Edith Swanson Grant
Beloved Wife and Mother
Go Dawgs!
Her dates of birth and death were noted below her eternal salute to the Huskies. Mort focused on the dash that separated them. Fifty-six years. Most spent with him. An action shot of Edie rushing into freshman orientation thirty-seven autumns ago ran through his memory. She was late. One of the few vacant seats was next to his. She hurried down the aisle, slid in, and gave him the once over.
“You look as lost as I feel,” she said. They were married two years later.
“Remember the ruckus we caused, Baby?” Mort touched the rough edges of the tombstone. “Your mother said I’d ruin your life. Mine said you’d do the same for me.”
His eyes went back to the headstone, to the dash between the dates. Countless nights in each other’s arms. Fighting as though the holiness of Christ depended upon the outcome. Two kids. Scraping the money together so she could rent a rundown storefront on Fourth Avenue. Turning it into the best dance school in King County. The problems with Allie. The pride with Robbie. Two grandkids.
“You filled your dash up good, kiddo,” he said. “I miss you like crazy.” He blew her a kiss and walked out of the garden of death.
Chapter Four
Gordon Halloway flew in two days before, looking for a break from the cluster fuck that had become his life. A place away from the lawyers and holier-than-thou politicians screaming to any bouffant hairdo with a microphone, demanding his head on a stick. He wanted to shake the blood suckers’ stench off his skin. Find a way to fix things.
Gordon knew he was flying solo. That god-damned board of directors he so carefully put in place abandoned him at the first hiccup. He wanted to throw each one against a wall and enlighten them as to what a special breed of spineless asshole they were. Eager as hell to stand next to him when he was building the company. Winking and nodding as bankers put together jumbo loans secured by promises and a three-color prospectus. Lining their pockets with stock windfalls based on whispers shared while sipping his top-shelf liquor. First sign of a dust-up and they all hopped on their moral high horse, rode out of Dodge, and left him holding the bag.
He considered his investors another subspecies of pond scum larvae. They all loved old Gordon when he was promising nine percent and returning eleven. Couldn’t get their money to him fast enough. Begging him to take their retirement accounts and grandchildren’s college funds. Their only question was where’s my next dividend check. Elbowing each other for a chance to smile into the camera standing next to the man with the Midas touch. Did they really think their hands were cleaner than his?
He could have made it work. They just came at him too fast. With a little more time he could have raised the money he needed to keep the party rolling.
But the cowards balked at the first whiff of trouble. Brought the regulators in before he had a chance to line things up. That got the politicians’ attention which dragged the media in and that was all she wrote. Eighteen months ago it was chartered jets, private islands and blow jobs from Vogue cover girls. Now it was depositions, grand juries, and frozen assets. They could all go fuck themselves. He told his wife and his lawyers he was headed to Palm Beach, but he snuck a little farther south. Ten days of sun and surf and a little time to chart his next move.
No one knew about this place. Not even his wife. Gordon bought it eighteen years ago. Before the rock stars and eco-tourists discovered the beauty of Costa Rica and got busy turning it into any other roadside attraction. He owned twelve hundred feet of sandy coast line. Two thousand acres. Six miles to the nearest village. He could get three hundred for each dollar he’d paid. Gordon buried his ownership so deep in nested companies he was sure he’d be able to hang on to his piece of heaven even if the stateside scavengers got a chance to pick his bones. Over the years he’d quietly improved the property. A small house two hundred feet off the beach and a larger home deep in the jungle. One dirt road in. Solar generator. Fresh-water well. Nothing as elegant as his Palm Beach house or his Park Avenue duplex. More rugged than his place in Vail. This was a place where a man could hear his thoughts. Away from the mother-fuckers waiting to castrate him.
Gordon spent his first two days in Costa Rica alone. Hiking and thinking. Swimming and planning. The jungle humidity sweated the worry out of him; the coastal beauty fueled his genius. He’d figure out how to spin this. He’d be on top again. Hell, maybe he’d even work a deal to get some of that money the feds were handing out like samples of Sam’s Club tuna. He felt brand new. It was time to celebrate.
Gordon was heading for the bar of the most expensive hotel in Papagayo when he spotted her. Two Louis Vuitton bags next to a pair of alabaster legs that looked like the stairway to heaven as they climbed from silver sandals to a white silk mini two centimeters short of illegal. Strawberry blonde hair caught in a clasp at the nape of her neck before cascading half-way down her slender back. Black tank top revealing perfectly toned arms. The kind of arms Gordon imagined pinning down before doing any number of wet and wicked things.
He wanted to see her face. If she looked half as good up front he’d have to change his plans for dining alone. He walked up to the counter as the manager placed a key in the beautiful woman’s hand. She turned and flashed him a polite smile. Eyes the color of an Irish valley. Pale pink lips. Ivory skin. One deep purple brush of color on the side of her neck. A birthmark. One flaw accentuating her perfection.
“These two bags, please.” She looked down at her luggage. The hotel manager began to speak but Gordon cut him off with a wink.
“No problem, boss. I got this one. The elevators are this way, madam.” Gordon picked up her bags. “What floor are you on?”
“Six. Room 642.” She entered the elevator, turned, and faced the doors. Gordon was impressed such a gorgeous woman ignored the floor to ceiling mirrors walling three sides of the car. He pressed six on the key pad. She stared straight ahead, silent. He traced her profile with his eyes. Firm jaw. Graceful neck. Up-turned nose dusted with freckles. He breathed deeply and inhaled her scent. Lilacs in spring.
The elevator glided to a stop and she stepped off and aside, waiting to follow him. Gordon looked to his right and then to his left, hoping for a hint of direction to room 642.
“Are you lost?” she asked. Definitely American. Gordon heard the clear clip of a Midwestern accent. “642’s got to be around here somewhere.”
Gordon took her humor as permission to play. “One would think, wouldn’t one?”
The beautiful woman blinked at his haughty retort and for the first time really looked at him. Tan silk trousers. Exquisitely tailored linen jacket. She brought a hand to her lovely mouth and wrinkled her brow. “Oh, my God. You’re not the bellman, are you?” She spun around and looked at him again, sheepish grin, twinkling eyes. Gordon was charmed by her embarrassment.
“I’m a good Samaritan here to help a woman in need.” He bowed his head. “Now, which way?”
Her laugh was tinkling wind chimes in a soft summer breeze. “Please,” she said. “Leave the bags. I’m so sorry for my blunder. I can take it from here.”
“Wouldn’t hear of it. I leave no job half-done.” Gordon smiled the same smile that inspired thousands of investors to reach for their wallets. “First time in Papagayo?”
She hesitated. Looked down at her feet and sighed before answering. “First time in Costa Rica, actually.”
Gordon heard a note of sadness. “Travelling alone?”
The woman ran her lovely green eyes over him. When she spoke Gordon knew he’d passed inspection. The hook was set.
“I am,” she said.
He held her gaze and softened his tone. Time to reel her in. “Then may I ask you to join me for a drink? The bar here is quite remarkable.”
She waited a heartbeat before smiling. “Is this part of your bellman’s duty?”
Gordon transferred both bags to his left hand and reached for her arm with his right. “Oh, yes, ma’am.” He
