“Stone Anginelli, what the hell have you done?”
I move the phone away from my ear, so I don’t burst an eardrum. Clearly, Regina Anginelli is riled up about something, her Italian mother screech in full effect.
“Good morning to you, too. Are we still on for dinner tonight?”
“You bet we are. Bring your appetite and be ready to explain yourself.”
Before I can get a word in to ask why she’s so upset, she hangs up on me.
I stare out the floor-to-ceiling window of my corner office overlooking Palm Beach harbor, as if the tide coming in will bring me some answers. I want my mother to be proud of me. The most important values she and my grandfather instilled in me were to work hard and stay humble. I’ve worked my ass off to honor the Anginelli name, the only name I’ve ever known,because my mother and her father raised me, not the man who abandoned my mother before I was born.
The Pelican Point project is my chance to have an impact on an entire community and to help people like the hard-working role models I grew up with. I click on the latest email.May as well see who else is not happy.
This one is from a Desirae Russell, owner of a business called Coastal Couture, whatever that is. Sounds like a place my mother would shop in. As I read the words, Ms. Russell’s passion and sass come leaping out from the screen, hitting me differently from the other disgruntled citizens. No wonder she’s upset. Her business is located in the Reilly building; the one marked for demolition. Centrally located on Seabreeze Avenue, the main street in the heart of downtown, it’s ground zero for my project.
I rub the back of my neck as unease creeps up my spine. This proposal hasn’t even gotten off the ground yet and it’s already causing issues. I need to talk to Kyle. As if reading my mind, my best friend and the Chief Operating Officer of Stone Development, walks in.
“Hey, man. The team made some updates to the Pelican Point plan based on input from the board. Can I go over it with you?”
I nod and motion over to the conference table. Kyle Carver has been my buddy since we were kids. We didn’t have much, growing up with single moms, but we had each other. We attended college and business school together, vowing that one day, we would make it big. We’ve seen each other through deaths, divorces, andlean times. He’s the only person in the world, other than my mother, who I trust one-hundred percent.
Evidently, he’s been talking to me for the last few minutes, but I have no idea what he’s been saying.
“Earth to Stone.”
“Sorry, what?”
“I said, we’ve identified some properties to purchase adjacent to the Reilly building. We’ll aim to acquire the entire block.”
The Reilly building. Desirae Russell. Coastal Couture.The boutique owner’s fierce words are still rattling around in my head.
“Okay, yeah. I’ll take a look at this later. And maybe I’ll do a drive by while I’m up there for dinner with Mom. One more thing. Find out who the hell leaked the project before getting a community assessment.”
As I enter the kitchen of my mother’s condo in Pelican Point, the scent of her signature lasagna brings back memories of happy, but rough times. She worked three jobs to keep food on our table when I was growing up and to provide for my wants and needs as best she could.
I pour us each a glass of red wine, and as soon as she places a heaping pile of pasta, meat, and three kinds of cheese on my plate, she takes her seat, bombarding me with questions about the project, like she’s my professor quizzing me on my MBA capstone report.
“Really, Stone? These are my neighbors, my friends.Is destroying small businesses all over town worth your legacy? Is that what you want to be known for?”
I suppose it’s a rhetorical question, since she doesn’t even pause to take a breath or let me try to answer.
“I’ve built a life here since I moved from West Palm. And need I remind you, when you put me in charge of your charity foundation, you said you wanted me to help people less fortunate. People like we used to be when you were growing up. Struggling. If you tear everything down for the sake of enticing tourists, you’ll destroy the charm of this town and hurt the residents and small businesses who have been here for generations. The very people you say you want to help. I know you mean well, but this is not the way to go about it.”
Shit.At the moment, I don’t have satisfactory answers for my mother. I need to do a deep dive into the numbers, look at the latest plans, and get that community assessment.
Mom’s signature Italian butter cookies, a cross between shortbread and sugar cookies, are always baked to perfection and melt in your mouth. However, as I drive back down the interstate to West Palm, they’re sitting in my stomach like rocks. Normally, I take a late night run on the beach to burn off calories after one of my mother’s signature dinners, but tonight all I want to do is get back to my place, drink something stronger than red wine, and figure out what the hell I want out of this project.
After changing into an old pair of sweats and a tee shirt, I pour myself my favorite Irish whiskey and settle in a chair on my balcony overlooking the water. Thewhiskey warms my insides and settles me as I gaze out, the twinkling lights of cargo ships in the distance standing out in the darkness. There’s something, or someone, my brain keeps going back to, and I have no idea why. My curiosity getting the best of me, I open my laptop and type in the nameDesirae Russellin the search bar.
There’s a ton of information about her online. Originally from Atlanta, graduate of the Georgia Fashion Institute, listed inWho’s Who among Black Businesswomen, renowned for her original wedding dress designs gracing the covers ofBeautiful Bridemagazine, and a sought-after designer for plus-size women.So that’s what Coastal Couture is—a bridal shop.
As I memorize the details of her résumé, I’m drawn to the gorgeous face and the expressive eyes looking back at me from a professional photo. Of their own accord, my fingers trace the lines of the confident smile on my screen, as an unfamiliar feeling of doubt creeps into my chest.
CHAPTER 3
DESIRAE
Ilove walking along the stretch of beach where the conch homes are. In Georgia, we called them shore shacks, but that term seems demeaning to the quiet beauty of these old-fashioned coastal cottages. Reminiscent of old Key West dwellings, the tiny houses are scattered along the shoreline, each one boasting sand for a lawn and a perfect view of ocean and sky from their front porches. The pastel shade of each home is enhanced by the crystal blue-green of the water; the bright blue and white of the sky; and vivid oranges, pinks, and reds of sunrises and sunsets.
