Savannah Breeze (3 page)

I had a pad
of paper and a basket of pill bottles I'd gathered from around my grandparents' cottage, and I was jotting down the names of all my grandmother's prescriptions. Digoxin. Lasix. Flagyl. Cipro. Vicodin. Atavan. Ambien. “Does Grandmama take all of these pills every day?” I asked my grandfather, squinting at the expiration date on the Digoxin bottle.

“How the hell do I know?” he asked, involved in a swirling white mass on the weather channel, which indicated some kind of storm in Minnesota.

I sighed. With my grandmother in the hospital, and granddaddy apparently subsisting on peanut butter and Kit Kat bars, it was clear that it was time for an intervention.

“Would it be all right if I stayed over here for a couple of days?” I asked meekly.

He shrugged, not taking his eyes off the television. “Suit yourself. Don't see why you'd want to, when you got that nice house one of those husbands of yours bought you.”

“Right,” I said slowly. It would do no good to point out to him that I'd bought the town house on West Jones Street, as well as three other downtown rental properties, all by myself.

My parents had started their own real estate agency, Loudermilk & Associates, in the 1970s, and Mama, especially, had always preached the value of home ownership. With her scouting out properties for me before they were even listed, I'd managed to buy my
first house, at the age of twenty-two, a hideous red brick two-bedroom ranch house on the Southside that had been repossessed by the bank, for $48,000.

Mama had fronted me $5,000 for the down payment, and cosigned the mortgage on that first house, but after that, I'd flown solo as far as home buying went. I'd fixed up the ranch—doing most of the work myself—and flipped it two years later, making a tidy $30,000 profit, and immediately plowed that money into my next project—a dilapidated wood-frame bungalow on East Sixty-seventh Street.

Since that initial ugly-duckling ranch, I'd bought and sold nearly a dozen houses, and each house had been more desirable—and expensive, and successively closer to the downtown historic district, where it had been my goal to live ever since I was a little girl.

The West Jones Street town house was actually one of a pair of mirror-image row houses, built of beautiful old Savannah gray bricks in 1853 by a wealthy local cotton merchant for his twin sons. When Mama had first spotted my house, it was so dilapidated that a ten-foot-tall mimosa tree was growing through the roof of what had once been the kitchen. I'd hated the house at first sight, but Mama had insisted it was a diamond in the rough—not to mention the cheapest house in the historic district, priced at $450,000.

Jones Street was a money pit. It had taken me five years to make it the showplace it now was, and during that time I had survived two divorces and more heartaches than I cared to remember.

Still, it was the last house Mama had found for me. I could still hear her voice echoing in the high-ceilinged marble entryway the day she'd first taken me through it. “BeBe—look at this staircase. Look at this cast-iron mantelpiece. This place will be fabulous. You will make it fabulous.” And I had, but she hadn't lived long enough to see the house finished.

Despite all my successful real estate wheeling and dealing, as far as my grandfather was concerned, I was still just a poor, dim-witted divorcée, depending on the kindness of strangers to get along in the world.

“I'm going to the grocery store. Wanna come along?”

“Nope.”

I picked up the keys to the Lincoln from the kitchen table. “Okay if I take that pretty new car of yours to the store?”

That got me his full attention.

“It's got a lot more horsepower than you're used to,” he said, looking dubious.

“I'll take it slow,” I promised.

He nodded and reached down into the pocket of the red sweatpants.

“Here,” he said, bringing out a ten-dollar bill and handing it to me.

“What's this for?” I asked.

“For my best sugarpie,” he said, smiling. “Top off the gas tank, and buy yourself some ice cream while you're at it.”

I planted a kiss on his liver-spotted forehead. “Thanks, sport. I'll be right back.”

Backing the Lincoln out of the parking spot proved to be somewhat like steering a sofa. I'd never driven such a huge car before. I drove very, very carefully over to Mitchell Motors on Victory Drive.

It was four in the afternoon, and a low, gray sky hovered overhead, denouncing the existence of spring in Savannah. The glass-walled showroom was quiet except for the drone of a huge plasma-screen television showing all the handling attributes of the latest model of Lincoln Navigator. It was a slow day for luxury American sedans, I guessed.

