Moon Over Miami - Chapter 2

The next morning, Gillian lay still, temporarily disoriented by the unfamiliar patterning of doors and window of her apartment.  A small slither of light had gathered at the base of the lacy curtains.

She rolled over to shut off her unsounded alarm, forestalling its shrill, and plopped back, the soft spongy pillows cushioning her fall.  With the transom windows open, the ceiling fan stiffed in the cool, spicy morning air. The occasional clicking of the fan blades, backed by the rolling ocean waves, emphasized the pervading silence.  Gillian hushed her breathing to hear the waves more clearly.

A snatch of a dream played before her.  She tried to grab and hold it but could only recall that she had felt frightened somehow.  Clearer flashed returned to her memory as she concentrated to recall a green, summer lawn and, of all things, a croquet game.  She hadn’t played croquet for at least twenty years!  But she still couldn’t explain why she had felt scared.

Greyson Leigh had been in the dream, the picture of romantic elegance in white, pleated trousers and pinstriped shirt, his weight resting on his mallet as he smiled confidently over the game as though there were no contest.  It was as if winning were his due, something understood before the game began.

His arrogance ignited Gillian’s own competitive spirit.  She knew she had the ability to play and win.  But, strangely, she felt that she could not truly be victorious it if meant that Greyson would have to lose.  It was this odd ambivalence which had been so uncomfortably frightening.

She shook off the annoying dream, arising and chastising herself for continuing to dwell on thoughts of this man.  She padded down the short hall to the large window dominating the living area and held the drapes aside.  Her eyes squinted at the sudden flush of light which vanquished the last remnants of her night’s wanderings.  Her private view of the Atlantic was magnificent, the vivid aqua rolls moving to and for.  Gillian gazed, entranced by the vision stretching before her, so different from the setting she’d left behind. It contrasted deeply, too, with the purlieu of her own room, which, the evening before had seemed dully comfortable with overstuffed furniture. 

Now, in the revealing light, its shabbiness was apparent.  The only living aspect of the room was a turquoise wall which seemed oddly out of place. At least the furnishings were something that could be changed.  Her own favorite pieces from North Carolina would be arriving soon.

Gillian craved a steaming cup of coffee but found no provisions in her small kitchenette.  Having breakfast in the Serrano might prove a better idea anyway.

Though even the thought of trying to reclaim the lease made her blush guiltily, she was anxious to take a closer look at the restaurant.  The sooner the better, she thought as she drew her bath from the old, four-pronged faucets.  Her other immediate concern was to review the hotel’s accounting ledgers before she met with her father’s attorney.  She already knew there were problems, but she had to know just how severe they were. 

Gillian was the image of confidence in her crisp linen suit as she entered the restaurant.  In the light of the early day, the Serrano appeared elegant with fresh white cloths and cut flowers gracing each small table.  Its décor mirrored the clean, smooth Deco look that was present in those parts of the hotel which had been restored.  But it was obvious that here the renovations were undecayed.  The restaurant was a small polished jewel glowing in the midst of the uncut rock.

Gillian was greeted with friendly courtesy by one of the tailored waiters.  Finding herself dreading her next encounter with the restaurant’s owner, she decided to take the bull by the horns so to speak and asked if Greyson were available, briefly introducing herself as she did so.

The waiter, John, smiled, “I thought you might be Ms. Kensington.  I know Mr. Leigh will be sorry he missed you, but he usually spends mornings at one of the other restaurants.  He’ll be here this afternoon.  I’ll tell him you want to see him, if you like.”

As she sipped the scalding coffee, Gillian contemplated this bit of information about Greyson Leigh.  Obviously, he had other interests.  Maybe she would find him receptive to her plans for assuming the lease on the restaurant.  This ray of hope was energizing, increasing her eagerness to get to work.  Even the display of pastries lined up at the buffet could keep Gillian from hurrying to her office.  4

At this hour there was virtually no traffic in the hotel.  The quiet of her small office offered a perfect environment for the work that lay ahead of her. 

It was a quiet soon disturbed by her own muttering of dismay as she made her way through the stack of accounting books gathered atop her desk.  The haphazard ledgers had been woefully neglected.  Stacks of paid invoices, still unposted, were tucked casually between pages; entries were undated; bank reconciliations, way past due. 

