Hatteras Girl (Heart of Carolina Book #3)

by Wisler, Alice J.

  Minnie sees her guilt. “At least Jackie knows now,” she says. “The couple knew that Buck and his dad were contracted to repair the Bailey House. As more and more information came out, I realized I had to talk to Buck to see if it was true. That’s when I knew you had to hear it from him.” Minnie is looking at me now.

  I sigh. “Well, I let everyone in the Grille know that Davis is a liar.”

  The baby starts to fuss and the mother turns away from us to nurse her. After her baby is soothed, she says, “We rent from Rexy Properties, too.” She stops herself, toys with the collar of her daughter’s dress, and then continues, her eyes on her child. “The owner just keeps painting over a water leak in our apartment. He won’t fix it, although we’ve asked him to.”

  She seems hesitant to say more, so Mavey Marie prods, “Where does your husband have his business?”

  “In Salvo. It’s called Ocean Floral.”

  Sheerly says, “This is not good at all.”

  “Ocean Floral?” Now I recall where I’ve seen this woman before. “I was supposed to talk to you about who you rent from. I went to your shop.” She looks different without her white floppy hat.

  “I know.” She keeps her gaze on her child, as though studying her head. When she raises her eyes to meet mine, she asks, “You’re friends with Buck, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “He told me you might be stopping by. But when you did, I realized you write for Lighthouse Views.” She shifts her eyes toward the floor. “I was afraid.”

  “Afraid?” Mavey Marie repeats.

  “Yes.”

  “Well, honey, you can tell us. We don’t bite.”

  Kelly nods, as though she now has the courage to share. “My husband wouldn’t want me to jeopardize anything by speaking badly of Davis.” She sighs. “We argue all the time about what to do. I want to move, but my husband says we can’t afford it. This recession hasn’t helped.” Her baby starts to cry, and she pauses to comfort her.

  Lona shakes her head. “I never liked that Rexy man. Now I know why.”

  “But what makes you afraid?” Sheerly steps closer to Kelly.

  “Well.” The young woman chews on her lower lip. This action seems to give her confidence because when she speaks, her voice is bolder. “Davis threatens to raise our rent. He reminds us all the time how he didn’t make us give him a security deposit. We were strapped for money when we first opened the shop and he said he’d make it easy for us. That was then. Now he holds that over us.”

  Sheerly clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth. Beatrice Lou follows; the two of them sounding like hens who just got their feathers ruffled the wrong way.

  With her child resting quietly against her, Kelly continues. “The lady next to us told us that a woman fell when Rexy Properties didn’t fix the railing for her duplex. She broke her leg.”

  “She should have sued.” Lona shifts in her chair.

  “Mrs. Dupree was advised not to sue by Davis. I heard he threatened her.” Kelly stops, perhaps thinking that she’s talked enough.

  “Mrs. Dupree?” I say. “Did you say Mrs. Dupree?”

  Kelly winces. “Yes . . .”

  And in spite of all the confusion of this day, I laugh.

  The women are surprised; puzzlement lines their faces.

  “Irvy!” I say to Minnie. “She told me at my birthday party to remember Mrs. Dupree.”

  Sheerly clicks her tongue once more.

  “I thought Mrs. Dupree was a brand name for spices,” Minnie confesses. “You know, like McCormick. Weeks before she died, she started bringing that name up. I thought she was talking about nutmeg and sage.”

  “And now you know what she really meant,” says Sheerly. “Bless her heart. Your poor mama was trying her hardest to help you out.”

  When the cuckoo clock clucks two, I realize it’s much later than I thought. Even with my flexible schedule, I need to get back to the office. I stand to leave the salon. Sheerly’s embrace is tight as she tells me she’s proud of me for confronting Davis.

  Minnie says she’ll pick up Zane from Ropey’s and then some barbecue for our dinner on her way home. “So don’t worry about cooking tonight, okay?”

  I’d forgotten what it was like to be taken care of by Minnie. Before Lawrence died, she was freely motherly toward me, helping me through life’s bumps and detours. Seeing the old Minnie makes me hug her twice.

