“What if I did the opposite?” I asked.
He looked at me skeptically, picked up my wine glass, and took a sip.
“That was mine.”
“I know, but you weren’t drinking it at the time. And I think you’ve probably had too much already.”
“I’m serious about capitalizing on the Old Florida thing. Instead of tossing out what we have, what if we go with it and play up that 1950s and 1960s Gulf Coast feeling?”
“I thought that feeling was dead. People want chain restaurants, air-conditioning, and theme parks. Water slides. Room service.”
“Not all of them.”
“They want those fancy circus acts, three-tiered swimming pools, shiny bars, and perfect green golf courses.”
“What if they don’t? How about the nostalgic ones who want to go back to vacations they took when they were kids?”
Skip finished off the wine in my glass and picked up the bottle I had in one of the extra room ice buckets. He poured a glass and took a drink, staring skeptically at my computer screen.
“Like to know where all these nostalgic people are,” he commented. “They’re not busy fishing—at least not with my dad’s fishing charter.”
“Maybe they’re waiting to be enticed by my new ad campaign,” I said.
“Maybe they’re stuck in a queue line in Orlando.” Skip poured a box of fries onto a napkin and shoved it toward me.
I ignored him. Rita thought it was a good idea, Dalton Longfellow from the Florida Retired Traveler’s Agency got excited and drained his lemonade when I told him about it. He wanted to write up a series of articles on the revitalization of Barefoot if I’d give him exclusive access. He angled for a few free nights lodging, and I decided it could be a great investment. If Skip McComber wasn’t on board, I’d survive without him. Unless I needed a toilet fixed or a sliding door put back on its track.
“Already opened a Facebook page for The Gull,” I said, attempting to change the subject. “Tried to find Harvey’s Pirate Emporium, but it didn’t exist.”
“Not called that anymore. I’m going with Skip’s Beach Shack.”
I hit him with a sideways glance. “Beach Shack sounds pretty old school to me.”
He shrugged. “People like old names, but they want it to look new. It’s the great paradox.”
The lobby door creaking, multiple car doors slamming, and a whole lot of giggling and raised voices came at just the right time. Skip could take his criticism back to his Beach Shack bar and leave me alone. When tourists started rolling into my parking lot and leaving their nostalgic dollars all over town, he’d be thanking me. For now, he could stop drinking my wine and revving my hormones and get out of my office.
Skip strolled toward the ruckus in the lobby. I followed him, quickly counting heads to make sure all twelve of my Girls Night Out party had made it back from the spa and bar tour of Barefoot Key. Most of them were recognizable as the same women who’d left hours earlier, but there were subtle changes. Fresh highlights, professional makeup liberally applied, blouses buttoned lower, color and glued-on sparkles decorating their nails.
They walked a little looser, weaving across the small lobby floor. And they were louder. I don’t know if alcohol actually causes temporary hearing loss, but these gals were making sure they could be heard.
Especially as they catcalled my shirtless neighbor until he retreated through my office and out a back door. Served him right, I thought, as I tried to herd the pampered and drunk dozen toward their block of rooms. I was glad Rita had wisely blocked off the rooms directly above and beside the party. Because they didn’t look like they were ready to call it a night any time soon.
Chapter Six
My inadequate supply of hot weather clothing had surrendered by the fourth day of my vacation. Still operating in starving college student mode, I’d soldiered on anyway wearing the same sloppy shorts and tops for weeks.
“Clearance sale next door at the Sunshine,” Rita said, lifting her eyes from the computer reservation system to cast a disapproving glance at my outfit. “Saw it on the way in,” she continued. “Some cute tank tops and skirts. Might have some new flip-flops that’ll fit ya.”
“So you’re saying—”
“I’ll man the motel while you go shopping. Right now. You’ve been here three weeks already, and since it looks like it’ll be a lot longer, I can’t keep my mouth shut much longer.”