It was appalling to Gillian, accustomed as she was to well-oiled accounting offices.  It would take weeks to catch up the posting and reconcile the books.  In the meantime, her task of acquiring an overview of the Kensington’s financial status would be enormously hampered. 

Gritting her teeth, she began sorting papers, determined to bring order to the chaos.  She worked without interruption until Marg breezed in with a cheery greeting.  Her good temper faded quickly as she saw what Gillian was doing.  “I really should have warned you about those books.  I know they’re a mess.”  Gillian was conscious of the older woman’s embarrassment, but could only agree, “They really are a mess.  What’s been going on?”

“I hate to blame Joe,” Marg was hesitant, “but he allowed just about anybody to mess with those books.  I offered several times to take charge of them, but Joe never seemed to want any one person to take that responsibility.” 

Gillian spoke in exasperation, “So - - he wouldn’t let anyone else take charge.  Yes, he obviously didn’t spend any time taking care of them himself.”  And though she didn’t way it, the thought flashed through her mind that this was just one more example of Joe Kensington’s irresponsibility.

Marg was more indulgent toward her former boss, “Oh, Joe just had his own way of doing things.  He always seemed to know where he stood.  Actually, Gillian, I was dying to get my hands on those books.  My background is in bookkeeping.”  “Well, have at them!”  Gillian shoved a few ledgers Marg’s way.

Marg’s face brightened, “Do you mean it?”  But what about…?”  Gillian finished her though, “The million other things you’ve been doing?  I’d really like to relieve you of all other responsibilities for a while and let you devote yourself to getting these books in order.  Of course, I’m going to be bugging you for information for a few days, but after that…why not?”  She paused thoughtfully, “Do you think Wendy’s capable of taking charge of the front desk?”

Marg shrugged.  “She’s certainly capable of it; it’s just a question of her choosing to do it.  You know she’s thoroughly charmed many of the guest.”

Gillian had a brief vision of how attentive Greyson had been when she’d first seen the two.  “I guess it’s up to me to see that she does choose to do it,” she said with sudden decision.  “Now, let’s get to these books.” 

They worked until well after noon when Gillian closed a ledger emphatically, “I’m starved.  What do you do for lunch?” 

Marg glanced at the clock, “It is getting late and I need to run to the bank to make a deposit.  I could stop by and pick up some Cuban sandwiches, if you like.  Obie’s down the street make some of the best in town.”

“I’ve never had one, but I’ll try just about anything once.  I’m really counting on you to fill me in on the neighborhood.”

Marg rose to leave, clicking her nails against the desktop in affirmation of their plans, a habit Gillian already found familiar.  Even though it was only her second day, she’d quickly grown accustomed to the woman’s unique character, her gift of gab, her breathless way of gushing out words at top speed.

Gillian smiled to herself.  At least her assistant manager had not been a disappointment.  She looked skeptically at the scattered ledgers and decided she, too, could use some fresh air before returning to them. 

She walked out on the terrace and across the small bridge to the restaurant patio which overlooked the ocean.  Through the Serrano’s French windrows, she could see Greyson moving about.  It was, she thought, as if she were watching a silent film, able to see actions, but unable to hear the words as Greyson consulted the waiters who then began rearranging the tables.

His physique was imposing and his mannerisms were clear and authoritative.  The sleeves of his pale blue shirt rolled up, exposing the strength of his exposed arms as he assisted his employees.  As he stood back, apparently to appraise his work, the lean lines of his hips and thighs enticed Gillian, and she moved reflexively toward the window. 

Without conscious decision, Gillian found herself drawn into the restaurant, pulled by a force she would not let herself name.  As she pushed open the doors, she was convinced that she only wanted to clear the air between them.

“I thought with the lunch rush over, this might be a slow time,” she began as she approached Greyson, “and hoped we might have a minute to talk.  We seemed to get off on the wrong foot yesterday; I’m afraid I left an impression that wasn’t wholly me.” 

Obviously pleased by her candid admission, Greyson teased.  “Oh, I expect it was a part of you.  The part that comes out when you’re hot and tired and aggravated by what seemed an interfering stranger.”  He stopped Gillian’s involuntary protest, “No, really, I suspect that we didn’t meet under the best of circumstances.”

He smiled his knee-weakening smile before continuing in a more serious tone, “We are likely to come to know all about each other’s moods . . . since we are going to be working so closely together.”

As he gazed at her with charcoal eyes, Gillian felt the power of his charm.  She wasn’t sure how to interpret his last statement.

