Larissa Learns to Breathe (3 page)

In their prior lives—how quickly New York City had receded into memory! —Amelia had worked as a manager at the Chelsea Market, an extremely fancy and expensive specialty grocery store on 26
^th
Street. In a place where the olives sold for fifteen dollars a pound, and you could buy a bottle of champagne for more than Larissa's monthly rent, it was no wonder that Amelia's success hinged on her ability to keep rigid track of daily operations. But it was obvious that her style wouldn't mesh with the current atmosphere here in Palmetto Manor. Either Amelia was going to have to relax—or the staff of Cupid Island were in for some changes.

Larissa was putting her money on Amelia.

Tommy brought the bottles over and set them down on a marble-topped coffee table, then plopped unceremoniously in an upholstered club chair, his long tanned legs splayed in front of him. He took a deep drink from one of the bottles and sighed contentedly.

“Does this mean you are officially off the clock?” Amelia asked coolly.

“Oh, this isn't alcohol. Try it, it's local ginger beer, they make it over on Key Grande.”

Larissa took a cautious sip. It was delicious—unlike anything she'd ever tried before. Rich and piquant and foamy, and exactly what she needed now that she was finally out of danger of drowning. She was wearing a knit dress and flats, the first thing she could pluck from her suitcase, and she'd thrown the silk blouse in the trash. Bluebell had managed to rip off an entire sleeve, which Larissa allowed her to keep. The dog was not allowed inside, thankfully, but Larissa would have been pleased if Tommy had left her stranded on the boat, floating somewhere far away from the island.

She really hadn't been cut out for the dog walking business, she finally admitted to herself.
Fill a need
—she should have given that consultant's advice a little more thought before plunging into a new endeavor. Except that was what Larissa did: she plunged, head first and full steam ahead. Because it was always easier to just
do
than to think. Thinking was what had led her parents, both Columbia University professors, into bankruptcy: they'd been so busy working on their definitive biography of one ancient philosopher after another that they didn't seem to notice that their apartment was falling into disrepair, their only child growing increasingly unhappy in the Upper East Side prep school where hippie flower children were viewed with suspicion, and all the other kids seemed to have CEOs for parents.

Larissa put herself through college and business school, fueled by sheer determination. She spent her graduation money from her grandparents on a power suit and a new laptop and never looked back. She threw herself into the corporate rat race, logging a promotion in each of the six years she had been working at Torrence Capital, and hadn't expected to deviate from her path to the corner office—until the day she found herself unceremoniously dumped.

After the dog walking fiasco, the mysterious job offer had seemed like exactly the opportunity she needed. And so she leapt again, subletting her apartment and shipping her business wardrobe and library of business tomes to the island. For the last two weeks since accepting the job, Larissa had spent long nights researching housekeeping operations. She'd gone on informational interviews and shadowed the housekeeping staff at a hotel where a college friend was the general manager. She'd mocked up a budget and schedule and researched suppliers and shipping options and even come up with a backup plan for the ferry, which now struck her as sheer genius. She supposed that it was possible that Tommy might be a competent construction worker—though she had her doubts—but she wasn't going anywhere with him ever again, especially never on an oceangoing craft.

“Blake Industrial Linen is scheduled to deliver a shipment tomorrow morning,” she said crisply, pulling her laptop out of her bag. At least she'd managed to keep it dry during the fracas on the boat. “I trust they'll have full access to the dock.”

To his credit, Tommy managed to look chastened. “Sure. Deliveries have all been coming in on the southeast side of the island, where the original landing strip was. We haven't had too many hiccups.”

Larissa nodded. She had to admit that the amount of work that had been accomplished since June, when renovations had begun, was nothing short of astonishing. The grounds were in immaculate condition, the stately palms trimmed and planters filled with winter arrangements. The guest bungalows had been painted a variety of tropical shades and outfitted with jaunty shutters and trim, fresh white fences, and wooden decks. Sunset beckoned from down at the beach in the distance, past the wide green lawn with its bocce courts and dance platform, the glistening pool and tennis courts.

