It Takes Heart Read online

  The cat returned the sentiment with the knowing stare of someone who felt ignored. “I’ll make it up to you later,” she called out to Luna. “I promise. There’s just so much going on.” The last couple of days had been jam packed with spending the resort’s money and transporting furniture, with a few moments here and there for a break.

  With the newly purchased furniture in mind, the current things in Ligaya paled in comparison. They screamed bland, with fabrics and textures that did not make an impression. They had function, true, but didn’t impart the feeling of home and, most importantly, the feeling of togetherness.

  Without comfort, there was no trust.

  In her experience, it was trust, not love, that made the difference. It was trust, not love, that got her to stay somewhere. Love was just as it was, a by-product. The work was in the trust. And trust was work.

  She grabbed two bowls and a mug and two spoons and a fork—there were only two of everything in the house, and that was something else she needed to change, because who wanted to be pressed with dishes—and scooped ice cream into each receptacle. It was lychee flavored and special and imparted a little bit of home. Her mother had a fierce sweet tooth—with her biggest temptation ice cream—and she’d generously passed it down to Geneva. She had been under her mother’s tutelage in everything, from the way she looked at material possessions to her appreciation of the delicious Magnolia ice cream flavors like ube, mango, mais queso, and langka. Their freezer had been filled with pints hoarded from the Asian market.

  Geneva’s heart dipped, but she scooped herself up from the moment by piling the bowls, the utensils, and a blanket from the closet into her arms. She brought everything outside, where Sal and Rhiannon had taken off their shoes and were sitting in the sand. “Quick! The ice cream’s already melting!” She laughed, passing Rhiannon the blanket. Sal crawled like a crab to lay it flat against the wind. They all fell into a fit of laughter, with the moment so pure that as Geneva ate, the ice cream had never tasted so delicious.

  “Ms. Geneva, Ms. Beatrice said that you’ve been all over the place,” Rhiannon said. She tipped the spoon so it rested lightly on her bottom lip.

  “I have. I lived in Annapolis—that’s where I met her and the rest of the family—and then went to college in Virginia. But after that, let’s see: Los Angeles, Austin, Kansas City, Dallas, Saint Petersburg, and my last address was Sedona. But I’ve also traveled to so many other cities in the US and abroad. I even went to the Philippines to meet my family there.”

  “Where’s home, then?” Sal asked.

  Geneva took her time with the ice cream, mulling over her answer. “My permanent address is Gatlinburg, Tennessee.”

  She opened her mouth to say more, to possibly explain the loose threads of her life, but it would have been too complicated. Her parents’ move from Maryland to Tennessee alone was a half-a-dozen-doughnut conversation.

  “Wow. I’ve never lived anywhere else except for my same old house in Nags Head,” Rhiannon said, saving the moment.

  Geneva thought about it, the upheaval, then the Harris family bucket list she’d undertaken in spades. “That’s not such a bad thing, to stay in one place, but I love to travel. I’m sure that you’ll find a way to travel, too, someday, if that’s what you want.”

  She shrugged. “Hopefully. But I can’t right now. I help out, at home, besides school.”

  “Our Rhiannon wants to be a nurse,” Sal said, like a proud dad.

  “Yeah, it’s hard, though. A lot of math.” Her face screwed up into a frown.

  Geneva laughed. “Math was hard for me too. But I have every confidence in you. My mother’s a nurse. Retired now, but she loved it. She worked a lot of nights. Do you know what nursing you want to do?”

  “No. I don’t mind blood, though. I got into the nursing program at East Carolina University. I’ve been in the community college getting my prereqs done.”

  “That’s great, Rhiannon. And as someone who’s been at your side the last few days, might I say that you also have a good eye for design.”

  “You think?”

  “I keep telling you how smart you are,” Sal said over his glasses. “And hardworking. But you have to keep it up.”

  Rhiannon rolled her eyes, and to Geneva she said, “Mr. Medina doesn’t want me to, quote, ‘get distracted.’”

