Her Best Bet Read online

  She’d never hung up on Andrew before in her life.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  EARLY THE NEXT MORNING, GIB HEADED to the kitchen for breakfast duty. A gentle breeze rippled the flags in front of the main lodge, and carried with it the scents of pine and wildflowers. He yawned, his fatigue so great he felt like he’d been trampled by a bull—7:30 a.m. was for sleeping. Or running. Except both activities had been a problem since his injury.

  He switched his thoughts to the discussion he planned to have with Izzy and Shelly today. By providing them with some information—as little as possible—he hoped to convince them to minimize the footage they used of the resort. As long as they kept their camera on the areas that were still in decent shape, the place might come off all right on film. Especially if it was in the background…and soft focus. “Okay, I’m here,” he announced as he came through the door. “What do you want me to do today?”

  His grandmother pulled a jug of milk from the refrigerator and set it on the center island. “Wait tables,” she said.

  “Again? Maybe I could cook.”

  “Got plenty of cooks today—your brother and I are already taking care of that. Grampa ran into town and he’s not back yet, so we need you to wait tables. There’s waitstaff aprons in the—”

  “I know where they are.” He went out into the hall and grabbed a black apron and order pad from the top drawer of an antique buffet. Waiting tables was one of the reasons he’d gone to college. So he wouldn’t get stuck running White Bear, being the help, for the rest of his life.

  And here he was again.

  Although, he reminded himself, this was a temporary gig, not the rest of his life.

  “The dining room opens at eight, so go ahead and check the sugar bowls, salt and peppers, get out the—”

  “I remember the drill.” Oh, how well he remembered the drill.

  By eight-thirty, more than twenty people were breakfasting in the spacious stone-and-log-walled dining room. The decor hadn’t changed much since the lodge was built; that was one of its most appealing aspects. Its stone walls and dark woods made the building cozy and comfortable. From above the fireplace, a deer head with a set of ten-point antlers stood watch. The other walls were adorned with fishing poles, canoe paddles and wildlife paintings.

  Gib picked up a pot of fresh-brewed coffee and began to refill cups as he made his way to where Izzy and Shelly were seated at a small round table near the windows overlooking the veranda. As he neared, Izzy tilted her head and a beautiful smile opened her face. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail and she wore no makeup, and yet his first thought was that he wanted to touch her. Touch her and then kiss her.

  He shook off the thought. “Morning, ladies. Coffee?”

  At their eager nods, he filled the white ceramic mugs with steaming liquid. “Did you sleep well last night?”

  “Like a log in the woods.” Shelly doctored her coffee with generous amounts of cream and sugar.

  “Me, too,” Izzy said.

  “And you? How did you sleep last night?” Shelly asked.

  He hesitated, remembering how he’d awakened drenched in sweat, reliving in his dreams the nightmare he’d survived in Iraq several months ago. Not sleeping well had become the norm for him. “Really well.”

  Izzy raised her eyebrows.

  “You don’t believe me?”

  “You’ve got that I’ve been up half the night face,” she said.

  He shrugged. Awfully perceptive, that one.

  “Still extremely handsome,” Shelly hastily added.

  “That’s all that matters.” He could tell Izzy was watching him, wondering, and he put on the friendly host face he’d perfected as a teenager. No way was he going to elaborate on his problems. “Can I interest you in something to eat? We’ve got quite a selection this morning, beginning with the country breakfast—scrambled eggs, bacon and sausage, hash browns, toast. Or omelets made to order. Or—” He gestured at a long table nearby. “There are doughnuts, bagels, homemade muffins, yogurt and an assortment of cereals. I think you’ll find that one thing you’ll never be at White Bear Lodge is hungry.”

  “Or thin,” Shelly added. “The camera adds ten pounds, so if I add ten of my own these next couple of weeks, won’t I be a lovely sight in the documentary?”

  “You can always ditch the movie. Then your weight won’t be an issue,” he said.

  The two women laughed.

  “Did I miss something?”

  “No,” Izzy said. “Nothing worth knowing.”

