Savannah Breeze (7 page)

Rain flattened
the expanses of gray-green marsh grass on either side of Tybee Road, and I had to grip the Lexus's steering wheel with both hands to keep from being blown into the other lane. Not that it would have mattered. In such cold, wet weather, late in the afternoon, nearly six, traffic to the beach was nonexistent.

I scowled down at the water below as I crossed the humpbacked bridge over Lazaretto Creek, and wrinkled my nose at the dank musk of saltwater and marsh mud. This was a fool's errand, I was sure. Despite James's nauseatingly optimistic tendency to look for a silver lining in the thunderclouds hovering over my financial horizon, I had no hope for what I'd find out at Tybee Island. Reddy had been ruthlessly efficient in selling off all my other assets. Why would he have left behind a piece of valuable beach property when he'd gone to such lengths to liquidate everything else?

As the highway followed the bend in the island, I slowed to get my bearings. When had I last been out to Tybee? Not since my college days, I decided. Even back then, in the late eighties, Tybee had been a last-ditch destination. If my friends and I had any choice in the matter, we went south, to St. Simons, or north, to Hilton Head, or even west, to the Gulf beaches on the Florida panhandle, Destin or Panama City. Never Tybee, with its depressing collection of cracker-box cottages, cheap motels, and sleazy bars. As far as I knew, there was not a single white-tablecloth restaurant, tennis court, or golf course on Tybee.

Of course, I knew people who'd bought and even restored beach cottages at Tybee. They called Tybee quaint, genuine, even charming. Daniel, for one, insisted that there was nowhere else he'd rather live.

Fine. If real estate prices at the beach really had escalated as much as James claimed, maybe, just maybe, there was something worth salvaging at the Breeze Inn. Although I very much doubted it.

I swiveled my head back and forth as I headed south on Butler Avenue. Tybee had definitely changed. There was a new brick city hall building and YMCA, and new hotels and midrise condo buildings blocked the view of the ocean. Some things hadn't changed though. Every other block seemed to hold a convenience store. The island's only grocery store, the Tybee Market, was still there, and as I got closer to the cluster of faded concrete-block buildings that made up the commercial district, I saw that the cheesy bars and tourist traps were still there too, though most had probably changed hands and names a dozen times since I'd last seen them.

When Butler Avenue played out, I turned onto Seventeenth Street, and found my way to the address James had given me.

A faded billboard in the crushed-oyster-shell parking lot had an arrow pointing to the left.
BREEZE INN
, it said, with stylized white palm trees swaying to some unseen ocean breeze. It was almost dark, and the neon
VACANCY
light was lit.

No surprise there. I turned into the parking lot, and even though I had absolutely no expectations for what I would find there, I was still disappointed. Eight squat buildings were scattered around a central building that was—incongruously—built to look like a log cabin. A whitewashed log cabin at that, one that leaned precariously to the left, and whose rusted tin roof looked as though a puff of breath could send it flying off into the ocean, which was presumably just over the nearest sand dune. A small, hand-lettered sign proclaimed this the manager's office.

A tattered and faded American flag flew from a pole tacked to the
cabin's front porch, and there was but one car in the parking lot, an old wood-sided seventies-era Vista Cruiser station wagon that looked like the ones my parents used to load us up in for summer vacation trips.

I parked beside the Vista Cruiser and got out and walked around. The buildings were actually duplexes of a sort, with two units to a building. The numbers were missing from most of the doors. All of the windows were dirt streaked and fly specked. Each unit had a modest, covered porch furnished with a couple of rickety aluminum lawn chairs and cheap plastic tables. None of the cabins was lit up.

“It's the Bates sur la Beach,” I muttered under my breath, turning toward the log cabin. I could see the blue glow of a television from the front window. Somebody was home. “Meet the Manager,” I muttered, tromping up the front steps and pressing on the door buzzer mounted on the door frame. From inside I could hear the voice of a television announcer, calling what sounded like football plays. Odd, since it was February.

Footsteps clomped toward the door, but it didn't open. I pressed the buzzer again.

“Hello?” I called. “Anybody there?”

“Go away,” called a man's raspy voice. “We're closed.”

I took a step away from the door and looked back at the Breeze Inn sign.

“Hey,” I called back. “There's a vacancy sign out front. So you can't be closed.”