“I am assuming there will be a conference call in the morning?” Amelia said. “Or should I ask Mr. Watts for a private meeting? I would like a formal update on the construction schedule.”

Tommy grimaced, and Larissa wondered if he had trouble with authority figures. Bill Watts was the construction manager, according to the materials she had received by courier after accepting the job. “Sure, you'll meet Bill at the meeting. There's one every morning, and I'm sure they're all anxious to meet you. I'll be there to give an update on the pool house. Marble shipment from Italy was delayed.”

A man came into the room, wiping his hands on his pants. He was covered with a thin layer of white dust. “Yo, Tommy, got a problem with staff cabin number eleven. Felix had to shut off the water. He's got parts coming in off the big island but we're not going to have it fixed until tomorrow, earliest.”

“Uh-oh,” Tommy said, stealing a glance at her. “Thanks for letting me know, Gordon. No way we can jury rig something until then? Maybe borrow some parts from the guest cabins?”

“No, sorry,” the man said apologetically. “Problem's in the main line. We've got the wall torn out. Good thing we found it now, though, boss says the lady who's moving into it is pretty high maintenance.”

Gordon's voice trailed off as Tommy made a throat-cutting gesture, rolling his eyes in Larissa's direction. He looked from Larissa to Amelia and back, and blushed bright pink. “Oh. Um. I'm sorry, I thought you were…I mean…”

Then it was Larissa's turn to blush: her makeup was smudged; her hair was drying into a wild, tangled mass of curls, as it always did when she didn't blow it dry; and she was huddled under a blanket. Whatever impression she had made on Gordon, it couldn't be good.

But Amelia stepped toward him and offered her hand. “Perhaps I am the high-maintenance lady of whom you're speaking?” she asked in a voice as cold as the Arctic circle. “Amelia Drake. General Manager.”

“No ma'am,” the man said, consulting a clipboard. “Cabin eleven goes to someone named Larissa Lawson.”

Everyone looked at her. The corner of Amelia's mouth twitched faintly. Larissa stood with as much dignity as she could muster, clutching the blanket tightly at her throat—she wasn't about to give the man a view of her bra through the ruined blouse, on top of everything else.

“I'm Larissa Lawson,” she said, her voice high and thin. “Head of housekeeping.”

Gordon had no choice but to shake her hand, though he looked like he wanted to disappear. “It's a pleasure, ma'am. We'll get your cabin finished as soon as possible.”

“See that you do,” Larissa said, then bit her lip. She didn't mean to sound so bitchy; it was her defense mechanism when she felt cornered. A trick she'd picked up in business school, when she'd competed against Columbia University's best and brightest. At the time, it had seemed like a reasonable way to distinguish herself from the other students—and it had worked. Snagging the coveted job at Torrence Capital after graduation had been her prize.

And her frosty demeanor had continued to ensure her success, promotion after promotion. She knew her peers didn't like her; she knew they called her the Ice Princess behind her back. But she told herself it didn't matter, because after all, she was headed for the corner suite.

Fat lot of good that had done her. Turned out that ice princesses only went so far before they ended up alienating everyone around them, and then the bottom fell out beneath their feet.

Larissa had been on Cupid Island less than an hour, and she'd already managed to be rude and condescending to the first two employees she'd met.

Not employees
, she reminded herself with a glance at Amelia. She wasn't the boss here, at least not of Tommy. They were colleagues.

“I'm sorry,” she said miserably, feeling like she might cry. “It's been a long day. What I meant to say was…” She gulped, catching her breath and standing as straight as possible. “If you'll just direct me to one of the guest bungalows, I'm sure it will be more than adequate until mine is ready. I think I'd like to freshen up now.”

Gordon exchanged another freighted look with Tommy. “Well, the thing is, Ms. Lawson, none of them are ready either. We haven't laid the carpet yet—they're working on it today.”

“What about my suite?” Amelia demanded. As general manager, she was the only person who would actually reside in Palmetto Manor, in the original suite of rooms belonging to Raphael Westermere's grandfather.