The Sunshine Souvenir Stand had only one owner and operator in all the years I’d been visiting. When I was little, I thought the woman behind the counter, Jeanette, was probably about my parents’ age. However, looking at her now, I couldn’t assign an age. Her hair was still dark by some magic of youth or chemical intervention, her skin less lined than most women in Florida because she’d spent her sunny days inside the shop.
“Hoped you’d be over when you saw my sale,” she said. “Can’t wear that college T-shirt any more, huh?”
“Rita sent me.”
She smiled like we’d just exchanged a law of the universe and agreed upon it. “There’s a woman who dresses to show her assets. Maybe I could help you do the same.”
“That’s what Rita suggested.”
“You need color. You got pretty brown hair and I think you’re finally working up a bit of a tan. How about these?” she asked, pulling tank tops in coral, orange, and yellow from a clearance table.
I owned nothing in the hibiscus explosion of color range, so there was zero chance of wardrobe overlap with these shades.
“Price is right,” I said, wondering if I had the upper body to pull off a tank top. My arms were fairly toned but not enough to distract people from my lack of ammo in the bra department.
“End of season sale,” Jeanette said.
“Slow over at The Gull, too,” I said, browsing the nearby racks for something subtle to pair with the bright shirts. “But things will pick up closer to Thanksgiving and Christmas. If I’m still around to see it or not.”
“Not so sure I’ll be around,” Jeanette said, her tone taking the sunshine right out of the souvenir stand. I hesitated a second, trying to decide if I knew her well enough to pry into that remark or if I was more neighbor or friend-of-the-family league.
“Truth is,” Jeanette said as she fussed with a rack of swimsuits and glanced around her quiet shop, “I’m thinking of selling out.”
“This place?” I asked, feeling like a kid who found out her best friend next door was moving to a different city and she’d have to share a locker with somebody else. “Why?”
“Have you looked around? Things aren’t what they used to be in Barefoot Key.”
“I know some places have closed—”
“Some? Line ‘em all up and it’s about every other place.”
I thought of the three of our businesses—Sunshine Souvenirs, The Gull Motel, and Skip’s new place whatever he planned to call it—all lined up and tucked away on the north end of the strip. If one of us went, would we all domino?
“Does someone want to buy you out?”
She shook her head. “Not on the market officially yet.”
My relief was short-lived.
“But I think I better sell while I have half a chance. A few years ago, a real estate company bought up some places and found out they weren’t so valuable. Had to sell them at a loss not long after that.”
I barely had to dust off my business minor to know what that probably did to other property values in the area.
“They left town, but I hear there’s another real estate wannabe around, buying up properties again. Maybe gonna develop them.”
“So you think they might want your shop?” I felt like I’d accidentally swallowed a bug.
“Maybe. And maybe I ought to take advantage of the possibility before we go through another round of buying and selling that leaves us all in the tank.”
I hauled my bag of clothes back to The Gull, but the bright colors didn’t send much warmth my way. The idea of a long-
established business closing right next to the vested interest of my family’s motel was more snowstorm than sunshine. I wondered if Skip knew the souvenir stand was on the skids and how deeply he’d invested in a bar that could potentially lose value like the tide going out.
I didn’t have to wait long to find out. After lunch, I figured there was no harm in wearing a new outfit. This represented a huge departure from conventional wisdom for me. Wearing new clothes without washing them first was right up there with trimming your toenails in public in my former fussier days. However, living on the Gulf Coast in a beach motel was taking effect.
My hair was braided, my toenails painted, my thighs exposed, and my tank top advertising sunscreen did nothing to conceal my negative assets.
“I like it,” Rita said. “Skip’s coming over to check on that outlet behind the desk that doesn’t work. Maybe you could offer him something nice as a thank you.”
I gave her the look that says that service is illegal in Florida and most other states.
“I was thinking a cold drink under an umbrella on the patio,” she said.
“Good idea.”
Skip did his electrician thing with a little meter and put a piece of black tape over the outlet effectively declaring it dead.
“I’ll bring a new box over later and fix it right,” he said.