  42

  I pull into the Lighthouse Views parking lot and note that it’s empty except for Selena’s convertible.

  Shakespeare wags his tail as I enter the office. He’s looking healthy once again thanks to some pills that took care of a parasite the poor canine picked up. Of course, Selena was horrified to think that her beloved pooch would get something as nasty as a parasite.

  I hurry toward my desk and turn on my computer, an attempt to busy myself with work and take a break from thinking about Davis and the Bailey House.

  After I give Selena a weak “Hi,” she immediately asks, “What’s the matter?”

  I shake my head.

  From her desk she says, “Everyone went to see the sandcastle art in Buxton. Did you not get the memo?”

  This sounds vaguely familiar.

  “Bert said he sent it to all of you. One man has created a whole village out of sand, including dragons and mermaids. Sandy Catering is selling hot dogs and drinks. Sure you don’t want to go?”

  I wait for the computer screen to light up.

  “Want lunch?” She walks to my desk and stands in front of it. “I can pick up some salads from The Happy Fisherman.”

  “I ate.” I know I did; I just can’t recall what it was.

  Selena looks me up and down, like Betty Lynn used to look at my dates. “What’s going on? What is it?” She waves her pen around.

  I can’t pretend any longer. I give her a quick glance. Standing, I walk over to the couch and hear her footsteps follow me. Shakespeare nuzzles my leg as I sit down. “What do you know about Davis Erickson?”

  “Davis? You interviewed him. You wrote the article.”

  “That’s not what I asked.”

  “Oh … well, he’s good-looking. Owns Rexy Properties. House needs paint. What do you want to know?”

  “Did you know that he owns the Bailey House Bed and Breakfast?”

  “Well,” says Selena. “Well.” Her pen waves in front of her face. “Is that it?”

  I gently pet Shakespeare, my mind going a thousand different directions. “It has problems he’s tried to cover up.”

  Selena sits beside me on the sofa. “Tell me what you are trying to say.”

  My words only come out in partial sentences. “Water damage. Rotting wood. Things not visible to the naked eye.”

  “Who told you this?” Selena has always been keen on wanting to know our sources of information.

  “I’m the new renter of the house.”

  Selena hasn’t petted her dog the whole time I’ve been talking.

  I take a moment to ask, “Do you want to know the real story?”

  When she says that she does, I summarize what Buck shared with me, throwing in the extra bits and pieces I heard at Sheerly’s today and explaining how unmoved Davis was when I accused him earlier at the Grille.

  Selena stands. Her hands are like anchors against her hips. “Okay. Listen. If he—if Mr. Deceitful—ever tries to ignore problems again— No, no. Let me put it this way.” She clears her throat. “If he ever denies any of what you have just told me, or tries to stray from the straight and narrow ever again, then I will become his worst enemy.”

  My eyes grow wide, like Zane’s do when I tell him if he doesn’t brush his teeth, he’ll grow fangs.

  “I will use my powers.”

  “Powers?”

  “The magazine! He will be front-page bad-businessman news. You make sure he fixes all the problems at the bed and breakfast ASAP. On his dime.” She snaps her fingers, and Shakespeare jumps. “Or he will be sorry.”r />
  I have a deep feeling that he will be.

  “We gave him a great story months ago when you interviewed him. Should he not change his ways, we can do another story. This one will not make him look good. Could put him out of business.”

  I believe her. Selena will put on her boxing gloves should the need arise. Personally, I think that she has hit a man before.

  Moving to her computer, she brings up the North Carolina General Assembly’s Web site. “Aha!” Her cry vibrates throughout the office. “It states here that the landlord is to comply with the current building and housing codes.”

  Standing in front of her computer screen, I read the section from the North Carolina statutes under the heading: “Landlord to provide fit premises.”

  “You say he just keeps painting over leaks and ignoring structural damage? Hmmm. Doubt a housing inspector would label that safe and look the other way.” She turns to me and adds, “Go to the Rolodex and find the card for that inspector.”

  “Inspector?”

