Savannah Breeze (16 page)

“He likes you,” Harry called. He was walking toward me, carrying another white plastic bucket full of fish. He was dressed in a bright yellow rain slicker and faded blue jeans. His hair was windblown, his face sunburned, and he looked the happiest I'd seen him since we'd met.

“I know,” I said, bending over to let Jeeves lick my fingers, which he did with heartwarming enthusiasm. I've never been really partial to dogs, but this one, I had to admit, was starting to grow on me. “But he's kind of smelly.”

Harry laughed. “He jumped into the bucket of chum we were
using. Ground-up mackerel usually is kind of smelly. What's up?” Harry asked, unzipping his slicker. “And how the hell did you track me down over here?”

“I, uh, well,” I stammered. “It's getting kind of late, and I got back from Home Depot, and you'd disappeared, and we've really got to get those other units knocked out tonight…” I bit my lip. “And you could have told me you were going fishing. Left me a note, or something. I thought you were off drinking. So I went over to Doc's Bar—”

His face darkened. “You went to Doc's? You went in there looking for me?”

“Well, yeah. Every time you disappear, it seems that's where you end up. And you could have told me you were working an extra job. I would have understood. And this thing about your boat, I'm sorry about that too. I know what it's like to be broke—”

“You don't know shit!” he said, his voice hoarse. “You think I'm some kind of deadbeat?”

“No!” I protested. “But there's so much work to be done at the Breeze, and we've got all those bookings, and you just walked off and left the Sheetrock, and we've still got to paint—”

“I didn't just walk off,” he said, his eyes narrowing. “That joint compound has to dry completely before we can paint, which won't be for several hours yet. I would have been back in plenty of time to start painting. But you just assumed I'm some falling-down drunk—”

“I didn't know,” I said quietly. “If you'd just told me what your situation was—”

“My situation,” he said, “is none of your damned business. I'm not your charity case. I was doing just fine with my life until you showed up. I'll paint your damned motel, and I'll finish fixing it up, and just as soon as you pay me what you owe me, I'll be out of your hair. But in the meantime, do me a favor, will you?”

“What?” I said through clenched teeth, determined not to let him make me cry.

“Stay the hell out of my way.”

As the sun came up
on Friday morning, I put the last paint stroke on the bathroom wall of unit fourteen. My knees screamed in protest as I bent down to pick up my paint pan, but I couldn't hear them over the accompanying screams from the rest of my body.

Done. Or as near done as we were going to be. I rolled up the canvas drop cloth and hobbled to the door, stopping only to take a final look around. The room glowed a soft, golden yellow. It had been Weezie's idea, of course, to give each unit a name, instead of a number, and an accompanying decorating scheme, which, of course, was dictated by Weezie and her very particular ideas about what was appropriate.

And so, what we'd been calling unit fourteen had become the Sunflower Suite. It was furnished with a pair of what looked like old metal hospital beds we'd found in the storage shed. Weezie'd spray-painted them with flat black Rust-Oleum, and pronounced them perfection. A beat-up oak dresser that had served as the shed's tool bench had also been painted black, and paired with a trio of mirrors Weezie had picked up at her favorite store—Tar-zhay. The “living area” featured a pair of wicker armchairs, from Maisie's Daisy, which were separated by a table fashioned from a stack of ancient leather suitcases that Weezie swore she'd found in the lane behind her own house on Charlton Street.

And the crowning touch came from an unexpected source: Marian Foley.

I'd been really worried about window treatments for all the rooms, fussing about how much blinds or shades or even ready-made drapes would cost, when Weezie's mother came up with the perfect solution.

“Why don't I just whip up some curtains for you?” she'd asked, setting down the dish of beanie-wienies she'd insisted on dropping off for our dinner.

“Whip up?” I said dumbly.

“Sew some,” Marian said. “Just some simple café curtains. Do you have any fabric?”

“No,” I said, still dumb.

“Mama, that's a great idea,” Weezie enthused. “Let's go take a look out in that shed where I found the beds and the dresser. There are stacks of old linens on the shelves. Maybe we could cut up some old sheets or something.”