  “All I want is to make sure you’re on the straight and narrow.”

  Geneva watched as the two continued to banter, and her heart tangled up in twin slivers of memory and melancholy. In what she used to have.

  “God, I completely forgot about napkins,” she said, shooting to her feet, eager to put space between them. “I’ll be right back.”

  She shuffled back in the house, deep breathing as she entered. She hated being rude, but it had gotten to be too much. She couldn’t wallow in these feelings, in emotions that did nothing but pull her back to a space where she was unproductive. There was simply no time for that.

  On the way out, she stubbed her toe against the kitchen table, and the laptop—which she had been working on earlier today—lit to life to her in-box.

  “Dang it!” she said, hissing while pressing her toe into the floorboard to stifle the pain. Her eyes wandered distractedly to the computer screen and the bolded new message.

  The email was from Nita, with the subject matter: Foster’s Hotel Group.

  The group that owned a string of midlevel hotels in the Midwest?

  She stared at the napkins, knowing her ice cream was melting outside, and then at the email. A debate warred as it always did. Work or play? She bit her lip.

  “Ugh.” She clicked on the email. In it was a link to her Dropbox. She scanned Nita’s message, bypassing all the details but coming upon highlighted words. Request interior decor consultation for a chain of hotels.

  She reached out to the nearest chair and perched precariously on it. A chain. This would be another rung upward. It would mean prestige. It would mean exposure. It would mean learning.

  It would also mean money. Great money.

  Of course she would say yes.

  She typed a quick email:

  Nita,

  Please schedule a time for either a video chat consult or an in-person consult possibly en route to Helena’s B and B project.

  Thank you, Geneva

  She moved the mouse’s arrow over to the send button, but something pulled from deep in her belly, taking her inward. For a beat she wanted to crawl back into bed, into the sleep that she’d gloriously had the last couple of days. Into the calm of the beach air against her face.

  A clanging took her attention to the kitchen. To Luna, spying at her from on top of the kitchen counter. The bugger had knocked her keys onto the floor.

  Geneva clicked to send the email and stood to retrieve her keys. Face up was her Annapolis key chain from the tourist shop on Main Street, discolored from its original silver color.

  “Now what are you trying to say?”

  Luna’s stare was pointed.

  Not for the first time, Geneva wished she could read Luna’s mind. How many years had her cat been at her side? She’d seen Geneva’s best and her worst. Most of all, she seemed to have a sense of when Geneva was facing a fork in a road.

  In between what two destinations? She didn’t know.

  Unlike when she made quick decisions in design, in her own journey, Geneva never knew what was right. She simply moved to the next opportunity, a lesson straight out of her father’s playbook.

  At times the opportunities brought something fantastic, and other times, like these days, with Brandon complicating the two weeks she was supposed to be on the resort, her decisions were yet to be judged as wise.

  “I didn’t know he was going to be here,” Geneva said.

  Luna’s tail whipped in objection.

  “I swear,” she giggled, and scratched the cat behind her ears. Luna leaned into her hold, purring in bliss.

  Then, as if summoned by the stars, her phone
buzzed in her pocket with the calendar notification that her meeting with Brandon was in a half hour.

  The nine-foot wrought iron gate that shielded Puso and the staff residences from the rest of the peninsula was open by the time Geneva drove up in her golf cart, with Brandon standing in the middle of the winding driveway.

  She cursed herself at the surprise—she’d expected to have the drive up to pump herself up for their meeting—and her stomach gave way for the second time at his appearance. He was in shorts and a white T, with an Outer Banks baseball cap shielding his face and what she knew was a pensive smile of mixed emotions.

  Me too, buddy. Me too.

  She swallowed her nervousness. “Hey. How long have you been waiting?”

  “Not long. When you texted, I thought that I might as well open the gate and then realized I didn’t know how from the house. After dinner, the rest of the family kind of went their separate ways, and I didn’t want to have them help me out with one more thing. Anyway. I thought this was the easiest way.” He held up his gate remote control.

  “Did you walk all the way down here?”

