Hollie Porter Saves the Planet: A Revelation Cove - Planet Lara Earth Day crossover novella

By Eliza Gordon and Toni Freitas

Hollie Porter, marketing director and First Lady of sea otters, is thrilled when prestigious Vancouver eco-first company Clarke Innovations chooses Revelation Cove to host their annual Green It Up Eco-Summit over Earth Day weekend. With his major-junior hockey team’s playoff run cut short, Ryan is back at the Cove where together, he and Hollie are excited to show local business owners that going green can be both fun and profitable. But you know what they say about best-laid plans.

From the introduction of NORA, the Nature-Oriented Robotic Assistant, and her precocious programmer to a food composter more interested in creating noxious odors than nutrient-rich soil, Hollie must think on her feet to keep her guests and VIP presenters from deserting on their battery-powered watercraft before the show ends. And somewhere among the throng, an anonymous guest with a penchant for social media mischief stirs up trouble online, threatening to undermine the summit’s success.

Recycle some laughs with Hollie and Ryan this Earth Day to celebrate our beautiful planet!

• Language: English
• Publisher: SGA Books
• Release date: Apr 12, 2024
• ISBN: 9781989908617

Eliza Gordon

A native of Portland, Oregon, Eliza Gordon (a.k.a. Jennifer Sommersby) has lived up and down the West Coast of the United States, but since 2002, home has been a suburb of Vancouver, British Columbia. Despite the occasional cougar and bear sightings in her neighborhood, there’s no place she’d rather rest her webbed feet (except maybe Scotland). When not lost in a writing project, Eliza is a copyeditor, mom, wife, and bibliophile, and the proud parent of one very spoiled tuxedo cat. Eliza writes stories to help you believe in happily ever after; Jennifer Sommersby, her other self, writes young-adult fiction. Both personalities are represented by Daniel Lazar at Writers House.

Book preview

1

This time when the latest emergency buzzes our phones across the kitchen island, we’ve at least finished with the evening’s entertainment. And no one has knocked on our apartment door (yet)—if they were to do so, they’d find me in only a NSFW faux leather skirt hiked around my waist and Ryan in nothing but a necktie. (You guys . . . he looks really, really good in nothing but a necktie.)

I’ll get it, Ryan offers. We’re still out of breath, but my legs are jelly, so I’m not moving anywhere for another few minutes.

With good reason.

When my darling husband returned to coaching duties after Valentine’s Day (with his still-broken arm, but try to keep him down for more than a week and see how you do), he found a bottle of expensive champagne and a book wrapped in cartoonish Cupid paper on his desk. At first he was a little concerned—it’s not uncommon for Ryan to get fan mail in the form of lingerie and perfume-laden envelopes containing hotel room key cards, even all these years after his NHL career ended and he’s obviously very married—but his fear was assuaged when he learned the gift was from Nils, his assistant coach, and that Nils had bought equally weird Valentine’s presents for all the coaching staff.

It’s a role-play, sexy funtime book. We thought it was a joke, but Nils is European, so we’re never quite sure if he’s being funny, ironic, or totally serious.

Regardless, it’s proven fun. (Even if I’m still convinced Miss Betty might’ve made another joke about grandchildren in Nils’s proximity, thus inspiring the gift.) Every chapter contains a cheesy but spicy story and then there’s a tear-out envelope thing that contains role-play instructions for each partner.

And yes—I flipped through it when Ryan brought it home, just to see if Batman showed up on any pages. I still remember that poor guy. Died in the cowl and everything. Now that is dedication to maintaining the fun quotient of the marital bed.

If I were Catholic, I’d cross myself in Jerry’s honor. We’ll do you proud, Batman Jerry.

Tonight was Ryan’s turn to choose a chapter, so we cracked the champagne, and he ended up dressed as the Titillating Tailor, and I, a beautiful young ingenue, in search of the perfect red-carpet outfit. Since neither of us had access to a cloth tape measure a proper tailor would use, Ryan found a beat-up Craftsman twenty-five-footer with sharp edges in the kitchen junk drawer. It wasn’t nearly as intimate or elegant as a cloth tape might have been, and the metal was cold against my inner thigh, but I trust he got a good enough inseam measurement with his fingers and his⁠—

It was Hannah. There’s something wrong with the GreenMuncher again.