I pulled two beers from the office fridge and dangled them in front of him. “It’s after lunch. And I owe you.”
“For the record, I’d drink your beer even if you didn’t owe me.”
“I know. I’m saving you the guilt this way.”
He used the edge of the counter to knock off the bottle cap. “Thoughtful,” he said.
I sat under the only truly shady part of the patio, a place where the combination of umbrellas and overhang made a circle of shade. Skip pulled up right next to me, probably taking advantage of the limited respite from the sun but also sitting close enough to invite conversation. His thigh touched my thigh and created enough spark to fix that broken outlet.
“Nice outfit,” he said. “Saw Jeanette had a big sale over at the Sunshine. Maybe I should get a new shirt.”
In the weeks I’d been in Florida, Skip had been shirtless every single time I’d seen him. I wandered back through years of memory and tried to picture him without his chest exposed. Not one image came to mind. It was entirely possible he didn’t own a shirt. I finger-pointed his bare chest and made a sarcastic face. Skip shrugged and tipped up his beer.
“Did you know Jeanette was thinking of selling her place?” I asked.
Another shrug.
“Really,” I said, thinking he didn’t see the magnitude. “She says maybe she should sell it before there’s another round of real estate investing gone bad. Worried properties values will drop again like a few years ago.”
“Never recovered,” Skip said. “That’s one reason I was able to buy the Pirate Emporium. But I’m mortgaged to the edge of my seat. If my property value drops fifty bucks, I’ll be upside down.”
“Is that what happened to other businesses in town?”
“Rumor has it. Beware of real estate companies offering high prices. I guess those poor bastards lost their shirts, too, because they pulled out and we haven’t seen a sign of Sunny Dreams Real Estate in two years.”
“And now another company’s looking to buy?” I asked. Skin tightening along the edge of my face and a steady thrum of a pulse in my neck made me think something wasn’t right. Maybe I was just worried about The Gull somehow being threatened by any talk of value loss, selling out, or foreclosure. Although I didn’t know much about my aunt and uncle’s financial state, I knew the mortgage on The Gull had been paid off for years. My parents had often talked about how Mike and Carol could sell it off and live well in retirement from the proceeds. Perhaps that was before property values headed south.
“I’ve heard but haven’t seen it yet.”
“Someone should try to do something,” I said. “Having closed shops and restaurants isn’t good for anyone.”
Skip eyed me over his beer. “No kidding,” he said.
“I’m serious. Maybe there’s some kind of loan or grant the city could get to help keep up these properties. Save them from going under or selling to the lowest bidder.”
“Wouldn’t know about that. I’m busy trying to keep my bar from washing out to sea on the boatload of money I’ve borrowed.”
Despite the shade and my skimpy clothes, heat hovered over me and made me itchy. “Maybe I’ll check it out,” I muttered.
“Have you heard from Carol and Mike? Any idea how long you’ll be around?” Skip asked.
It was probably an innocent question, but it sounded like an accusation. Like since I was leaving anyway, maybe I should leave local problems to the locals. Maybe I read too much into it.
“Long enough to get online and do some research. And play hostess at the chamber of commerce event in a few days.”
Skip ignored my huffy tone like a mom ignores a tantrum. “Long enough to go on a date with me?”
Two questions came to mind: did I want to go on a risky date with Skip and did the invitation have anything to do with my new skin-showing outfit?
“On one condition,” I said. “You have to put on a shirt.”
He picked up my beer and polished it off. “Do I have to leave it on?”
Chapter Seven
Dalton from the Florida Retired Traveler’s magazine—Old Farts as Rita called it—put away another sandwich and downed his third wine sample.
“Glad you came along?” I asked.
“Um-humph,” he mumbled, mouth full.
I eyed the slack camera hanging around what little neck he had.
“Any good pictures for the magazine?”
Judging from his reaction, I think there was a good chance he’d forgotten he was supposed to be working. I gave him a free room for the night and a VIP pass to the Chamber of Commerce Welcome to Old Florida event. Figuring it would be great publicity, I didn’t mind him tagging along.