“Oh, yes,” Gordon said with evident relief. “Your suite has been ready since last week. Rafe was real clear about that—he wanted yours finished first. I think you'll like it.”

“Well, you can just stay with me until your cabin is ready,” Amelia said to Larissa.

“Oh, I couldn't,” Larissa protested. Not only did she hate to impose on her former client and coworker, but she longed for a few hours to herself. To unpack and unwind…to cry in private, if necessary. To pull herself together. “Surely there's
something
else available?”

“I have an idea,” Tommy said, snapping his fingers. “What about the honeymoon suite?”

Gordon's expression slipped. “Are you serious?”

“Sure, why not?”

“Rafe's not going to like that…and seriously, I wouldn't call it, uh, suitable—”

“That will be fine,” Amelia said with finality. “Please prepare it for her. If it is an issue, I'll take it up with Mr. Westermere myself.”

“But Ms. Drake—”

“Sooner would be preferable to later,” Amelia cut him off, in a tone that was every bit as firm as Larissa's was earlier, but somehow the effect was calm and decisive, not bitchy. Amelia, Larissa noted, was a born leader. Heck, if
she'd
started a dog walking business, the dogs probably would have formed a perfect line behind her as they walked down the street. They probably would have cleaned up after themselves too.

“Absolutely,” Gordon said, ducking his chin.

“No preparations needed,” Tommy said. “It's ready to go. I'll take you there myself.”

“Thank you. Gordon, could you show me to my rooms?” Amelia said. “I'm sure we'll both be grateful for the opportunity to refresh ourselves before dinner. I understand it's served at half past six o'clock?”

“Yes, but—”

“Well, I suppose that will do for now.”

Larissa knew Amelia thought it was uncivilized to eat before eight o'clock. Larissa had assumed that was because of her long hours at the Chelsea Market. One evening when she was late bringing Beaumont—Amelia's recently departed and much beloved pug—home from his walk, Amelia had met her at the door with an olive speared on a silver fork. On her table was a simple turkey sandwich served on china and a glass of water in a crystal goblet. That was the night Amelia explained that she had gone from Miss Porter's finishing school to marriage to the departed Mr. Thaddeus Drake, the same gentleman who hadn't had the heart to tell his wife that he'd lost the family fortune. Amelia had heard the news from his attorney—along with the fact that she would have to vacate the apartment and find a job for the first time in her life.

But Larissa was certain that no one else in the room could tell that Amelia's new position on Cupid Island was only her second job.

“This way, please, Ms. Drake,” Gordon said with a faint bow. Amelia gave Larissa's hand a squeeze as she walked past. Leaning in close, she whispered so that only Larissa could hear: “Wear something nice to dinner, dear, you'll feel so much better.”

And then they were gone.

Taking a deep breath, Larissa turned to Tommy. “I'm sure I can find the…suite myself,” she said, reluctant to say the word “honeymoon.” There was something about the man—and not just because she'd watched his bare abs and shoulders ripple as he rowed the boat over to the island—that she found unsettling. “If you'll just give me directions.”

Tommy scratched his head. “Well, I would if I could,” he said. “But I'm afraid it's a little hard to find.”

“Very well,” Larissa sighed, imagining a little cottage tucked away from prying eyes, a love nest for the recently wed. It was sort of romantic, thinking about the lovers who'd come here almost a hundred years ago to begin their marriages on this idyllic island. Her mood brightened fractionally. This might not be so bad after all. “Will you have my things sent over?”

“I'll do you one better—I'll bring them myself.”

He hefted her heavy suitcase like it weighed nothing and held the door open for Larissa, thankfully saying nothing about the fact that she was still draped with the blanket. Well, she'd return it, just as soon as she could. Perhaps she'd ask one of her new staff to show her the laundry facilities, where she would wash it herself. Yes. That would be a good introduction to the women who'd been hired to work as maids, showing them that although she was the boss, she was just a regular person who wasn't afraid to roll up her sleeves and pitch in.

She was feeling better as she stepped out into the afternoon sunshine. She even gave Tommy a smart little nod to let him know that the early awkward business was all but forgotten, as far as she was concerned.