A pink-faced kid in a blue suit that looked a size too large sat at the raised mahogany reception desk in the front of the showroom, leafing through the March issue of
Maxim
magazine.

“Hi!” he said, shoving the magazine under the desk blotter and standing up. “Can I show you a new Navigator?”

“No thanks,” I said. “I actually have all the automobiles I need. My name is BeBe Loudermilk. I've come about my grandfather's new Town Car.”

“Oh?” He sat back down. I noticed the nameplate on the desk. It said “Tyler Mitchell.”

“My grandfather is Spencer Loudermilk,” I continued. “Somebody here sold him a brand-new car last week. To the tune of $43,000. He apparently paid sticker price.”

Young Tyler nodded. “I remember Mr. Loudermilk. My uncle Ray sold him that car. Sweet ride, huh?”

I leaned forward on the desk. “The thing is, Tyler, my grandfather is eighty-two years old. He has glaucoma and high blood pressure. He lives in a nursing home, and rarely drives farther than the Piggly Wiggly. His 1986 Buick Electra only had 28,000 miles on it. But your uncle Ray sold him this gigantic new Lincoln. It has a moon roof and high-performance Michelin tires and satellite radio.”

“And GPS,” Tyler said helpfully. “That's one bad ride.”

“But he's eighty-two,” I repeated. “He lives on a fixed income.” I felt my face becoming flushed, now that we were discussing finances. “See, Tyler, senior citizens don't need a bad ride. What they need is a low-mileage Buick that they can figure out how to start and stop. And money to pay for medicine and doctors' bills and a nursing home. Not to mention Kit Kat bars and Scotch.”

“Is there a problem with the Lincoln? Because we have an awesome DVD we can give him that shows how to operate all the electronics.” Tyler slid open the top drawer of the desk and produced a DVD in a handsomely wrapped plastic jewel box.

“DVD?” I put my face very close to Tyler's. His cheeks were the texture of milk. I don't think he'd started to shave yet. “He's eighty-friggin'-two! He probably thinks a DVD is the place you get your driver's license. What I'm trying to say here, Tyler, is, I want you to take back the Lincoln. I want you people to refund the full $43,000 purchase price, and I want you to sell me back the 1986 Buick.”

Tyler blinked and backed his chair away from me.

“I don't think so,” he said, shaking his head back and forth. “No, I don't think my uncle Ray would go for something like that.”

I tapped the telephone sitting on the reception desk. “Call him. Tell him you have a customer out front who needs to talk to him. You might mention that I have anger issues. And I'm currently off my meds.”

Tyler shook his head some more. He was starting to remind me of one of those stuffed dogs you see in the rear window of some people's cars. Granddaddy's Buick had one of those dogs in it. “But, Uncle Ray's not here,” he said. “He's at the NADA convention.”

“All right. Get me another manager.”

“I can't. They're all down at the NADA convention. In Palm Beach. Uncle Ray is up for dealer of the year.”

I pushed the Lincoln's keys across the desk at him. “Fine. I'm assuming that you're capable of making decisions, since they left you in charge. You give me the refund. And the Electra.”

Tyler shoved the keys back toward me. “Sorry. Can't do it.”

“There must be somebody here who can help me,” I said, raising my voice. “The Lincoln only has fifteen miles on it. It still has the paper floor mats. My grandfather can't afford that car. You've got to give me the money back.”

The phone on the desk rang, and Tyler grabbed for it. “Mitchell Motors,” he said breathlessly. “Come in today and test-drive the new Lincoln Navigator and win a chance at a weekend for two in Montego Bay, Jamaica.”

I snatched the phone out of his hand and slammed the receiver down. “Tyler! Pay attention here. I want my $43,000. And the Buick.”

His neck flushed red. His eyes narrowed. “What's the matter,
Bee-Bee
, are you worried that the old man's blowing your inheritance?”

Without thinking, I reached out and slapped the smirk off his face. I grabbed the keys and flounced out of the Mitchell Motors showroom. And I laid rubber as I peeled off onto Victory Drive.

My hands shook
with anger and frustration as I unlocked the front door of my town house. I picked up the mail that had been slid through the mail slot and sorted it aimlessly.

