Walking briskly through the small, elegant lobby of the
Maison de Sol in Cannes, Gracie MacDougal noted every tiny
detail, from the single wilted daffodil in the lavish
arrangement of spring flowers to the fingerprints on the
beveled glass in the double mahogany doors. She plucked the
offending flower from the arrangement, then beckoned to the
young man working behind the reception desk. AndrΓ© was one
of her best, most dutiful employees. They'd become friends.
Someday, she was sure, he'd replace her.
"AndrΓ©, call housekeeping at once,
s'il vous plait.
Take care of that window."
"Of course, madame," he said dutifully, then
discreetly studied the glass to figure out what was wrong
with it.
"Fingerprints," Gracie said, grinning at him.
He peered more closely at the decorative window-pane.
"Ah," he said when he discovered them.
"You'll learn, AndrΓ©. You'll learn. Our guests expect
perfection down to the tiniest detail."
"Our guests, madame, or you?"
"Perhaps you're right," she conceded. "If I'm
doing my job, then the guests will take it for granted. I
only wish…"
"What?" AndrΓ© asked, regarding her intently.
"What it is that you wish?"
"I only wish our new boss cared more about the details
than the bottom line."
"Monsieur Devereaux is a bit of a… What is it
they say in America, a suit?"
Gracie fought a chuckle and lost. "That he is, AndrΓ©. He
is a bit of a suit."
Handsome, distinguished, and annoying, Maximillian Devereaux
was, in Gracie's opinion, more of an accountant than a
hotelier. If the books balanced, he wouldn't care if there
was a layer of dust an inch thick on the gleaming antique
tabletops in the lobby. His attitude and the battles it
engendered were beginning to take a toll.
He was the third CEO of Worldwide Hotels in the last five
years. He'd been brought in to improve the bottom line after
Worldwide was acquired by a larger chain to add some class
to its image. Though Worldwide continued to operate as a
separate division with its own corporate identity, in
Gracie's view the small chain of exclusive, luxury inns was
in serious danger of losing its reputation and its
clientele. The wilted daffodil in her hand was symptomatic
of the problem.
Less than an hour later, after inspecting every nook and
cranny of the hotel, she dropped the flower on Max's desk
and said just that. He peered down his long, aristocratic
nose at her, glanced at the broken petals, then sighed with
evident exasperation.
"What is it now, Ms. MacDougal?" he asked, as always
reverting to formality to indicate his own annoyance with her.
"The flowers weren't changed this morning as they should
have been," she said.
"There is no need to change them daily. We've discussed
that. Every three days will be sufficient and will cut the
flower budget by two-thirds."
"And our guests will find wilted flowers in the lobby
and assume that if we no longer care about appearances in
such a public area, we will be even more careless in places
they don't see, such as the kitchen. Details like this make
a lasting impression. If you doubt it, check the reservation
book."
"We're booked solid for the next month."
"And this time last year we were booked solid for six
months in advance," she countered. "At this rate,
we'll have rooms available for every Tom, Dick and Harry who
forgot to book a reservation before leaving the States."
"Don't exaggerate, Gracie."
"It's true." She studied Max intently. "You
really don't see it, do you? You don't see what you're doing
to this hotel, to this entire chain."
"Have dinner with me tonight and explain it," he
suggested.
This time she was the one who sighed in exasperation. The
man was relentless, when it came down to something he
wanted, namely
her. On paper, she and Max
Dever-eaux were a perfect match. They were both
tall—even at five eight, she barely reached his chin.
Max had dashing, Cary Grant looks. Gracie prided herself on
her polished, classic appearance. Max's intelligence, his
quick rise in the international hotel industry paralleled hers.
But the man had no real passion for it. It was all numbers
to him. Gracie cared about the guests and their comfort, the
lasting impression they would take home with them. Max
worried only about the size of their bill.
No, she concluded. It would never have worked. He was
certainly bright enough to have figured that out for
himself, but his masculine ego kept him in the game. With
another man, the unwanted attention might have bordered on
harassment, but there'd never once, in any way, been a hint
that Gracie's job hinged on whether she said yes or no.
Asking was just something Max did, pretty much like breathing.
