Page 18 of Final Proposal

That’s what Ellery said it had last night. She’s right. That’s what I see when I look at the weathered façade that’s worn and needs some attention. The immediate landscaping could be improved, the entry to the facility made more attractive, and the retaining wall to the west redone so it fits the inn’s overall style.

My thoughts are reflexive. Curb appeal. How to draw people in. How to make a lasting impression so customers come back. It’s what I’ve been taught to assess and correct and refine. It’s what we, my brothers and I, all have actually. It becomes second nature when you grow up with a father who’s a hospitality mogul and who would quiz you at random.

What’s wrong with this place?

What would you change to attract more customers?

How would you increase their revenue?

What do you think they’re doing well?

I can hear my father’s voice asking the questions, and it’s a bittersweet, hollow feeling I don’t expect to have.

Just Ford.

Did he see me as that when I answered those questions of his? Did he hear the thought I put into my responses to prove to him that I knew my shit? That I had made certain I was worthy of the last name I was dually blessed and cursed to be given?

Lost in thought and brought back to last night and that goddamn biography, I wander to the rear of the property. There’s a meandering path that like everything else, could use a lot of attention. Add some flowers to the beds on either side and throw in a few benches for the social media crowd to take pictures and tag the resort. You can never go wrong with built-in marketing opportunities like that from guests.

But thoughts—of my dad, of the biography, of the shitshow that was last night—fade to the background when I look up to find a gorgeous beach.

If you’ve seen one beach, you’ve seen them all is a bullshit misnomer.

Some are littered with garbage. Some have shitty sand. Some have rocks and kelp and everything in between.

But this beach, shit, this beach lives up to the inn’s name even after a violent storm. In fact, maybe the wind and the rain added to its beauty. The sand has been windswept into waves of white, not a footprint to be found on its perfect surface. The water is a deep blue that laps at the shoreline.

I can picture what summer could look like here. Umbrellas and cabanas set up for guests. Servers carrying rum punches and daquiris across the boardwalk and into the sand to keep them happy. Add a horseshoe pit and a volleyball net for those who can’t keep idle. Team up with a bike rental or electric scooter company to supply guests at a discounted rate.

Out of habit when I’m looking at sites, I lift my phone to take pictures. “Shit.” It’s dead.

You’re not supposed to be working, Ford.

But the instinct to observe and assess and improve has been ingrained in me my whole life, so it’s easy to slip back into that mode without thinking about it.

On that note, get the fuck out of here. Go to Sag. Figure out . . . whatever you need to figure out.

And eventually, deal with the endless texts from Callahan and Ledger.

I shove my hands in my pockets, and my fingers hit the napkin Ellery left me. The one I kept for some reason. The one that reminds me it will all work itself out.

That remains to be seen.

With one last look at the unexpected view, I turn on my heel and head toward my rental car.

It’s then that I see the sign posted in the window of the inn. For Sale. Huh. Guess that makes more sense why things haven’t been kept up here. But you’d think you’d make it look its best to get a higher sale price.

Then again, maybe it has been dressed up and it was worse before.

Not your problem, Sharpe.

And it’s not. S.I.N. deals in sophisticated, luxurious resorts that are massive in scale, not mom-and-pop hotels on postage stamps of land like this. It’s not our brand. Not our expertise.

But it doesn’t stop me from taking one long, last look before I climb behind the wheel and start the engine.

Potential.

Ellery