Beautiful Fall Read online

  Published by Velvet Pen Books

  Copyright © 2016 Jordyn White

  ISBN 978-1-945261-29-9

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. You must not circulate this book in any format. Thank you for respecting the work of the author.

  Cover Design: Sara Eirew

  Cover Photography: Lindee Robinson Photography

  Models: Genelle Seldon and Michael Pack

  Table of Contents

  Copyright Page

  Beautiful Fall (Beautiful Rivers, #2)

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Epilogue

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  Beautiful Fall

  by Jordyn White

  Chapter 1

  Lizzy

  I’ve had less than one hour to enjoy my triumph, and here comes my arch nemesis trying to screw it all up.

  I’m on the boardwalk in front of a long row of old beach cottages, waiting for my contractor to arrive so we can discuss renovations. There are twenty-three cottages in total, two-story clapboard structures that vary considerably from one another but which all provide an unobstructed view of the ocean. The beach comes almost up to their back steps, with only an old, wooden boardwalk serving as a sand break.

  I was already feeling a little anxious, mainly about how the town will react to my plan for these cottages.

  The Cottages, as they’ve been so simply called in Swan Pointe for decades, have been part of the town’s landscape since they were built in the 1950s, and part of the community’s heart for nearly as long. It’s a quiet central California destination for tourists, as well as a popular retreat for local Monterey County residents.

  And I’m about to change it all.

  As of this afternoon, The Cottages—which are on a narrow strip of land at the base of a high bluff—now belong to the Rivers Paradise Resort—which sits atop said bluff. As relatively recent heirs of the resort, my brothers and I own these cottages jointly, but this project? She’s my baby.

  It’s my chance to prove I’m worthy of the Rivers family name, that my late parents weren’t the only ones who could envision something bold and new, and that I’m not the horrible person I’ve recently been made out to be.

  Though I’m expecting my contractor, the car crunching up the gravel drives that runs behind the cottages does not belong to him. No, that little blue Subaru belongs to one Marcia Carmichael, President of the Swan Pointe Historical Preservation Committee. Because apparently she hasn’t had enough of making my life a living hell.

  Well, I’ve got her this time. I’ve already closed on this property, so it’s too late for her to try to stop me.

  I came here straight from closing, so I tuck the manila envelope full of keys under my left arm and march through the open space between two of the cottages and toward the drive. She’s parking and hasn’t seen me yet.

  Even though we officially own these properties now, I’m more than a little nervous she’ll find some way to create another problem for me. Just one month ago, I tried to purchase another property located between the resort and a well-known conservation area. I was so excited about it. The land would’ve been perfect for the casitas I wanted to build for long-term vacationers, and I would have kept the remaining space pristine without any further development.

  What I didn’t know when we put in an offer was the conservation group wanted the land, too. They decided to try to block the sale, in spite of lacking sufficient funds to purchase it themselves.

  The woman who delivered this news was, of course, Marcia Carmichael. Conservation land has nothing to do with her jurisdiction, but that didn’t stop her. She has no problem sticking her nose into other people’s business.

  At first, I dug in my heels, determined not to let her interfere. In response, she took the matter to the papers and it quickly became a local media sensation. In addition to painting me as a “greedy, profit-hungry corporate skirt with no regard for basic values or the environment,” she managed to quickly organize a few dozen protestors who parked themselves just at the border of our property so they could wave hand-painted signs at our guests.

  Meanwhile, I was not blind to what else the papers had to say about the situation. The Westridge Conservation Refuge was legitimately smaller than it needed to be, and they wanted the additional land to help alleviate some of the encroachment issues they were facing.

  I quietly called the head of the Refuge to see if a compromise could be reached. Turns out, he’s a much more reasonable person than Marcia. After a heartfelt, three-hour conversation, I knew what I had to do. I withdrew my bid on the land and donated the money they needed to make their bid competitive.

  Though the papers did quote Marcia Carmichael’s declaration that the resort’s donation of funding was “nothing more than a publicity stunt to save face,” I wouldn’t let that take away from the one good thing that came out of the entire mess. I happen to care about the environment, no matter what she says. My mother, at least, would’ve been proud of my decision.

  I was still licking my wounds when I heard through the grapevine that these cottages were going up for sale. I almost let them go, still feeling too raw from the encounter to want to try anything again. Then I walked the boardwalk, just nine short days ago, and a vision of what these beloved but dilapidated old cottages could be took hold of me and wouldn’t let go.

  I consulted with my brothers and we acted fast. As of two o’clock this afternoon, these cottages are ours. Now here comes that wretched woman looking like she wants more trouble. I don’t know why she’s here, but I’m pretty sure it’s not to congratulate me.