Though he spoke of their working together, there was a definite hint of something more personal.  She felt a twinge, knowing that if she had her way and recouped the lease on the restaurant, they would not have any kind of relationship for very long.  The thought saddened her more than it should have. 

She turned the conversation, “I had coffee here this morning.  I love the feeling you’ve created; I guess it’s rather like walking back in time.”  She added that Marg had already told her something of the Art Deco period and the historical significant of the Deco district.

Before Greyson could reply, they were interrupted by a rather distraught young waiter.  “Excuse me, Mr. Leigh.”  He smiled briefly in Gillian’s direction to include her in his apology, before stating his delimma.  “They’ve just delivered the champagne and one of the refrigerators has broken down.  We’ve complete filled the others and still have two cases left.” 

“Gillian, could you wait just a minute?  We’re trying to get set up for a banquet tonight for the Southeastern Wine Distributors.”

Remembering the details of Marg’s tour, Gillian spoke thoughtfully, “You know, I’m almost positive that there’s an old ice machine in our storage room.  As fast I know, it still works and you’re more than welcome to it, if that would help.”

“That would be a life saver, “Greyson was impressed with her fast thinking and generosity.  “It would help immensely.”

“Yes, well,” Gillian case her eyes about awkwardly, “I can see that you’ve got your hands full and Marg is probably back and looking all over for me by now.  I’ll send someone down to unlock the storage room as soon as I get back to the office.”

Though he had been momentarily distracted by this minor crisis, Greyson returned his full attention to Gillian, obviously not wanting her to leave without a proper goodbye.  “Gillian, I really appreciate your help,” he touched her arm in gratitude.  “Sometime soon, I’d like to show you more of the restaurant’s operation.”

Gillian tingled at the touch and the thought that they would meet again.  As she turned to walk away, she felt his eyes following her.  He’d clearly admired her initiation of this tete-e-tete.

On the way back to her office, Gillian stopped by the front desk where the key cabinet was located.  Not spotting the storage room key, she turned to Wendy for assistance.  The girl, who had been chatting amiable with the departing guest, seemed unsurprised that the key was misplaced.  Apparently this was another area of inefficiency.  Wendy cheerfully helped Gillian seek out the proper key, but her attitude changed when Gillian mentioned the reason for their errand.

“Hmm, Greyson generally doesn’t appreciate women getting involved in his business,” she offered with a condescending expression.  “So, if you’re trying to earn points with him, you’ll have to find some other way.”

Gillian was amazed by the girl’s audacity, but also flushed with embarrassment that her own motives had been so misconstrued.  She found herself formulating ways to explain her behavior, then realized that no justification was called for.  Outwardly laughing off the girl’s remark she hurriedly completed her task and returned to the office.

As she picked up her father’s ledgers, Gillian found herself wondering about Joe Kensington and how he had spent his days at the hotel.  Except for a few isolated incidents, Gillian really couldn’t remember that much about her father.  But then, she couldn’t be expected to have clear memories of a man she hadn’t seen since she was eight years old.

Many of the memories she did have were not truly her own, but had been supplied by her mother, who attitude was tainted by their bitter parting.  She could remember their frequent, intense arguments which sprang from her father’s insistence that thy leave the mountain inn which the family had owned and operated for years.  He had always dreamed of prosperity and success, and, though the small country inn was comfortable and secure, it could not satisfy his needs.

Her mother had been just as adamant about the family staying put; she was rooted in those mountains and would rear her daughter in the inn just as she had been reared.  They were two strong-willed, even stubborn, individuals.  One thing was certain: Gillian had come by her determination honestly.

There had been months of growing tension before her father and finally walked out the door, severing this ties with his family and resigning himself to the fact that he would never convince his wife to pack up their daughter and follow him in his dreams.

It was now apparent that, with all his ambitions, Joe had not really made the big time.  Gillian wondered if he had found his new life worth the loss of his family . . .

To her, all the success in the world could not have competed with all that he had abandoned.  Though she now had a chance to benefit from his ambition, she treasured the memory of that cozy mountain inn.  Even now in her thoughts, she could see the rhododendrons and mountain laurels blooming in the Spring, the brilliant colors of Fall, and glowing fires that burned away Winter chills.  Many were the times that friends and patrons gathered by the fireside, their talk sometimes no more than big fish tales or harmless gossip, but leaving all with a feeling of warmth and camaraderie.

