Aunt Sarah, all of them wanting to explain, to apologize, to make excuses.
I turned my phone off.
Back in my suite, the owner’s residence, which took up the entire top floor of the main building, I stood at the windows overlooking the ocean.
The sun was setting, painting the water in shades of orange and pink.
I’d bought this place for exactly this view, for the peace of the ocean, for the sound of waves, for the reminder that some things were bigger than family drama and social hierarchies.
My phone buzzed again.
I’d forgotten to fully power it off.
One last message, this one from Aunt Carol.
“I’m proud of you, Emily. Always have been. I’m sorry I didn’t say it more.”
That one, I answered.
“Thank you. That means something.”
There was a knock at the door.
I opened it to find a room-service cart with covered dishes and a bottle of wine.
“Compliments of Chef Marcus,” the server said. “He said to tell you congratulations on a successful quarterly report.”
I smiled.
“Please tell him thank you.”
Alone again, I uncovered the dishes.
Marcus had prepared my favorite, a simple pasta with fresh tomatoes and basil, a side of roasted vegetables, and a slice of his famous chocolate tort.
No performance, no pretense, just good food prepared by someone who knew what I actually liked.
I ate on the balcony, watching the stars come out over the ocean, listening to the waves.
Tomorrow, I’d meet with the management team about the expansion plans.
Next week, I’d fly to Charlotte for a client presentation.
Next month, we’d break ground on the new villas.
My family would adjust or they wouldn’t.
Either way, I’d keep building.
The resort phone rang.
I answered to find Richard on the line.