Savannah Breeze (37 page)

Harry was sitting
at the kitchen table in the office, fiddling with the same outboard motor he'd been fiddling with since the day we'd met.

When I walked into the office, Jeeves hopped down from his armchair, barked a cheerful greeting, and scampered over to allow me the privilege of scratching his ears.

Harry looked up, but he didn't offer to let me scratch his ears, so I just lavished that much more attention on his dog, who didn't argue about it.

“You're back,” I said. Duh.

“Yeah,” he said, putting down the screwdriver he'd been using on the engine, and wiping his hands on a greasy rag. “You too, huh?”

This was some scintillating conversation we were having. Like Hepburn and Tracy. Only not.

“I went into town, to check on things,” I said, sitting down at the table across from him.

He held up a bottle of beer that had been sitting near his elbow. “Want one?”

“No thanks,” I said.

“How were things in town?” He went back to fiddling with the motor.

“Not too good,” I admitted. “Those snotty Arrendales, the ones who bought my painting from Roy Eugene Moseley? They're mov
ing. Their house and mine both have sold signs out front. And my painting is already gone. I looked.”

“Tough,” Harry said, sipping his beer and looking quizzically at an unidentifiable hunk of iron that he'd unscrewed from the motor.

“Tough? These people…these
carpetbaggers
have moved, they've moved my painting. And my house has been sold again.”

“Buy the house back,” Harry said. “You can afford it now. And buy a new painting. You can afford that too.”

“We're not talking about just any old painting here,” I said. “We're talking about a Maybelle Johns portrait of my aunt. It's a family heirloom, Harry. The artist—a famous Savannah artist—won't be doing any more portraits. And my aunt—it was painted when she was just a little girl—is long dead.”

“Oh,” he said. Not “Oh, shit.” Or “Oh my God, how awful.” Just “Oh.” More like, “Oh, so what?” or “Oh, big, effin' deal.”

“What about your house?” he said, sitting back in his chair, finally giving me his full attention. “Do you know who bought it this time?”

“I have no clue. I tried to call James Foley to see what he knows, but Weezie says he's out of town until late tonight.”

“So now what?” he asked.

“I wait,” I said, with an exaggerated sigh. “Waiting sucks. I'm no good at it.”

“You're a woman of action,” he observed.

“You say that like it's a bad thing.”

“Not bad. Just true.”

I stood up abruptly. “It's just that I hate being a victim. I hate feeling powerless, like I have no control over events shaping my life.
Major
events,” I added.

“Nobody likes that feeling,” Harry said.

He was trying to be reasonable, damn him. “But everybody, at some point in their life, does. We just have to deal with it, try to make the best of a bad situation,” he said.

“Is that what you're doing?” It came out sounding nasty and hateful.

“Who? Me? I'm just trying to get this damned motor running. Mikey found an old metal johnboat washed up in the creek, and if I can get this motor running, we can do a little crabbing and shrimping now that the weather's turned.”

“What about the
Jitterbug
?” I asked.

He looked surprised. “What about it?”

I reached in my pocket, brought out the set of keys Tricia Marsden had given me, and tossed them in his direction. He caught them in midair, looked down at them, and then back at me.

“Where'd you get the keys to my boat?”

“Tricia Marsden gave them to me,” I said. “Interesting woman, Tricia.”

“Interesting how?”

“She's spectacular looking. Not the kind of woman you expect to find running a marina.”

“Is she?” He shrugged. “Not to me.”

“She's gorgeous.” I stated it as a fact. “And you must have thought so too, at some point in your life.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Is there a point to this conversation we're having about Tricia Marsden?”

“She can't stand you.”

“The feeling's mutual.”

“And yet you were married to her.”

“Jesus!” he said, jumping up. He paced to the other side of the room. Jeeves scampered after him, his ears twitching in agitation, but Harry ignored him, pacing back in the other direction, with the dog right at his heels.

“What were you doing messing around with Tricia?” he demanded, stopping directly in front of me.