The phone rang in the kitchen, and I sprinted toward it, hoping it would be one of my grandmother's doctors.

But the caller ID digital readout told me I was being called from a Budget Inn in Daytona Beach, Florida.

“BeBe? Hey. It's Rikki.” My missing-in-action waitress sounded as though she'd been gargling with gravel.

“Hi, Rikki,” I said coolly. “How are you?”

I was answered by a series of racking coughs. “Not so good,” she rasped. “I'm coughing up a lot of green goo. And I've had a fever of 102 all day. My doctor says there's something going around. He says I should stay in bed. Because I'm probably contagious.”

“You poor thing,” I cooed. “That's terrible. Listen, you stay right there in bed. I'm going to bring over some of Daniel's chicken soup and some cough drops.”

Rikki coughed violently. “No! Don't do that. I'll be fine in a couple of days. Anyway, I don't want you to catch this crud.”

“That's so thoughtful of you,” I said. “And how about Kevin? How's he feeling?”

“Kevin?” Her voice was cautious. “I, I don't really know.”

“Really?” I said. “Why don't you lean over in the bed there in the Budget Inn in Daytona Beach and ask him how he feels?”

“Huh?”

“You're busted, Rikki,” I said. “So don't give me any more of that calling-in-sick crap. In fact, I don't want any more of your crap again, ever. But I do appreciate your calling. That way, I can fire both you and Kevin at the same time. And the beauty of it is, you're paying for the long-distance phone call. 'Bye now.”

I slammed the phone down, but it gave me little pleasure. Kevin and Rikki weren't exactly employee-of-the-month material, but Rikki was a shapely blonde who was great at selling our customers on expensive wine, and Kevin, who was tall, dark, and shallow, was a big draw for our women customers who liked to fantasize about making it with a bartender.

A wave of depression washed over me. Our busiest season was just around the corner and I was suddenly short two experienced, if unreliable, employees.

I continued going through the mail, and slammed down the stack of junk mail in anger when it didn't contain a rent check from my deadbeat tenant Brenna. No surprise there. Brenna, who was the niece of an old friend, had been late with her rent for the past three months, sometimes as much as ten days late.

Time to get tough, I decided. The carriage house on West Gordon Street rented for $800 a month, and if Brenna, a film major at Savannah College of Art and Design, didn't want to pay the rent on time, I could find any number of tenants who could and would.

After I'd called both Brenna's cell phone and house phone, I decided to pay her a visit, maybe even check out how she was keeping the place up. I had a strict no-pet policy for all my rental properties, but the last time I'd gone by the carriage house, I thought I'd heard a dog barking from inside.

I grabbed a jacket and scarf and decided it would be simplest to just walk the six blocks to West Gordon.

When I got to the 300 block of West Gordon, where the carriage house was located, I noticed something strange. The sidewalk was
wet. The street was wet too. And it hadn't rained in two days. I got a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.

“No,” I said, moaning, when I saw the front door of the carriage house. Water was sluicing out from under it.

“Brenna!” I screamed, pounding on the door.

I sorted through the knot of keys on my key ring until I found the right one, and fit it into the lock. The knob turned, but the door wouldn't budge. The wood, I knew, was probably swollen from moisture.

Giving up on the front door, I sprinted around to the back. No water here, thank God. And the back-door key worked fine. I pulled on the door, stepped inside, and instantly wished I hadn't.

The smell of mildew nearly knocked me down. The kitchen's linoleum floor was covered with half an inch of water. I glanced around. The sink was overflowing with dirty dishes. A plastic trash can lay on its side, with soda bottles and sodden fast-food wrappers spilled onto the floor.

I looked down at my $350 suede high-heeled boots. Ruined.

It wasn't hard to find the source of the water. The bathroom was just steps from the kitchenette. The black-and-white octagon-tile floor was barely visible under an inch of dirty water, which was overflowing from the pedestal sink.

I could have cried. I twisted the knobs, but the cold-water faucet seemed to have been stripped. I squatted down on the floor and searched for the cutoff valve, but it was frozen stuck.