Gillian didn’t hear Marg come in until the older woman was right at her ear insistently calling her name.

“Earth to Gillian,” she teased.  “You were a million miles away.  What in the world were you concentrating on so deeply?”

Gillian turned to acknowledge Marg’s presence, but avoided her question.  When it cam to her father, Gillian held her cards close to her chest.  She’d never been able to talk about him easily.

“Oh, I was just thinking what a mess these books are in.”  Uncomfortable with this small fabrication she quickly changed the subject, “You know, Marg, I’m curious about how Greyson managed to get the lease on the restaurant.  I mean . . . well, let’s face it, the restaurant’s what’s brining in the money and I can’t figure out why my father would have given that up.”

“The restaurant hasn’t always been the way you see it today, Gillian.”  Marg hesitated, then continued bluntly, “when Greyson took it over, our financial picture was much bleaker than it is now.  To be honest, both the hotel and the restaurant were on the down slide when Greyson came along.  I really don’t know how your father and Greyson leased the restaurant.  They were as different as night and day when it came to business, but in many ways they were birds of a feather.  They shared a passion for architecture and history and could talk for hours on end, sitting out on the patio.”

Gillian listened intently and, like a sponge, absorbed these bits of information about both Greyson and her father.  Afraid of exposing her own feelings, she didn’t press for more details.  But she had certainly take note of Marg’s reference to Greyson and her father being “birds of a feather,” and with that, an unwitting seed had taken root: Greyson, like her father, could not be trusted.

“Why the interest in Greyson?” Marg queried as she cleared space on the desk for lunch.  Her tone implied she already knew. 

“Just curious about some of the history of this place, I guess.”  Gillian tried to remain nonchalant to avoid revealing her hope to regain the lease.

“Well, you wouldn’t  be the first to be smitten by Greyson’s charm and good looks.”  Marg had not bought the blasé response.  “Why, if I were just a few years younger, I’d sure be looking his way – and trying to do a lot more than look,” she giggled provocatively.

“Why, Marg, I thought you were a happily married woman.” 

“I definitely am, but I can still look!”

Gillian laughed with her, glad the conversation had taken a lighter turn.  She made every effort to keep the rest of their luncheon topics casual.

Avoiding personal conversations for the rest of that afternoon was not difficult, so engrossed were the two women in their work.  When Marg finally gave up for the day, Gillian loaded up the ledgers and took them to her own room where should could work into the night.  Her meeting with Lloyd Barnes, the attorney, was scheduled for the next morning.

She poured over the books while darkness gradually descended over the ocean.  As it grew later, she found herself fidgeting more and more trying to get comfortable.  Finally, she settled sideways in a must chintz-covered chair, draping her legs over its large rolled arm, and using her lap as a desk.

The hotel was surviving economically, but just barely.  She noted that several bills were for repeated repairs to the same outdated pieces of equipment.  Such a practice was very costly in the long run, but Gillian saw how it had evolved: There had never been enough capital for investing in new equipment.  Clearly, she would have to get her hands on a great deal of money to get the hotel running efficiently.

She slammed the last of the books shut and hurried to call room service before the Serrano stopped serving food.  She started for the shower, with her mind fixated on the hotel’s financial problems even though she knew there was nothing more she could do tonight.

The cold, prickling water clutched her breathe at first.  But as the day’s toils were washed away, she relished the liveliness that was restored to her.  She stepped out of the shower just in time to hear the muffled call of room service.

“Comin on in. Just leave it on the table if you will,” she called out as she briskly toweled herself dry.  She rummaged through the closet until she found her blue silk wrapper.  The fabric fluttered coolly against her skin as she pattered to the living room.

There she found her small dining table replete with linen tablecloth, fresh flower, and candles, a one-tabled version of the restaurant below.

Greyson mockingly pulled a chair out for her.  With a tea towel draped over an arm, he exaggerated a motion for her to sit and in a low, vibrant voice, he teased, “I’m at your service.”

Instinctively Gillian drew her wrapper more tightly around her.  The sight of Greyson awakened a need to protect herself, as if by covering her body she could quell the undeniable sexual quivers beginning to surge through her.

Hesitantly, she moved toward the table, “With this kind of service, I can’t understand why all the rooms aren’t occupied.”  Eyeing Greyson cautiously, “I was expecting a sandwich and a glass of milk.”