“I went to the marina on the spur of the moment,” I said, backing away from the intensity in his eyes. “I didn't plan to. I just did. I was headed into town, and I saw the turnoff for the marina, and I turned in. I thought I'd see what it would take to get the
Jitterbug
back for you.”

“You decided that. On the spur of the moment.”

“Yes,” I said defiantly. “I owe you. I owe you a lot. For going to Florida with me. For getting my money back from Reddy. It wouldn't have happened without you.”

“You owe me exactly $4,800,” Harry said. “Not a dime more. That was our deal.”

“I disagree,” I said softly. “I paid off the boat. It's yours again. But Tricia told me to tell you she wants it out of the marina right away. She says she'll start charging you storage fees if you don't move it within twenty-four hours. And she won't sell you the trailer it's sitting on. She really hates your guts, Harry.”

He went into the bathroom and closed the door.

Now what?

I heard the toilet flushing, then water running. Five minutes later, he came out of the bathroom and sat back down at the table and started fiddling with the damned motor again. If I could have picked it up and flung it out the door, I would have.

“Harry?” I sat back down across from him. I took the screwdriver out of his hand, and put it in my lap for safekeeping.

He put both palms down flat on the tabletop. “I really wish you hadn't gone to the marina today.”

“But I did.”

“What do you expect me to say?”

“How 'bout, ‘Thanks, BeBe.' Or maybe, ‘Did I mention I used to be married to Tricia Marsden? It's a funny story.' Or I don't know, maybe you could just talk to me and not act like we didn't start some kind of relationship thing down in Florida. I would deeply appreciate it if you would say any of the above.”

He picked up the bottle of beer and emptied it.

“It's not a funny story,” he said flatly. “It's not even interesting. But since you insist, here it is. Tricia and I were married for about ten minutes, several years ago. I don't talk about it, and I try not to think about it, because it represents a really screwed-up time in my life. I
was friends with her old man, Jimmy. Tricia and I had known each other for years. When Jimmy got sick with cancer, he was worried about what would happen to her, after he died. Her mother split when she was just a kid. So we got married. Bad idea. Really, really bad idea. We fought about everything. And then we split up. It was the first good idea we'd had.”

“What did you fight about?” I asked. “And why does she still hate you?”

“I told you,” Harry said. “Everything. Anything. Why do you care?”

“I care about you,” I said, crossing my arms over my chest. “Remember?”

He looked away.

“We wanted different things. After Jimmy died, Tricia had all these big plans. To expand the marina, build condos, a restaurant, a hotel, all of it. And she thought I should want that too. But I didn't. She thought that because I'd gone to law school, I should be a lawyer. But I didn't want that either. I'm a fisherman. It's what I'm good at. It's what I enjoy. She's still pissed about it. And I don't give a damn. Satisfied?”

“No,” I said. “What about us? You've been avoiding me ever since we got back to Savannah. What's that all about?”

“I don't know,” he said, running his hands through his hair. “I feel like…I feel like we're going down that same road I went down with
her
. I do care about you. Honest to God, I do. You're not like any woman I've ever known before. You're bossy, and funny, and infuriating, and sexy, and one minute I feel like decking you, and the next minute—”

I got up and went around the table and sat in his lap. I wrapped my arms around his neck. “And the next minute, what?”

He kissed me. And then he groaned. “Noo. This is not going to work.”

“Why not?” I kissed him back. I nibbled at his ear, and whispered,
“I'm not like Tricia. I don't want you to be anything you're not. You can fish, or shrimp, or herd goats for all I care. Just as long as you let me do what I want.”

He shook his head. “That's just it. We want different things. You've told me a million times, you want your old life back. I know what your old life was like. You're like that Billy Joel song, you're an uptown girl. You want the big house in town, and your restaurant and the clothes and jewelry and parties and all the stuff that goes with it. And I don't. I'm happy right here at the Breeze, just as it is. I'm happy running the
Jitterbug,
fishing, and having a beer at Doc's whenever I feel like it. It won't work, BeBe.”