They were back five minutes later, each bearing an armload of white fabric.

“Chenille bedspreads!” Weezie crowed. “There must be twenty or thirty of 'em out there. And they're all the same. They've even got fringe.”

“Can you do that? Make curtains out of bedspreads?”

“Of course,” Marian said nonchalantly. “It's all just a matter of straight seams, hems, and rod pockets. Nothing easier.”

An hour later, they'd set up an assembly line, and the Marian Foley Drapery Factory had gone into business.

“They're wonderful,” I said, leaning down to give Marian a hug. “And you're wonderful to do this for me. And to think I didn't even know you could sew.”

“Every girl should know how to sew,” Marian said, sniffing meaningfully. “I made all of Weezie's clothes until she was in high school and decided it was ‘uncool' to wear homemade stuff.”

“I was a brat,” Weezie agreed. “But you are a genius, Mama.”

And now, Friday morning, I was almost ready for business. Almost.

The last load of sheets, and towels for the bathrooms, were in the dryer, which was still, thank God, working. And I still had to get Harry to nail up the little plaques Weezie'd painted, above the door to each suite.

“Suite. Sweet my ass,” Harry muttered, standing in front of the Sunflower, fastening his tool belt.

“Admit it, the place looks amazing,” I said.

He ignored me, set up his stepladder, and began screwing the plaque into place.

That's how it had been between the two of us, ever since he'd stormed away from me at Marsden Marina.

He'd worked at fever pitch, done everything I'd asked of him, and more, but despite my repeated apologies, had uttered not one word to me that wasn't work related.

“You want one of these things above your unit too?” he'd asked, looking down at the basket of plaques.

“Yeah,” I'd said with a sigh. “Mine is now the Surfside Suite. The concierge at the Gastonian called me last night. One of their regular guests decided to come down at the last minute, and she asked me, as a favor, to see if I could fit her in at the Breeze.”

“You said we were full.”

“Not exactly. I upped the price to six hundred a night for the Surfside. For that kind of money, I can sleep on the sofa at Weezie's house.”

“Thought you wanted to be on the property full-time in case something came up,” Harry said.

“Shit. That's right. Guess I'll have to find a place to sleep out here.”

“Jeeves might let you share his chair.”

“I'd settle for the sofa.”

He nodded and started to go back to work.

“Harry?”

He turned around.

“I really am sorry. We got off to a horrible start. And I regret that. But I want you to know, I really do appreciate everything you've done around here. You know, I've been running my own businesses for a lot of years, and I've never seen anybody work as hard, or as diligently, as you these past few weeks. I know I've been a pain in the ass, but now that the Breeze is open, I'm going to see to it that you get the money you're owed, and that you get the
Jitterbug
back.”

“It's okay,” he said. “You've had a tough time. I haven't made things any easier.”

I stuck my hand out. “Truce?”

“Truce,” he said, shaking mine.

“Shit,” he said, looking down at his palm, which was now covered with sunflower yellow paint.

“At least it's latex,” I told him.

A black Dodge Ram pickup truck spun into the parking lot, sending up a fine shower of crushed oyster shells.

“Damnit, Daniel,” I hollered at the driver. “You're messing up my parking lot.” But I gave him a smile to let him know I was only half serious.

He hopped out of the truck cab and went around to the driver's side and extracted a large cardboard box. “I baked some, uh, muffins,” he said gruffly. “I, uh, wanted to do something to celebrate you opening the motel.”

“Inn,” I corrected. I tipped the box's lid open and sniffed the sweet smell of warm baked goods. “The Breeze Inn. Daniel, these smell divine.”

He shuffled his feet and pushed a lock of dark hair out of his eyes.

“Weezie's bringing over flowers and stuff later,” he said. “But I thought, you know, maybe you could put a basket of these out for your guests or something.”

I gave him a peck on the cheek, and silently gave thanks again for having had the good sense long ago to hire Daniel Stipanek as the
chef for Guale. He had a true artist's temperament, and I was no pushover either, but we both knew that our differences were never personal, or lasting.