“But, we can’t let you have anything so mundane for your first dinner in Miami.  Besides, you deserve a taste of the champagne you helped us chill.  When we got your call, it occurred to me that this would be a very appropriate way of saying, ‘thank you’”.

Greyson began uncovering the steaming dishes, an aromatic veal bourguignonne fresh garden vegetables, and toasted buttery croissants.  Gillian uncorked the bottle with practiced ease and poured lavishly into fluted crystal.  “A toast.”  To our joint venture: the Kensington and the Serrano.  And working together.”

Gillian silently winced, her conscience aroused by her intention to take over the restaurant.  But, she found herself swept up in the headlines of the moment, buoyed by the wine and Greyson’s enthusiasm.

She raised her glass, “And if I may, a toast to the most enticing midnight snack I’ve ever been delivered.”  Sipping, she felt the warming tingles bubble through her.  “I can’t wait another moment.  You will be joining me, won’t you?”

“I thought you’d never ask.  It just happens that I have an extra place setting.”

Gillian found herself laughing.  Her tensions dissolved in the delights of the moment - - the soothing effects of the champagne, Greyson’s warm and witty companionship, and the exquisite meal they shared.

“If you have the same appetite for other pleasurers as you have for food, you must  lead an exciting life,” he teased as Gillian finished a generous portion of chocolate mousse.  “Now that I know your zest for one of my favorite pastimes, introducing you to some special meals in Miami will be a double joy.

Flushed by his intimation, Gillian’s face was radiant in the candlelight.  Though she felt a surge of anticipation, envisioning late evening dinners with Greyson, she couldn’t entirely suppress the reality of opposing him in business.  Her ambivalent feelings kept her silent as she raised her eyes to his and found him watching her intently.  She tremored under his passionate gaze.  She couldn’t dispel the feeling that somehow he had entered her thoughts and was privy to her every secret nuance.

But, there was no indication that he saw any of her hesitance, as he spoke huskily, “This is a side of you I did not expect, so soft and quiet.  I can actually see the candle flame flickering in your eyes.  It makes their color seem even bluer - - I didn’t think that was possible.”

Gillian was spellbound.  It was Greyson who broke the silence, “Are you ready for an after dinner drink?”  He gathered the bottle of Corvousier and two snifters.  “I’m not sure that I should drink any more.  After the champagne, I feel a little flushed.”

“It’s a little warm in here.  Why don’t we take it out on the balcony?” Greyson extended his hand to assist her up from the table.

Grateful for the opportunity to break the spell that Greyson had woven, Gillian rose to join him.  As she stood, the silken robe parted, partially exposing the delicate fullness of her breast.

It was Greyson’s admiring gaze that made Gillian realize what was amiss.  Seeing her faux pas, she gracefully pulled the fabric together.  She realized the incident was too obvious to be ignored, and rather than pretend that it hadn’t happened, she tried to handle it as casually and humorously as she could.  “I don’t suppose that helped to cool the temperature?” She asked playfully, smiling at Greyson.

Greyson was thrown slightly off-balance by the easy way she handled herself.  Her insouciant remark came as an exciting surprise.

He smiled fully, “Well, I do need the fresh air more now than I did before.”  He gently steered her out to the balcony with his hand on the small of her back.

The breeze caught the pungent aroma of Greyson’s cologne and encircled Gillian.  She breathed deeply and reeled with the intoxication of the night and having Greyson so near.  Gillian realized he was much too close if she were going to maintain any semblance of control. 

She willfully stepped away.

“That was a lovely meal, Greyson, and so thoughtful of you.  I especially appreciate it tonight because I was exhausted.”

“I intend to keep a close eye on you - - to be sure you don’t overwork.  If you keep your head buried in those accounting books, I won’t be able to see this beautiful face.”  As he  stepped closer and cupped her chin in his hand, his thumb gently stroked her cheek.

Her control dissolved under the heated touch of Greyson’s gentle hand.  She allowed him to take her unfinished brandy and deposit both their glasses on the patio table.

Gillian could have used this brief moment to avoid any intimate entanglement.  Clearly he was getting more romantic.  Her conscience told her she should put a stop to the proceedings, but some part of her would not deny herself this moment with him.

He turned and moved toward her once again, his face slightly veiled by darkness, but the moonlight was sufficient to distinguish his chiseled features and the smoky desire deep in his eyes.