CHAPTER NINE
Eva Drake covered her left ear with her hand and with her right pressed the phone tighter to her head to hear better. Her sensible black Birkin hung in the crook of her elbow, swinging against her torso each time she moved. The wind pulled at her short blond hair. Annoyed, she tucked the longer strands in the front behind her ears as best she could. She looked at the huge sailboats and small yachts that filled the marina around her. She hadn’t expected such visible wealth in the middle of nowhere, but as she read the names of the boats, it became clear many were owned by Illinois people. No Wisconsinite would name their boat Ditka’s Dinghy or Cubbie #1. At least that’s what her market research had told her. She was in one of the small towns that made up the heart of Door County—Efrom or Eframe or Egads . . . something with an E.
“It’s under control,” she said, her voice tight with frustration. “I’ve given him all the paperwork and he sees the logic. The other contract will be signed in a few days—they’re having their lawyer read it over. They’ve also given me insight I hadn’t expected. We’re in a very good position.”
“You said that last time.”
“Last time I had an inferior partner undermining my decisions. This time that isn’t happening.”
“That’s not the version I heard.” He paused to slurp liquid, probably the cold, black coffee that sat on his desk all day. “I don’t care how it happens. I expect to have signed papers by the end of the month. Otherwise, I’ll send Patrick to take care of it.”
The line clicked off, but Eva checked the phone’s screen to be sure.
“Dick!” she said. Her dad never said good-bye when he ended a call, so she could never finish telling him everything completely. She’d bet anything that he didn’t hang up on her brother like that. But she’d be damned if she allowed Patrick to touch this project after roadblocking her at every turn on their last one. Besides, if and when it succeeded, and she knew it would, he’d just take all the credit—just like he’d been doing since she started at the company a year after he did. It was her idea to bring WWW to this area, and she’d make it a success without Patrick.
Her dad had founded Wild Water Works fifteen years ago, realizing the opportunity—and waterfalls of money—to be made building hotels and water parks together. He hadn’t been wrong and they were growing faster than industry predictions. Now, she and her brother jockeyed for who would take it over when he retired. Her father played them against each other, and she hated them all—including herself—for buying into the competition. That’s why she’d been scouting territories on her own that hadn’t been touched by the water-park craze yet. Door County, with its abundance of family visitors and quiet winters, would definitely benefit from a cold-weather destination like an indoor water park. She could almost smell the over-chlorinated water now.
And she would make it happen.
The person she was negotiating with had said to meet here at two, and it was one forty-five. In Eva’s book, fifteen minutes early was nearly late. She stepped with purpose on the wooden dock, careful not to get her four-inch black pumps stuck in a crack. The sun turned her black suit into an oven, forcing a trail of sweat down her spine, so she slipped the tailored coat off her arms and pulled the shirt away from her skin to let the breeze cool her down. Her father insisted she always be the most professionally dressed person in the room—even without her blazer, that wasn’t a problem here.
She studied the shoreline, where small galleries and shops fringed the streets as tourists weaved in and out of them. This whole town just looked like a lot of money to be made. Families by the hundreds, according to her research, looked to entertain kids in a safe, controlled environment where they could read a book and sip cocktails. She looked at her hands in the sun and picked at a chip in her French manicure. With any luck, she could have the deal wrapped up in a week, because she really needed a manicure—and it was impossible to find a place in this whole county that made a decent cold-pressed green juice. The continental breakfast from her hotel consisted entirely of carbs and butter.
She meandered her way to the end of the dock, where a bench overlooked the water. The afternoon sun filtered through to the rock-speckled bottom. Instead of a Caribbean blue, the bay waters looked algae green. She’d already been isolated here for a week, and who knew how much longer it would be before she could return to her condo in Chicago. They may share the same lake and time zone, but Door County and Chicago were worlds apart. At home, they’d never leave all this gorgeous real estate for cottages and farms.
Her intuition had her smiling and reaching out a hand, even before her appointment could identify himself. Everything was on track, or would be soon.
CHAPTER TEN
Sanna woke before the sun. She slipped on her work clothes and snuck into the barn. Yesterday, she had pulled out of the freezer a few special juices from the Looms that she had frozen last fall and set them in the cooler to thaw. When she had pressed them last October, they hadn’t produced as much juice as the apples from younger trees, but even the raw juices by themselves were interesting and complex, layers of apple and honey and something earthier. At the time, she’d decided to save them for inspiration to strike. As she had lain in bed, though, waiting for the first rays of light, a color blossomed. A rosy pink, with a hint of coral, bold and opaque. It didn’t have any sharp edges. She knew instantly it required juice from one of the Looms.
She measured and blended, noting each of the juices she used and in what combination. Two parts Rambo, one part Winesap, a half part Britegold. She sipped it, but the color was too red, almost searing. She needed something to mute it. She walked into the large freezer where she had stored some of the frozen juices and even a few bushels of frozen apples she was experimenting with.
She ran her fingers over the giant apple ice cubes in flattened Ziploc bags, closing her eyes and letting the colors emerge—green, periwinkle, sunshine yellow, and a sunset orange. Like the sound of a puzzle piece snapping into place, she knew she had found what was missing. She pulled a bag and set it in the sunlight streaming through the broken window. She didn’t need all of it right now, just enough to confirm she was on the right path. While she waited for it to thaw, she flipped open her journal and wrote down the measurements she had established, then pulled out her colored pencils to create the shade emblazoned on her mind. The color spoke of vitality, passion, and strength.