Page 7 of Wynns of Change (Wynn Harbor Inn #3)

David finished his story. “That’s exactly how I remember it. The flames. The inferno. The rescues. Everyone made it out safely except for Ginger.”

“This is the first time I’ve heard you mention seeing lights the night of the fire,” Harlow said.

“And hearing a clanking sound. It didn’t seem important and maybe it isn’t, because it wasn’t out of the ordinary. The inn’s guests wandered around at all hours. Late night walks, early morning strolls, being up to watch the sunrises and sunsets.”

“Did the investigators think to ask the guests if they saw anything?” Harlow asked.

“Everyone was questioned. No one, not a single soul, mentioned noticing anything suspicious.”

She shifted her gaze back toward the rubble, cautiously inching forward until she stood facing the grand foyer.

To the left had been the check-in desk. To the right was the hallway leading to the main floor rooms. Straight ahead was the massive stone fireplace.

Beyond the fireplace were the doors to the restaurant, the patio’s expansive seating area and the pool.

She wiggled her toes, frowning at her sneakers. “I’m not dressed to start digging through what’s left, but maybe soon.”

“I’ve poked around in there, Harlow. I didn’t find anything…any sort of clue, although I wouldn’t even begin to know what to look for.”

“Maybe we should hire a professional investigator, a fire investigator.”

“I’ve thought about it. The fire chief and his team went through the place with a fine-tooth comb. It could be a waste of money.”

“They mentioned an accelerant may have been used,” Harlow said.

“Maybe,” David cautioned. “Nothing was ever determined.”

“Except for the insurance company refusing to pay out because of the inconclusive cause,” she reminded him.

“Yep. That was their loophole to get out of paying.”

During the walk home, Harlow mulled over her father’s recounting of what he’d seen and heard. She remembered running into him as he was leaving his bedroom, having both heard the alarms and sirens at the same time.

She would never forget the moment she found out her mother was trapped inside the burning building. None of the guests noticed anything out of the ordinary. Had there been an accelerant? If so, who had set the fire and why?

Back at the cottage, Harlow got to work catching up on emails. She spent another hour on the phone with her publicist, Janice, lining up press releases to promote A City of Glass .

Despite Robert’s attempts to continue micromanaging Harlow’s every move, she was proud of herself for sticking to her guns.

Vic had been reinstated as her bodyguard after signing a new contract, which was merely a formality. Janice was handling all of Harlow’s public releases.

The call ended, and she jotted down some reminder notes before checking her email account one last time. Robert had sent listing agreements for all three of their properties.

In the past, she would have given them a passing glance and signed off, letting her husband handle the details. And she was tempted to skim over them until the little voice inside her head told her she needed to take a closer look.

Harlow scanned the first page, noticing a ten percent commission for the Malibu house. She clicked away and opened the New York apartment agreement. Same thing. Ten percent commission. Ditto for the condo in Palm Beach. “The commission rate sounds very high,” she muttered under her breath.

“What sounds high?” Her father looked up from his newspaper.

“Robert sent over the listing agreements. All three properties give the agents a ten percent commission.”

“Ten percent.” David’s jaw dropped. “Six percent, split between the listing and selling agent is standard.”

“That’s what I thought. This should be fun.

” Harlow heaved a heavy sigh and dialed Robert’s number.

As anticipated, it went to voicemail. She briefly explained her concern over the commissions, and asked him to call her back.

“Maybe he had the agents write it in and they made a verbal agreement to give him a cut.”

“So you would get less,” her father said. “I wouldn’t put anything past him.”

“Me either. I’m not signing. The agents will make good money. I’m thinking more along the lines of six percent, seven tops.”

“Good girl. Let Robert know you’re paying attention.”

She started to set her phone aside when it rang. “It’s him. I’m putting the call on speaker.” Harlow pressed the answer button. “You got my message?”

“I did. Commissions on luxury properties are typically paid out at a higher rate.”

“Ten percent is too high. The agents will make good money at the standard six percent.”

“We can try to negotiate, but don’t expect them to put in additional effort.”