  As she climbs out of her car, my skin crawls with trepidation. I linger in front of the nearest cottage and square my shoulders. I’ve never yet cowered in the presence of Marcia Carmichael and I’m not about to begin now, no matter our past dealings or what she might think she has on me.

  She’s pulling a massive purse out of the car and hefting it onto one broad shoulder. She’s tall, probably pushing six feet, and has thick arms and legs. She’s not overweight; she’s just a big woman, and knows it too. I think she uses it to her advantage. She has smooth brown hair with a hint of aubur
n, and it comes to her chin in one large, decisive wave. Even her hair is commanding and sensible. She’s wearing slacks, a button-down blouse, and smart, black shoes.

  I pull down the hem of the loose, satin top I’m wearing over my knee-length pencil skirt. I had heels on earlier, for work and signing papers at the title company, but changed into my denim docksides when I arrived so it’d be easier to walk the property with Rod. Now I wish I hadn’t. Normally I wouldn’t care if someone found my shoes inappropriate, but this woman is so good at judging me. I’ve yet to figure out how to truly keep her from getting under my skin.

  She finally spots me and puts on that smug grin of hers. Lord, she’s aggravating.

  “Ms. Rivers,” she says, approaching. She always says “Ms.” like Mizz and “Rivers” like it’s the aftertaste of a particularly bitter medicine. I don’t know what I did to get on her hit list, but by this point, I’m not too fond of her either. “Your hand is already in another pot, I see.”

  My parents trained us well, so I give a professional smile, even though I want to smack her. “What do you mean?”

  “I hear you just closed on these cottages.” God, how does she know this stuff? “I hadn’t realized they were for sale.”

  Well, at least I had that up on her. I want to point and say, Ha! Too late! even though I’m not entirely sure she is. I don’t like that confident smirk she’s wearing, like she knows something I don’t. Still, I keep my composure. “I didn’t realize anyone was supposed to notify you that they were for sale.”

  She narrows her eyes slightly and gives me an acid smile. “I should think I would be notified of anything going on the market that is of historical value.” As preservation committee president, she pretty much thinks she owns the entire town from what I can tell. “Did you know most of these cottages were built in the 1950s?”

  “From 1954 to 1955, to be exact.”

  “That is correct. As such, they have been a significant part of Swan Point’s history for many decades.”

  Now I know where she’s going with this. And this is within her jurisdiction.

  Fuck me.

  “It is in the best interest of the community,” she continues, “for these structures to be properly preserved for future generations.”

  A crawling sensation creeps down the back of my legs. Dammit if this woman isn’t going to try to strong arm me again... “Well then,” I continue calmly, maintaining my well-trained demeanor, “it should please you to know I have every intention of renovating them.”

  “I said properly preserved, Ms. Rivers, which is an entirely different matter than mere renovations. Proper preservation is best assured, of course, when structures such as these are placed on the National Register.”

  Shit, I knew it. But can she do that? After I’ve already bought them? Would that take the consent of the current owner? I wish Rod were already here. He might know the answer to that question. Although, whether she can legally make that happen or not is almost a moot point. This woman is adept at stirring up public protest. The last thing I need is another media frenzy.

  But I don’t want these properties on the National Register of Historic Places either. While part of what I love about these cottages is their historic character, and I want to preserve as much of that as I can, I definitely want to modernize. Being on the register would more than tie my hands. It would change everything.

  Marcia Carmichael has a little glint in her eye. It only pisses me off and strengthens my resolve.

  “I’m not interested in placing these on the Historic Register,” I say with more certainty than I feel. I’m operating under the assumption she can’t force my hand in this, whether that’s the case or not. Judging by her reaction, I’m wondering if I’m correct. Is that a chink in her armor I see? “We are, however, going to honor the historic feel of—”

  “Pardon me for interrupting,” she says curtly, “but who is ‘we’? Do you have a qualified contractor?”

  It’s taking every bit of my mother’s training to keep my cool with this insufferable woman. “My contractor is Rod Gilbert.” We were going to use him to build the casitas.

  “Still?” Marcia starts digging in her bag. “You’re rather fond of him, aren’t you? However, Rod is a general contractor and has no experience with historical structures.”

  I stiffen. Rod Gilbert is more than just a general contractor. He holds an LEED credential, and has been recognized several times for his sustainable building practices. “He—”

  “Nevertheless,” she continues, talking over me and pulling a card out of her purse and handing it over. “I would agree to keeping these structures off the registry so long as you subcontract a qualified historical expert.”

  I’ve taken the card—out of polite habit more than anything—but haven’t even looked at it. I’m too incensed that she has the nerve to presume it’s her right to “agree” to anything. All the while, I’m well aware she may be offering me an avenue that doesn’t involve yet another media circus and the potential threat of a legal battle.