  “I . . .” His face registered the decision he’d made. “It’s not that far.”

  She hid a smile, noting the speed of his speech and the high tone of his voice. At least it wasn’t only she who was nervous. “Thanks. Um, where should we go?”

  “Just up to the house. I’ve got everything set up in the HQ dining room. It has the largest table.”

  They paused, just looking at one another.

  Awkwardness bloomed between them. From yesterday to today could have been weeks in emotion for Geneva.

  “Do you want a ride?” she asked finally, scooting a smidge to the left.

  “Yeah, sure. You, um . . . you look nice.”

  “Thanks. I’ve worn this thing a million times,” she said of her sheath dress. It was made of a knit cotton, and though the fabric was light and airy, heat inched up Geneva’s neck as Brandon climbed into the golf cart. When he brushed up against her, it sent her heart into running speed.

  She glanced at him at the same moment he raised his eyes to hers.

  This was silly—what was this, high school? Not even that, but middle school? In high school she’d come into her body and confidence and even as a freshman didn’t fear facing her crushes.

  Then she realized. This was reminiscent of them four years ago at Chris and Eden’s reception: both shy, testing each other out, despite their obvious connection.

  “So . . . did you need for me to give you lessons or—” Brandon woke her from her thoughts and gestured ahead to the road in front of them. “The pedal on the right side is the gas.”

  She swallowed to ease the memory that had filled her chest. “Har har.”

  “Now go easy on the—”

  She pressed the pedal to go, and the jolt of the golf cart jostled them forward. Brandon yelped, and thank goodness for that and the loud whir of the engine to divert her thoughts. Up ahead, the house’s outline grew and became a beacon of white amid the green of the trees.

  Geneva heard Brandon whimper, and she risked a glance in his direction.

  He was gripping the oh-crap handle with his right hand and bracing himself with his left. “Holy hell. Who gave you the license to drive?”

  She slowed, laughing. “Are you really going to be a backseat driver?”

  “Look. It doesn’t help that I still have visions of you driving over our garbage cans.”

  “Oh my God!” she said over the engine. “I was just learning.”

  “Illegally, mind you.”

  “Legally. Chris was old enough to be my guardian at the time. And I had my permit!”

  They quieted as she parked the golf cart among the others under the home. To the left was a space occupied by a Harley with a sidecar, glossy black gleaming in the setting sun.

  Geneva jumped out and appraised it. “Wow.”

  “It’s Gil’s newest toy.”

  “Does he actually take the girls in the sidecar?”

  “If Ate Bea has anything to say about it? No.”

  She followed him up the stairs into the house and veered right. They passed doors to a balcony and stairs that led up to the apartments above.

  They arrived in a four-season room with floor-to-ceiling windows on three sides. A white hand-scratched wooden table with what looked like a three-inch board and pedestal legs took center stage. Curvy metal chairs surrounded it, giving it a modern touch. Above the table hung a capiz-shell chandelier, and the rhapsody it emitted as it swayed against the warm wind that blew through open windows caused Geneva to exhale a long breath.

  “My mom loves capiz shells,” she said. “My dad, on the other hand . . . we had one of those shell hangings in the living room, just above his chair, but he always hit his head against it.” Her father was tall, over six feet, of Scotch Irish descent, but it was all in his torso.

  “They never moved it?” He offered her a bottle of water from the bucket sitting on the buffet.

  “C’mon, this is my mom.”

  He laughed after he took a swig. “True, true. I have actually witnessed her steadfastness. And I bet to this day—she’s still the same way?”

  Brandon’s honesty, but without judgment, put her at ease.

  “Still.”

  She loved that with the Pusos, in general, she didn’t have to explain herself—they knew enough about her and about her parents to commiserate. As an only child, Geneva had no one she could turn to with the same shared experience. And knowing in full capacity the length of life . . .

  “Anyway.” Geneva pushed herself through the thought. “I really love this room. I’m almost jealous I didn’t design it.” She ran a finger down the edge of the sideboard against the wall, also in an off white. Above it was a mirror framed in mother-of-pearl.

