Her mind started processing. Bringing the place into the twenty-first century was her number one priority, but keeping the historic Victorian charm was essential, too. Nearly all the summer homes and cottages of Trillium Bay were Victorian, with lots of lacy woodwork, gables with high-pitched roofs, and intricate color palettes. The town library should have some old photographs so she could see what color this place used to be, because right now it was sort of moldy green with mildew accents. Not very appealing. No wonder Gigi was losing her renters.
Now she wanted Emily to turn this place into an upscale one-family unit instead of the summer-worker flophouse it had become. That was a tall order, but Emily owed her. Not just because of the loan, but because Gigi had confidence in her. Gigi believed she could do it, and quite frankly, Emily needed this victory, because doing a spectacular job on this renovation would show her family she was reliable and responsible. She could do great work, and she was a successful businesswoman, in spite of her recent turn of fortune. A lot was riding on this flip. It wasn’t just about the house. It was about her reputation and her pride. No, not her pride. Her worth.
“So, let me get this straight,” Bryce said to Ryan over the phone. “Our dad is supposed to play poker with her dad? Our dad. And her dad. That’s . . . I don’t even know what that is. What the hell is he even supposed to say?”
“I have no idea.” Ryan shook his head and stared out from the balcony of his hotel room at the setting sun. “All I know for sure is that her father is the damn chief of police for the entire island, with access to weapons and jail cells. He could probably make our dad disappear. You know, maybe toss him off the Petoskey Bridge in the middle of the night? And then be in charge of the damn investigation! That’s what I would do if I were him and she were my daughter.”
“Nice loyalty, bro.” Sounds of chaos echoed over the phone. Someone was yelling, and someone was crying. A typical Sunday evening for Bryce, wife number three, and their two children.
“I’m loyal, Bryce. I didn’t say I was going to throw Dad off the bridge. I only said that if I was Harlan, I’d throw him off the bridge. Totally different.”
The crime rate for Trillium Bay had to be so low as to be nonexistent, but Harlan Callaghan did not look like a friendly, easygoing kind of guy. It seemed entirely plausible that tossing a man off of Petoskey Bridge would seem to him like an entirely plausible solution.
“You have to go, too,” his brother said. “To the poker game. You can’t let Dad go alone. You know how ethical and honest he is. Can’t you just hear it now? ‘Hey, Tag, I raise you twenty.’ ‘Oh okay, Chief, I’ll call you, and oh, by the way, I’d like to call your daughter, too.’ What the fuck?”
“I know. I know. Listen, I’ll see if I can go, but it’s only for the old guys.” Ryan rubbed his forehead, hard, as if wishing he could push some good ideas into his mind. It kind of worked. “You know, maybe this isn’t a bad thing. I mean, if Tag comes clean to her dad, that could be the end of things right there.”
“Uh . . . because he throws Dad off the bridge?”
“No, because Harlan is sure to be entirely against it. Tag won’t keep seeing her without her father’s approval. Would he?”
“Her father’s approval? I understand the entire island is historical, but you do realize you have not actually traveled back in time, right? I don’t think he needs her father’s permission for what he’s doing.”
Ryan couldn’t help but chuckle at that. “I’m just grasping at straws here.”
“Do you need reinforcements? Do I need to send Jack out there?” More yelling and crying in the background. Ryan loved Bryce’s kids, but they were chronically loud.
“No, not yet. I think the bimbo’s sister may be my wingman on this. She’s every bit as against this thing as we are.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because she’s the woman I met at the airport. I don’t think she currently likes me very much since I called her sister a gold-digging bimbo, but like me or not, she and I are now on the same team.”
“What team is that?”
“Whatever team that can get Dad to come to his senses and come home.”
Chapter 11
Joe’s Cuppa Joe Coffee Shop was buzzing with people trying to get their Monday morning caffeine fix as Emily made her way toward the counter, past hipsters with their laptops and earbuds, a gaggle of moms with chubby babies stuffed into ergonomic front-carriers, and even April, May, and June, the diabolical Mahoney sisters. They were sitting in a booth with Olivia Bostwick, casting spells, no doubt. Sunlight poured in through an abundance of oversized windows and bounced off of the polished brass fixtures, while outside on the patio several other customers sat at the collection of wooden tables, enjoying the view of the water while sipping five-dollar lattes.
“Just a regular coffee, please,” Emily said to the freckled, bespectacled cashier behind the register. The girl blinked at her slowly and pushed her dark-framed glasses against the bridge of her nose with one thumb. “What kind of regular coffee?”
“Um, just . . . black coffee.”
“We have fudge frenzy, milli-vanilla, fofana-banana, or blueberry bonanza. Those all come in regular.”
This made Emily’s head hurt. It was simply unfair to offer so many options of coffee to a woman who had not yet had her coffee, especially when she’d barely slept at all last night. Her mind had been a pinball machine with ideas for the cottage bouncing off one obstacle after another. So many details and so many things that could go wrong. It was overwhelming, but she was meeting her crew tomorrow, and she’d need a decent plan for them to follow. Currently, her best plan was to get herself some damn plain coffee.
“Do you have any that’s just, oh I don’t know, coffee flavored? Like, French roast or medium blend or something?”
The girl turned around to look at the list of coffees written on the blackboard behind her. Sort of like she had no idea. Which seemed quite likely.
“See?” Emily said, pointing over the cashier’s shoulder. “There on the bottom left it says regular coffee.”
“Huh. I’ve never had anyone order that before.” She shrugged and turned back to the register. “That’ll be a dollar fifty.”
“I’ve got it.” Ryan’s voice breezed past Emily’s ear, and she turned to see him standing right behind her. His nose was a little sunburned, which was cute. Which was therefore aggravating. She didn’t want to think Ryan Taggert was cute. She’d made a point of not speaking to him at church yesterday, just so he’d know she didn’t think he was cute. But he was. And she did. His sunglasses hung from the neckline of his light blue T-shirt, which was also cute, and kind of stupidly sexy for no logical reason whatsoever. Twinges and ripples and flutters filled her body, also for no logical reason, other than the fact that he was just . . . sexy. But he’d called her sister a gold-digging bimbo, and in spite of all the nicey-nice chatter the rest of them had fumbled through during that charade at church yesterday, he was not someone she wanted to be . . . rippling and fluttering over.
“I can pay for my own coffee. I know how precious your money is to you Taggerts.”