He stood up and dumped me unceremoniously onto the floor.

I stood up slowly, dusting the seat of my pants.

“That is just the biggest bunch of crap I ever heard, Harry Sorrentino!” I cried. “How do you know what I want? And how do you know what will make me happy, when you won't even take the time to find out if
you
make me happy?”

But he wasn't listening. He went to the closet and started pulling clothes off the hangers, throwing them into the still-unpacked suitcase he'd left open on his bed.

“Where are you going?” I demanded. “Don't tell me you're running away from home.”

“I'm checking out,” he said, his voice tense. “I can't stay here anymore. You don't need me anyway. You've got Cheri and Stephanie. They can work the desk. Until you sell the place to those developers.”

I marched over to the bed and sat on top of the suitcase and folded my arms over my chest. “Nuh-uh. No. I am not letting this happen. I won't let you leave like this. I promised Granddad I wouldn't screw it up this time. And I'm not.”

His voice was tight. “I don't want to do it this way. But you've got me backed into a corner. There are some things you just can't control, BeBe. I'm going now. There's a unit next to Mikey's coming va
cant at Tybee Terrace. Just leave my stuff here for now. I'll come back and pack it all up when you're not around.”

“Just like that?” I asked, watching him go.

“Yeah,” he said. “I gotta go get my boat moved.” Then he turned abruptly. I threw myself down on the bed and closed my eyes. I wouldn't watch him go. I couldn't. I heard the door slam. Then a moment later, I heard it open again.

“Harry?” I sat up.

“Forgot something,” he said. I watched in disbelief as he strode over to the kitchen table and hoisted the boat motor onto his shoulder. He left again, without a word. I heard the door slam again, and then a sad whine. Jeeves sat erect on his haunches, ears quivering, black button eyes glittering with unspoken sadness.

I jumped up and gathered the dog in my arms, nestling my face in his fur.

The door opened. Harry, chagrined, put out his arms and Jeeves leaped into them.

He closed the door, and I heard the station wagon's engine cough and start up.

I ran out onto the porch, enraged by the injustice of it all. “And your little dog too!” I screamed.

A kid riding by on his bike slowed, then pedaled furiously away.

James Foley
was sporting a Hollywood tan and an expensive-looking new silk-blend sport coat. His old oversize eighties-era eyeglasses—the ones that always made him look like a younger version of Mister Magoo—had been replaced with tragically hip new frames. He leaned back in his office chair and guzzled a bottle of spring water.

“You've changed,” I said, looking him up and down. “Is that Jonathan's doing?”

He blushed. “And Janet's. The two of them went through my closet and purged it of everything except the tweed sport coat I bought before I entered the seminary. They said it's been out of style so long, it's come back in.”

“I liked you better when you were sweet and geeky,” I said. “You were unique. Gay, and yet hopelessly clueless.”

“Yes, well.” He coughed and tapped the open file folder on his desktop. “I called Steve Arrendale this morning, right after I talked to you.”

“What did he say?” I asked, leaning forward in my chair. “Where's the painting? Will he sell it back to me? Why did they move? And how did my house get sold again?”

“One question at a time,” James said, laughing. “First of all, the Arrendales have your Maybelle Johns painting. I'm sorry, BeBe, but Arrendale says he has no intention of giving it back to you.”

“I'll buy it,” I said fiercely. “It's my painting, James.”

He held up one hand. “We'll get back to the painting in a minute. As to why the Arrendales have moved, it has to do with Mrs. Arrendale's pregnancy.”

“Gretchen,” I said bitterly. “Social-climbing carpetbagger.”

“They've recently learned that she's expecting triplets,” James said.

“Appropriate,” I said. “The bitch is having a litter. I hope they all have colic. Simultaneously.”

“Tsk-tsk,” James tsk-tsked. “Gretchen Arrendale is currently unable to walk up stairs. And as you know, both your town house and theirs have all the bedrooms on the upper floors.”