  “Well, to combat your concerns, let me suggest the yogurt and granola. And my grandmother does run a water aerobics class in the lake Tuesday and Thursday mornings at eleven.”

  Shelly pretended to weigh her options in either hand. “Big breakfast. Yogurt and granola. Lose ten pounds. Gain ten pounds. Hmm. Even though this feels like a vacation, I should probably control myself.” She ran a finger down the menu. “Okay, two eggs sunny-side up, sausage, hash browns, whole wheat toast. And—”

  “That is an admirable amount of control,” Izzy deadpanned.

  “Add in a couple of pancakes. And a large orange juice. All this fresh air is making me work up an appetite.” Shelly pointed a finger at Izzy. “We’ll start over tomorrow.”

  Gib wrote everything down. “Anything else?”

  “I think the better question is, is there anything left in the kitchen?” Izzy asked. “I’ll have a Swiss cheese and mushroom omelet, whole wheat toast and orange juice.”

  A few minutes later, Gib returned with the orange juice, intent on beginning a discussion about their filming at the resort. “When do you start shooting the documentary?”

  “This afternoon.” Izzy sipped her coffee. “We’re going to interview your grandfather.”

  A shriek came from the direction of the kitchen and Gib turned toward the double doors just as a loud curse from his brother echoed through the room. “Excuse me.” He sprinted across the hardwood floor and burst into the kitchen. Flames billowed from an oversize pan on the stove and lapped at an adjacent cupboard. His grandmother flailed a wet towel at the fire like a trapped bird flapping its wings in a small space, while his brother shot fire extinguisher powder on everything in the immediate area. Each was shouting unheeded instructions at the other.

  A flash of memory shot into his mind—the explosion he’d survived. He rammed the thought away and grabbed his grandmother’s arm. “Get the hell back before you get hurt. Lower, Matt, aim at the base of the fire. Not the flames. All you’re doing is spreading it. Lower, Matt! Shoot right into the pan!”

  When the flames finally subsided, he looked closely at his grandmother. “Are you okay? Did you call the fire department?”

  The wail of a siren and then another and yet a third answered his question. A three-alarm fire? “Welcome to Grand Central Station,” he muttered. “Nothing like small-town boredom to light a fire under everyone. Literally.”

  Though the flames were out, Matt shot another stream of powder into the general area, apparently for good measure. “Holy crap. I only looked away for a minute,” he said.

  “That’s all it ever takes,” Grandma said.

  Sirens screaming, the trucks stopped in front of the lodge, the high-pitched squeal almost surreal in the Wisconsin woods. Gib touched his brother on the shoulder. “I’ll go settle down the guests, you deal with the firefighters.”

  Out in the dining hall he quickly explained the situation with the grease fire. “Everything is fine. Nothing to worry about. Except…there’s one problem…The grill is out of commission for at least the rest of the morning—there’s fire extinguisher powder on everything. So help yourselves to our continental selection. Bagels, toast, fruit, yogurt…” He gestured toward the well-stocked table. “Hopefully, tomorrow’s breakfast will be less eventful.”

  He answered a couple of questions then cut diagonally through the room to Izzy and Shelly’s table. “Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but your big breakfasts will hav
e to be another day.” Though he knew he should get back into the kitchen, he didn’t want to lose this chance to talk to the girls about limiting the amount of filming they did at White Bear. He hesitated, not sure how to broach the subject. Finally he just dove in. “When you begin filming this afternoon, would you keep something in mind?”

  Izzy’s brows pulled together in confusion.

  “I would guess you’ve noticed that White Bear is looking somewhat…”

  “Worse for the wear?” Shelly finished for him.

  “Exactly.” He pulled out a chair and sat down as he contemplated how much to tell the women and whether to mention the land sale and the lease. Less was probably more. “The resort is struggling right now. We’re trying to turn things around.”

  “Our movie could put you on the map,” Izzy said.

  “We’d rather not be on the map looking so neglected.”

  “Shabby chic,” Shelly offered. “It’s all the rage.”

  He winced. “More like just shabby. I know your documentary isn’t about the resort, per se, but still, this place will be seen. I’d like to avoid getting publicity that shows us at our worst.”

