Savannah Breeze (2 page)

“About time,” Daniel said
when I strolled into the kitchen at Guale at four o'clock Sunday afternoon. I yawned and stretched and made a point of ignoring my chef. It was true that I'd slept through brunch and was now perilously close to missing our busy dinner trade too, but damnit, what's the point of owning your own restaurant if you can't sleep late once in a while?

I flipped the pages of the reservation book to see what kind of night to expect. Not too shabby. I recognized the names of some of our regulars, and was glad to see that the new concierge at the Westin had booked four different parties in for the evening.

“How was brunch?” I asked.

“A little slow,” he admitted. “But up from last week.”

“The dogwood in my front yard is loaded with buds,” I said. “Pretty soon the azaleas in Forsyth Park will be in full bloom. Before you know it, we'll be packed with tourists. Enjoy the quiet while you can, my friend.”

He nodded agreement. We were both native Savannahians, which meant we were both old enough to remember the days when the town was just another beautiful, if sleepy, Southern port. For as long as we could remember, shipping and paper mills were the industries that paid the bills in Savannah. When I grew up, in the seventies, there had been just one good hotel in town, the DeSoto Hilton, and only a handful of what anybody would call fine restaurants. But all that had changed in the nineties, with the publication of a book, and
a movie by the same title, that had portrayed Savannah as a steamy hotbed of voodoo, sex, drag queens, and scandal.

These days, tourism pumps millions every year into our economy. Whole blocks of formerly squalid businesses and houses in the historic district have been restored to pristine condition, and new luxury hotels line the riverfront. Tour buses and trolleys clog the moss-draped old squares, and if you take a seat in any of the dozens of new restaurants that have opened downtown, you're as likely to hear Japanese or German being spoken at the next table as you are a Southen drawl.

But some things hadn't changed. High season—and spring—in Savannah starts officially on St. Patrick's Day, which is when the city throws a celebration they claim is second only to New York's for bluster and blarney. As usual, we were already booked solid with private dinners and parties for the entire week before St. Patrick's Day, and barring any unforeseen natural disasters, our business would stay strong right through till Christmas.

Daniel lifted the lid from a pot of simmering veal stock, dipped in a spoon, and tasted. He tossed his head in the direction of the tiny closet I call my office. “Guy came by earlier today and left something for you,” he said, adding a couple of grinds of pepper to the pot.

“Hmm. Did he leave a name?”

“I didn't ask,” Daniel said. “I was busy trying to keep us in business, you know?”

I flipped him the bird and hurried across the kitchen to my office.

A huge arrangement of pale pink roses in a cut-glass vase was centered on top of a pile of junk mail on my desk. A business card was Scotch-taped to the vase. The card was made of thick vellum. “Ryan Edward Millbanks III,” it said. “Asset Management.” There was no address, just a telephone number. I flipped it over. There were only two words on the back. “Dinner, tonight?”

I smiled to myself. “Definitely dinner tonight.”

“New boyfriend?”

I whirled around, my face scarlet with embarrassment at being caught all moony-faced. Daniel leaned on the door frame.

“New friend,” I said. With my foot I kicked the door shut, and sat down and dialed the number on the card.

The phone rang four times before a recording advised me to leave a message. “Steady, girl,” I told myself. It wouldn't do to appear too eager. I hung up without leaving a message. Time to get to work. I plucked Reddy's card from the vase and tucked it into the pocket of my slacks. And I took the flowers and placed them on the pine console table at the front of the house.

The next few hours were a blur. Around five, just as the first early birds were coming through the door, both Kevin, our bartender, and Rikki, one of the waitresses, called in sick. It wasn't the first time the two of them had bailed on me on the same night, and I had my suspicions about the nature of their sickness, but shorthanded as we were, there was no time to conduct an inquisition.

Most people think the restaurant business is the epitome of hip and happenin', but the truth of the business is, it's mostly just dog-hard work. For every hour I spend exchanging air kisses with local celebrities, I spend another three in a sweltering kitchen, up to my elbows in dirty pans, irate chefs, and incompetent help. When the ladies' room commode backs up, I'm the one mopping the floor and cursing the plumber. When my local supplier sends whipping cream instead of crème fraiche or grouper instead of snapper, I'm the one who has to break the news to Daniel that the catch of the day has suddenly changed. And when the help bails out, I have to pitch in.

