Page 21 of Final Proposal

“Then what? What are you saying? Do we need to wait for Callahan for this kumbaya? I can call him in here after his meetings and we can—”

“No.” I hold my hand out in front of me to get him to stop. “You can fill him in later.”

“Fill him in on what?” he asks and, for the first time, I sense he comprehends that I’m struggling here.

“I have an idea I want to go with, and you two are going to back me on it.”

Ledger leans back in his chair, his eyebrows raised, an indifferent, bordering on surprised look on his face. “Go on.”

“The Sharpe Signature Collection.”

His brow furrows, but ever the businessman, ever curious, he nods. “Keep talking.”

“What if we create a new series, and a new select branch of our hallmark? A signature collection that we market to the elite or famous. A smaller venue with a private concierge, security, or added rooms for the security teams guests like that usually travel with? The elegance and luxury that S.I.N. is known for . . . but at the same time, making them feel normal again. A seaside inn per se.”

“You mean as in the White Sands type of seaside inn?”

I bite back my smart-ass remark when his distaste for the outdated hotel rings through his tone. And knowing by-the-book Ledger, he’s already looked up and scrutinized pictures of the inn. But pictures won’t do it justice, even with our trained eyes for potential. I would have never believed it either if I hadn’t seen the place firsthand.

“Yes, I mean as in the White Sands, A Sharpe Signature Collection type of inn.”

Ledger is the one of us who needs to think before he reacts, and he doesn’t disappoint me right now by being any different. I study him with his pursed lips and furrowed brow as he ponders the idea, knowing he’s weighing the pros and cons like I did when the idea first came to me.

It was on the back patio of the family Sag Harbor house. I was sitting there, and the sun was warming my skin as I nodded off. In that state of in-between sleep and awake, I could picture it perfectly. The inn remodeled with luxury suites where we combined three or four standard rooms into one great, big one. Balconies that looked out toward the sea and let the ocean breeze in. Private Jacuzzis with each suite. On-site chefs to cater to the clientele’s tastes. A private beach.

Potential.

Isn’t that the word that kept drifting through my head as I flipped channels earlier that night? One channel had a story about the press hounding a pop star who just wanted privacy on her vacation. Another story featured a software magnate who couldn’t escape his everyday life and just feel normal. Memories of our own family trips when we had to skip activities because the paparazzi were trying to get a shot of us to earn a paycheck.

Who else could build what is needed better than someone who has experienced it firsthand?

I stare at my brother as he considers what I’ve said. He knows what it feels like to have your privacy invaded. He knows what it’s like to want to make memories with your family but not have the space or place to be able to do that.

“The rich like to be treated like they’re rich. They also like to be made to feel normal. We know that better than anyone. Why do you think Dad took us to Montana every summer as teens? To let us feel like everyone else in America.” I sigh and pause for a beat, thinking of the summer months spent away from New York. It was a shift from the time we’d normally spend at the Sag Harbor house, but after our Mom had passed, it was too painful to stay there. “It’s a tricky balance, but one we could pull off in a venue that’s a smaller magnitude than our normal ones.”

“Everyone says they want to be treated normally until they are, and then they bitch they aren’t being stroked enough.”

“Know from firsthand experience?” I taunt and receive a middle finger in the air and a roll of the eyes in response.

“Look, in theory it’s a good idea, but we’d never recoup the money we’d sink into a place like that. It would take years to come close to the type of overhaul you’re talking about.”

“And you think we made back the fortune we spent at Ocean’s Edge or The Retreat in a day?” I ask, pointing out the two most recent property purchases and resort overhauls.

“It’s not the same and you know it. It’s a moot point. As I said, it’s not on-brand for us.”

“Fuck the branding. Step outside of it. Redefine it. Add to it.”

“This isn’t an exercise at Wharton. This is our company. Good idea. Bad business decision for us.”

“Tough shit. It’s my business decision and as I said, you’re going to go along with it.” I don’t believe the words coming out of my mouth. By the look on Ledger’s face, I don’t think he does either. “You make decisions every day about S.I.N. and the directions we take. Decisions we all follow. Now it’s time for you to do the same for me.”

Ledger’s forehead creases as he huffs out a breath. I’ve ruffled his perfect feathers. Good.

He crosses his legs. He looks around the room. There is no hurrying Ledger when he’s in this mode. But it’s when his eyes meet mine that I see the concern deepening in them. “Where’s all this coming from, Ford?”

“Sometimes it’s about more than the money. And yes, it’s so very easy for me to say that considering we’re drowning in it. I won’t deny that. But it’s about needing to do something more. Different. To stretch and challenge myself. It’s not an unreasonable ask.”

His nod is slow and measured. So is the sigh that falls from his lips. “It is about the book then.” When I don’t respond other than to stare at him, he continues, his tone softening, ever the big brother. “Dad loved each of us in his own way. Just because some author and publisher decided to edit the biography in whatever way they decided, doesn’t mean he loved you less. The people who matter to you, know the truth, Ford. And buying some dilapidated seaside something or other isn’t going to fix what it is that did upset you.”