Page 49 of Cowboy in Colorado

“You taught me to work my ass off for what I want in life,” I say with a shrug. “So that’s what I do but, at the same time, I have to say I am excited about this project and the vision for it.”

“But I’ve often prioritized work over everything else.” He stares off into the distance, obviously not ready to talk business just yet. “It cost me, with your mother.”

I cough, caught by surprise—Mom left when I was a teenager, but it’s something he never discusses. “I—”

He turns his gaze to me. “It would have been our thirtieth anniversary today, so I’m a bit maudlin, I’m afraid. I regret the way things happened, and I’ve come to the realization that it’s largely my own fault.” He waves a hand. “Never mind. This isn’t the time or place for this conversation.”

I sigh, sitting next to him at the conference table. “I admit I’m a bit blindsided by this. You’ve never talked about this before.”

“I know. My apologies.” He claps his hands, and is suddenly all business. “So. Costa Rica, huh?”

“So, do you want an overview, or do you want the sales pitch?”

He rolls a shoulder. “I want the Brooklyn to her father pitch.” His eyes are sharp, insightful.

I let out a breath. “Okay. So. It’s an all-inclusive. Not super original, I know, but for my first totally solo project, it makes sense. Bellanger Real Estate doesn’t have any tropical holdings—only domestic in places like Florida and Hawaii. This is a boutique resort. The target demographic is on the new, young wealthy millennial types, so the focus is on buzzwords. The materials being used are all sustainably resourced, meaning the wood is from a sustainable farming forest, same for the bamboo and all the cotton for the sheets and everything. It’s a green resort, too—currently eighty percent of the resort’s energy will come from a renewable power supply, primarily solar with some wind and geothermal. It’s being built exclusively by local builders and subcontractors, and even the architects are Costa Rican. We aren’t at the staffing phase yet, but all staff will be local, and well paid. Each unit will be private, with every luxury imaginable—except Wi-Fi or cell signal, intentionally, as the goal is to provide a respite from civilization. Get away from everything, and unplug. My marketing team is working on ‘unplugged weekends’ for high-powered CEO’s, including private charters from LA, here in New York, Chicago, Beijing, London, places like that, so all you have to do is clear your calendar and pack a bag, and even the bag isn’t needed, because all you really need is a bathing suit.”

Dad nods. “Great. And I’ll be your first client.” He smiles. “It sounds like you have all your bases covered. It will be an asset, certainly. I presume the profit numbers are in line with what we discussed a couple of weeks ago, so we don’t need to go over that again right now.”

I frown. “But I hear a ‘but’ in your voice.”

He lets the smile fade. “But it’s safe.”

I groan, and toss the marketing pamphlet aside. “Yes, I know.”

“This was about risk-taking. For you. This is outside what we currently have, true, but the idea was for you to challenge the company a little more, and look at how we make money, and why.” He pauses for a long time. “What happened to the Colorado idea?”

I stare at him. “How much do you know about that?”

He snorts. “I know all, my dear. Don’t you realize that by now?” He’s only sort of kidding.

“That was a bust. The owners wouldn’t sell.”

“So? Convince them, or find a new location. From what I understand, the idea was solid and completely different from anything else we do.”

“It was.”

“So?”

“So, I…” I have no idea how to explain this away.

At that moment, Tina enters my office, looking pale as a sheet and clearly worried. “I’m sorry to interrupt, Mr. Bellanger. But, um, Brooklyn? May I talk to you privately for a moment?”

Dad’s eyes narrow at Tina. “No, you may not.”

“What is it, Tina?” I ask, slightly annoyed she’s interrupted, knowing Dad only had twenty minutes for this meeting.

“Those calls you’ve had recently?” She pauses. “I haven’t let any of them through, as you know…um. It’s becoming—he’s rather persistent.”

“Who?” I ask, hating the lurch of premonition in my gut.

“A, umm…a Mr. W.H. Auden.”

My eyes slide closed. “He’s the one who has been calling?”

“Yes.”

“And?”