“What sort of extra effort do you get for four percent?” she asked.

“Agents host high-end open house parties, create topnotch glossy flyers. You can’t go cheap when you’re trying to sell a luxury property.”

“I understand where you’re coming from, but it seems excessive.”

Robert muttered something unintelligible under his breath. It sounded like “annoying.” “What would make you happy, Harlow?” he asked sarcastically.

“Six percent. Seven and a half, tops.”

“They might not take it. We might have to find other listing agents.”

“Oh, well.”

“Fine. I’ll try to renegotiate, but if we’re forced to find new agents, I’m handing it over to you.”

“Good. I’ll be happy to look for someone else. Please let me know how it goes.”

Robert told her he would and abruptly ended the call, basically hanging up on her.

David chuckled. “Your husband isn’t used to the new Harlow.”

“He’s used to me going along with whatever he says. It’s possible we’ll have to pay ten percent, but it doesn’t hurt to try to negotiate a lower rate.” Clicking out of the agreements, Harlow sifted through the current list of upcoming films under consideration.

No longer trusting Robert, she compared the terms with the recently completed contract to make sure he wasn’t trying to pull a fast one.

After finishing, Harlow hit the refresh button to check for emails one more time and found a new message from Robert marked important. Her finger hovered over the button. “Robert sent an important email. It has to do with the listing agreements. Any guesses about what it says?”

“He isn’t going to renegotiate and is putting the ball in your court to find listing agents.”

“Maybe. We’ll see.” She double-clicked on the link. Harlow let out a celebratory whoop. “All three agents agreed to the reduced commission rate.”

“Good job,” David said proudly. “Robert could learn a thing or two from you.”

She promptly e-signed the agreements and sent them back with a note, thanking Robert for listening to her suggestion and taking action.

There was no acknowledgement, no reply. Not that she figured she would get one. Acknowledging it would be an admission that she had been right.

In her husband’s way of thinking, he was the smartest, the brightest, the cleverest. Robert did an excellent job of “tooting his own horn.”

The least they could do was agree and be civil about certain issues. It would make life a lot easier.

Harlow gathered up her laptop and papers. Balancing her cell phone on top of the pile, she noticed a new text from friend and fellow “Mackie,” Peyton Dyson, the owner of Mackinac Island’s The Fudge Shop . She opened the text and found an e-vite attached:

Come join your fellow Mackies for a dinner party tomorrow night!

Where: The Fudge Shop.

When: Friday at 6:00 p.m.

Attire: Casual. (Is there any other way to dress?)

Please RSVP ASAP.

Each of the Mackies was included in the group text.

Harlow promptly replied she would be attending. Meg and Abby Stokely, Noelle, Eryn and Lottie all accepted the invitation.

“The Mackies invited me to a dinner party tomorrow night.”

“Oh boy. A girl’s get-together. Trouble is brewing,” David teased. “Lottie told me they missed you while you were on location.”

“I missed them too.” Harlow had been welcomed with open arms into the Magnificent Mackies, a tight-knit group of women, other islanders who gathered once a week to hang out and encourage one another through life’s ups and downs.

She’d quickly become one of them and looked forward to their weekly meet ups. Sharing, supporting and uplifting, Harlow had grown close to each and every one, all uniquely different but finding common ground in their friendships.

The rest of the evening passed by quietly, which suited Harlow just fine. She was looking forward to downtime, to the slower pace of island life.

After dinner, a quick meal of soup and sandwiches, Harlow and Mort took a long walk. They swung by to visit Aunt Birdie, who joined them for the evening stroll.

She filled her aunt in on the listing agreements and told her about the contracts she was considering.

“The good news is I have time to research them and figure out which ones are the best fit,” Harlow said. “For right now, I’m ready for a dose of Mackinac Island relaxation and hopefully get the divorce settled.”

“The sooner the better. And you’ll be able to keep an eye on your father.”

Harlow abruptly stopped. “Keep an eye on Dad?”

Aunt Birdie had the deer-in-the-headlights look. “David didn’t tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

“I’m sorry, Harlow. I should’ve kept my big mouth shut.”