if we progress to the Video Submission Round?”

     “I thought you’d never ask.”  Shelly turned her attention back to the brochure.  “Two weeks after the Outline Submission Round closes, ten entrants will be selected as Finalists by a panel of judges,” she read aloud.  “Finalists will have two months to create a six minute short documentary expressing the topic presented in their outline.”

     The idea began to cozy its way deeper into her mind.  “And the winners are announced…when?”     

     Shelly dropped down into her chair and tossed the brochure on the table.  “Ten days after that.  This whole contest will be wrapped up in three months–in plenty of time for your class reunion.  Feels like it was meant to be, doesn’t it?”

     “I’m merely asking a couple of questions.  I’m not actually considering it.  I mean, what would Andrew think?”

     “Andrew would think you’re being silly and impulsive, that you don’t have a prayer of winning so why enter, that if you become a finalist, you won’t have as much free time to be the perfect girlfriend to him.”  Shelley slowly straightened in her chair and raised her coffee cup.  “Who cares what Andrew thinks?”

     “Well, I–”

     “No!  No, you don’t!  Come on Izzy, it’s the chance of a lifetime.  You get to follow your dreams and I get to be on film discussing something other than weather patterns.”

     Izzy pursed her lips and silently debated whether her roommate was brilliant or deranged.  There was such a fine line between the two.

     “And, it could be a real boon for your career.  I mean, think if we won.  Doors would open–”

     “Could open.”  Izzy stood and refilled her mug.  Shelly could be onto something.  Or not.  She did have a penchant for jumping to wild conclusions.

     “Likely open.  For both of us.  No more traffic managering for you.  No more weather girl for me.”  She arched a hand through the air.  “From now on it’ll be top billing for both of us!  Come on, Izzy, help me out here.”

     “Shelly, what if–”

     “What could possibly go wrong?”

     Actually, she couldn’t think of a thing, short of Andrew getting exasperated with her.  But if they finaled, Andrew’s exasperation would be the least of her concerns.  The corners of her lips curved upward as she considered what it would feel like to attend her reunion with her head held high, as a finalist–maybe even the winner–of a documentary film contest. 

     “What have we got to lose?”

     Nothing.  She exhaled.  “Okay, we’ll write an outline.”

     “We will?”  Shelly jumped to her feet and danced over to give Izzy a hug.  “You’re the best!”

     “Oh stop.  Just two pages, right?  On any American tradition?”

     “That’s what it says.  Got any thoughts?”

     “I don’t know…  Football?  That’s pretty American.”

     Shelly stuck two pieces of wheat bread in the toaster.  “Football skews male.  What if some of the judges are female?  How about apple pie?”

     “Skews female.  And boring.”

     For the next several minutes they bandied about ideas, discarding each in turn for one reason or another. 

     “What about that property your parents own?  That old resort up in Wisconsin.”  Shelly sprinkled cinnamon and sugar on the toast and handed a piece to Izzy.  “Isn’t that place steeped in Americana?”

     Izzy shrugged.  “They don’t own the resort–only the land.  And they’re selling that anyway.  My great great grandfather gave some guy a hundred year lease and finally it’s coming due.”

     “Hmmm.  That could be an interesting angle.”

     “Yeah, well the broker told my parents it’s getting rundown.  Who wants to see a documentary about a seedy resort?” 

     “No one,” Shelly said glumly.

     Izzy bit into her toast.  A memory of her grandfather telling stories of the old days popped into her mind.  Unless…  “Unless the documentary isn’t about the resort.  What if it’s about the gangsters?”

     “What gangsters?”

     “My grampa used to tell me stories that his father told him.  About growing up there during the ‘20s.  How the gangsters from Chicago used to come to Northern Wisconsin for vacations and–”

     “You mean like Al Capone?”

     “Yeah.  And John Dillinger and Baby Face Nelson and–”

     “Are you kidding me?”  Shelly set her coffee cup on the table and leaned forward onto her elbows.   “Did they ever stay at your resort?”

     “It’s not our resort–”

     “Yeah, yeah, only the land.  Did they ever stay there?”

     “That’s what he said.  Course he always loved to tell a good yarn.”

     “Good yarn?  Gangster Getaways in the Wisconsin Northwoods.  Izzy, it’s perfect!”  Shelly reached excitedly for the contest brochure and knocked over her mug, spilling coffee on the ten-year-old letter once again.  As the dark liquid dripped over the table edge like another mini waterfall and down onto the floor, Shelly grabbed a handful of napkins and began to sop it up.  “Good things are coming our way, Izzy, I can feel it.  Clear skies ahead!”

        #

     Gib Murphy had always known the lease would be trouble someday.  He’d just hoped to be on the other side of the world when it happened.  Well, best laid plans and all that.

