Barbara Boswell - Family Feud

“I’m impressed,” Garrett said as he toured the facilities with Shelby, pretending that it was the first time he’d seen them.

“It’s like a world unto itself,” Paul Whitley enthused. “A perfect world. Only the very best for the very best people.”

Garrett glared at him. When Arthur Halford had instructed Shelby to give Garrett a detailed, guided tour of the facilities this afternoon, he hadn’t mentioned that this bronze, blond surfer in the ice-cream suit would be part of the group.

Only the very best for the very best people. Whitley’s elitist sentiment instantly grated on Garrett. He visualized a 1940s version of Paul Whitley informing young Jack and Kate McGrath that they couldn’t be hired to serve the revered patrons of Halford House because they didn’t qualify, classwise. Only the very best for the very best people.

“Exactly what is your function here, Whitley?” Garrett asked, and received an icy look of disapproval from Shelby for his slightly challenging tone. But he was genuinely puzzled. Arthur Halford had made no mention of Paul Whitley, though he seemed to have some sort of official function around here. And some sort of connection to Shelby. Garrett frowned.

“Paul was the evening assistant manager at the Casa del Marina Resort in California,” Shelby replied before Paul had a chance to. “He was highly thought of there, and we here at Halford House are very fortunate that he was willing and able to join us.”

“And do what?” Garrett pressed. “Be the evening assistant manager? Do they need an assistant manager on every shift? Seems like bloated staffing, if you ask me.”

Shelby refrained from pointing out the obvious: that no one had asked Garrett “Cut Rate” McGrath anything. Yet he was the one doing all the asking, and offensively, too.

She glanced from Paul’s immaculate summer suit to Garrett’s inappropriate cutoffs and hideous banana yellow T-shirt imprinted with bright oranges and a palm tree, with Florida emblazed over the tacky scene in multicolored letters. She didn’t allow herself to concentrate on his muscular build or to remember the virile strength of him when he’d held her in his arms. She didn’t dare let her eyes linger on his hard, sensuous mouth or his deep, dark blue eyes. And most of all, she refused to even think about those impulsive, tempestuous kisses they’d shared in the ocean that morning.

Instead, she concentrated on his offending attire. No one wore jeans at Halford House, and as for his T-shirt...such an item had to have been purchased at an airport gift shop at best, or at worst, from one of those tourist-trap junk shops littering the coast. Thank goodness such places had not infected unspoiled Port Key—yet.

Shelby had a sudden horrible thought. “You’re not thinking of trying to build a Family Fun Inn here on the island, are you?”

Was this his standard operating procedure? she wondered nervously. To come to a resort as an “observer” while casing the surrounding area like a burglar planning a follow-up sneak attack? She didn’t know, Shelby realized. She knew nothing of how Garrett McGrath and his ever-successful Family Fun Inns broke into a new market. Her lack of knowledge suddenly seemed a dangerous oversight.

“Where did that non sequitur come from?” Garrett asked, amused. “Oh, wait, let me guess. You were giving my T-shirt the evil eye.... It naturally follows that your thoughts would jump from tacky T-shirt stands to Family Fun Inns.”

“The presence of a Family Fun Inn would devalue Halford House, perhaps even leading to a similar crisis which befell the Blue Springs Resort,” Paul Whitley said in alarm. “When the masses descend, they demand their usual prole vacation trappings—the junk food and souvenir places, the water slides and miniature golf.” He shuddered, as if discussing a particularly gory mass murder.

“I seem to be experiencing a case of déjà vu,” Garrett said dryly. “I had this same conversation with Shelby earlier this morning. Don’t you high-end types talk about anything else? How about the weather? Or the local ball club?”

“You didn’t answer my question, Garrett,” Shelby pressed, anxiety gnawing at her. “Are you planning to put a Family Fun Inn here on Port Key?”

He liked the sound of his name on her lips, Garrett decided. This was the first time she’d addressed him as such and it pleased him that she was beginning to think of him on a first-name basis, though he doubted that she was aware of it herself.

His lips quirked. “No, Shelby, I promise I am not planning to put a Family Fun Inn anywhere near Port Key or Halford House.”

It was a vow he could make with a clear conscience. He and Art Halford had signed the sale papers at lunch. He now owned Halford House. There was no way he was going to bring in a Family Fun Inn to compete with his own property.

“I wish I could believe you,” Shelby murmured worriedly.

“I’ll provide you with a sworn affidavit signed in blood, if you’d like. I, Garrett McGrath, do solemnly swear to keep Port Key free from Family Fun.”

“Gentleman’s word of honor?” Paul Whitley suggested, offering his hand to shake.

Garrett shook his hand. It would have been churlish not to. But Whitley still irritated him. “What’s Halford House to you, Whitley? You never did get around to telling me.”

“Paul is going to be my assistant, my right-hand man, so to speak, when my father retires,” Shelby hastily replied.

Couldn’t the man speak for himself? Garrett was tempted to ask. He didn’t, though. Shelby would probably answer for him again. His respect for Whitley plummeted further.

“And when is your father planning to retire, Shelby?” Garrett asked curiously, his eyes gleaming. He knew the answer, of course. But what fiction had Halford told his daughter? This should be interesting; old Art had proven himself a creative liar.

Shelby and Paul exchanged uncomfortable glances. “We don’t know the exact date of my father’s retirement,” she confessed reluctantly. “But it will be soon, Mother assured me. She and Dad want to move to Arizona. We have relatives out there.”

“Your father’s brother Hal, his wife Hillary, and their loafer parasite of a son who wanted no part of a career in Halford House,” Garrett added knowledgeably. “Your dad has mentioned them.”

Arthur Halford had ranted on and on about his “idiot nephew,” blaming his indolent lack of interest in the business as the reason for the sale of Halford House. Garrett stared at Shelby, who currently looked the part of the quintessential business executive in her no-nonsense gray suit, cheerless beige blouse buttoned to the neck, and sensible gray pumps. She was even wearing hose, no matter that the temperature was in the high eighties and stickily humid. Her hair was pulled back tightly into an uninviting, untouchable chignon.

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