  “Peace of Home.”

  “Peace of Home?”

  “I know it sounds like a silly name for a housing inspector, but that’s what he goes by.”

  When Cassidy and Bert return from the sandcastle show, Bert begins to tell about an idea he has for an interview. Selena’s hand motions him to go no further. I don’t think she’s ever told him to hold his tongue before. Quickly, she fills him and Cassidy in on the news about Davis.

  Cassidy shakes her head, but Bert turns to me. “When he called to ask you out that one time, I was about to tell you to be careful.”

  “What do you mean, Bert?” Selena asks.

  “My cousin works for Vanessa. Her name’s Donna. She’s always telling me how Davis is trying to get Vanessa to get back together with him.”

  “So he was dating Jackie and her at the same time?” Cassidy’s tone is one of shock, like when she found out how many calories coconut milk has.

  Selena snorts. “Despicable!”

  “He gets rid of people when they don’t cooperate,” says Bert. “That’s why he and his secretary are the only people who still work for Rexy Properties.”

  I bite my lip. Perhaps Selena is right; Bert does seem to know everything.

  “Where I come from,” Cassidy says, “we’d call a man like him ‘sleazy.’ ”

  Selena, still perched over her computer, reads the statutes. She gets our attention by saying, “All landlords are to make sure the electrical and plumbing in the rental property is in good and safe working order.” Leaning back in her chair she gives us an assignment. “Let’s put together an article on Davis and his despicable ways.”

  “To print in the magazine?” My voice is hoarse.

  “To use as a teaching tool. We’ll be sure to send him a copy.” Selena’s grin dances across her face. “If he doesn’t agree to make some changes, then we take the next step.”

  “What’s the next step?” I know I must ask, even though I’m pretty certain of the answer.

  “We’ll print it! We’ll put in there everything that he’s done in the past. I bet with your interview skills, we could uncover a lot more than we already know. And when we do, no one will ever rent from him again.” She clasps her hands together as if she’d like to wrap her fingers around someone’s neck.

  Bert lets out a low whistle.

  Cassidy takes a bottle of Aquafina from the fridge. “Did your relatives set you up with this man?”

  “No,” I say. “They had nothing to do with him.”

  “At least you can’t blame them this time,” says our boss. She then unscrews the lid of the jar and takes out a sausage treat for her dog. As she sits beside Shakespeare, she raises the morsel to his mouth, which is already an open crevice, waiting in happy anticipation. “We’ll hang out all his dirty laundry,” she says with obvious satisfaction. “Oh, poochie,” she croons as her terrier chews and then rapidly licks stray crumbs off the sofa. “Your mama is so smart. Sometimes she surprises even me.”

  43

  Once after one of my blind-dates-gone-bad, Sheerly told me that, for as much as she sings about love, she has yet to understand just how it happens. What makes a man and woman fall in love? Is God behind it? Is it something deep within that clicks due to hormones or genetics? Or is it something we just fall into, like the way the wind carries a sailboat down the Sound? Perhaps, she concluded, it is a combination of all those.

  Today, Buck and I paddle his kayaks to an inlet on the outskirts of Rodanthe. On a narrow shore, we search for shells, drink Fruit Punch Gatorade, which is Buck’s favorite, and Diet Pepsi, which is mine. We sit on a wobbly dock with our bare feet dangling over the edge as the afternoon sun warms our legs and backs. And most of all, we smile at each other as if we can’t believe how happy we feel just being together, just breathing in the same space.

  Hours later, we paddle back to where our vehicles are parked. Before leaving, Buck reaches for me; our embrace is warm and lingering. He leans toward me; I want nothing more now than to kiss Buck.

  When our lips touch, it’s as though my feet have stepped off the ground and my head is floating somewhere on a cloud of cotton candy.

  “Wait,” he says when we finally pull apart and I take a step toward my truck to go home to Minnie and Zane.

  He hands me a large plaid notebook. “I noticed your old one was almost out of pages. I think,” he tells me with a smile, “you need to make the switch from stripes to plaid now that you’re the manager of the Bailey House.”

