Fallling for the Prodigal Son (23 page)

George Adams turned to Douglas. "Let's show her the property."

"Do you have time?" Douglas asked Lucy.

"Sure. I've been taking lots of field trips lately. Just let me put the lid on my paint and change into clean clothes."

George Adams' estate was as stunning close up and it was from a distance. It was quiet and peaceful. Breezes rustled the leaves of the old oak and maple trees. The bay lapped gently at the shoreline. The sound was so evenly rhythmic, almost hypnotic. Lucy was drawn toward it and she began to stroll down the wide green lawn to the water.

Douglas grasped her arm. "Let's go look at the house first."

Lucy followed Douglas and George Adams up the wide steps onto the house's wide porch. The porch was painted a glossy white and wrapped all the way around the house. Lucy followed it around, checking out the views from every angle. From this corner, sailboats dotted the bay. From another, she could see a pine needle-covered walking path that led to the boathouse.

"A little further along that path is a newish swimming pool. Only about three years old," Douglas pointed out.

Lucy ignored the pause. "A pool? That would be better for swimming lessons, wouldn't it?"

Douglas nodded, smiling so wide Lucy thought his face might be in danger of cracking. "Wait 'til you see inside. You won't believe it."

Douglas war right. Lucy could hardly believe what she saw. The rooms were spacious and many. There could be an office here, a nurse's room there. There was plenty of space for the kids to hang out on rainy days. Lucy ran her hand over a velvet-covered settee.

"We'd have to do a little redecorating," Douglas said.

Lucy smiled, feeling as dazed as Douglas looked. When she was a child, this was how she had imagined wealthy people all lived. In large, elegant, gracious homes like this one. She walked slowly through the rooms on the first floor, turning 360 degrees in the middle of each one to take in everything. The furnishings, the luxurious silks and linens, the elaborate moldings, the obviously expensive rugs on the floors.

She followed Douglas and George Adams through a long butler's pantry and emerged into a gigantic room. It took Lucy a minute to realize that she was standing in a kitchen, it was so large. She panned the room with her head, trying to take it all in. Two commercial-sized refrigerators, a commercial grade range, dual dishwashers, dual islands and dual sinks.

"I'm not much of a cook," George explained. "But my wife was an enthusiastic cook when she was alive. We used to throw large dinner parties and we never catered a single one. She did all the cooking herself."

Even more than the kitchen, Lucy marveled at the note of pride she heard in George Adams' voice as he spoke of his wife. Imagine, she thought, to be married for decades and still be proud of one's spouse.

"These would be plenty big for the camp's needs," Douglas said.

Lucy nodded silently. This kitchen would easily accommodate the camp's needs. The camp had always had to scrounge for space in the Inn's kitchen to store pre-made sandwiches and sodas, always had to plot elaborate menu schedules to make sure the Inn's cooks would have time to make french fries or crabcakes on a particular day. With this kitchen, the camp would have all the storage space it would need. Maybe the kids could even do some of their food prep and cooking in here.

"What's upstairs?" she asked.

"Seven bedrooms and seven baths. The attic I converted to a painting studio for my wife twenty years ago. Full heat and air conditioning," George Adams answered.

"Are you sure you don't want to sell this?" she asked. "Your children don't want the money?"

"I'm one hundred percent sure, Ms. Wyndham. My children would love to have the money but they don't want the property. My wife and I cherished this place for so many years. Honestly, I wouldn't want just anyone buying it and living here. I wouldn't want the place to be sold and occupied over and over—or rented out. I know the Inn would take care of it and there would be some continuity there. The property would be part of the community."

Lucy looked at George Adams as if he were an angel. An angel in plaid golf shorts and a white polo shirt.

"I'm going to walk down to the water for awhile," George said. "You two look around and discuss it."

"Like it's our decision," Lucy said after George left. She watched him stroll across the lawn, down to the water.

"I think he wanted to gauge my interest first," Douglas said. "People in St. Caroline still aren't too sure of Sterling. There's a reluctance to deal with him directly."

Would Sterling ever be able to overcome his father's legacy, Lucy wondered. Would people ever trust him the way they did John?

"The camp could be a lot bigger if it were here," Douglas said.

"You could serve more kids."

"Sterling could even use this place in the winter for Inn events. Maybe if he could make some money off this property, he'd be okay with ..." Douglas' voice trailed off. He hung
his head, looking at his shoes.

It was evident how badly Douglas wanted this property for the camp. Lucy had never seen tough guy Douglas cry—couldn't even imagine him crying—but she could tell by his uneven breathing that he was struggling to keep his emotions in check. Maybe even struggling not to get his hopes up. Lucy wished fervently that he wasn't too attached to the idea already. She honestly couldn't say whether or not Sterling would be open to moving the camp here, even with the prospect of making money off the property in the winter months.

She had tried to give property to the Inn, too, and been turned down flat. She didn't have the heart to tell Douglas that Sterling's opposition to the camp wasn't purely financial. The camp was tied to his personal childhood demons.

"There'd have to be a lot more fundraising to support a bigger camp, wouldn't there?" Douglas said, rubbing the sole of his shoe against the tiled kitchen floor.

