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  Izzy snorted. “Keep dreaming.”

  “It’s important to visualize ourselves where we want to be. Use the energy of the universe and the power of your mind to make success happen.”

  “Don’t you feel the least bit nervous about us being able to make the movie, let alone win?”

  “Not if we stay focused on putting out positive psychic energy. Besides, we only have ten competitors. And they’re like us—amateurs and students—not professional filmmakers.” Shelly stretched her shoulders. “Even if we fail, at least you can go to your class reunion having fulfilled your high school dream. For a brief shining moment, you will have been a director.”

  “That’s what I thought when we started this. But once we became finalists, suddenly it feels way more serious.”

  “Breathe. And focus,” Shelly said. “All we’re doing right now is getting as much preliminary footage as we can.”

  “Right.” Izzy jumped to her feet, wrestled her video camera from its case and headed for the door. “Come on, the light is perfect right now—let’s do some unscripted filming to get in the mood.”

  Outside, Shelly jangled the old bell hanging next to the door, then cut across the scrawny patch of grass in front of the cabin. She waved a hand at the triangle of blue sky visible through the green-leafed treetops. “Overhead we have some high cumulus clouds,” she said. “A fine summer afternoon with temperatures expected to be around seventy-eight degrees, but—”

  “Wrong topic. Remember, you’re a star this week, not a weather girl.”

  “I’m warming up my vocal cords.” Shelly displayed her perfect on-air smile and a flawless set of pearly whites. “Could be some cumulonimbus on the horizon. That could mean a repeat of the past few days—with rain in the forecast later on if the wind holds—”

  Izzy shut off the camera. “Maybe we should scratch our original subject and do a weather documentary instead.”

  “People do love to talk about the weather.”

  “Wait, I’m visualizing something…Last place. Allow me.” Izzy handed the camera to her friend, then picked up a broken signpost on which the cottage name, Beechwood, was visible in faded black paint. She grinned playfully. “Something like this. Long ago, White Bear Lodge was a favorite vacation destination for gangsters like John Dillinger and Al Capone. Now all that remains of their fancy digs is this broken—”

  At the sound of a car crunching down the gravel road, she turned to see an old tan Taurus slowly round the corner and pull in alongside their Dodge.

  “Beautiful Boy,” Shelly whispered when it was clear the driver was the guy from the beach. “Come to visit already.” She flexed her fingers.

  Izzy’s heart started to patter.

  Beautiful Boy rested his left arm on the open window. His eyes locked on Izzy and the signpost she was holding. “You ladies have an accident?”

  The blood rushed into her face, making her feel flush. She tightened her grip on the wood post and tried to make her mind work.

  “Breathe and focus,” Shelly muttered.

  “We found this on the ground…someone else must have broken it.” She knew she sounded like she was lying.

  “Are you a guest here at White Bear?” Shelly asked.

  Leave it to Shelly to get right to the heart of things.

  “I…uh, sort of.”

  He wasn’t one of the owners? Then why had he gone on that rant about her?

  Shelly stepped closer to the car. “Have you been here before?”

  He let out a sharp laugh. “Oh, yeah. Been coming here for years.” He lowered the volume on the radio. “Listen, I’m heading into town. My grandmother asked me to tell you dinner tonight is down at the beach—a cookout from four-thirty to six-thirty.”

  “So you’re not a guest?” Izzy couldn’t help asking.

  “I wish it were that simple,” he muttered. “No, I’m Gib Murphy. Back for a visit.” He glanced from Izzy to Shelly and back again, gray eyes locking with Izzy’s just long to make her squirm inside. “And you are?”

  She almost gulped. “Izzy. Izzy Stuart,” she lied, giving her first and middle names only. No way was she going to let on that she was Elizabeth Gordon. “And this is Shelly Kent.”

  “Nice to meet you, ladies. I’ll save some marshmallows for you at the fire pit.” He put the car into gear. “If you need anything during your stay, be sure to let me know.”