  I carry the notebook to the Bailey House on this late-October afternoon.

  Buck calls me as he leaves the Grille after his shift, saying he’ll meet me at the house.

  When I see him step out of his Jeep—tall, fit, hair tossed by the wind—I have a desire to run across the driveway to greet him and run my fingers along his jaw, touching the stubble that I know is there. But I hold back. I took things too quickly with Davis; I don’t want anything to ruin what I have with Buck.

  Buck and I take our time walking throughout the interior and around the exterior of the bed and breakfast as he points out the things that need to be repaired. With the handle of a wooden spoon he finds in one of the kitchen drawers, he taps the wall by the toilet in the tiny restroom that only has a sink and toilet. The wall caves in; he taps it a little harder and the lumpy gray mixture inside emerges, damp plaster spilling onto the tile floor.

  The smell of concentrated mold makes me hold my nose. “Yuck,” I say. “How long did he think he could just patch things up and pretend the place didn’t need proper restoration?”

  “Seems like he didn’t think that through. He was only worried about making money,” says Buck.

  “Can you do it?” I ask. “Can you repair all this?”

  He grins. “I like tools. Remember?”

  I remember. That conversation seems so long ago, way back when he was just my brother’s friend and not the man with bright eyes who makes my heart go fuzzy with warmth each time I see him.

  “I’ll be glad to make it the way it should be.”

  “Will you ask your father to help?” I sound like a little child.

  “We might be able to do the project the right way together this time.”

  I have been praying that Griffins & Company will let Buck work with the team again.

  “The Home of Peace or Peace of Home or whatever the name of that inspection company is will be here tomorrow. We’ll see what else the inspector finds wrong with the place, and then you and your dad can get to work.”

  Buck nods. “Your attitude is great, Hatteras.”

  We enter the sunroom for the fourth time. This room always draws me in, always presenting me with an invitation to enjoy its beauty. The wide windows and the way the ceiling slopes gives the room a cozy feel.

  “Zane wants to place his artwork here,” I say, pointing. “He says he has lots of knot-work he’s created at Ropey’s. He showed some to his kindergarten teacher and she said he was a
budding artist.”

  “Zane? Is this the same kid who pitched a fit at the Grille?”

  “I guess we all grow up.”

  Just this morning, Zane showed me some braided rope he had glued onto a piece of wood. It looked an awful lot like the birthday present he gave me. “We can place it in the Lawrence Room,” I told him.

  His face lit up. “Lawrence? That’s my daddy’s name.”

  “We can name the sunroom that. It can be filled with things you like.” I’m not sure why I let the moment carry me away like that.

  Now, as Buck and I stand in the sunroom with the sun sliding behind a cloud, I say, “I want to call this the Lawrence Room.”

  Buck nods. “Minnie would like that.”

  “I bet Sheerly would cross-stitch a plaque for us. ‘The Lawrence Room.’ ” I turn to Buck.

  He reaches for my arm and pulls me against his chest. I like the way my cheek fits so nicely along his shoulder. “What do you think?” I murmur into his shirt.

  “About us?”

  “Well, I meant the room, but forget that for now. What do you think about you and me?”

  His arms feel secure around me, as though they belong there. “I hated every date you went on with other guys.”

  I swallow. “You want to know what I think of that?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I think you should have told me. You could have said, ‘Hey, I like you, Hatteras. Why don’t we go out?’ ”

  “And have you laugh in my face and never come back to the Grille again?”

  Serenity fills my voice. “Oh, Buck, I wouldn’t have ever done that.”

  His arms tighten around me. “Really?”

  I look up, expecting to see humor in his eyes. There is only a soft sincerity.

  “Tell me again,” he says.

  “About?”

  “The man you are in love with.”

  I draw a deep breath. “He’s sweet, cute, draws frogs, and surprises me.”

  “How?”

  “I never expected to feel this way about …”

  I close my eyes. His lips meet mine as I think about my repeated prayer to God to send me a man. He can arrive on a horse, a Coast Guard barge, a sailboat—or maybe even a kayak.