"Max, I will not have dinner with you," she told him
for the umpteenth time. "Not tonight, not ever. How many
times do I have to say it?"
"Not even to save your precious flower budget?"
"No, Max. It's a very bad idea. You're my boss.
Socializing would only complicate things. Besides, you and I
don't see eye to eye on anything. We'd just ruin our
digestion."
He shrugged as he always did after she'd rejected one of his
invitations. "Suit yourself." He returned his
attention to the paperwork in front of him, dismissing
Gracie as clearly as if he'd gestured toward the door.
Maybe it was because she was tired or frustrated or angry or
all three, but Gracie stared at Max's down-turned head for
several minutes, then reached a decision that had been
several weeks in the making.
"I quit," she said softly but firmly.
That brought his head up. "What?" For an instant,
shock registered in his usually cool gray eyes.
"You heard me. I quit."
"Now, Gracie—"
"Don't you
now-Gracie me," she snapped
back. "You won't listen to a thing I say. You're
determined to run this chain as if it were a string of
economy hotels. Obviously, I am no longer of any value to
Worldwide, so I might as well take my expertise to another
hotel chain where they care about appearances and service
and comfort."
There was the faintest hint of worry in Max's expression,
but once again he shrugged and said, "Suit yourself."
Stunned by his indifference, Gracie paused long enough to
sweep that blasted daffodil up and drop it into the trash
can before leaving. Tempted as she was to slam the door, she
didn't want to disturb the guests by creating a scene. Even
now, old habits died hard.
Back in her small suite of rooms off the hotel lobby,
fighting tears, she began methodically packing. Because she
moved frequently from hotel to hotel to troubleshoot
problems, there was very little to pack, nothing personal
needing to be shipped. She could be on a plane back to the
States tonight… if only she had someplace to go.
Realizing that there was not one single destination in the
entire world where someone would be waiting for her hit her
like a blow. She sank to the edge of the bed.
"What now, Gracie?" she whispered.
Though her decision to quit had been far from impulsive,
never once had she considered the next step. Now she had
just abandoned the most exciting, rewarding, wonderful job
she'd ever had, one she'd worked very hard to get. She was
twenty-nine-going-on-thirty. Her last three relationships
had been total disasters. All three men had ended up married
to someone else—someone who stayed put—within
days of breaking up with her.
The relationships weren't worth talking about, but her
career, well, that was not something she was quite so
willing to walk away from without a fight. She had loved the
hotel business from the day she first discovered room
service. In Monopoly, hotels were always her primary
objective. In her mind's eye, they were always small,
elegant and discreet.
Worldwide had always exemplified that image. At least until
recently. Shifting gears to accommodate all of the executive
changes had turned a dream job into a nightmare. She'd been
right to quit, she consoled herself. It was a smart decision.
So why did she feel so lost and empty?
A knock on her door prevented her from having to come up
with an answer for the inexplicable "Yes?"
"Gracie, it's Max."
"Go away."
"I think we should talk."
"I disagree."
"Would you open the blasted door and let me in, please.
Or do you want the entire hotel to hear our conversation?"
That caught her attention as nothing else might have. She
opened the door. She did not move aside to let him in. Max
was much too forceful a presence to allow herself to be
alone with him while she was in such a vulnerable state.
He'd tried too many times to turn business conversations
into something personal for her to trust him—or
herself, at the moment—in such intimate surroundings.
She might not much like the man at the moment, but he had a
very attractive shoulder she could cry on.
"Yes?" she said.
He peered past her to the row of suitcases. "You're
determined to leave, I see."
"I told you I was going."
"Where?"
Ah, she thought, that was the million-dollar question. Money
wasn't a problem. Her heart was the problem. The only place
she wanted to be was at the center of a thriving hotel. Her
parents were dead. There had been no brothers or sisters,
not even an extended family of aunts and uncles she'd been
close to. She'd made a few close friends in college, but
over the years, thanks to so much job-related traveling,
she'd lost touch with all of them.
"That's none of your business," she said, hedging.
"No place to go, huh?"
"Of course I have a place to go," she snapped.
"I'm going to…Virginia." She seized the
destination out of thin air, based solely on some distant,
idyllic memory of a family vacation in a small beach town
there twenty years before.
"Virginia?"