“What kind are they?” I asked, my stomach growling.

“Banana nut, orange poppyseed, and honey pecan,” he said. “This is a triple batch, so you can freeze some of 'em, if they don't all get eaten right away.”

“They'll get eaten,” I promised him. “I'm gonna have one right now. Come over to the office with me and let me fix you a cup of coffee to go with.”

“Can't,” he said. “I'm catering the Hibernian Society dinner, and I've got to get busy making my desserts. Bailey's Irish Cream cheesecake tarts.”

The Hibernian Society was Savannah's oldest and most prestigious Irish-heritage society. It was all male, as were most of the old-line societies. As far as I knew, the Hibernian's main function was to throw an elaborate, black-tie dinner after the parade.

“Yum. What else are you fixing?”

“I'm doing a shrimp-and-crab napoleon for the appetizer course, then chilled oysters with a Bienville sauce…”

“That doesn't sound Irish to me,” I teased.

“It's not,” he admitted. “But Billy Hennesey is president of the Hibernians this year. You know Billy. He used to come in the restaurant all the time. He's a bona fide foodie.”

“I know him,” I said. “But I didn't know he was president of the Hibernians.”

“Yeah. Anyway, Billy said the younger members have been bitching for years about eating the same old crap every year, and paying through the nose for the privilege, so he asked me to come up with the kind of menu we served at Guale.”

“Good for you,” I said.

“We're doing baby lamb chops with a garlic-fig marmalade, roast asparagus—”

“No potatoes? Daniel, these people are Irish. You gotta have potatoes.”

“Gimme a break,” Daniel said, looking wounded. “The lamb chops are on a bed of rosemary-roasted fingerling potatoes.”

“Of course. How silly of me to doubt you.”

“And for dessert we're doing a medley of tarts. Pecan bourbon, the Bailey's Irish Cream, and lemon with raspberry.”

“Those old bog trotters will think they've died and gone to heaven,” I told him.

“Hope so,” Daniel said. “This Hibernian thing is a good gig. Lot of influential people come into town for it.”

I felt a familiar pang of guilt. It was my fault Daniel was killing himself catering, my fault that he and all the other staff at Guale were out of jobs.

“How's it going?” I asked.

“Okay,” he said, rubbing the toe of his rubber chef's clog in the crushed shells. “I've had some phone calls, people wanting me to hire on, but for now, I'm all right with working on my own.”

“The rumor mill has it that Sherry and Kick Thibadeux are splitting up,” I said, referring to a Charleston couple whose Boundary Street restaurant was the trendiest spot in South Carolina. “She finally figured out that Kick's interest in busboys is a little unnatural. So he's keeping the downtown place and Sherry is opening a new place in Hilton Head.”

“She called me about that,” Daniel said. “But I don't know, BeBe. I still hate to give up on Guale.” He gave me a crooked grin. “Besides, the bitch you know is always better than the bitch you don't.”

“You sweet-tongued devil, I didn't know you cared that much.”

“You'll be back. Guaranteed. Weezie's uncle James told her the cops think they know where old Reddy-Boy is hanging out down in Florida.”

“Yeah, but there's no guarantee they'll catch him. Or get my money back.”

He shook his head. “Uh-uh. You'll wring every last dime out of him. You forget, I've seen you, in a tight skirt and three-inch heels, chase college kids clear down the block, just for trying to skip out on a twenty-buck bar bill. Once they find the prick, he's toast.”

“Hope so,” I said fervently. “In the meantime, I guess I'm in the motel business for now.”

“Innkeeper,” Daniel said. “You're an innkeeper. And you'll knock 'em dead. For real.”

“Hope so.” I crossed my fingers. He crossed his too.

Check-in time
was two
P.M
. I'd carefully explained this to all the guests who'd made reservations. My whole day was built around two o'clock. Two o'clock was the finish line for the race to have the Breeze Inn ready and open for business.

