EACH OVERHEAD FLASH of blue, green, red, and white illuminated the smiling crowd; eight full patio tables, and blankets and beach chairs covering the lawn. One particularly loud Roman candle startled the guest at the middle table enough to upend her rum punch, but before Parker could leave his perch next to the doorway, his best server was already kneeling down, rag in hand.
Personally, he thought fireworks shows were a waste of good money. But the previous Inn owner had always invited the locals up for a Fourth of July cookout, so continuing the tradition provided a link to the Inn’s colorful history—and it was a great way to sell drinks. Next year, they’d all be gathered around the infinity pool, maybe playing putt-putt golf as well as croquet.
Lloyd’s big golf course plans had already met with some local resistance. Within hours of that planning session with the golf course designer, someone—James Malloy, no doubt—had pulled up all the surveyor’s stakes and removed every single tree ribbon, leaving behind no trace of the designer’s plan. Lloyd had called yesterday, seething, saying he’d refused to pay the surveyor’s bill.
Hanging up the phone, Parker had found himself grinning. It was simply ridiculous to lay out a nine-hole golf course right through the island’s only wooded area—and very satisfying that someone was finally standing up to Lloyd.
The patio was perfectly lit; those new solar lights around its edge had come on automatically a few minutes ago. He hadn’t made his customary rounds during dinner, because Dean Moreland was seated at the corner four-top with his family. Twice in the last ten days, Dean had tried to corner Parker for a chat. Whether or not the golf course happened, Parker was in full agreement that six condos at West Harbor would be too many. But secret plotting behind the back of his biggest creditor would be an extremely bad career move.
To his left, the tiny metal balcony outside his office remained stubbornly empty. He could picture Mavis standing there, blending into the shadows, mouth rounding into an O with every sparkler. Like watching an orchid bloom, the way she smiled when she thought no one was watching. He’d offered up the private viewing area to reward her loyalty—more personal than the crisp twenty he added to her pay envelope each week—but she must’ve taken it wrong. Had she noticed he’d removed the INDIANS ONLY sign in the bar? Had she heard about Lloyd’s condo plan? Was she blaming him? Should he—
“Shouldn’t you be mingling with your guests?” Sylvia asked, coming out through the doorway.
“Shouldn’t you be t-tending b-bar?”
“Hunter’s the only customer inside. Outside bar is cutting into my tips.”
Not with Owen bartending. The kid had dropped almost as many drinks as he’d actually served.
Sylvia pulled on Parker’s elbow, forcing him to face the fireworks. “Caught you standing still for once. Figured it might be a good time to give you a dose of reality.”
“About w-what?” She couldn’t possibly know why he’d been staring at his own office balcony—there was no one there.
“Staff.” She glared down at him; those ridiculous heels made her almost four inches taller than he was. “I caught the two Irish girls out back an hour ago. They were screeching at each other like she-cats about who’d have to work with Mavis next week. Is it really worth keeping her on?”
“Why don’t they l-like working with Mavis?” Maybe they didn’t want to work as hard as she did.
“‘Dirty little Indian,’ Shana calls her.” Sylvia tittered, folding muscled forearms over cleavage. “All thumbs, that one—plus I think she’s been sneaking out to the beach with Owen, which can’t end well. So maybe you should fire her instead.”
She was talking about Shana, not Mavis, he realized. Parker crossed arms over his chest. Staffing was his concern, not Sylvia’s.
“Room eight has reserved the p-patio tomorrow afternoon for a b-birthday party,” he told her. “P-parents’ll be s-starting early.”
She was glaring at him again. When a red roman candle exploded, it reflected in her dark eyes. So different from—
“Well in that case, I’d better get back to my ball and chain.” Spit back over her shoulder, “Since you obviously aren’t listening to me anyway.”
As soon as Sylvia and her attitude were safely inside again, Parker sneaked another look over at his office balcony: still empty. Ah, well.