  As he drove away, Shelly fanned herself. “Need anything? My Lord,” she said, “yes, there is something I’m needing. Sad to say, but it’s not me he’s wanting it from. Did you see the way he looked at you?”

  Izzy stared after the car, still feeling as disconcerted as she had when Gib’s gaze was on her. “He didn’t look at me like anything. Unless he’s figured out my family owns the land.”

  “Land?” Shelly barked out a laugh. “Those eyes had nothing to do with land, honey. Unless, that is, you’re lying flat on your back on it.”

  “ULTRAMODERN CABINS? An unparalleled vacation experience?” Bill Campbell, the bank vice president, handed the yellowed trifold White Bear Lodge brochure back to Gib and picked up his pruning shears. Though he was only in his mid-forties, Bill’s dark hair showed far more salt than pepper and there was no hiding the extra weight he’d put on around the middle. He had the appearance of a content, middle-aged man. “You know as well as I do the place hasn’t been updated since it was built.”

  “That’s not exactly true—”

  “Updates in the sixties don’t count.” Bill trimmed the wayward branches on an overgrown lilac bush.

  Gib winced. There was no way he could argue otherwise. He stepped into a patch of shade and contemplated the Campbell’s beautifully landscaped backyard. What had he been thinking, impulsively coming here on a Saturday afternoon when all he’d planned to do in town was pick up marshmallows and chocolate bars for tonight’s cookout? “Bill, you’ve been friends with our family a long time. I know my grampa is getting tired. And Matt’s hardly more than a kid. But can’t you lend them the money on the condition that Matt takes some management classes at the local college?”

  “They need more help than Matt’s going to get in a few classes. Plus, they need promotion. A Web site. A new brochure—not that thing written forty years ago—”

  “Not to mention a fresh coat of paint,” Gib muttered.

  “Right. You see it. That’s the insight that would come with new management. A fresh approach to things.” He dropped a handful of cut branches on the ground.

  Gib scooped them up and tossed them into a nearby trash can filled with other yard debris. “Classes in hotel and restaurant management could teach Matt some of that stuff,” he pressed.

  “No time. There’s only a few weeks. I can’t gamble now that classes would help Matt figure out how to run the place later.”

  Gib squeezed the fingers of one hand into a fist. “If you lent them the money and they defaulted on the payments, the bank would get the land. That’s valuable property. It’s win-win for the bank no matter what you do.”

  “Gib, we’re in the business of lending money—not the business of buying and selling property. We don’t make loans just to take property back.”

  Yeah. He knew that.

  Bill began to trim another bush. “Face it. Your grandfather’s getting old. Your brother is awfully young, and, frankly, I don’t think his heart is in it, anyway.”

  “They can’t hire a manager. They can hardly afford to pay the part-time help they have right now.”

  “I’m sorry, Gib. I hope this doesn’t sound heartless, but maybe it would be best for everyone if the land was sold and all of you moved on to the next chapter of your lives.”

  That would be fine if his grandparents had any money in the bank, if they had any way to support themselves once they left the property if they were interested in leaving. But they weren’t. As much as he wanted to agree with Bill, he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he walked away and let them lose everything. �
��It’s not that simple. If the land is sold, the buildings go with it. So the next chapter for Matt and my grandparents means having nowhere to live. And no means of making a living. Come on, Bill, you’ve known my family forever. Lend them the money. Isn’t there some outside the box thing you could do?”

  Bill straightened, thinking. “Outside the box, huh? They need a manager, someone who can see the big picture, then break it down into the sum of its parts and make it work again.” He gestured across his backyard. “This place was a jungle when we moved in. Look at it now. That’s what White Bear needs. Vision. And a plan.”

  Gib’s spirits dropped. Matt’s vision was limited to anything that had to do with skiing. And his grandfather…well, he’d said it before, his grandfather was tired.

  “Hey, here’s an idea outside the box—why don’t you do it? The place did all right when you were still at home. Wasn’t breaking any sales records, but it ran in the black.”