At noon, I was in the shower in Harry's apartment, trying to scrub Weezie's varied palette of paint colors off my hide and out of my hair. Yellow for the Sunflower Suite, coral for the Hibiscus unit, pale green for the SeaGlass, soft blue for the Starfish. I was still going over my mental to-do list when I heard the doorbell buzzing. Once, twice, three times. This would not be Harry. He'd gone to Sam's Club an hour earlier to fetch soaps and shampoos for all the units. I toweled off hurriedly, and pulled on the black jeans and sweater I'd treated myself to on my last trip to Target. I winced as I shoved my feet into the cheap black flats I'd picked up at Payless, and mourned the darling little faux-leopard mules that were now gone, along with all the rest of my belongings.

“Yoo-hoo! Anybody home?” A woman's voice. “Is the manager in?” The buzzing started anew, and now I could hear Jeeves barking from outside too.

“Coming,” I called, hurrying to the door. I glanced around the newly refurbished office area. Harry had scavenged a pile of old bead-board siding from the trash heap of a house being remodeled on the north end of the beach, and had fashioned a high front counter from the old wood. Behind it, I'd set up a real desk, with
our brand-new credit card machine, a row of hooks holding room keys, and Harry's old black rotary phone. It was a far cry from any kind of hotel setup I'd ever seen before, but Weezie had assured me that guests checking into the Breeze would be seeking this kind of ambience.

“If they want a fax machine and a switchboard, they can always go to the Days Inn,” she pointed out.

I gingerly touched a fingertip to the still-damp paint on the sign Harry had affixed to the front of the counter:
THE BREEZE INN. EST
. 1948.
YOUR HOST: BEBE LOUDERMILK
.

The new host opened the door to the manager's unit with a bright smile firmly fixed, and promptly faced her past.

The woman standing in the doorway was tall and willowy, with lustrous black hair that fell straight to her shoulders, flawless alabaster skin, and odd green cat eyes that took in everything and missed nothing. Just as they had all those years ago when we were both at Savannah Country Day School.

“BeBe Loudermilk? What on earth are you doing out here at Tybee Island?”

“Hello, Sadie,” I said, trying for warmth, but not coming even close. “I'm the owner,” I said, gesturing to the desk and the new sign. “Are you staying with us?”

“I sure as hell hope so,” she drawled. “Didn't you get my reservation?”

“Come on in,” I said, opening the door a little wider. Behind her on the porch stood a small mountain of luggage, and a small, perturbed little boy.

She grabbed his arm. “Peyton, sugar,” she said sharply. “Come in here, now.”

“No.” He deftly extricated himself from her grasp and stepped backward on the porch. “I want to see the dog.”

“Peyton!” Her lips pressed together in an angry red line. “Don't you dare take a step off this porch or I will call your daddy right this
minute.” She held a cell phone in her hand for him to see. “Shall I call Daddy in Atlanta?”

“No,” he said, his shoulders drooping. Pale, skinny legs hung from gray flannel shorts that matched the gray cashmere sweater hanging loosely from his bony little frame. “I'm coming.”

I scrambled to the reservation book behind the front desk, praying that she'd shown up at the wrong inn. I'd pored over the book only an hour earlier, and I definitely would have noticed if Harry or I had taken a reservation for Sadie Troy.

This same Sadie Troy had been the queen of our exclusive private school. Oddly, she didn't fit any of the usual definitions of high school royalty. Not a cheerleader, not class president or homecoming queen, and definitely not most popular. No, Sadie Troy had been more feared than popular, leading a tightly knit clique of girls who were the
it
chicks at Savannah Country Day. I'd been at the periphery of that clique, accepted because I knew how to fix my hair, how to roll the waistband of my plaid uniform skirt just so, how to scrunch down the hated and required knee socks, and most important, how to torment any girls who were not in our clique. What a relief it had been, after graduation day, when I escaped into a world not defined by the Sadie Troys of the planet.

Now I ran my fingers down the booking list. “I don't see your name.”

She reached over the counter and grabbed the book from me. “Right here,” she said, jabbing at the last name. “Mrs. Peyton Hausbrook III.”