  “Everything won’t be White Bear Lodge. We’re going to shoot at some other resorts, too,” Izzy said.

  “Are you asking us not to film here?” Shelly took a swallow of her coffee.

  He rested his elbows on the table. “No, no. I’m just asking that you be aware of what you’re filming. If something looks run-down…consider leaving it out.”

  “I don’t think you have to worry,” Shelly said. “No one will mistake our movie for a travelogue.”

  “We’re just taking a nostalgic trip back, that’s all,” Izzy said. “A glimpse into what things were like back in the day.”

  Gib gave a reluctant nod of acquiescence. The girls didn’t want to pull back on their coverage and he couldn’t blame them. After all, they’d already secured his grandfather’s permission. That left him only one option—keep an eye on them while they were here and try to gently steer them away from locations that showed the resort in a less-than-desirable light.

  IZZY GLANCED AT HER WATCH. “We’ve got twenty minutes before Pete’s coming out. Do you remember the script?”

  “Of course. I’m the consummate professional.” Shelly fluffed her blond hair and went to stand on the steps leading to the lodge’s front door. Behind her, Adirondack chairs lined the veranda like a row of white sails. On the far end, a porch swing rocked gently in the breeze.

  Izzy set up the tripod, then framed Shelly in the camera. “Your blouse is gaping.”

  Shelly pulled the edges of her pale pink blouse together at the bust. “I gain a few pounds and nothing fits anymore.”

  “Yeah, well, at least you gain it in the right places. The ten I got glued itself onto my hips. You ready?” Without waiting for an answer, she flipped on the camera. “Action.” Saying that word out loud sent a thrill through her.

  “January 16, 1920, marked the beginning of Prohibition and the start of an era of criminal activity unprecedented in America’s history,” Shelly said in her television voice. “During the Roaring Twenties and the Heated Thirties, Chicago became known as the crime capital of the world. By 1924, a study by the University of Chicago found that 100,000 gangsters lived—”

  “Cut.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “You’re talking too fast. Let’s try it again. Action.”

  Shelly pursed her lips in concentration, then spoke again. “January 16, 1920, marked the beginning—”

  “Cut.”

  “What?”

  “I forgot to tell you—the first time you left out the thing about the trains.”

  “Right. Take three.” Shelly began again, smoothly adding that as the railroads began luring wealthy Chicagoans to the cool north woods of Wisconsin for vacation, Chicago gangsters joined the summer exodus. “They wanted to escape the heat and be able to relax away from the dangers facing them every day in the city. For resorts like White Bear Lodge it meant prosperity—”

  “Cut.”

  “It’s getting harder by the minute to be the consummate professional.”

  “Shift to the left a couple of feet. It looks like that hanging plant is sprouting from your head.”

  As soon as Shelly took the new spot, Izzy said, “Take four. Fix your blouse again. Action.”

  Shelly slid into her lines, each coming smoothly on the heels of the last. This was going to be so good.

  “Ladies, don’t tell me I’m late.”

  Izzy jumped and snapped off the camera. “No. Not at all. We were early so we thought we’d get some of the introductory footage we need.”

  “What I got on okay to wear?” Pete asked. “I showered again after doing kitchen cleanup.”

  She took in his baggy khakis and light blue shirt, open at the neck. “Perfect. How are things in the kitchen?”

  “Dust from that fire extinguisher is in every nook and cranny. Gonna be a while before we can cook in there again.” He gestured at the porch. “So, where you want me?”

  “Up on the veranda in front of the chairs. Shelly’ll stand off camera and ask you questions. Look straight at the camera and answer the best you can. Don’t worry if you make a mistake—just begin again and we’ll fix everything in editing.”

  While Pete was making a practice run, Gib and his grandmother came out the side door to stand beside her. Though the day wasn’t extremely hot, suddenly the palms of her hands grew damp. “I think the porch is fine, don’t you?” she asked Gib. “Not a bit run-down. And the chairs, well, they’ll be in the background. No one will be able to tell they need a fresh coat of paint,” she blabbered.

