Page 3 of Meet Me at the Grand

And she definitely didn’t want to face Myrtle herself, who—despite her old-fashioned ways—had taught Dani everything she knew about hospitality and tourism. Who had taken Dani under her wing when she was just a hurting teenager. Myrtle, who was herself moving away to be closer to her kids.

Sure, it was only an hour from their little island on the upper Michigan peninsula, but it might as well have been a whole country with how isolated they were. The only ways in or out were by ferry or prop plane.

Roma settled on Dani’s lap, her claws digging into her jeans ever so slightly. Dani gently unhooked them and then stroked between the animal’s eyes. Her purr warmed Dani through as visions of Italy flashed across the TV.

Dani’s shoulders sank into the back side of the couch just as they always did when she did her “travel-watching therapy,” as her cousin Mia liked to call it—a funny thing for someone who had neveractuallytraveled anywhere exotic.

She was already late. Maybe just a few minutes more of this would help her power through the party.

Reaching for the remote, Dani turned up the volume. While the camera swept across different angles of a small Italian village nestled among trees, open areas of green, and the Maiella and Gran Sasso mountains, a narrator described the village—and the problems Italy had experienced post-pandemic.

“Like many European countries, the lockdown was difficult, especially on urban centers where residents could not easily get out of their homes and enjoy fresh air. Relationships suffered from lack of physical gatherings, something we all took for granted before that.”

Thank goodness that hadn’t been Dani’s experience. Sure, there were some who had stayed locked in their homes on the island, but for the most part, they’d been like many small communities, still going about their business and seeing each other once they felt it was safe. Of course, the island had closed for tourism for a full year, and many had left during that time because they simply couldn’t afford to stay.

The narrator continued, his words highlighted by shots of deserted cobblestone streets. “However, something the pandemicdiddo was show the world at large that remote work was possible. And those who worked from home began to see more work-life balance—and to crave even more. At the same time, many smaller communities were in need of a fresh influx of residents to revitalize them.”

Seemed Jonathon Island and the small Italian villages had something in common.

“So experts decided to do something radical.” The narrator paused for dramatic effect. “They sold small village homes for one euro—the equivalent of $1.16 at the time.”

Dani’s hand stilled. Roma meowed in protest, head butting her fingers. But Dani couldn’t do anything but sit forward and listen. The cat leaped to the ground, and Dani clutched the couch cushion beneath her.

“This scenario was a win-win for both the village and those looking for a more peaceful existence. It made such a move affordable to the outside world, and it brought in much-needed money to small, struggling communities whose tourism had lagged or dwindled completely thanks to the pandemic.”

“This is it.” The answer she’d been praying for—she could feel it in her bones. Maybe God hadn’t abandoned Jonathon Island after all.

And maybe He hadn’t abandoned the Sullivans either.

* * *

Liam Stone usually celebrated the end of a business trip with an ice-cold root beer—a call back to the days of his youth.

But tonight’s drink would, apparently, have to wait.

“You need me to do what?” He unbuttoned his gray suit jacket and swiveled on the stool at his favorite pub at Orlando International Airport, where the crew knew him by name. Just outside the bar, the masses bustled past, headed to their destinations all over the world. Flicking back his wrist, he stared at the face of his Breitling Aviator 8. “I’m supposed to be boarding a flight home in thirty minutes. And why are you working so late, anyway?”

“I’m so sorry, shoogs,” Marianne drawled through his AirPods. The administrative assistant at Stone Development may have lived in Los Angeles for thirty-six years, but she’d never forgotten her Texas roots. “I know you’ve been on the Pascal Hotel job site for two months, but there’s just nobody else to cover the McAllister. Allan feels terrible, but his mother’s fall is hardly his fault, and he’s the only one who can take care of her post-surgery. He can’t possibly spend the next three weeks in New York. And everyone else is committed to new jobs at the moment. Plus, you’re already on the East Coast.”

“Yeah, no, of course. I understand.” Liam rubbed the corner of his right eye, which itched with a lack of sleep. “Whatever the company needs.”

“And that’s why I’m working late—because this company means a lot to me too. As do you and your father.” She paused. “He isn’t any happier about this than you are, you know. He’d planned a whole welcome-back dinner for you at the penthouse.”

“And by that you mean thatyouplanned a welcome-back dinner.” Liam couldn’t help but laugh at the thought of his sixty-four-year-old dad planning anything domestic. Not that he wouldn’t want to—it just wasn’t on his radar.

“Yes, well, he approved it. And paid for it.”

“I believe it. Dad’s nothing if not generous.” He loosened the knot on his favorite blue tie. “Speaking of the old man, how is he?”

“As stuck in his workaholic tendencies as ever. Y’all are just two peas in a pod in that regard. Oh, and he’s been taking his medicine just like you instructed. Though I must say, he was a wee bit on the stubborn side at my constant nagging.”

“And by that you mean he huffed at you and called you a nuisance?”

“How’d you know?” She laughed. “But it’s nothing I can’t handle.”

“Aw, Mare, you’re too good to us. I know it’s not really in your job description to take care of him like that. To take care of us.” Then again, Marianne had been like a second mother to Liam since his had passed when he was ten, and a good friend to Dad too. Liam slid off the stool, tossed a twenty on the counter, and grabbed the handle of his suitcase. “Now, when’s my next flight?”

“Same time as your previous flight. I’ve already sent you the details via email, along with your hotel check-in information and the details on the McAllister project and what’ll be expected of you the next few weeks. Do you need me to call the airline about transferring your luggage?”

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