  “That’s an excellent historical contractor with ample experience.” She gestures to the card. “You can call him at that number.”

  Suddenly, I’ve had enough. I have had enough of her demands and her bullying and her stupid, little smirk. A deadly calm settles over me and I look this pain-in-the-ass woman right in the eye. Gone is my mother’s charm. “I agree that your suggestion to bring on an expert is a reasonable one, which I may or may not take into consideration. But this is my property. Who I hire is up to me.”

  A half smile works its way onto her face, as if she’s pleased I stood up to her, though I can’t imagine why. “Well, so long as the expert you hire really is an expert, I’ll consider the matter settled.”

  Oh, thank you, your Royal Highness.

  Without so much as a ‘goodbye’ or a ‘fuck off’, she turns and heads to her car. I don’t wait to see her go. I roll my eyes and head back between the cottages, tearing the card in half without looking at it. I shove it in the pocket of my purse that I reserve for gum wrappers and used Kleenex. I’m not hiring anyone she recommends.

  “Obnoxious woman,” I mutter.

  By the time Rod shows up five minutes later, I’ve Googled the issue at hand and determined that, as the owner, I could block any movement to put the property on the register if I wanted to. Still, if it keeps her from making trouble, there’s no harm in bringing on a specialist. Honestly, it’s probably a good idea anyway. It still makes me grit my teeth. I’d really rather tell her to go hang.

  Rod approaches with a wave of one hand and a “Hello, Elizabeth.” He’s a hearty man in his upper fifties. He has short, salt and pepper hair, weathered skin, and a friendly countenance. He’s worked with the resort before, and was the contractor my parents preferred. The last time I saw him was at their funeral. He wore a dark suit, a navy tie, and took my hand between both of his when he came to greet me. He kept my hand tucked warmly in his when he expressed his sorrow over our loss in such a way that made it clear to me that it was his loss as well. I didn’t know him as well as my parents did, but that simple, sincere gesture warmed my heart to him.

  We’ve only spoken on the phone as we’ve gone through the process of securing him as the contractor for this project, so this is the first we’ve met in person since the funeral ten months ago.

  I don’t bother telling Rod about my confrontation with Marcia Carmichael—mainly to save my pride—but when I suggest he subcontracts an historical expert as part of his team, he readily agrees.

  “I was going to ask you about that anyway, since these buildings are so old. I’ve worked with Renaissance Restoration several times before. They’re generally considered the best in the business.”

  “Perfect.” Marcia Carmichael can’t complain about that. “I’ll let you handle it.” Trying to shake off all this unpleasantness, I dig through the keys in the manila envelope and nod toward the pink-colored cottage on the end. “Let’s start wi
th that one.”

  Chapter 2

  Lizzy

  The following Wednesday morning I’m walking along the boardwalk in front of the cottages, just as I did when I was deciding whether or not to place an offer. I looked at each cottage as I passed, and instead of faded paint and slightly-sagging front porches with their cheap plastic chairs, I saw brightly-colored cottages, solid-wood patio furniture with thick cushions, and interiors so luxurious and comforting they’d compel everyone who entered to leave their troubles at the door.

  The details came in rapid-fire fashion. We could expand the resort’s services so guests at the Cottages would enjoy the benefit of housekeeping, in-room dining options, and regular shuttle services to the resort and its activity hubs. We could add private, outdoor showers to each structure, giving guests a place to rinse off the beach before going inside. I saw improved landscaping here, the rebuilding of wooden staircases there.

  The details of my vision were so clear, they were like a shimmering overlay to reality. It was a familiar, invigorating, reckless thing. I had felt the same thing when I envisioned the Casitas next to that conservation property, and I feared this could become another astounding failure.

  But the lure of my vision was too enticing, and now here I am. The truth is, I’ve never done anything like this on my own before, and have no idea if I can really pull it off. What if I’ve bitten off more than I can chew, or the community doesn’t like the changes I bring to their long-beloved institution?

  I wonder if this is how my father felt when, twenty-six years ago, he bought a neglected and sprawling grand hotel and converted it—almost magically—into the luxury resort that’s now famous around the world. My parents didn’t just renovate that old hotel, they transformed it. They didn’t just resurface the pool, as some might have done. They tore it out and put a modern, luxurious one in its place. When my father first saw the old hotel, he envisioned elevators with glass backs that gave occupants a sweeping view of the resort’s grounds and the sea beyond. Even though the original hotel had interior elevator bays, my father found a way to make it happen. The formerly one-story, rather straightforward lobby became a two-story domed space so magnificent it takes the breath away.