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“Seven tonight for the interview. Bye.”
I click over. “Iggy, how are—
“Has Linda told you yet?”
Checking the texts, my stomach sinks. “The thing with Clint Bryson?”
“He’s going to back out of the resort.”
“Fuck. What makes you think so?”
“Because he said, ‘I’m going to back out of the resort.’ Everyone is freaking out.”
I had been the one to connect with Clint Bryson. An oil tycoon who wanted to get involved in real estate, Clint is simultaneously the best person to have around and the worst, because he knows his value and won’t let anyone forget it. I don’t blame him—billions of dollars will do that to a person.
But that makes him a tremendous pain in the ass.
Courting his investment took over three months of party yachts, illegal cigars, and extraordinary gifts, which required stalking his entire family online. Given the tens of millions he has agreed to invest into the resort, it was worth the effort. He’s the reason we’ve been able to move forward as fast as we have. But he has the money to easily breech our contract, if he feels like it. And he could be a capricious old bastard.
My foot taps in response. I don’t want to do this. “I do not have the time to—
“Make the time, Cormac. You know that’s what your dad would do.”
There it is. The shadow I’ll never be out from under. The worst part is, he’s right. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Tonight. He’s leaving for some trip at ten, so it needs to be tonight.”
Which means I can’t interview the nanny for my own kids. I swallow hard. I hate this so much. Stepping into Dad’s shoes for the company means doing all the things he did, including missing important family functions, future soccer games, and anything else related to my kids. I’d be a fool if I didn’t ask myself whether it was worth it. But who else can take over the MacMillan Corporation? A stranger? Dad would come out of retirement if I stepped down, and for him, that would mean another heart attack in a year. I can’t let him do that.
Sighing at myself, I tell him, “I’ll make it happen, Iggy.”
“You’re a good man, Cormac. Many people will sleep easier tonight, knowing you’re on it.”
I won’t be one of them. “Thanks. Talk later.” I hang up and groan, dreading calling Abigail. She will have to do the interview herself, which means we won’t get the nanny. My ex-wife is a woman of many talents, but interviews are not one of them. Probably the real reason she chose the Somerset Harbor Yacht Club—let the venue do the work for her. I pour myself a scotch and sip for a minute, while I figure out how to tell her.
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6
Lily
The Somerset Harbor Yacht Club is the Billingsley Academy of yacht clubs. Though I imagine, anything withyacht clubin the name could be labeled the same way. It’s a gorgeous, stately two-story building, spread out along the Atlantic Ocean, with a marina of their very own. Like Billingsley, the parking lot is landscaped to death, but unlike the academy, the yacht club’s plants have a careless feel to them, as though they just happen to grow in a pristine manner. More English garden style than amusement park-sharp hedges.
Mom had hoped I’d get a job at the yacht club when I finished culinary school, despite the fact they gave the B&B some competition. The club has an attached hotel, but it’s so different from our place that I never thought of them as competition. It wasn’t as though their members would stay at a cozy B&B when they had the option to stay at the club. But to Mom and Dad, anyone renting a room was competition. Despite that, she wanted me to work there because she knew the Cargills were good people and would treat me right.
I park, avoiding the valet. Since I am not a member, I don’t want to deal with the awkward hassle of telling them I am here for an interview. Such an odd thing—the only other dinner time interview I’d had was for a kitchen, and I hated the feel of it, so I bombed it on purpose. I knew what I wanted—a restaurant of my own.
Look where that got me…
Sighing, I get out of Mom’s car wearing her clothes. Her best blue sweater set and black trousers with my black nonskid sneakers. My size nines won’t fit into her dainty size seven flats, and if I’m going to pretend to be a nanny, I should be in sensible shoes, anyway. I had even borrowed her purse to look the part of a country club-type instead of what I really am.
Mom swore the outfit would give the right impression, but walking to the door of the yacht club, I’m not so sure. I can’t stop fidgeting with the delicate sweater set, and I’m sure I’ll get a stain on it somehow. But on the drive, I had decided I’d order water, a salad with no dressing or tomatoes, and plain pasta. Can’t stain Mom’s best clothes with any of that.
The truth is meal planning is my mental happy place and focusing on that keeps the stomach butterflies from leaping out of my mouth.
Inside, the yacht club is lovelier than I’d anticipated. After a few years in Manhattan, my standards for fanciness were raised, but this place could stand next to any bistro or boutique on the island. A golden chandelier above, high-polished dark wood floors below, some antique decorations peppered among the modern stuff. Classy, but not as snooty as expected. Unfortunately, it’s also confusing inside, and I don’t know where to go.
“Good evening. Are you lost?” a man asks. He’s handsome, with shirtsleeves rolled up the middle of his forearms.