     He stepped out of the northern Wisconsin woods onto the sun-drenched beach of Menkesoq Lake, then stopped to let his  grandfather and younger brother, Matt, catch up.  Like a row of stately blue herons, they fell into a line shoulder-to-shoulder and looked out across the lake, at a view that had belonged to their family, and the resort they owned, for generations.  Though their ages spanned fifty years, all stood straight-backed and tall, but Gib could tell his grandfather’s shoulders were starting to round.  Hard work and age were taking their toll.

     The sun beat down with typical August intensity, heating everything it touched.  It was a day meant for riding bikes and climbing trees.  A perfect day for swimming and throwing your wet body down on a towel in the hot sand to gaze in wonder at the sky and muse about what it would be like to fly a space ship. 

     Too bad he wasn’t a kid anymore.  Because the subject his grandfather had broached was far too serious for a day like this.

     “One hundred years our family’s been running this resort, leasing this land from the Gordons,” his grandfather said.  His silver eyebrows drew together beneath the brim of his worn Chicago Cubs cap.  “And now they want to sell it.  One hundred years of shared history about to disappear.”

     Gib could hear the pain in his voice. 

     “If the land is sold, the improvements become the property of the new owner.  That’ll be the end of the resort.”  Matt shielded his blue eyes with his hand as he gazed out over the lake; a breeze ruffled his shaggy brown hair.  Though he was twenty, he still had the gangly, not-yet-mature appearance of a teenager.

     “Did you talk to them about renegotiating the lease?” Gib asked.

          “He tried,” Matt said.  They use a management company now.”

     “Things were easier when we were dealing with Joe Gordon.” Their grandfather scooped a couple of sticks from the sand and tossed them into the fieldstone-ringed fire pit.  “Once Joe died and his son inherited, well, you know, we haven’t seen anyone from that family in twenty years…”

     “Course, they do live in St. Louis.  Not exactly down the road,” Matt pointed out.

     Gib shook his head.  Now he remembered why he so seldom came home; every time he did, it seemed like there was some new disaster to contend with.  As an Associated Press photojournalist stationed in Iraq, he had enough stress in his life already.  “If they’re determined to sell, the lease gives you first rights to buy, doesn’t it?”

     “What it gives us,” his grandfather said, “is the right to match any bona-fide offer they get.”

     Gib felt himself relax.  “You’re okay, then.  Nothing to panic about since they haven’t even officially put it up for–”  Something in his grandfather’s expression sent a chill through him.  “Tell me they don’t already have an offer.”

     His grandfather grimaced and for the second time, Gib thought to himself that the man was getting old.  Working at the resort kept him reasonably trim, but there were lines around his deep blue eyes that had never been there before.

     “Oh, hell!  Does this whole thing have to be a game of twenty questions?  They got an offer without even listing the property?  With six months left on the lease?”

     His grandfather nodded.  “Some condo developer contacted them.  Probably figured it would take six months anyway to get all the building plans drawn and approved.”

     “He gets all his ducks in a row now, then as soon as the lease expires, he’s ready to go,” Matt said.

     “How much time do we have to match the offer?”

     His grandfather pressed his lips together.  “The lease gives us thirty days but–”

     “A month!”

     “Actually, there’s only twenty-three days left,” Matt said.

     “Dammit!  Did you talk to the bank about getting a loan?”

     A long silence greeted his question.  He glanced between his brother and grandfather.  “Well?”

     His grandfather cleared his throat.  “Yeah.  Yeah, we met with them.  They turned us down flat.  Gib, we’re in trouble.  If we can’t find a way to buy the land…” 

     Why did he ever come home?  “How’s business been?”

     “Not what it used to be, that’s for sure,” Matt said.

     “What he means is the old days, when we were full every week all summer, they’re gone.”  His grandfather’s shoulders sagged. “I’m thinking a fella may have to pick up some side business to stay afloat.”

     “Come on!”  Gib faced his grandfather.  “How many times do I have to tell you?  You’ve gotta stop that.  You can’t be making book out of the resort–”

     “I did quit.  But if we need the money–”

     “Yeah, well you won’t need the money if you get busted and sent to jail.”

     “Gib, I’ll only do the small potatoes stuff–some baseball pools, the local guys, nothing fancy.  Your grandmother–”

     “Don’t try to pretend Grandma ever approved of this.  You start bookmaking again and sooner or later you’ll get caught and then lose the resort whether you buy the land or not.”  He looked at his brother.  “How can you let him even consider this?”

     Matt rolled his eyes.  “You think he listens to me?”

     “Why don’t you threaten to report him or something?  Or… threaten to tell Grandma.  That would do it–”

     “That would not do it,” his grampa said.  “It wouldn’t make any difference.  If it comes to it, I’ll do what I have to, to keep this place in our family’s name.”

     The wind shifted and blew a cooler breeze off the lake.  Like an omen, Gib thought to himself.  And not a good one.  He gritted his teeth together and mentally embraced a picture of what he’d hoped to find once he got home–a relaxing, peaceful environment where he could recuperate from the shrapnel injury he got in Iraq.  A chance to purge the memories– 

     “Kind of a pointless discussion right now, considering the bigger problem,” Matt said.      