It was true that I'd arrived fashionably late at my restaurant in a chic black pantsuit and high-heeled black slingbacks, but I spent the rest of the evening racing from the maître d' stand to the bar to the kitchen, greeting customers, fixing drinks, and urging Daniel and his assistants to get the food out with a minimum of fuss.

By ten o'clock, when the last of the stragglers, a hard-drinking party of six, were pushing back from their white-clothed table, I was
ready to drop dead from exhaustion, and my toes were screaming in pain.

“Great dinner, BeBe,” exclaimed Preston Conover, the florid-faced vice president of Coastal Trust Bank, as he slung an arm around my shoulder and kissed me a little too close to my mouth. “Great little place you got here.” Over his shoulder, his wife rolled her eyes. I managed to shrug his arm away and thanked him with as much sincerity as I could muster. After all, he wasn't just a banker. He was
my
banker, and he'd personally approved a half-a-million-dollar loan that had allowed me to expand my lounge into the vacant space next to mine there on Barnard Street.

Preston thrust his check and his platinum American Express card toward me, and I demurely thrust the credit card back at him.

“Aw, BeBe,” he protested weakly. This was a game he liked to play to impress his friends. Big-shot Preston would insist on picking up the dinner check at the fanciest restaurants in town, knowing that owners like me would insist on comping him. In truth, I wouldn't have minded comping just Preston and Jeanine, but this was a party of six, and they'd all ordered the most expensive appetizers, entrées, and wine from our menu. Their bar bill alone came to $300, which I knew because I'd been the one fetching their drinks all night.

“Run along, Preston,” I said, easing him toward the door. As soon as he was clear of it, I bolted the lock and sank down onto a seat at the bar.

“Owww,” I moaned, sliding my feet out of my shoes. “Eeeww,” I added, catching a glimpse of myself in the back-bar mirror. My hair was limp and drenched with perspiration, what was left of my lipstick was smeared, and I was missing an earring.

Suddenly there was somebody pounding on the door.

“We're closed,” I hollered, too tired to stand up.

More pounding.

“Try the Marriott,” I hollered. “They don't close till eleven.”

More pounding.

I got up and hobbled, barefoot, to the door. I snapped the lock and flung the door open wide. “Get the fu—”

I managed to swallow the rest of the obscenity I'd been about to utter. The door pounder was Ryan Edward Millbanks III.

“Hey there,” he said, taking a step back. “Did I catch you at a bad moment?”

I snatched off the apron, and tucked a damp strand of hair behind my ear.

“Long night,” I said.

He gazed past me into the foyer, and I saw him looking at the arrangement of roses on the console table. “The flowers are beautiful,” I said, gesturing toward them. “My favorite color rose. I didn't get a chance to call and thank you properly because we've been slammed all night. My bartender and one of my waitresses are shacked up somewhere, so I had to fill in, plus hostess. And then—”

He put a finger across my lips. “Shh,” he said. “Doesn't matter. I just stopped by to see if you wanted to go get a bite to eat.”

“Right now?” I said. “I can't go anywhere like this. Look at me. I'm a wreck.”

“You look fine to me. And it doesn't have to be anyplace fancy,” Reddy said amiably. “I'm mostly just interested in the company.”

“It's Sunday night, and it's nearly eleven,” I reminded him. “This is Savannah, not New York. There isn't anyplace decent open this late.”

“I know a place,” he said, extending a hand to me. “Come on. You're the boss. You don't have to clock out, do you?”

I laughed despite my tiredness. “No. Just let me tell Daniel I'm leaving.”

“That's the chef?”

“Yeah. I guess you met him when you came by earlier.”

“Technically, we didn't meet,” Reddy said. “I dropped the flowers by and left. I got the impression he doesn't appreciate having strangers messing around in his kitchen.”

“His bark's worse than his bite,” I said. “He's really a sweetie. I'd introduce you properly, but it's been a long night for all of us.”

“Another time, then,” Reddy said.

Out in the kitchen, Daniel was just putting away his knives, which meant he too was getting ready to leave.

“I'm toast,” I told him.

“How'd it go out front?” he asked. “Anybody bitch about the fact that we ran out of the scallops?”

“They did,” I admitted, “but I was so busy I didn't pay any attention. That new oyster appetizer of yours was a big hit. But I noticed a couple of people didn't seem too thrilled with the seared tuna.”