“Right,” I said glumly. So this was the last-minute referral from the Gastonian, this was the person who'd be sleeping in my bed tonight. “Welcome to the Breeze Inn.”

She looked around the office and sniffed. “Wet paint? I hope my suite doesn't smell like this. Peyton has horrific allergies. Especially to chemicals.”

She turned to search for her son, who was happily sitting on the floor, his arms clamped tightly around a furiously wriggling Jeeves.

“He's allergic to animals too!” she cried, snatching Jeeves from the boy's arms and flinging the dog across the room. Jeeves yelped a sharp protest and shot out the open front door.

“Surely you don't allow dogs in the inn,” she said, turning back to me.

“Well, no,” I said, flustered by Sadie's sudden intrusion back into my life. “Jeeves belongs to my uh…”

What should I call Harry? My manager? But I was the manager now. Handyman? Such a menial-sounding word. He'd throttle me if he ever heard me using such a term.

“Factotum.”

Speak of the devil. Harry himself stood in the doorway, one of Sadie's suitcases in each hand. “Which suite shall I take these to, Ms. Loudermilk?”

“My, uh, I mean, the Surfside,” I said, gratefully. “Thank you, Harry.”

He nodded. “Anything else?”

“Not right now,” Sadie said dismissively. “I'll ring if I need you.” She reached in the canary yellow Coach valise on her arm and brought out a billfold bristling with credit cards, extracted a five-dollar bill, and extended it to him with her fingertips. “Just see that there's ice. And what brands of liquor do you have in the minibar?”

“Minibar?” Such a thing had not occurred to me while I was racing to get basic plumbing restored.

“I'm just restocking,” Harry said smoothly. “What brand do you prefer?”

“Stoli.” Sadie said. She handed him a twenty. “Get fresh lemons too.”

“Take me maybe ten minutes,” Harry said, the picture of courtliness. He nodded at both of us and left.

I took a deep breath and glanced at the clock: 12:10.

“Actually,” I said, “you're a little early, Sadie. Check-in time is at two.”

“Two? No, that wouldn't work at all. We're due at Patti Mazzone's for tea at two-thirty. You remember Patti from Country Day. And if I don't get a hot shower in the next five minutes, I cannot be responsible for the consequences. As you can see, I'm a wreck after four hours in the car with my little man here,” she said, jerking her head in Peyton's direction.

She was the farthest thing from a wreck. Her green slacks were crisply creased, the matching jacket—was it from this year's Armani collection?—tightly belted at the waist over a creamy silk blouse. She wore jade earrings and bangle bracelets, and her only ring was a door-knocker-size square-cut diamond on her left hand.

Peyton stood looking solemnly up at me, pale blue eyes unblinking.

“Were you a good boy for your mom on the drive down?” I asked.

“She is
not
my mother,” the child yelled.

Sadie's cheeks flushed ever so slightly.

“Peyton,” she said, clutching his shoulder. “We need to use our indoors voice.”

“Well, she's not,” he said, softly now, but just as insistent.

“Stepmother,” Sadie mouthed the word to me.

I nodded.

Peyton went and stood by the door, his back turned to both of us.

“Impossible.” Sadie rolled her eyes and sighed. “What were you saying?”

“I was saying that check-in time is two,” I repeated. “I'm sorry, but we've just finished a major remodeling, and your room really won't be ready till two.”

“Nobody told me anything about two o'clock,” Sadie said, frowning. She reached into her billfold again and took out a twenty and slid it in my direction.

“Look, BeBe, it's been
lovely
seeing you after all these years. I'm dying to catch up with what you've been doing with yourself down here, later on. But right now it is
imperative
I get into my room immediately. I've got an important conference call in ten minutes, and I need to be someplace quiet while we close a twenty-eight-million retail mall in Jacksonville.”

I pushed the twenty back in her direction, trying not to lose my temper. “The thing is, your room isn't ready.”

“Then give me another room. Any room, as long as it has ice, television, lemons, and some Stoli.” She gave me a smile I remembered from the dark old days. It reminded me of the smile of one of those predatory animals you see on
Animal Planet,
right before said animal devours its young.