“That explains why they're selling their place, but why was my house being sold again?”

“The Arrendales had actually bought your house from St. Andrews Holdings,” James said. “They'd even started knocking through the walls that separate the town houses. But then they found out about the babies, and decided they needed something more modern, and convenient for a family with three infants. They found a spec house being built in that new community out at Turner's Rock, bought it, and put both town houses on the market last week.”

“So, I could buy back my house?” I asked. “And theirs too? I wouldn't have to live next door to the Arrendales anymore?”

“I think they'll entertain any reasonable offer. Jonathan says the talk around town is that their finances are overextended right now.”

I sat back and let that sink in. The Arrendales, bless their status-grubbing little hearts, were offering me what I'd wanted. My house. And if James was correct, I could probably name my price. I had the money. I could do it. So why wasn't I jumping on the bandwagon here?

“I just want the painting of my aunt Alice,” I said. “That's the most important thing.”

“Since when?” James asked, looking over the rims of his stylish new glasses. I was pleased to see he hadn't done anything about the crow's-feet. Thank God for that.

“Since right now,” I said. “There are other houses, as somebody pointed out to me last night.”

“Other paintings too?” James asked.

“Not like mine,” I said. “Look. Can we use the town houses as a bargaining chip? Tell the Arrendales I'll buy my house and theirs—for their asking price—if the Maybelle Johns painting of my aunt is included in the deal.”

“I'll ask,” James promised.

“If she sells me back the painting, I'll see that Gretchen gets invited to be on the Telfair Ball committee,” I said rashly.

“I'll mention that,” James said.

“Speaking of the unspeakable Arrendales,” I said, “what kind of progress have you made with our injunction against Sandcastle Realty?”

“The judge granted our motion for a temporary restraining order,” James said.

“That happened before I left town,” I reminded him.

“There's been an interesting development while you were gone,” he said. “I told you the Arrendales' personal finances are stretched thin, but I've also heard that the money people behind Sandcastle Realty are getting antsy about having so much money tied up in a project that's in limbo.”

“Good,” I said, smiling. “Excellent.”

“They've authorized me to make you what I think is a pretty interesting offer,” James said.

“Offer away.”

“They'll pay you $2.6 million to walk away from your claim to the Breeze Inn.”

“That much? For real?”

James nodded. “Roy Eugene Moseley paid $650,000 of your money for the place. They're offering to quadruple that, and to forgive the option money they paid Moseley. But they want an answer
immediately. Ideally, they could finish construction of the first units before the end of summer. The meter's running, BeBe.”

I stood up and walked over to the window behind James's desk. The sun was shining and it made even the greasy industrial water of the Savannah River look green and inviting.

A chunky black tugboat was chugging past on the river. From the name on the tug's stern, the
Barbara Jane,
I knew the boat belonged to Waymire Towing. The Waymire family had owned and run tugboats on the Savannah River ever since I could remember, and ever since I could remember, all their boats had been named for company founder Ray Waymire's daughters: Barbara, Alice, and Helen. I knew if I went outside and walked farther along Factor's Walk, I could see the Waymire docks, could see the
Helen III
and the
Alice II
tied up there too.

This was a Savannah thing. In Atlanta, bustling, maddening Atlanta, nothing stayed the same. Companies were formed and went bust, corporations transferred families in, then back out again a few years later. It all came down to money and expediency. But Savannah was different somehow. In Savannah, we cling tenaciously, foolishly, even, to a sense of continuity.

The old joke goes that it takes three Savannahians to change a lightbulb: one to screw in the bulb, and the other two to form a committee to save the original lightbulb.

I thought about the Breeze Inn. The existence of the Breeze wasn't really vital to a lot of people. It wasn't historic, wasn't a Revolutionary War battleground. It wasn't even all that attractive. I would probably never get rich running it. On the other hand, if I walked away from it right now, I'd come away a wealthy woman. I would have my old life back.

“BeBe?”

James swiveled around in his chair to look at me.

“I think I'll keep it,” I said.