  No. Not him. He couldn’t go back, not to the resort, not to being tied down 24/7 and dealing with guests all the time. He pictured Izzy Stuart standing beside the cottage with that broken signpost in her hands, her long brown hair mussed from the wind, brown eyes sparkling, cheeks pink with embarrassment. He frowned. Even the most appealing of guests created stress.

  “With all due respect, what else were you planning to do?”

  “I was planning to take some time off,” Gib said, holding his temper in check. “Then I’ll go back to photojournalism. A bum knee doesn’t mean I can’t push a camera button anymore.”

  Bill tossed some cut branches on the ground, but didn’t answer. After a beat, Gib said, “So, that’s it? If I become the manager, you’ll approve the loan?” Even though all he was doing was asking, he felt he’d stepped into quicksand.

  “Well, getting more bookings and breaking even would help, too.”

  “There’s only twenty-three days left. It’s not going to happen that fast. Besides, it’s August. Most of the world has either taken their summer vacations or has them already planned.”

  Bill closed the pruning shears and faced Gib. “We’re in one of the worst financial markets in history. Loans are going into default everywhere, and the bank—like every bank—has substantially tightened its lending guidelines. I’d love to help you out, but in this market, if you want a loan, you have to bend over backward. Prove to the loan committee you’re going to make White Bear Lodge viable again.”

  Reality sank slowly into Gib’s brain. “Just in case we don’t manage to get a lot of new bookings in the next three weeks, do you have any suggestions for plan B?”

  “It might help your case if we knew the resort was making strides—big ones—in the right direction.” Bill opened and shut the clippers a couple of times as he spoke. “Competent management, a Web site, new brochure. Upgrade one of the cottages to show how you plan to renovate all of them.”

  Gib raked a hand through his hair. He must be crazy to even consider this. But he was going to be home for a while, anyway. And if he didn’t try to help…“Okay, I’ll do it. I’ll manage the place.” For a while. “We’ll put together a plan, work on bookings, develop a Web site, make a new brochure, renovate a cottage.” How the hell was he going to pull all this off in three weeks? “Then you’ll lend them the money?”

  Bill dropped his shears on the ground and pulled off his gloves. “I can’t promise anything. But a good-faith effort can’t hurt when the loan committee reviews your request.”

  IZZY BEGAN TO METHODICALLY empty her suitcase into the old wooden dresser in the bedroom she’d be using for the next week or two. Socks and underwear in the first drawer, tops in the second, shorts in the third—

  “I have never in my life understood why people unpack on vacation,” Shelly said from the doorway. She threw herself onto the garish orange-flowered spread covering the double bed and propped her chin in her hands. “All it does is create more work when you have to repack to leave.”

  “It feels more like a real escape when you unpack,” Izzy said. “Like you’ve actually gone away for an extended holiday.”

  “Sounds like something your parents or Andrew would say. No well-bred person would live out of a suitcase. Speaking of your betrothed, did you call him yet to say we arrived?”

  Izzy stopped, three brightly colored T-shirts in her hands. “He’s not my betrothed.”

  “Someone better tell him.”

  She stuck the shirts in the drawer and closed it firmly. “I was doing nicely here, not even thinking about Andrew, and then you had to bring him up.”

  “Well. Now, that sounds like true love speaking. I bet fifty bucks you never marry him.”

  Izzy lined up her Adidas and sandals on the closet floor. “Okay, you’re on. I may be having some trouble getting past that little surprise he sprang on me at the airport, but that doesn’t mean we won’t spend our lives together.”

  “You mean that oh-so-romantic proposal?” Shelly laughed.

  “That would be it.” Izzy lifted a black dress out of her bag, shook out the wrinkles and hung it in her closet.

  “Where in the Wisconsin woods are you planning to wear that?”

  “You should always pack a little black dress. Then, no matter what comes up, you’re ready.”

  Shelly’s mouth dropped open. “If I wanted to be here making a documentary with Andrew, I would have asked him along.”

  “I didn’t bring it because of him.”

  “No, no, absolutely not.”