“Sunset’s not far off,” I said. “Might be great lighting now to capture some photos.”
He handed his empty plastic wine glass to a passing waitress in a bikini and sarong. Two dozen cheerleaders from the local high school were putting in volunteer hours tonight as servers. They got to show off their toned midriffs, flirt with patrons, sample the food, and earn a generous donation for new cheerleading uniforms. It was part of my job to make sure they stayed away from the booze.
“Suppose you’re right. This article might really jazz up the November issue. Get me an editor’s spot if I do it up right.”
I was thinking the article would book hotel rooms and packages at The Gull, but I had no problem with Dalton piggybacking his dreams with mine.
Dalton took off his lens cap and focused on the row of food vendors in colorful tents right along the water. I took advantage of his distraction and slipped into the crowd.
And it was a bonafide crowd on a sultry early October evening.
Despite general lack of enthusiasm for my “Old Florida” theme, the chamber members had no other ideas. Mine catapulted over thin air to the top of the list and we rolled with it. Temporarily employed gals like me burdened with student loan debt had to sacrifice pride for small victories.
Bikinis and sarongs on waitresses, colorful tents serving Florida themed food and drinks, some old tourist signs, a giant petrified fish, and 1950s beach music made the ticket price a bargain. Hundreds of people had turned out for the event. Of course, my favorite prop was the Gator in a Gown statue resurrected from storage. I doubt I made any lasting friends by insisting the Gator be exhumed from the City Hall basement, but it was a hit at the party.
A middle-aged woman manhandled three adult children into position in front of the statue and aimed her cell phone camera at them. They were probably in their early to mid-twenties, about my age.
“Got one just like that from when you were little,” she said. “
It’s an old Polaroid, but I love it. Gonna frame this one next to it.” She looked much happier with her photo than her kids did. They dispersed to food tents, and I was left alone with the life-sized alligator wearing a chipped red ball gown. I always viewed alligators as masculine. It’s irrational and made this guy a cross-dresser, but I couldn’t help my naïve habit of assigning gender based on looks. I thought all rabbits were female, another obvious error but I couldn’t help it. I was savvy about other stuff.
I toyed with having my photo taken with the dolled up gator so I could send it to my mom. She had an old Polaroid of me with that statue, too. Lots of family vacations were right here in Barefoot Key. Without even realizing it, I’d grown up living out the “Old Florida” theme I was trying to sell now.
LeeAnn waved me over to her booth. After plenty of encouragement—much of it from Maria, who claimed to have had a dream about LeeAnn serving fish tacos at The Great Wall of China—LeeAnn decided to try the commercial waters by getting a space among the food vendors. From the size of her line, I judged it a success. She gestured for me to bypass the line.
“Can you believe this?” she asked.
“It’s not The Great Wall, but I still think you’re doing all right. And I’m already worried I’ll need to hire a new maid when you become the Fish Taco Queen of Florida.”
“I like the sound of that,” LeeAnn said, “But don’t worry. I’d still come visit you when I’m food royalty.”
“That’s what they all say.”
“Some of us mean it. Like Skip. He still comes over everyday like he still works there, even though he’s living the dream next door.”
“I should try to talk him into being at least part-time on the payroll.”
“Smart idea,” LeeAnn said. “You should go honey up to Skip to seal the deal.” She scrunched up her lips and raised both eyebrows. “Like you haven’t sealed it already,” she said, her lips turning up at the edges.
I abandoned LeeAnn’s taco stand and headed toward Skip’s Beach Shack. Although he’d been a vocal opponent of bringing out the Gator in a Gown statue, he had the giant old pirate from Harvey’s prominently displayed in front of his tent. Over seven-feet-tall and dressed in classic cliché pirate attire—striped pants, red coat with turned back cuffs and dozens of shiny gold buttons, an eye patch and a tri-corner hat—it was a tacky tourist attraction standing guard over the hooch line.
Unforgettable Heroes II Boxed Set Page 117