“Check-in time is two,” I repeated. “And none of the rooms has a television. People come here to get away from telephones and televisions.”

I didn't feel it necessary to share with her that we couldn't afford to install such modern contraptions.

Sadie blanched visibly. “No television?” She leaned closer, her eyes glittering. “I've got a four-year-old child with me, if you hadn't noticed. How in hell am I going to entertain the little urchin until his father gets down here if I don't have a television?”

She was really starting to get under my skin. Suddenly, I realized that I was no longer as intimidated by the imperial Sadie Troy. It was liberating.

“I'll understand if you want to cancel your reservation,” I said. “Maybe check into a place that is more adequately equipped to meet your needs. Of course, with our cancellation policy, we'll have to charge you for one night.”

“It's St. Patrick's Day. The whole damn town is booked solid and you know it,” Sadie snapped. “There isn't a vacant hotel room anywhere. I checked.”

“That's right,” I said sadly. “Well, maybe you could go to Patti's a little early. Or get a bite of lunch. And when you get back, after two, your room should be ready.”

“I'm hungry!” young Peyton announced, right on cue. “I want a Happy Meal.”

A bright pink spot appeared on each of Sadie's cheeks. “Indoors voice, please.”

“With extra fries!” Peyton hollered in his best outdoors voice.

The desk phone rang and I snatched it up. “Breeze Inn,” I said cheerily.

“How's it going?” Weezie asked. “Are you rich yet?”

Which gave me an idea.

“Fine!” I said heartily. And then, “Oh, dear, you're overbooked too?”

“What?” Weezie demanded. “Who are you talking to?”

“I'll see,” I said. I put my hand over the receiver. “This is the 1790 Inn. They've got a guest who's desperate for an extra room. Should I tell them yours is available?”

“No!” Sadie said. She grabbed the twenty-dollar bill and stuffed it back into her pocketbook. “We're going to eat, and we'll be back at exactly two o'clock. All right?”

“Fine,” I said. “Sadie, do you want to go ahead and give me your credit card to hold the room, in case you're unavoidably delayed?”

She handed over her platinum card. I ran it through the credit card machine, handed it back to her, and she stormed out, slamming the door in her wake.

“What's going on there?” Weezie asked. “Who's Sadie? Is everything all right?”

“Everything's just fine now,” I said, chuckling.

By the time Harry got back with the vodka and lemons fifteen minutes later, I'd had time to run a brush through my hair, dab on some mascara and lipstick, and start checking all the rooms.

At one forty-five, the first guest checked in. All afternoon, the phone rang, the doorbell buzzed, and Jeeves barked.

For the most part, our guests seemed delighted with the refurbished Breeze.

Except for the occupant of the Surfside Suite.

At seven
P.M
., Sadie appeared at the front desk. “Have I had any phone calls?”

I looked at Harry, who'd been manning the phones while I snuck out for a quick sandwich. “Any calls for—I'm sorry, Sadie. I've forgotten your married name.”

“Hausbrook,” she said swiftly. “Mrs. Peyton Hausbrook. I'm expecting to hear from my husband. He should have gotten here by now. He hasn't called my cell phone, so I thought maybe he might have called the office looking for me.”

“Nope,” Harry said, not looking up from the fishing catalog he was reading. “Nobody looking for anybody like that.”

“You're sure?” She drummed her fingertips on the desk. “It's H-AU-S—”

“Positive,” Harry said. “P-O-S-I-T-I-V-E.”

She flounced out, and he looked up at me inquisitively. “Old school chum?”

I shuddered. “It was a long time ago.”

At eight o'clock, the desk phone rang. It was Sadie. “Are you sure my husband hasn't called here looking for me?”

“Very sure,” I assured her.

“Anyway,” she went on, “I think you'd better send that man over here to my room. There's something wrong with the bathroom sink. Every time I turn on the faucet, it smells like rotten eggs.”

“That's Tybee water,” I explained. “It has a high sulphur content. It's very healthy. Full of vitamins.”