More footsteps, retreating, and then returning to the door. I glanced over at the billboard and saw the
NO
part of the
VACANCY
sign light up.

“Cute. Really cute,” I called. “But there are no other cars in the parking lot. None of these units is occupied. Anyway, you're a motel. You can't be closed. Open up, damnit.”

“Damnit,” I heard the man on the other side of the door echo softly. I heard the click of a lock, and then the squeak of rusty door
hinges. A bearish man with a deep tan and a half-inch of stubble on his face peered out at me from behind a chain security lock.

“Listen,” he said, frowning, “I'm busy in here. If you want a room, try the Holiday Inn, or the Days Inn. They're open. And their toilets actually flush.”

He started to close the door, but I wedged the toe of my sneaker in the opening.

“I don't want the Days Inn,” I said. “I want this motel.”

“Why?” he asked, his chin jutting out belligerently. I saw him looking in the direction of my Lexus. “You can afford something a lot better than this dump.”

Little did he know. I took a deep breath. “I happen to own this dump. Now can I come in?”

“Since when? Johnny Reese owns the Breeze.”

“Not since last week, when I bought the place.”

He unlatched the lock and swung the door wide. “By all means, do come in.”

The inside of the log cabin was as depressing as the outside. We were standing in a long, narrow room. A huge fireplace covered with what looked like millions of seashells randomly plastered into place had a hideous kerosene stove sticking out of what should have been the wood box. The floors were painted battleship gray, and the furniture looked like rejects from the Salvation Army. A wide-screen television set took up most of the far wall of the room, and a beat-up kitchen table held a partially disassembled outboard-boat motor. One glance confirmed what I'd already guessed—that this place, and the rest of the Breeze Inn, was a prime candidate for a total teardown.

My host crossed his arms over his burly chest and watched me warily. He wore a faded Hawaian shirt, baggy khaki shorts with cargo pockets, and was barefoot. He had wiry brown hair, a weather-beaten face, and gray-green eyes. His age was hard to guess. Maybe forties? And pissed. He looked pissed.

“And you would be…,” I asked, staring him down with my own version of pissed off.

“I would be watching the fourth quarter of the Notre Dame and Michigan game if you hadn't busted your way in here,” he snapped. “But if you're looking for a name, mine is Harry Sorrentino. I'm the manager. Now. How about you?”

“BeBe Loudermilk,” I said. “Isn't football season over?”

“Not for me,” he said. “It's ESPN Classic. Any other questions?”

“How, uh, long have you been working here?”

He ignored my question. “The Reeses didn't say anything to me about selling out.”

“It was a surprise to me too,” I said. There was no way I was going to admit the circumstances of the sale to this stranger. “Now, how long did you say you'd been here?”

“About three months,” he said. “Johnny Reese hired me on after his dad died.”

“I take it you live here?” I asked, gesturing toward the television, the outboard motor, and the makeshift shelves of paperback novels on either side of the fireplace.

“That's right,” Sorrentino said. “Rent free. I was supposed to get paid a hundred bucks a week too, but business has been slow, so the pay deal kinda went by the wayside.”

“Slow,” I said, deliberately drawing out the word. “As in…nonexistent?”

“It's off-season,” Sorrentino said, his face reddening. “Check the other hotels on the beach. Nothing going on this time of year.”

“Especially if you refuse to rent rooms to anybody who happens to knock on the door,” I pointed out.

“Screw that,” Sorrentino said. “I'm doing work on all the units. Paint, plumbing, that kind of thing. Johnny knew that. That's what you do in the off-season. Maintenance. It's part of my deal.”

I walked around the room to get a better look at it. There was a small kitchen just off the main living/dining room. It had ancient red
Formica countertops, and rusting white metal cabinets, and one of those old round-shouldered refrigerators just like the one my dad used to keep beer in out in the garage. For a man's kitchen, it was surprisingly neat. No dirty dishes in the sink, or grunge on the floor. Just off the kitchen was a large utility room with two huge commercial washers and dryers, white-painted shelves full of neatly folded bed and bath linens, rolls of toilet paper, and stacks of hotel-size shampoos and soaps.

Sorrentino caught up with me at the kitchen doorway. “Anything in particular you're looking for here?” he asked.

“Just getting a look at my investment,” I said airily. “You don't mind, do you?”