  Izzy put her toiletries kit on top of the dresser and unzipped the case, carefully setting out her travel-size Chanel No.5 and the goat-milk hand cream Andrew had given her. Sometimes she wondered what was so wrong with Curel lotion. She pushed the troubling thought away.

  Shelly rolled onto her back and laced her hands behind her head. “What I don’t get is, if you said no, how come he acted like you said yes?”

  Izzy pressed her lips together. She’d glossed over the details when she’d told Shelly the story on the plane. “That’s just Andrew. He kind of turned it into yes.”

  “How does no kind of turn into yes?”

  “Well, I actually never said no. What I said was, I would think about it.”

  “What?” Shelly sat up.

  “I just wanted to get on the plane without a big discussion. If I’d said no, well, imagine how awful that could have been.” She deposited her hair dryer and the rest of her toiletries in the bathroom.

  “You could have said no and still gotten on the plane without a big discussion. No, I’m not ready yet would have let him down gently right on the spot.”

  “Yeah…But he said he’d checked the June availability at the country club and found an open date…and that June, you know, is the perfect wedding month. So I didn’t want—”

  “You can’t be going along with this!”

  Izzy winced. “He just likes to be organized. And, well, really, what’s not to like about marrying Andrew Clarkson? He’s—”

  “Well dressed, attractive, gainfully employed, has a full head of hair. In a word, perfect. The kind of man your parents consider a great catch.”

  “The kind of man most women consider a great catch.” A picture of Gib Murphy stole into Izzy’s head, his gray, dangerous eyes boring into hers. A wave of heat rushed through her and she sat on the edge of the bed. “The kind of man most women want to settle down with,” she said in an attempt to force Gib out of her thoughts. She let herself fall backward onto the bed so she could stare at the ceiling, feet still on the floor. Gib Murphy and his wrinkled T-shirt and broad chest and strong arms and muscled legs and even that angry scar on his knee—all of it, all of him filled her mind. “He’s absolutely perfect,” she whispered.

  Problem was, she was no longer talking about Andrew.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “WHAT TOOK YOU SO LONG?” Matt stood on a tall stool and rummaged through the cupboard above the refrigerator where the liquor was usually kept.

  Gib dropped the
grocery bag of marshmallows and chocolate bars on the kitchen counter. His family didn’t even know he’d gone to talk to Bill Campbell, let alone that he’d agreed to take the manager’s job. Now he wasn’t quite sure how to tell them.

  “What are you doing?”

  “We can’t find the hot dog and marshmallow skewers,” his grandmother said as she hurried through the doorway, a bundle of energy for such a tiny woman. She was a little more plump than the last time he’d been home, and a little more frazzled. She put a hand on each side of her head, smashing her gray curls and framing her softly lined face. “They’re not in the storage room anywhere. I swear, we get more disorganized every year. Maybe it is time to retire.”

  “You think?” Matt leaned over to open another of the high cupboard doors.

  “Didn’t we always keep them with all the rest of the barbecue utensils?” Gib asked.

  His grandmother clucked her tongue as she pulled a chef’s apron from a drawer and put it on. “Usually. But they’re not there.”

  “You know what they say about usually,” Matt said.

  “The welcome cookout last week, a huge storm came in. I swear, it was like The Wizard of Oz.” His grandmother dug through a drawer. “Total chaos getting everything off the beach. We were running around like chickens with their heads cut off. The guests were helping carry things up and now we can’t find anything.”

  “What do they say about usually?” Gib asked, struggling to follow the threads of the conversation.

  “I don’t know. But I’m sure they say something. Here they are!” Matt climbed down from the stool brandishing the skewers. He handed one to Gib. “En garde!” He struck an exaggerated fencing pose and Gib did the same.

  The two dueled their way around the kitchen like they had many a time as kids. Gib backed Matt up against the big stainless-steel refrigerator. “Uncle. Say uncle,” he said.

  “Boys!” Their grandmother clapped her hands firmly. “We have a cookout in an hour and we’re not nearly ready!”