  “Thanks.” He put a hand on her arm, and the warmth of his touch made her breath catch. “You’ll get less glare from the sun if you move this way a little. Plus, then he’ll be framed by the porch railing.” He held his hands up to form a rectangle, illustrating the shot.

  Such a kind gesture, him helping her even though he had reservations about them shooting at the resort. “I see what you mean. Thanks.” Get moving. They had to keep moving before she swooned. She repositioned the tripod. “Okay, new scene, take one,” she called in an overly confident tone. “Why don’t we start with an overview of how White Bear Lodge came to be.”

  Pete cleared his throat a couple of times. “My great-grandfather was a man ahead of his time. He figured folks would someday want to come from the big cities to vacation in the north. So he made a deal with Jeremiah Gordon, the man who owned this land, to give him a hundred-year lease so he could build White Bear Lodge. Before long, Chicago discovered the Wisconsin Northwoods, and as you know, even gangsters want a break from their everyday life.”

  “Tell us about those days,” Shelly said.

  Pete rolled into the stories his grandfather had passed on to him, about Prohibition and gambling and shoot-outs. “Though, we never actually had any shoot-outs here,” he said. His expression grew thoughtful. “Maybe that’s because we have the tunnel to the beach. It actually runs under the house. My grandfather said it was built during Prohibition so they could haul illegal liquor in from a boat on the lake. Seems to me, though, that it would be more useful for escaping if the feds came calling.”

  Izzy couldn’t contain her excited grin. An escape tunnel under White Bear Lodge? She tilted her head around the camera to look directly at Pete. “Can we see it? Film down there?”

  Catherine stepped into the viewfinder. “It’s closed off at the house end. Years ago, we made a fruit cellar where it comes into the basement. The rest is just dark and dank.”

  “That’s okay,” Shelly said. “Even if we can only get into part—”

  “It’s full of old stuff.” Pete shook his head. “We’ve been using it for storage for a long time.”

  “Pretty much impassable these days,” Catherine said. “Besides, that cluttered mess doesn’t need to be seen in a movie.” She started for the house, as though the s
ubject was now closed to discussion.

  “Neither do the cobwebs, spiders and centipedes,” Gib added.

  Much as she tried to hold it back, a shudder rippled through Izzy. She had no desire to go into a spider-filled tunnel. Besides, she had more or less promised Gib she would try to show the resort in the best light, and the tunnel definitely sounded like an area of concern. “I’d be fine with filming the entrance at the beach,” she said.

  “That should be all—” Pete’s eyes narrowed as a squad car pulled up in front of the building.

  An officer climbed out to saunter toward them. “Hey, folks, hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

  Shelly stepped forward. “As a matter of fact—”

  “Not at all,” Izzy said.

  “Hey, Butch.” Pete started down the veranda stairs.

  “What’s up? We got the fire under control this morning,” Gib said.

  Butch held out his hand. “Yeah, I heard about that. You always got something exciting going on out here. Nah, I need to talk to Pete for a couple minutes.”

  “Take ten, everyone.” Izzy sat on the steps and watched the two men move far enough away to have a private conversation, their expressions suddenly serious.

  “Gosh, we’re laboring so hard, I’m working up an appetite,” Shelly muttered facetiously.

  “There’s a platter of cookies on the dining hall buffet. If you’re going in, I’ll take one, too.” Gib dropped down beside Izzy, his leg brushing against hers. Heat slid through her and she shifted slightly to break the contact.

  After a few minutes, the two men shook hands, and Butch drove off.

  “What was that about?” Gib asked.

  His grandfather shrugged. “Nothing.”

  “Didn’t look like nothing to me. This isn’t about any side business, is it?”

  “Nope. Quit asking so many questions.” Pete smiled at Izzy. “Ready for take two, young lady? I don’t want to miss my fifteen minutes of fame.”

  Shelly burst through the door with a fistful of cookies. “I got one for everyone—except you, Pete. We don’t want cookies in your teeth on camera.” She glanced from one face to the next. “Did I miss anything exciting? What did that cop want?”