“A phone call would have been nice,” he said. “To let me know you were on the way. I would have straightened up the place.”

“I didn't have a phone number,” I said evenly. “Anyway, it looks all right to me. Is there a bedroom?”

“There is,” he said. “But these are my private living quarters. Johnny never came poking around in my apartment. And I'd appreciate it if you'd do the same.”

“Fine,” I said. But secretly, I was dying to see what the bedroom looked like. And why didn't he want me looking around in there?

“So,” Sorrentino said. “What's the deal?”

“Deal?”

“With you. And me. Do I keep my job? And the apartment? Johnny and I had an understanding. That I would stay here and work through the end of the summer, till I get my boat going again.”

“Which boat is that?” I asked.

“The
Jitterbug,
” he said proudly. “A thirty-foot T-Craft. I run a charter-fishing business. She's, uh, in dry dock over at Marsden Marina. Soon as I get her up and running again, I'll be out of here. Say, September, probably.” He gave me a grudging smile. His teeth were big and white and even. “So, is it a deal?”

“Harry,” I said. “Let's be square with each other. You know, and I
know, that the Breeze Inn has seen better days. This place is a derelict. To be frank, it's a teardown.”

“Some painting. And plumbing,” he protested. “I finished the roofing last week. Got toilets on order at Lowes. Two weeks, tops, we'll be booked nonstop.”

“No,” I said. “We won't. How much does one of these units rent for, anyway?”

“High season? The one-bedrooms bring $750 a week, the efficiencies $500. Johnny says business is real steady. Same families come back year after year. I got a phone call from some folks in Tifton, just yesterday. They want unit six the week of July the Fourth.”

I shook my head again. “Not enough. I haven't seen the tax assessment for the Breeze Inn yet, but I know it'll be a killer. The real value in this place, as far as I can see, is the location. I've got a little over one and a half acres here. Technically, it's ocean-view property. And those are the magic words, Harry. ‘Ocean view.'”

“Shit,” he said, turning his back to me. “You too?”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Look around the island,” he said bitterly. “Goddamn developers are ruining the place. Anything with any age, any character, they tear down and put up a damned high-rise. The Breeze is the last of the old-time motels. My folks brought us here for a week every June when I was a kid. And you wanna tear that down to make a fast buck.”

I bit my tongue. He had no idea just how fast a buck I needed to make. I wanted my house back. I wanted my restaurant open and running again. And if it meant bulldozing this place, well, that was just too bad.

“I'm a businesswoman,” I said. “And to stay in business, I have to make a profit. As far as I can see, the only way to do that is to rethink this business for the highest and best use.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Sorrentino said. “Are we done here? 'Cause I got a game to watch, and a motor to rewind.”

“I'm done,” I said. “And I'm sorry about the Breeze. I'm going to make some phone calls tomorrow and get the ball rolling. I'll try to give you advance warning so you can find another place to live, but that's about all I can promise.”

“Swell,” he said. He slumped down into an armchair facing the television and cranked up the volume. I was dismissed.

Daniel was standing
at my stove, sautéing onions when I walked in the back door. He turned and gave me a big grin. Jethro jumped up from his hiding place under the kitchen table and put his big paws on my chest, slathering my face with adoring slurps. Ah, the rewards of home.

When Jethro was done with his welcome, Daniel gave me his. Not nearly as sloppy, but just as deeply felt, I thought.

I stretched and yawned, then sank down onto one of the stripped pine chairs. “I'm whipped,” I said. “What's for supper?”

“Meat loaf with garlic mashed potatoes, green beans, and squash casserole,” he said, switching off the heat under the frying pan. “I was just making some tomato gravy, so we should be ready to eat in fifteen minutes.”

“Perfect,” I said. “I've been living off fast food for weeks. I'd kill for some fresh vegetables and anything that's not fried or supersized. I leaned over and scratched Jethro behind the ears. “Not that I don't love having my own private chef, but how come you're in my kitchen instead of Guale's?”

He sat down in the chair beside mine, then poured me a glass of cabernet. “Have you talked to BeBe yet?”

“Yeah,” I said. “That's why I shot back here in such a hurry. She sounded desperate. When I tried calling the house, I got a recording saying the number had been disconnected. What's going on?”