“That's because they ordered it cooked to death. This is sashimi-grade tuna, BeBe. It's no good unless you order it rare,” Daniel groused. “We've got to educate these people's palates.”

“No. We've got to serve them food they like,” I corrected him. “Let's think about taking the tuna off the menu for a while. Maybe substitute flounder.”

“Flounder!” Daniel slapped the stainless-steel prep table with the flat of his hand. “Why don't we just do fried catfish and hush puppies?”

“We'll talk about it Tuesday,” I said, turning my back to him. “See you then.”

“Hey,” he said, sounding surprised. “Where are you going? It's Sunday night. Weezie's expecting us.”

Most Sunday nights for the past couple of years, my best friend, Weezie Foley, and I have had a standing dinner date.

The dinners had started as a girl's-only affair, when we were both in deepest, darkest, divorce recovery. We'd meet at Weezie's for drinks and dinner, and usually watch some old chick flick and fantasize about what it would be like to live in the moment of our favorite movies. Daniel had been added to the equation after he and Weezie became an item, and our number had since grown to five, with the addition of Weezie's uncle James, and Jonathan McDowell, his significant other.

The men were a great addition to the mix, because Daniel, after all, cooked like a dream, and James and Jonathan were gay men, so they liked everything we liked, plus they were both lawyers, which always comes in handy.

“Damn,” I said, slapping my thigh. “I completely forgot. I've kind of got a date.”

“So bring him,” Daniel said.

“No,” I said quickly. “It's not that kind of date. I mean, well, it's complicated. Anyway, Weezie'll understand. Tell her I'll call her tomorrow.”

“A date?” Daniel raised one eyebrow. “The guy with the flowers?”

“None of your business,” I said. “See you Tuesday.”

He shook his head, telegraphing his disapproval. “Has Weezie met this Ryan Edward Millbanks the third character?”

“You read the card? My private mail?”

“Sure,” Daniel said. “Some guy busts in my kitchen, wants to know where you are, and how business is, damn straight I read the card. Not that there was much on it. Who ever heard of a business card without an address?”

“Reddy is in asset management,” I said. “He's from one of the finest old families in Charleston. He doesn't
need
a business card to tell people what he does or where he lives. And I don't need you checking up on my personal business.”

“Right,” Daniel said sourly. “Because you have such good judgment where men are concerned.”

“I hired you,” I reminded him. And I was tempted to add that I could fire him too if the need arose. But I wasn't that stupid. And anyway, there was a very attractive man waiting out front to take me to dinner.

“Give the gang my regrets,” I said, pushing open the swinging door to the dining room. “And from now on, stay out of my office.”

On Mondays,
my only real day off from the restaurant, I visit the home. Technically, Magnolia Manor Assisted Living is a “managed-care community,” but in reality, it's an old folks' home. A very fancy, very expensive old folks' home, where my grandparents, Spencer and Lorena Loudermilk, have been living for the past three years.

Granddaddy met me at the door to the trim little stucco cottage he and my grandmother share. He wore a pair of faded red sweatpants, a plaid flannel work shirt, and a Georgia Tech golf visor. His huge feet were stuffed, sockless, into unlaced work boots. He peered down at me for a moment through thick bifocals, his clear blue eyes sparkling once he realized who I was.

“Sugarpie!” he exclaimed, folding his long, thin arms around me. “When did you get back?”

“Back?” I blinked. “Granddaddy, I haven't been anywhere to come back from.”

“Europe,” he said. “Your brother told me you were in Europe for two weeks.”

“Which brother?” I asked.

“You know,” he said. “The one with the hair.”

I have six brothers, and the last time I checked, they all had hair. Granddaddy was terrible with names. But my oldest brother is the only one of the whole useless bunch who ever bothers to call or visit my grandparents, so it was a good guess that was who he was referring to.

“Arch? Did Arch come to visit? How nice!”

“Arch,” Granddaddy said, nodding happily. “He's a hairy sumbitch, isn't he?”

“Granddaddy! I think Arch is very nice looking. His beard makes him look distinguished.”

“Hairy like an ape,” Granddaddy insisted. “He doesn't get that from the Loudermilk side of the family. Your mother's people were a hairy bunch though. There was an uncle of hers I met one time looked just like that Rasputin fella over there in Russia. But Ellen didn't have hair like that. Or maybe she just shaved, and I never noticed.”

