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SAWYER
“What I would like to know is, if a man wants to expand his business, why does it take the approval of ten different people to do it?”
No matter how many times I say it out loud, it still boils my blood. My first big act as the new CEO of Somerset Harbor Yacht Club, and I need the approval of ten city officials. It’s my business they’re cutting into by dragging their feet.
“And it's your business. Why should they have a say in it?” My best friend Milo has never been much of a fan when it comes to following the rules. They're tiresome and boring. Naturally, that comment made him the perfect drinking companion tonight. Someone who I know will feed my righteous indignation.
I wave a hand, my gaze sweeping over the room. The very busy room, nestled in the yacht club my family owns. The club has been part of my life since I was born, but only now can I look over the gleaming bar and the club members enjoying their Thursday evening with a feeling of pride swelling in my chest. Now that Dad has stepped down and handed me the reins, everything looks different.
And I have to remember myself. The room is noisy, even with the doors leading out to the terrace wide open to let in the warm breeze, but not so loud that I want to take a chance that no one will hear the club’s CEO bitching and moaning that his expansion plans have been put on hold for the time being.
“It's all a matter of where the new dining room is constructed,” I explain. “Locals don't want to block the view of the harbor, that sort of thing.”
He snorts before draining what’s left in his glass. “You mean they want to be sure they can see their yacht from their front door?”
“Something like that.”
I lift a finger to Rich, the bartender, and he hustles our way from the other end of the bar. “Can I get you two, another?” he asks, eyeing our empty glasses.
“Please.” I need to take it easy, though. No matter how good two glasses of whiskey feel after a frustrating day, I promised my father I would be a good boy. Even though he's in the Virgin Islands, his influence hangs over me. I wouldn’t dare say that out loud to Milo, though, and not only because I don't admit things like that to anybody. Milo's got his own issues with his father when it comes to work, and I don't want to get him started.
As it turns out, he manages to find a way to steer the conversation in that direction. “It was the same way when I tried to get the permit for that multifamily project, remember?”
“The condos.”
How could I forget? The idea nearly threw Somerset Harbor into a second civil war, all because Milo had the idea for his father's private equity firm to fund a new building downtown.
“The audacity of wanting to change things even the slightest bit,” he grumbles, still bitter more than eight months later. “And then, when we can't get the permits and everything falls through, who does my father blame?”
“He didn't blame you specifically.”
“Easy for you to say. You're not the one he's been staring at in disappointment for years. There's what he says, and there's what he really means. Never confuse the two.” As soon as Rich slides a fresh whiskey his way, Milo bolts it back. So he's going to be in that kind of mood tonight.
“That's exactly the problem,” I agree, rattling the ice in my glass when I lift it to my lips. The whiskey is smooth, warming me inside. “Narrow minds. Fear of change. I'm not suggesting we paint the building neon green and start holding mud wrestling competitions on Sunday afternoons. All I want is to expand the dining room. Now all I have is a lump of red tape where my plans should be.”
“It's a matter of time. They'll drag their feet, but they'll give you what you want.”
“Only if I kiss the ring,” I remind him, sipping my whiskey again. It goes down smoother every time. “Do you know how it makes me grit my teeth to think about doing that?”
“You never did like to kiss ass,” he points out.
“Who does? Politics, Dad calls it. I didn't get into politics. I got into owning a business that, might I add, have added quite a bit to the local economy over the years. You would think that would earn me a little bit of leeway.”
“Maybe they'll want to play ball once your father's back from his trip.”
Reflexively, my fingers close tighter around the glass, until I have no choice but to bolt the rest of its contents back in one quick motion. “I don't need him to make this happen,” I remind my friend before slapping the glass onto the bar.
“Oh, no, I didn't mean it that way.” It doesn't matter. He said it. And it was exactly what he meant.
He doesn't get it, though. It isn't that I've spent my life expecting to one day be the CEO of the club. I'm not a case of the spoiled billionaire’s son with the silver spoon in his mouth walking through a life that's been plotted out for him, expecting everyone and everything to fall at his feet simply because that's the way his life has gone from day one.
I feel more at home here than I do in my own apartment. There's something about the smell of the place. The way my footsteps ring out on the floors. Soft conversation at lunchtime in the dining room, the sounding of horns in the harbor as guests arrive, docking their sailboats before strolling down the dock in anticipation of dinner with friends. The bustle of the kitchen, the laughter at the bar. This is my home.
I want to do right by my home and the people who visit my home, sometimes every day. That's the entire reason we need to expand in the first place—we're finding our members are taking more of their meals at the club, sometimes several days a week. It's getting to the point where we're booked solid most nights, sometimes turning away walk-ins because we don't have the room.
I hate like hell to lose that business, especially with the Macmillans building a new resort. Once that's complete, people will have somewhere else to go when we can't fit them in—and they might decide not to come back.
But if the city council insists on dragging its feet, it might be too late by the time we're up and running in our expanded dining room.