I moan and flop over onto my back. That is the dumbest name. Ryan laughs. Why can’t Bill handle it? I whine as I watch my husband remove the necktie and slide into a pair of work jeans. Are you going commando, sir?

Fewer layers to remove when I get back. You have the second half of your dress fitting to get through this evening, little starlet. He slowly pulls on a T-shirt—that left arm, though out of the cast, is still messed up—and then leans to meet me halfway for a kiss so French, I feel like throwing up a blockade and screaming about revolution.

And you know why Bill can’t handle it. Tough to do that when he’s off island.

Shit. Right. Bill is our head of maintenance, and he’s on the mainland for a few weeks to take care of doctors’ appointments and visit with his grandkids. Did Hannah say what’s wrong?

Just that it stinks again.

Hannah is our front desk agent, always ready with a smile and an offer to help, but she’s not super resourceful when it comes to problem-solving. Then again, she’s all of twenty, in her second gap year until she decides what to do with her life. I sure as shit didn’t know what I was doing at twenty. I still don’t know much more at thirty.

Do you need my help? I ask, fully hoping he says no.

Do you have specialized knowledge in the inner workings of high-tech composters?

Only this one. I slap my bare belly.

Ryan sits to tie his boots. I know we’re supposed to be going green, but this thing is a pain in the ass, and it’s only been here a couple weeks.

Ask Lara Clarke about it tomorrow when she gets off her fancy yacht.

Ryan leans on his right arm, hovering over me. Are you nervous?

Why would you ask me that?

Because you sounded bitchy when you said her name.

You’ve seen pictures of her, right?

He presses his lips to mine. You are the only starlet for me, babe. Stop being neurotic and insecure. He grabs my bare left breast and gently bites the nipple. Electricity shoots to my toes. I’ll be back after I figure out why the kitchen and lobby smell like farts.

Bring me back a surprise, I say as he saunters out of our bedroom.

He pauses at the threshold and turns around, his face uplit by the lamp just on the other side of the doorway. Don’t fall asleep. I have more measurements to take to finish my masterpiece.

I am a very demanding customer and expect nothing but the best! My sentence is punctuated by the click-close of our front door. With Ryan’s warmth gone, I realize I’m actually freezing and this skirt around my waist is far from couture and I have to pee and I should grab my phone in case he needs my help or in case another pre-sunrise calamity befalls our wondrous oasis in the middle of the Salish Sea.

Feet to the floor (and so glad I bought area rugs because, despite it being April, we’ve had a few weeks of unseasonably cold weather), I have recovered enough postcoital muscle control to shuffle into the bathroom. Even though Ryan instructed I remain as is, I look ridiculous with this crappy skirt hiked so high.

Once I’ve used the potty, I shimmy out of it and find myself standing naked in front of the bathroom mirror.

Lara Clarke, a stunning, fit, billionaire heiress and eco-warrior, will be arriving on our island tomorrow morning with her equally gorgeous husband and their eco-friendly entourage.

I stand sideways, examining myself from every angle. Yeah, marriage has padded me a little, but I think I’ve still got it. I mean, Ryan seems happy, right? My boobs are definitely bigger than they were when we got married, but so are my hips and ass—side effect of having a full-time chef and patisserie on staff.

I turn to the other side and push out my gut, trying to imagine my body pregnant. I do this once in a while, testing the look, still not sure if I even want kids, worried I will ruin a kid with my mommy issues, worried that the economy will fall apart and our child will have no future or that nuclear holocaust is around the corner with all the wars going on or worse, what if everything Lara Clarke’s environmental nerd friends are saying is true—will our future child(ren) even have a world to inherit?

This is far too much Grown-Up Thinking for one o’clock in the morning.

I just hope the surprise my Titillating Tailor returns with starts with chocolate and ends with cake.