  “I said the same thing when I walked into the house. I was kind of insulted that they did so well without me. When was the last time you were here?” Brandon gestured to the table, where a map was held open by four tulip shells, while others were rolled on one side of the tabletop.

  She dropped her messenger bag into one of the chairs and perched on its seat, cool against the backs of her bare legs. “A little over a year ago. I was within driving distance, so Beatrice and I met up for lunch, and she gave me a tour.”

  His eyebrow rose. “Even more recent than me.”

  “I guess.” She kept her face neutral, though curiosity pulled at her. The Pusos were tight knit, even in their differences. Beatrice hadn’t mentioned why Brandon was never there, and Geneva hadn’t inquired.

  “They’ve done a lot since then. I can take you on a tour after this, if you’d like. There’s even a pond they’d filled up with koi, though they were relocated after the storm.” He winced. “I mean, the koi are fine. Anyway . . . the plans.”

  “Right,” she said, refocusing on the matters at hand, on the large sketch of the resort. It was best not to skip down memory lane—it would be a slippery slope.

  “The x-ed-out squares are the prefab tiny houses that we’re waiting on.” He unrolled two tubes. “We have two houses in one floor plan, and one with this second floor plan. The facade for these new homes is also modern, unlike the cottage style we currently have. They’re on track to be delivered and installed tomorrow and the next day.”

  She eyed the renderings and the dimensions. Geneva bit her lip.

  “Is . . . this a problem? Do your designs not fit into your plans?”

  “That’s not it.” She went on to explain her conundrum of the truck fire. “I’ve got quite a bit of furniture in our warehouse here on the resort, but I’ll need more.”

  Worry was etched in the lines of his face. “Will you have enough in time? And budgetwise, where are we?”

  “I’m totaling that up now, and honestly, it is what it is. We have to bend in order not to break. I haven’t updated Chris, though.”

  “I’ll tell him; don’t worry.”

  Sh
e smiled at the sentiment. “I’m not worried, Brandon. I’ll tell him myself.”

  “Excuse me . . . ,” he said wryly. “I was just thinking I could give you some backup.”

  “I’ll let you know when I need it. But here’s what I have.” Geneva pulled her iPad from her messenger bag and turned it on. The screen saver turned on to Luna.

  “You have a cat?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “I dunno. My sister has a dog, and you have a cat—”

  “I adopted her when I’d returned to Tennessee after . . .” She cleared her throat. In truth, Luna had been her mother’s idea after she’d left Brandon. “Anyway, isn’t she pretty?”

  “She is. I just thought . . . that you traveled solo. It’s what you always said.”

  “Well, people change.” A shadow passed across his eyes, and the truth of her words caught up to her. “And Luna’s not human, so it’s . . . entirely different.”

  She pressed the screen swiftly, to her photos. “Take a look at this.” She swiped right, to the collection of furniture she had built up the last couple of days.

  He leaned into the iPad. “That’s kitschy.”

  She leaned back. “Kitschy?”

  “Yeah, definitely not the modern or universal that was initially the concept.”

  “I mean, no, it’s not.” A sliver of doubt nagged at her, from the decision to pivot in design. “But this isn’t about flipping or selling a house. This is trying to get people to stay. I admit I was hesitant at first, but I got to thinking—”

  “Flip and sell a house?”

  “Yeah, what you do. Your mission is to take potential buyers and make them feel like they could live there, whereas—”

  A hint of a grin wiggled from his lips. “How did you know I flipped homes?”

  “Well, because . . . I don’t know. Beatrice must have told me.” Her neck warmed at the lie. He didn’t need to know that she’d once scoured his website last year to gaze at the “About Us” photo of Brandon and his business partner.

  She had to fix this quickly before a guilty-as-charged giggle burst from her lips. “As I was saying. I got to thinking that this might set our accommodations apart. I’ve got most everything I need, but there’ll sure be some last-minute shuffling around.”