Max said it as if he weren't quite familiar with the state
or even the country it was in. He'd obviously been in Europe
way too long. Maybe she had been, too.
"Yes," she said, warming to the idea. "It's
lovely there this time of year."
"How in hell do you know that?"
"It's spring," she said. "It's lovely everywhere
in spring."
"Of course," he said wryly. The worried frown was
back between his brows. "You'll stay in touch?"
"Why?"
"In case you decide you want to come back, of course."
"I won't," she said with certainty. Whatever
happened, whatever she decided to do with her life, she
would not come back to Worldwide as long as it was in the
hands of Maximillian Devereaux.
"You'll always have a job with us," he said anyway.
"Remember that when you tire of watching the dogwood and
the cherry blossoms bloom."
"I'd keep the flower references out of the conversation,
if I were you. Flowers are what brought us to this impasse,
remember?"
"You'll be back," he said with arrogant confidence.
"You and I have unfinished business." His gaze
settled on her and lingered. "Professional and
personal."
She refused to be shaken by the intensity of his gaze, but
only because there was no responding, wild leap of her
pulse. She stared straight into his eyes and slowly shook
her head. "Don't bet the wine cellar on it, Max."
And then she slammed the door in his face. Forever after,
she thought she would remember with a great deal of
satisfaction his thoroughly stunned expression. She doubted
Max could recall the last time a mere mortal, especially a
woman, had ever said no to him and not left the door open
for a yes.
Gracie checked her bank balance and gave herself five
months—the rest of spring and the entire summer—
to pull herself together. She made that decision on the
plane. Then, exhausted and emotionally drained, she slept
the rest of the way to Washington.
At Dulles Airport, she bought a map, rented a car and
started driving east on the Beltway, turning south on I-95
to Fredericksburg then heading east again. Seagull Point was
a tiny speck on the map, tucked between Colonial Beach and
Montross, right in the heart of history as the guidebooks
liked to say.
Passing gently rolling farmland along the Rappahan-nock
River, she began to have her doubts. Would she be able to
survive for long in the middle of nowhere? True, the
dogwoods were blooming in profusion, their white and pink
blossoms standing out against the budding green of giant
oaks. Tulips and the last of the daffodils bobbed in the
lilac-scented breeze. The scenery was idyllic, but the only
town she passed through, King George, was hardly a
metropolis. There wasn't even a traffic light in the middle
of town. She barely had to slow down until she hit the
intersection with Route 205 and made the turn toward
Colonial Beach.
Pausing at the next red light at Route 301, she considered
turning left and heading north, across the Potomac River
Bridge, back to D.C. or maybe Baltimore. Instead, though,
she kept going, determined to follow the plan she'd set for
herself. Making plans, seeing to details, was something at
which she excelled. It was why, until recently, she'd been
such a valued Worldwide employee. She was organized to a fault.
By three in the afternoon she'd found a small hotel on the
Potomac River. No one would ever confuse it with a Worldwide
property, but it was clean and the mattress was firm, just
the way she liked it. It would do until she could find a
rental property for the summer, she concluded.
By five she'd finished a take-out carton of Kung Po chicken,
showered and watched the early news out of Washington.
Though she'd intended to shift her body onto local time by
staying awake until nine at least, by five-thirty she was
sound asleep. Naturally, because of that, she was wide awake
before dawn.
Years of starting the day while others slept made the early
hour seem almost normal. Except there were no lists to make,
no calendar to check for meetings, no details to see to.
There was absolutely nothing demanding her attention and no
reason at all to get out of bed.
"Go back to sleep," she coached herself, forcing her
eyes shut and trying to stay perfectly still. She willed
herself to relax. After fifteen increasingly restless
minutes, she realized she didn't know how.
"Tomorrow will be better," she promised herself as
she dressed and headed out to find someplace serving breakfast.
Over scrambled eggs and toast at the Beachside Cafe, she
read the
Washington Post. As she lingered over
coffee, she dug in her purse for paper and made a list of
things to do, starting with contacting a real estate agent
about available rentals. She wanted something small, facing
the river so she could sit on the porch and drink her
morning coffee or her evening tea and watch the play of
colors on the water.
"More coffee, miss?"
© 2003-2026