2

Ifall asleep awaiting my tailor’s return and then am definitely awoken by the stench sticking to his person. Grossssss. Shower, please.

The water’s on before my sentence finishes.

When Ryan slides into bed ninety minutes after his original departure, skin damp and fresh smelling, it’s obvious by his tired groan that Tailor Time is over. I know the old composting system was too popular with local wildlife, but this GreenMonster 3000 or whatever the hell it’s called⁠—

I interrupt him with my laughing. "GreenMuncher. And I don’t think it has the 3000 after it."

Whatever. He cozies under the covers and nuzzles my neck with his crooked nose. Sorry I woke you.

Blame it on the Muncher. He stinks.

Yeah, he certainly does. Ryan sighs and slowly extends his left arm above his head, performing the light stretches the physio recommended he do anytime it aches. I understand that moving the compost system indoors means the local raccoon posse can’t access it⁠—

Rhonda.

What?

The raccoon momma’s name is Rhonda.

Right. Rhonda. Silly me. Anyway, I think someone on Chef’s staff is screwing with it. These damn things aren’t supposed to stink.

Maybe it’s broken.

Maybe . . .

Within two minutes, Ryan’s breathing evens out. I glance over at him—sure enough, he’s zonked.

I, however, am now wide awake, brain whirring through mental checklists that would make even the most seasoned project planner weep, because in six and a half hours, Revelation Cove will be overrun by green nerds (their words, not mine) who know a lot more about Munchers than any of us do. And this is just the first wave of arrivals. Lara Clarke and the Clarke Innovations people are landing a couple days early to set up and finalize preparations for their big three-day event that culminates Sunday, April 21.

The day before Earth Day.

A week or so after Valentine’s, I fielded a call from Lara Clarke. She runs Thalia Island, an eco-utopia located about ninety minutes south of here (by boat). Thalia Island and Lara Clarke have gotten a lot of press in the last few years, not only because of the island’s ultramodern sustainability operations, but because Lara is basically Vancouver royalty, and when her grandfather died, he left her a mountain of money but also a mountain of problems that led to her boyfriend being kidnapped by some super bad guys and there was something else about a cult—I can’t recall all the details. I just remember it was headline news for weeks that held Tabby’s attention with the same vigor that she, until that point, had previously reserved for heated debates about the final season of Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

Lara’s late grandfather’s company—Clarke Innovations—has given us grant money in the past that we’ve used to rewild half of our (former) golf greens and purchase the biomass furnace that heats the resort. They also sent us the GreenMuncher to test out (so far, I am less than impressed). While I am by no means a green-blooded environmentalist, I want to do my part. And Clarke Innovations doesn’t mess around when it comes to sucking up to Mother Nature.

Which is why the call on February 24 surprised me.

Every year around Earth Day, CI puts on an eco-summit where they invite loads of smart people—scientists, researchers, inventors, rich people who need tax breaks—to gather in Vancouver, BC, and brain-meld on all things environment: initiatives and technologies and developments and research stuff. Again, this is outside of my realm of expertise, so it’s not like I’ve ever considered hanging out in the city on Earth Day to partake in a series of marches with dreadlocked humans who use dirt to bathe or to listen in on alarmist lectures about how we’re all basically fucked.

As demonstrated earlier this evening, I panic if I spend too much time thinking about existential things such as our only planet dying, the fact that I won’t live forever, and that in a hundred years, everyone I know and love will (probably) be dead, that with the planet warming, the permafrost is releasing some scary-ass viruses not seen in recorded history, that every single hour of every day, 7000 life stories die with people who shed their mortal coils and we have no way of recording the totality of their lived experiences, you know, like downloading their brains so we can preserve all the things they’ve learned⁠—

Jesus, now I’m sweating.

I kick off the covers and click on the small fan on my nightstand.

I’ve always been a bit tightly wound, so me freaking out isn’t new. It’s been getting worse, though. Maybe it’s because Ryan and I have been looking at four-bedroom houses on the mainland and my dad is retiring and starting