“No,” I said, giggling. “I don't think Mama had an unusual amount of hair.” We'd been talking as I followed him into the abbreviated living room, which was crammed with dark, ornate mahogany furniture, an overstuffed sofa, and a huge console television set, which, as far as I knew, was only ever turned to the weather channel or the stock market channel, with the volume cranked up high.

I grabbed the remote control from the armrest of Granddaddy's BarcaLounger, and ratcheted the volume way, way down.

“Where's Grandmama?” I asked, peeking around the corner into the kitchenette. An open jar of peanut butter was sitting on the dinette table, with a huge serving spoon stuck into it. The table was littered with candy wrappers and dirty plates and cups. “She's not napping this early in the day, is she?”

“Who?” Granddaddy asked, plopping down into his chair.

“Grandmama,” I said, trying to be patient. “Your wife, Lorena. Is she asleep?”

“How should I know?” he said, looking annoyed. “Ask the nurse.”

“Nurse?” I pushed open the door to the bedroom, but the bed, though slightly rumpled, was made, and empty. “What nurse? Granddaddy, where's Lorena?”

He made a vague jabbing gesture with his finger. “Over there.”

“Where over there?” I sat down on the arm of his chair and grasped his hand.

“You know,” he said, leaning forward to get a better view of the television, which I was blocking. “Over there in the building.”

I took the remote control and snapped off the television. “Granddaddy! Please. What building? Where did Lorena go? Can you tell me?”

“Hell, yes, I can tell you,” he exploded. “Think I'm senile? Like I said, she's over there in that big building, over yonder. You know. The place. The doctor says she can't come home until she pees better.”

“The hospital?” I asked, still groping for understanding. “Are you telling me Grandmama is in the hospital? When did this happen?”

“How should I know?” Granddaddy said. “I can't keep track of all the comings and goings around here. All I know is, I ain't had a hot meal since who knows when.”

I took my cell phone out of my purse and called my brother Arch, praying that he would be at his desk.

“Arch? It's BeBe. I'm at the home with Granddaddy. Do you know anything about Grandmama going into the hospital?”

“Nooo,” he said cautiously. “I saw her last week, Sunday maybe. She seemed fine. A little ditsy, but no more than usual. Is that what Granddaddy is telling you?”

“I think so,” I said with a sigh. “She's definitely not here. The bed hasn't been slept in, the kitchen's a mess, and I think he's been living off peanut butter and Kit Kat bars.”

“Christ,” Arch said. “What are you going to do?”

I bit my lip. What was I going to do? What was he going to do? For that matter, what was anybody else in the family going to do? Who died and left me in charge?

“I'm here,” I said finally. “I'll call over to the infirmary and see if they have her there.”

“Fine,” Arch said. “Look, I'm sorry, but I've got a meeting in five. Call me and let me know if you find her.”

I hung up, found the number for the Magnolia Manor infirmary, and after fifteen minutes on hold, ascertained that yes, indeed, Mrs.
Lorena Loudermilk had been admitted to the infirmary three days ago, with a bladder infection.

“This is her granddaughter,” I said, letting my voice go deliberately cold and imperious. “I had no idea she was ill. My grandfather has been living alone for the past three days, not eating, and probably not sleeping, either. Why wasn't the family informed that she was being admitted to the hospital?”

“Can't say,” the woman said. And she clearly didn't care that she couldn't say, either. “You'd have to ask her doctor.”

“I'll do just that,” I said grimly.

“Granddaddy,” I said brightly. “Let's go visit Grandmama in the hospital, want to?”

“Maybe later,” he said, glancing up at the clock on the living-room wall. “It's time for the Rukeyser report.”

“I think we'd better go now,” I said, tugging gently on his arm. “You can watch television later.”

I dug the key to the bungalow out of my purse and locked the door behind us. “It's too cold to walk over to the main building,” I told my grandfather. I pointed toward the white Lexus parked in the visitor's slot. “I'm parked right there.”

“And I'm parked right there,” Granddaddy said, pointing proudly to a white Lincoln Town Car parked beside mine.

He took a set of keys from the pocket of the red sweatpants and jingled them excitedly. “After the hospital, we can go get some ice cream. Just like when you were a little girl.”

I walked over to the driver's side of the Lincoln and gazed, speechlessly, at the sticker pasted to the window. I was looking at a brand-new top-of-the-line car, for which somebody had paid $42,698.

