Authors: Sharon Buchbinder
With a degree from Cornell’s School of Hotel Administration, he knew the hospitality business inside and out. Renovations wouldn’t be cheap and repairs would take time. But, and it was a gigantic
but
, where would he find an executive chef? Not just any toque-topped slice-and-dice genius would do for this inn. No, he wanted, and the old gal deserved, a world-class
chef de cuisine
on a par with those found in the Big Apple or Vegas. No matter how beautiful the setting, the service and fine dining
always
drove the bottom line.
He watched people stroll the tree-lined streets and tried to remember the last time he’d been back in Summerville. Had it really been twenty-four—no, almost twenty-five years? Lucky for him the teachers had all liked him; otherwise, he’d still be the oldest senior in SHS. He rubbed the medallion in his pocket, a gift from an old friend, and winced as memories floated back, reminding him of his many screw-ups.
It wasn’t as if he was stupid. Hell, he’d had nearly perfect scores on his SAT exams. But homework and classes took a backseat to more pressing matters of poker and ponies. Men with heavy accents had phoned his parents’ house day and night, issuing thinly veiled threats about Jim and the money he owed their
associates.
Over and over, his mom and dad begged him to stop, alternating between threats, tears and self-recriminations. When he learned his parents had put a second mortgage on their house to keep him safe, guilt and remorse overwhelmed him. He left town for good the night of his graduation from SHS, telling his teary-eyed mom and red-faced dad that he’d be back once he’d made a name for himself. That day
finally
arrived, but his folks were gone, taken in a head-on collision with a drunk driver three weeks after he left town.
He climbed out of the car, opened the shrieking gate and bent to pluck an empty cigarette pack from the overgrown weeds covering what once had been a beautiful plant-lined walkway. At forty-two, he wanted to travel back in time and smack sense into his eighteen-year-old self.
What was I thinking?
A compulsive gambler, Jim had hopped from casino to casino, eking out a living as a waiter to support his mounting habit—until he hit his own personal bottom. And the rocks didn’t get much harder than that. To this day, he could still smell the stink of an Atlantic City low tide as it washed over his nearly lifeless body while thugs in steel-toed boots tuned him up for not paying back his bookie in a timely manner.
Had it not been for the sudden appearance of an amorous couple under the boardwalk, he wouldn’t be alive today. Later, he found out that the man who saved his life was in town for the Atlantic City Professional Body Building contest—and pissed as hell that he only came in third. Jim rubbed the scar on his eyebrow and mentally thanked the man who came in first that day.
He turned and eyed the object of his affection. The Summerville Inn, once a beautiful centerpiece of the little town, had fallen on hard times. The three-story brick building with a Federalist-style façade with its enormous front porches and overgrown ivy still enjoyed a charisma that hadn’t faded, despite its age and disrepair. He climbed the front steps, avoiding broken rocking chairs, crumbling concrete, and detritus of days gone by.
Leaning on what appeared to be a solid railing Jim closed his eyes and recalled serving drinks and hor d’oeurves to well-dressed, well-heeled guests. He’d been shameless, telling them he was saving money for college. Little did the heavy tippers know they were supporting his expensive habits, not his higher education. He turned and patted the old gal’s wall. Large chunks of peeling paint on the trim revealed pockmarks and pits beneath, damage from ice cold winters and blazing hot summers. He sighed. She needed a
lot
of work.
There were no twelve-step programs for run down hotels—but Jim had enough Gamblers Anonymous experience to share with everyone, including this dame. He’d done his homework, gotten an in-depth inspection report. Down, but not out, it was time to get her back on her feet. If he could do it for himself, he knew he could do it for her.
He crunched through weeds and kicked empty beer cans to the side on his way back to his car. The bank was still open. He’d bring a cashier’s check for the largest amount of money he’d ever been able to save in his life—half a million dollars. He touched the medallion once more for good luck. By noon tomorrow, the Inn would be his. No one in their right mind would out-bid him. The odds of that happening were a million to one—of
that
he was one hundred percent certain.
~*~
Genie King sat at her chipped Formica kitchen counter and ran her index finger down the spreadsheet for the fourth time in the last thirty minutes. The reserve price for the auction was two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Knowing Beth Heade, Genie was certain that her obnoxious husband, Dick Heade, would be there as a plant in the audience to bid up the price. If she bought the Inn for three hundred thousand that would leave her another two hundred thousand to fix it up. But, if she had to go as high as four hundred, that meant she’d have to obtain a home equity line on top of the mortgage she’d already taken out.
She knew
all
about the cosmetic and structural issues at the inn, having already invested five hundred dollars for a top to bottom inspection. Replaced a mere ten years before, the roof was still in good shape, as was the foundation. However, everything in between and surrounding the Inn was a different story. From peeling paint and rotting interior wood floors to overgrown gardens, the old gal was going to be a major labor of love.
Genie had fallen head over heels for the Inn the first day she sat in the job interview with the owner. At the end of the meeting, her new boss had told her that she had a good feeling about Genie and her future in the hospitality industry. Little did her supervisor know that one day the girl in front of her would come back to claim the Inn as her own. She smiled at the thought—then gnawed at her bottom lip when the butterflies of worry crowded out those of excitement.
If
only
Mom and Dad were still alive. Five years had passed, but she missed both of them every single day. Mom had taken care of everyone; so much so that she never took care of herself. When she found out she had uterine cancer, the disease had spread so far and so fast, she survived only six months. Dad died six months later of a broken heart. They left everything to Genie, including the home she still lived in. She wiped a tear off her cheek. She could really use their advice, financial or otherwise.