“Excuse me?”

“I'm not selling the Breeze,” I said, firmly.

I sat back down in the chair facing my lawyer. “Can you work out the details? I can pay Sandcastle's option money back now.”

He frowned. “It might get a little tricky, but if that's what you want…”

“It is,” I said.

He nodded and wrote something on the legal pad in front of him. “I'll get Janet working on the deal right away. In the meantime, I had a call this morning from an attorney down in Vero Beach. Owen Techet.”

“Techet?”

“He represents Sandra Findley,” James said. “He thought you'd want to know that Roy Eugene Moseley was arrested in Fort Lauderdale on Friday. He's being held without bond on a variety of federal and state charges, including theft, fraud, burglary, forgery, and resisting arrest.”

“Hmm,” I said, trying to sound noncommittal. “How fascinating.”

“Very,” James said drily. He reached into the center drawer of his desk and pulled out a padded courier envelope, which he pushed across the desk toward me. “This came by messenger this morning.”

I opened the envelope, and a thick braid of yellow gold slid into my lap. “My Daddy's watch!” I cried.

“Roy Eugene Moseley was wearing that when he was arrested,” James said. “Jay Bradley sent the Lauderdale cops the theft report you filed after Moseley disappeared. Techet persuaded them that they should return it to you.”

I fastened the watch around my left wrist. It hung there like an oversize bangle bracelet, but I didn't care.

“After Moseley's arrest, they discovered he'd been illegally squatting in the model apartment of a high-rise condominium project called La Dolce Vita, right there in Fort Lauderdale,” James said. “When they searched the premises, they found his luggage, which
contained quite a few other pieces of jewelry. Owen Techet says the Findley woman's emerald and diamond earrings were in his shaving kit, along with two diamond engagement rings, one white gold, the other rose gold, an opal and diamond ring, some pearls, and assorted other pieces.”

“My jewelry,” I said, twisting Daddy's watch. “Grandmama's jewelry. I never thought I'd see any of it again.”

“You still haven't,” James reminded me. “Techet says the Fort Lauderdale police will arrange a showing of all the recovered pieces for Moseley's victims, just as soon as all the charges against him are sorted out.”

I winced at the word “victim.”

“Techet tells a pretty entertaining story about how Moseley was apprehended,” James went on. “He was on an eighty-six-foot yacht called the
Reefer Madness,
which he'd apparently grounded on a sandbar about a mile from the marina the boat was stolen from.”

“Really?”

“The Coast Guard found the yacht.”

“‘Semper Paratus,'” I said brightly.

“I beg your pardon?” James said.

“The Coast Guard motto. It means—”

“Always prepared,” James said. “I was a priest for twenty-five years, you know.”

“Right,” I said.

“When the Coast Guard boarded the yacht, they arrested Roy Eugene Moseley, who continues to insist that his name is Rory. And after they boarded, they did a thorough search of the yacht. They found the boat's first mate, a man named Liam McConnell, tied up and handcuffed and stuffed in a gear locker. They also discovered a large cache of drugs aboard the yacht.”

James folded his hands on the top of his desk.

“Should I ask any more questions about your trip to Florida?”

“Probably not,” I said.

“Mr. Techet says his client, Sandra Findley, would like to talk to you, when you've had a chance to rest up from your trip.”

“I'll give her a call,” I agreed, standing up. “We've got some unfinished business. Is that all?”

“Just one more thing,” James said, glancing down at his folder. “I got a call from a restaurant broker while you were out of town. He has a client who's looking for restaurant space in the historic district. They'd be interested in talking to you about Guale. Either leasing the space from you, or buying it outright.”

Funny. For years my life had revolved around Guale. There had rarely been a day I didn't spend at Guale. I hadn't given a lot of thought to the restaurant in the past few days. But I had promised Emma Murphey a job. A restaurant job.

“I'll have to think about it,” I said. Then I went over and kissed the top of James's head.

“James!” I said, drawing back. “Are you wearing hair product?”