“Damnit,” I cried. My pants were soaked, my boots were ruined. I peeked into the living room to confirm what I already knew. Brenna had flown the coop. I didn't have the stomach to see what other nasty surprises my missing tenant had left for me. I trudged back home, threw the boots in the trash, and sat down by the fireplace to cry and feel sorry for myself.

The doorbell rang, but I stayed in my easy chair. I had endured my full quota of shit for the day. No more, I decided. No more sick
relatives, sleazy car salesmen, slacker employees, or sorry-ass tenants.

But the doorbell kept ringing.

“Go away,” I hollered. “We don't want any.”

“BeBe?” It was a man's voice. “It's me, Reddy. I left my wristwatch here last night. But, are you all right?”

My shoulders sagged. I didn't want Reddy to see me this way. Our relationship was too shiny and new to expose him to the nuttiness that was my life. And besides, I had black ribbons of melted mascara trailing down both sides of my face.

“I'm all right,” I called back. “Just having a really bad day. I'll call you later, okay?”

“Can I get my watch?”

“I'll slide it under the door.”

“Maybe I can help,” he answered. “Let me in, sweetheart, please?”

I sighed, but trudged to the door. I opened it, turned around, and trudged back to my easy chair.

But before I got there, Reddy had folded me into his arms. Which was bad. Because I started to cry again. And it wasn't just crying. It was full-out caterwauling. Weeping, sobbing, chest-heaving hysteria, accompanied by double-barreled snot rockets. Not a pretty sight.

But Reddy didn't seem to notice any of that. “Hey,” he said softly, stroking my hair. “Hey, what's wrong, pretty lady?”

“Everything,” I wailed. “My life sucks. My grandmother's sick and Granddaddy bought a Lincoln and that little shit Tyler at the car lot won't give me back the money, and I had to fire Rikki and Kevin…” I was gulping for air in between sobs.

“Man,” he said, taking his forefinger and wiping away a streak of mascara. “You have had a rotten day.”

“I know!” I wailed. “And the tenant at West Gordon ran off without paying her rent and the bathroom sink is busted and it's flooded everything out…”

He dug a handkerchief out of the pocket of his neatly pressed navy slacks and handed it to me. “Blow,” he instructed.

So I did.

He pushed me gently down into the chair. “Sit.”

And I did.

Then he went into the kitchen, and when he came back it was with a tray holding two glasses of red wine and a plate with cheese and crackers.

“I bet you haven't eaten today, have you?” he said sternly.

I shook my head. “Not hungry.” I reached for the goblet. “Just thirsty.”

He pushed my hand away. “Eat something first or you'll give yourself a wine headache.”

“Hey,” I said, amazed. “How did you know red wine gives me a headache if I drink it without eating?”

He raised an eyebrow. “I know these kinds of things.”

So I nibbled at a cracker with some cheese, and eventually, I was able to stop sniffling and drink a full glass of wine.

“Now,” Reddy said, sipping his own wine. “Start at the beginning, and tell me everything.”

So I did. I told him about my grandmother's alarming decline, and the Lincoln, and the trouble with my employees, and the disaster at West Gordon.

He nodded thoughtfully, not interrupting or offering advice, but just listening.

It was a new experience, having a man just listen.

When I was done telling my tale of woe, he leaned over and kissed me softly on the lips.

“All right, then,” he said, squaring his shoulders. “I'm afraid I can't do anything about your grandmother's condition. It sounds like you'll have to talk to her doctors to get a handle on that. But I do have some experience with car dealers, and I should be able to help with the Lincoln situation. This salesman obviously took advantage of your grandfather. And since he's only had the car for less than a week, there's no reason they shouldn't take the car back and refund the money.”

“I don't know,” I said. “The little shit was pretty adamant. Did I mention I slapped him?”

Reddy winced.

“I know, but he started it,” I said.

He held out his hand, palm up. “Keys, please. I should be back in less than an hour. Will that give you time to get cleaned up and ready for dinner?”

“Yes, but—”

“No buts,” he said, leaning down to give me a kiss. “And no more wine. At least not until I get back to drink it with you.”

He let himself out the front door, and I leaned back in my armchair and smiled. It was the first thing I'd had to smile about all day.