Always supportive, Mom would have asked, “Will it make you happy?”
Always cautious, Dad would have asked, “Do you have an exit strategy, if it doesn’t work out?”
Would it make her happy? Her life revolved around preparing and presenting food and—much to her chagrin—her waistline showed it. Tasting went along with cooking. How could
anyone
trust a skinny chef? Her education from the world’s premier culinary college culminated in a Bachelor’s of Professional Studies in Culinary Arts. A Culinary Institute of America, or CIA, graduate was
always
looking for an opportunity to be the head chef. Having her own restaurant would make her downright
delirious
with joy. Genie burned to find a showcase for her unique blend of French-Asian dishes which some likened to those of Roy Yamaguchi and Alan Wong. Given a chance, she knew she’d make it in New York—or Vegas.
Exit plan? Worst-case scenario, she’d go bankrupt and have to return to some other executive chef’s kitchen as a Sous-chef. Her stomach knotted at the thought of working for yet another temperamental
bête noir
. The last one had thrown a large iron skillet at her. Lucky, she’d learned to dodge his temper tantrums—and pots and pans. The dent left in the wall was evidence enough that it was time to leave before that bad boss killed her.
What she
really
needed to find was someone with hotel management expertise. With Cornell’s School of Hotel Administration within geographic striking distance, she expected to find a hungry young man or woman willing to start on the ground floor of the historic inn’s renaissance. Once she had the title to the property in her hand, then she’d make a call to the career center and post a job description. She
had
to make this work. If she couldn’t make a go of it with the inn, she’d lose everything—lock, stock, and cooking pot.
The living room clock cuckooed eight times. Her heart sped up. Almost time to go and she wasn’t even dressed. Good thing she’d picked out her outfit for the auction the night before. She dashed to the bathroom and showered quickly. As she wiped off the mirror, a face surrounded by long ringlets of copper colored hair emerged from the fog. She aimed the hairdryer at the remaining mist and worked at pulling her unruly curls back in a ponytail. Or should she wear it down? After all it was an auction, not a kitchen. There was no hazard of hair falling in the food.
What the heck.
It was a day for taking chances. She let her hair down, and began to work on her makeup. The woman at the cosmetic counter had assured her that the color palette in her hand complemented her blue eyes and freckled complexion. At this moment in time, Genie wasn’t sure the bronze and blue shades were right, but she plunged on feeling daring and somewhat dangerous. The hardest part was yet to come.
Her new black suit and cobalt blue blouse awaited her in the closet. She’d been dieting, trying to lose the pesky fifteen pounds that followed her around like a faithful dog. The moment of truth was at hand. She took a deep breath and put on the blouse.
Holy crap
. How had she not noticed the low-cut neckline before today? Had the saleslady been holding the blouse up when she looked in the mirror? The skirt was a tad tighter than she had hoped it would be.
Dammit
. At least it zipped. She put on the jacket and faced the mirror.
Great
. Sweet Charity
meets
Wall Street
.
The clock cuckooed nine times. She slammed the closet door, stomped into the living room, and glared at the annoying timepiece. “Shut up, you stupid bird!”
Maybe it’s time to rip the cuckoo out of the clock.
Mortified that she would even
think
of destroying a memento her father gave her mother more than three decades ago, she whispered, “Sorry. I didn’t really mean it. I’m just nervous.” She thought she saw a glint in the old bird’s eyes, but no, it was the tears in hers.
CHAPTER TWO
~*~
Beth Heade paced the gloomy foyer of the Summerville Inn and for the tenth time that morning rearranged the brochures on the registration desk. Pausing to admire her reflection in the ceiling to floor mirror, she fluffed her short blonde hair, and touched up her blood-red lipstick. After a quick glance around the room to be sure she was alone, Beth reached into her bra and lifted her breasts for better display. She could have bought a friggin’ townhouse with the money she spent on plastic surgery. For the price she paid, the girls deserved to be up and out on a silver platter.
Where the hell is Dick?
He’d better not stand her up today. She needed him there to jack up the crowd into a bidding war. Not that
she
wanted the dump. She shuddered at the thought. Reeking of old cigars and older mold, the place gave her the creeps and made her itch
. Dammit
. She was breaking out in hives just being here. A car door slammed shut.
“Well, about time you got here,” she called.
But the man who stomped into the front door wasn’t Dick—in fact she wasn’t sure he was even human. Short, dark, and hirsute with knuckles practically scraping the ground, the Neanderthal walked up to her and breathed garlic into her face. No, he could
not
seriously be thinking about buying the inn. He
had
to be lost, in search of a bar—or the zoo. She took a deep breath and gave her best sales person welcome. “Can I help you?”
He ignored her extended hand. “Yeah. I’m here to buy dis place.”
“Pardon me?”
“Dis here is an auction, right?”
“Well, um, yes, yes it is,” she stammered.
Oh, my gawd. This gorilla is a buyer?
She snapped out of her stupor and into sales mode. “Please take this brochure and feel free to wander around. The Summerville Inn is over a hundred years old and has a great history. F. Scott Fitzgerald and his wife, Zelda, summered here—”
“Zip it.”
“Pardon me?” A warm flush ran up her neck and face, her
sang froid
threatening to reach the boiling point.
“I don’t give a shit ’bout no Xena. When I want you to talk, I’ll rattle your cage.”