“It's a disaster,” Daniel said. “That new boyfriend of hers? Reddy, the playboy of the western world? Turns out he was a total fraud. Fake name, fake everything. He's ripped her off, Weeze. Big-time. Sold her house, all her rental properties, cleaned out her bank account. Everything. She's closed Guale because she can't even make payroll.”

“Oh my God,” I said, rubbing my eyes. “How? I've only been gone two weeks. How could this happen? BeBe's no dummy. How in the world?”

“Long story,” Daniel said, taking a sip of his own wine. “But the short answer is, she fell hard for this guy. And I met him. He's slick. Real slick. I guess he sort of came to BeBe's rescue when she was having problems with her rental properties, and she was so distracted with everything going on with her grandmother, she was grateful for his help. Your uncle James says the guy tricked her into signing a power-of-attorney document, and once he had that, he sold everything out from underneath her. Including the West Jones house and everything in it.”

“Oh my God.” It was boring and unimaginative, but I couldn't think of anything else to say. “Not her house. After she held on to it through both divorces. That house is everything to her. I can't believe it. And the rental properties too? Is everything gone?”

“James says it's pretty bad,” Daniel told me. “All the properties were sold to an out-of-town holding company. The bad thing is, James thinks they're a legitimate company, and with BeBe's signature on that power of attorney, the sale looks legal. He's working on it, but in the meantime, I think she's been sleeping in her car.”

“Daniel! What about her grandparents?”

“That's the only good news. Her grandmother was released from the hospital yesterday. And they've got nurses coming in to look after her. I guess there really wasn't any room over there.”

I gave his arm a not-so-playful punch. “Why didn't you make her come over here?”

He shook his head. “I tried. You know BeBe. Hates to impose. Hates to ask for a favor. And she's embarrassed as all get-out, especially since I tried to warn her about the guy but she wouldn't listen. Basically told me to butt out.”

“What about the restaurant? He didn't sell it too, did he?”

“He would have if he'd had the chance. As it is, BeBe closed down Guale the other night. Temporarily, she hopes. We all got our paychecks, but most of us aren't cashing 'em. Everybody's just kind of waiting around, to see if she can pull things back together again.”

“Can she? What'll you do?” I asked. “I mean, your house and truck are paid for, I know. But what about long-term?”

He shrugged. “The news is on the street. Everybody in Savannah knows BeBe's in trouble. I've had three or four phone calls already, offering jobs. I hate to take on anything permanent. Guale's where I want to be. I've lined up some catering jobs, and BeBe says I can use the kitchen at Guale, so I'll be all right for money. And a couple of the girls are going to waitress for me at the bigger parties. It's BeBe I'm worried about.”

The oven timer buzzed, and he leaped up, potholder in hand. He took the still-sizzling meat loaf out of the oven and nimbly lifted it out of the pan and onto a waiting platter, pouring the tomato gravy over it.

Jethro stood up and poked his muzzle over the edge of the table. I didn't blame him. The smells of home-cooked dinner filled the small kitchen and fogged the windows, and I was suddenly near tears, my emotions mixed up at being glad to be home, here, with this man, and this dog, who both loved me, and being distressed by my best friend's plight.

I set the table for two, and Daniel poured more wine.

“Have you seen her today?” I asked.

He shook his head. “I think she's avoiding me.”

I took my fork and laid it sideways on the mound of mashed potatoes on my plate, allowing a river of tomato gravy to flow onto it
from the slab of meat loaf. I nearly swooned after the first taste. When Daniel wasn't looking, I snuck a chunk of meat to Jethro, who did the dog version of a swoon, flopping onto his back and rolling around on the floor in utter ecstasy.

“Well, she can't avoid me,” I said, tucking into my meal. “I'm gonna track her down and drag her back here if it kills me. Right after I finish my supper.”

“Right after?” Daniel said, lifting one eyebrow. “I haven't seen you in two weeks.” He put his hand on my thigh, under the table. Jethro licked his hand and my thigh.

“Well, maybe after that,” I said.

Daniel smiled.

“And after you help me unload the U-Haul and get everything into the carriage house,” I added. “Wait till you see all the stuff I bought in St. Pete. And since you're not really working, maybe you can help me repaint the window backdrop tomorrow, after we get BeBe squared away. I'm doing vintage Florida, and I've got it all planned out….”