"There would. But Derrick has set you up nicely. A lot more people know about the camp. And more former campers know now how much they need to continue to support it."

"Rumor has it that Sterling offered you your job back."

"Yes. He did."

Douglas looked up, his face brighter.

"But I turned it down."

His face fell. "Why?"

"It's not what I want to do anymore. I'm going to try and re-open the yoga studio in town. Have my own business."

"Oh yeah? Lucy, that's a wonderful idea."

Lucy inclined her head toward George Adams walking back up the lawn toward the house. Their visit was drawing to a close.

"So how are you going to approach Sterling?" she asked.

Douglas was quiet. Lucy waited. Still Douglas said nothing. Slowly it dawned on Lucy why Douglas had brought her here.

"You want me to speak to him," she said.

Douglas had a pleading look on his face. He fidgeted with his hands.

"I can try," Lucy said. "But, contrary to popular opinion, I don't hold much sway over Sterling. Sleeping with him hasn't earned me any brownie points, apparently."

"Thank you, Lucy."

"Don't thank me yet."
Don't get your hopes up.

Chapter 24

His mother was thumbing through a stack of marketing reports when Sterling entered the sunroom and took a seat opposite. The round table between them was clad in a yellow linen tablecloth and set with a floral patterned china. He took a sip of water from a sweating water goblet.

"The bankers are on board," he said.

"Well, that's good news," Sarah replied. She placed her hand on top of the stack of reports she had been reading. "However, I think parts of Elle's marketing plans are unrealistic. Lucy's recommendations will pay off sooner, I think." She gestured toward his plate. "Go ahead. Eat."

Sterling dipped a spoon into his gazpacho. His mother, he noticed, was not eating hers.

"You're not hungry?" he asked.

"I had a late breakfast," Sarah replied.

Sterling didn't buy that. His mother had lost weight since his father's death, and she didn't have much weight to spare to begin with. Another thing for him to worry about.

"There's another skipjack race next weekend," Sarah said. "You always loved those races when you were a child."

"I know. I saw something about it in the paper."

He'd seen something else in the St. Caroline newspaper, too. He had been thinking lately about renting a house. It was clear that he was going to be in St. Caroline until next summer at least. He couldn't, in good conscience, leave before it was certain that the Inn's finances could be turned around. The bankers were on board—for now—but that that was only a start. It would take another summer season to determine whether his planned changes would be successful.

He didn't want to live in his parents' house for an entire year. As comfortable as it was, he was too old to be living with his mother. It wasn't good for his standing in St. Caroline either. He needed to establish an authority separate from that of his parents. No one was going to respect him if they viewed him as being under his mother's thumb.

His own place would also give him some privacy, some freedom to entertain. If he was going to be here for a year, he couldn't be expected to live like a monk. Maybe he'd even buy a place. There were worse investments than real estate in St. Caroline.

To that end, he was skimming the paper's classifieds to see what people were asking for summer rentals these days.
That's when he saw it. Her name popped off the page.
Contact L. Wyndham.
He backed up and read the lines above.
Charming waterfront cottage for rent. Walk to the water or bike into town. Fully equipped kitchen. All linens provided.

A classified advertising Lucy's cottage for rent. That could mean only one thing. She was definitely leaving St. Caroline.

"Sterling, darling, is there something wrong? You look tired."

His mother's words brought him back to the present, back to the sunroom, back to the fifth day since he'd last seen Lucy.

"I am tired. I'm working a lot, you know."

As soon as the words left his mouth, he knew he'd left an opening for his mother that was a mile wide.
Not used to working, eh?
To Sarah's credit, she didn't take it.

"Is it that terrible, taking over your father's job? You know, I didn't have a choice but to ask you to come back."

Sterling shrugged. "Dad was determined that I take over the business, one way or another."

"Well, yes. He loved running the Inn. He didn't understand why you wouldn't want to," Sarah said. "But I can understand that you might want to do something different, Sterling. As a mother, of course, I like having you nearby. I miss you when you're overseas. Your father did, too. But I know you have to make your own way."

Make his own way. Except that he wasn't making his own way, was he, he thought bitterly. That was part of the problem, too, wasn't it? He was 99 percent certain that had played a role in his mother calling him home. He hadn't exactly been working in Europe.

He'd overheard a conversation at his father's funeral, between three friends of his parents, a conversation about himself.

"Doing nothing with his life."

"Living off John and Sarah's
money."

"Too old to be a ski bum."

He
was
doing nothing with his life. Sterling readily owned up to that. Doing nothing with one's life was fun. Until it wasn't. And when he was honest with himself, he could admit that he was a little tired of the life he'd been living. He knew he should be doing something more with his life. But what? At thirty-one, most people had their careers well underway. Sterling had yet to find some business, some vocation, that he thought would hold his interest for the rest of his life.

His father had found that. John Matthew's love for the Chesapeake Inn had been second only to his love for his wife. Sterling wanted that, too. Something that would define his life, something that he could shape and mold, the way his father had molded the Inn. Could he find that at the Inn, too? He wasn't sure.