Granddaddy mashed the automatic lock button on the car, and held open the passenger door. “After you,” he said proudly.

The paper mats were still on the floor of the car, and the leatherette owner's manual was sitting on the seat. I glanced over at the odometer, which read 14.7 miles.

“Granddaddy,” I said, when he got in. “Where did you get this car?”

“Mitchell Motors, same as always,” he said, running his hands over the smooth leather upholstery. “I been trading with the Mitchells since 1964. Nice folks.”

“This car cost nearly $43,000,” I said, my voice shaking. “How did you pay for it?”

“Cash money,” Granddaddy said. “Same as always.”

“But, where did you get the cash?” I asked, trying to stay calm. I'd been taking care of my grandparents' financial affairs ever since they'd moved into Magnolia Manor. We had a joint custodial checking account, and I paid all their monthly bills, leaving them with a monthly stipend of cash to pay for groceries and miscellaneous items like Grandmama's hairdresser and the occasional bottle of Scotch for Granddaddy. As far as I knew, there was never any more than a couple hundred dollars in cash around the house.

He waved his hand. “Oh, I wrote one of them checks you left in the bureau drawer.”

I felt the blood drain from my face. The previous month, I'd left the checkbook for their money-market account in a bureau drawer in the bedroom, after paying all their bills. I had no idea Granddaddy was aware the checkbook was there.

“You wrote a check for $43,000,” I said flatly.

“Yes, ma'am,” he said happily. He poked aimlessly at the Lincoln's console with the key, trying to find the ignition.

“Damnit,” he said. “Gotta have a college degree to start these new cars.”

With one poke, the Lincoln's moon roof slid silently open. Another poke and our seat slid into a nearly reclining position. With another poke, an unseen voice filled the car's pristine white interior.

“OnStar,” a silky woman's voice said.

“What?” Granddaddy said, whipping his head around to find the source of the voice. “What's that?”

“OnStar,” the woman repeated.

“Who are you?” Granddaddy demanded.

“OnStar Roadside Assistance,” she said calmly. “Sir, are you all right?”

He considered the question for a few seconds.

“I'm okay,” he said finally. “But Lorena's having female problems.”

“Sir?” the woman said blankly.

“He's fine,” I said. “False alarm.” I leaned over and mashed the OnStar button.

“She sounds nice,” Granddaddy said. He started the ignition and beamed with pride. “Where to, sugarpie?”

It took my grandfather approximately fifteen minutes to back up the boat-size Lincoln and maneuver it the half block to Magnolia Manor's administration building. We took the elevator up to the third floor and wound through a white-tiled corridor and through a set of double doors marked
INFIRMARY
.

“She's sleeping,” said the nurse at the infirmary desk. “Mrs. Loudermilk likes her nap in the afternoon.”

“I'm sure she does,” I said. “But I need to see her and talk to her. We won't take long.”

A wall-mounted television droned from the tiny waiting area near the desk. Granddaddy sank down into a chair with his eyes riveted on the set. “I'll wait here,” he said happily.

The nurse pulled back the curtains surrounding the last of three cubicles in the ward. My grandmother was curled up on her side, eyes closed, her toothless mouth agape. A pale blue sheet was pulled up around her neck, and a thin plastic tube ran from an IV stand beside the bed to her toothpick-thin arm, and another tube ran from beneath the sheet to a catheter bag on the lower rung of the stand.

“Antibiotics,” the nurse whispered. “Her urine output is much better. The doctor thinks he can remove the catheter by the weekend.”

I curled my fingers around my grandmother's blue-tinged wrist. It
was so thin I could have wrapped them around twice, I thought. I felt hot tears on my cheeks.

I'd seen my grandmother only a week ago, but in that time, it seemed Lorena Loudermilk had abandoned the body I'd known and loved all my life. This shrunken wisp was nobody I recognized.

“What else?” I asked, turning to the nurse. “What else is wrong with her? She wasn't this bad a week ago. I just saw her. We played Parcheesi, and she beat me, same as always. She fixed me soup for lunch.”

The nurse shrugged. “Bladder infection is all I know about. She's a sweet little lady. Never complains.”

I stared at her. Sweet? Never complains? There was something very, very wrong here. My grandmother was a pistol. She and my grandfather had been married fifty-seven years, and she had complained about something every day of her life. Lorena Loudermilk was a complicated, wonderful, exasperating presence. Sweet little lady my ass.