The Ivy House

chapter 13

Chase sat in the meeting, listening to the bickering going on between the creative director, his PR director, Tory, and assorted staff. It was one of the few things he hated about running a company. Decision by committee. As North Coast Outfitters had grown, he hadn’t been able to keep a finger in every pie. Too many locations, too many moving parts. He’d had to do what he did best—be a captain and manage his crew. But right now, his crew was getting on his nerves, and he wished he could make them walk the plank, metaphorically speaking, that is.

The windows of the conference room had a good view of town. He’d been able to watch Phoebe make her way off the docks and head up the road back, he presumed, to Ivy House. She had been angry and had been yelling at him, her eyes bright, the color high in her cheeks. Phoebe had looked lovely and he had wanted to kiss her. There, he had admitted it.

But his meetings with her never quite played out the way he thought. He’d offended her at the first, had her angry at the second, almost won her back at the third, and now she was all riled up again. So what if he was Leland Harper’s grandson. The man, except for passing on some DNA, had been a blip on the screen as far as his family was concerned. At least the ones now. He knew Grandmother had never quite forgiven Savannah for stealing her husband. But that was history.

Now they tossed the story around like it was a joke, a legend, history, but of the more colorful sort. Every family had some of that, right?

Chase shook his head. He’d made the offer on Ivy House because his mother had called, saying what a shame it would be if the new owner, an out-of-towner, came and tore down a local landmark. And then Joan Altieri had clucked over the same thing, and before he knew it, Mrs. Sampson, the head of the Queensbay Historical Commission, had ambushed him on his way to get coffee and said the same thing. And then Sandy Miller, real estate agent extraordinaire, had swooped in and told him, for a price, he could have the best view in town.

So much for a done deal. Phoebe Ryan was having none of him.

He sighed and turned his attention to the pictures in front of him.

“The preview emails received a dismal click-through rate,” Tory was saying. “I just don’t think anyone was very excited about the new designs.”

“I know, I know.” His creative director looked annoyed. “Look, this is the first time we’ve ever attempted to branch out beyond our core of sailing and sporting goods. Maybe we need to start over? These designers are great with raincoats, but,” she gestured at the portfolio in front of them, “I don’t think they’re getting it.”

Even Sam Wasterstone, the PR director, the one who always had an idea on how to make something look fun or sexy or useful or all three, was shaking his head.

“Not getting it?” Chase repeated, looking at the images. Nope, they were certainly not getting it. Everything was blah, boring, and definitely not hip. They needed something fresher, lighter, younger.

Suddenly, Chase felt instinct take over. “I have an idea.” He leaned back in his chair, feeling victory within grasp. He knew just the person who could help them.