     “He’s right, Gib.  We need to find some money–big money.”

     Gib went out onto the pier, squinted into the bright afternoon sun as he looked out over the lake, its surface no longer smooth, but marred by ripples from a light wind.  If they lost the resort, his grandparents and brother had nowhere to live, no way to earn a living.  He had no doubt Matt would land on his feet, but his grandparents?  They were too old to start over.  He turned.  “What exactly did the bank say when you met with them?  Why’d they say no?  I heard Bill got promoted to vice president in charge of lending a while ago.  You should have talked directly to him.”

     When neither replied, he gazed past them in frustration, up the hill to the main lodge, a large two-story stone and log building that was almost a hundred years old.  Things were looking a bit neglected and bookings were down; he had more than a sneaking suspicion why they couldn’t get the loan.

     A blue mid-size car bounced along the gravel road and jerked to a stop in front of the lodge.  The car’s front doors opened and two young women got out.  They looked around for a moment, stopping briefly to pet the family’s golden retriever, Rascal, on the veranda.  Hopefully these were paying customers and not bill collectors.  “Let me guess.  The resort is a poor risk because you don’t have enough bookings and you don’t have enough bookings because the place is getting run down.”   

     Matt winced and crossed the beach to the water’s edge.  “Uh, something like that.”

     “Something,” his grandfather echoed.

     “Something?  What else is there?”  Gib retraced his steps down the pier and went to stand beside his brother.  The lake lapped at the sand inches from their feet.  “They’d rather some developer get the land and put in condos?  Like they did on Elk Trail Lake?  Like they seem to be doing with all these old resorts?”

     Neither answered him.

     “They would?  Bill actually said–”

     “Calm down.”  Matt shoved his hands in the pockets of his cargo shorts and dug the toe of his running shoe into the sand.  “He doesn’t want to see condos here.  He’d rather see our resort–”  Matt slowly blew out his breath.  “The problem is, they don’t think Grampa or I–well you know how business has fallen off.  They want some guarantee–”

     Gib felt his stomach churn.  He was almost afraid to ask.  “Guarantee of what?”

     “That we’ll get it in the black again.”

     “How are you supposed to do that in twenty-three days?”

     “They want us to hire a manager.  Thing is, we can’t afford–”

     Gib waved an arm in front of himself, as much to stop his brother from saying any more as to allow himself to fully focus on their reality.  “What are you going to do?”  He didn’t even want to consider what options might be available.  He’d come home to recuperate–not to stay.  Running this resort had never been in his plans.

     Matt shrugged.  “I called The Wisconsin Getaway Guide and reminded them we haven’t been reviewed in years.  Some publicity might help with bookings.”

     “Hell, Matt, the last time we were in there had to be ten years ago,” Gib said.  “And if I remember right, we only got three stars then.  Now, we’d probably only get two.  Plus, it’ll never be out in time.”

     Silence settled over them.

     “We did okay when you were working here,” his grandfather finally said.

     No.  He’d done his time.  He didn’t want to do it again.   He’d become a freelance photographer to get away, see the world.   He had another life, a career.  And even though all he wanted to see for the next month was the view of a blue sky from a hammock, he knew he’d eventually take off again, the open road calling him like a siren’s song.  He slapped a hand against his thigh.  “I don’t get this manager thing.  Grampa, you’ve been running this place for years.  And Matt, you’ve been working here practically since you were two.”

     “Bookings are way off the past couple of years,” his grandfather said.  “Bill thinks new blood would bring new ideas.”

     Gib turned to Matt.  “I thought the plan was for you to major in hotel management at the community college during the winters,” he said accusingly.  “Have you taken any courses yet?”

     Matt winced.

     “None?”  This so fit his brother’s standard operating behavior.  “Maybe if you’d ever get off the ski hill and put some time in around here…  People plan their summer vacations when the snow is flying.”  He knew his irritation was showing.  “What a great welcome home.  Wow, it’s really nice to walk into an ambush.”

     “It’s not an ambush,” his grandfather said.

     “Yeah?  Then why didn’t you call me with this news a week ago?”

     “You were in the hospital.”  His grandfather glanced away.  “We didn’t want to burden you.”

       “Thought it would be easier to talk in person,” Matt said.

     “And harder for me to say no?”

     “We just thought we’d ask,” his grandfather said quietly.  “No harm intended.  Knew you’d be home for a while and thought you might be able to help.”

     Gib picked a stone from the sand and hurled it sidearm out onto the lake.  It hit the water and droplets scattered outward– like shrapnel.  “I’m sorry about what’s going on.  I don’t want you to lose the resort.  But what do you want me to do?  And in three week’s time?”  He let another stone fly out over the water.  “Wait.  I have a plan.  Why don’t you call the Gordons and explain the situation.  Tell them that no matter what the lease says, thirty days isn’t exactly a considerate amount of notice after one hundred years of working together.”

     “You can tell them yourself,” his grandfather said.  “Their daughter, Elizabeth Gordon, is checking in today.”

 

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