"That's true," I say.
"Got yourself married to some big shot with a weird name. Lou or Bry or Dev."
"Wyatt?"
"That's it." She gets a distasteful look on her face. "I've always hated that name. Reminds me of being sick."
"Why?" I ask.
As soon as I ask the question, I regret it.
"Earp," she replies.
"What?" I ask.
"Earp. You know." She makes a face and mimics throwing up in a way that looks very similar to a cat getting a hairball. "Earp."
Yep. Regret.
"Oh," I say. "Well, we aren't married anymore."
"I'm sorry to hear that. Is that why you're coming back home? To lick your wounds, so to speak?"
"Phyllis? My room?"
She purses her lips and turns back to the computer to continue clicking. At this point, I don't think she's actually doing anything. She's just drawing this out to aggravate me. Finally, she reaches into a drawer and pulls out a plastic key card, scans it, and hands it to me.
"Room 48," she says.
I pause as I take hold of the key.
"Room 48?" I ask.
Having attended my one and only high school party, a poorly devised prom after party, at this motel, I know that particular room is located at the very far end of the motel, at the back... on the top floor.
"Yes," she says. "It has a lovely view."
Of a swamp.
I stare at Phyllis for a few seconds, waiting for her to change her mind and give me another room. She stares back, clearly unmoved by the water still dripping off me, or the fact that the air conditioning in the lobby has now made the water feel like little pools of ice, and I'm shuddering violently.
"Thanks," I say.
"Continental breakfast in the morning!" she calls out happily as I turn away.
Without responding, I head toward the door so I can run back to my car, get in, drive around the building, find a parking spot in the darkness, get my overnight bag, and sprint back through the rain to my room.
Fuck it. I might just sleep in my car.
Chapter Three
Grant
That morning...
I can already hear my desk phone incessantly ringing as I walk up to my office door. I glance at the gold watch around my wrist and see it's just after 7:05 a.m. I don't know who would call at this hour, or why they wouldn't just call my cell phone. I give my cell number to each client I work with, so they can always get in touch with me. Most of the time, they appreciate the convenience and ease, and call me to discuss their experiences and plan meetings. Of course, any time those lines of communication are opened up, there is an opportunity for the system to be abused.
Which is precisely the reason I've had to change my number four times in the past year.
While I type the code into the keypad beside my door, and the phone continues to ring, it occurs to me that even if one of my former clients called the number listed for the headquarters, my personal line wouldn’t be ringing. The generic number goes to the inbound call center on the bottom floor of the office. Meaning that whoever is calling me, is one of the few who have been given my direct line. It could be a potential client who was given my number by one of my brothers.
Or it is one of my brothers. I groan, hoping it isn't the jail again. They have really started to lose their patience with Dean.
I snatch the phone from the cradle as I walk around the desk toward my chair.
"Hello?"
"Grant?"
The voice is familiar, but muffled, and I can't quite place it.
"Yes. This is Grant Laurence."
"Oh, good. It's dark in here, and I was worried I dialed the wrong number."
"Mrs. Burke?" I ask, the voice suddenly triggering the image of a kind woman's face in my mind.
"Yes," she says. "How are you?"
"I'm doing just fine, Mrs. Burke. How are you?"
"Well, I'm alright."
Her voice still sounds muffled, and cracks occasionally, like she's trying to keep her volume down, but still wants me to hear her.
"Are you sure? Why is it dark where you are?"
"I'm calling you from inside the coat closet."
"A coat closet?"
"Yes."
"Why are you calling me from inside the coat closet?"
This is supposed to be my last day in the office before my break, and it looks like I’m going to earn it.
"I don’t want anyone to hear me making the call. Can you come up here today?"
"To your coat closet?"
"Not to my coat closet," she says, sounding scandalized I would even suggest such a thing. "To the high school."
"How silly of me," I say, rubbing my eyes to try to ward off the headache I can already feel starting to form.
"I need to discuss a business matter with you."
"A business matter?" I ask.
"Yes. I have a bucket list that needs to be fulfilled, and I wanted to talk about it with you today. Can you come?"
This entire conversation is hitting me very strangely. I haven't spoken to the secretary-turned-vice-principal of my old high school in more than a year, and even then, all we did was catch up the last time I was in Magnolia Falls. Now she's calling me, from a coat closet, to come up to the school and discuss her bucket list. I don't know what to think of it all, but at the end of the day, she’s a client just like everyone else, I guess.
"Absolutely," I tell her. "I'll be there later this morning."
"Great," she says, her voice sounding relieved. "I'll see you soon."
"Bye, Mrs. Burke."
I hang up the phone, staring at it for a second. I look at my watch again. Not even 7:15 yet. Finishing the few tasks I had planned for the morning, I close up my office, and am heading out the building by the time the first few employees have drifted into their cubicles and office. I give only cursory greetings until I get to the lobby and see Gwen, my assistant, come through the door.
"Good morning, Mr. Laurence," she says.
"Morning, Gwen. I'm going to be unavailable the next few days. I've decided to start my vacation early. I've forwarded my desk phone to yours. Please take messages. If something serious comes up, take their number and call me on my cell."
"Absolutely."
"Thank you. Have a good week."
"You, too."
I head out into the parking lot, and to my car parked in its reserved spot. A little more than an hour later, I'm on my way to Magnolia Falls. An overnight bag sits on the seat beside me – just in case I decide to stay in town until tomorrow.
The water sparkles in the late morning sun as I pull up to the dock and check the time for the ferry.
"You've got good timing," the guard positioned in the small gatehouse says. "Next ferry is pushing off in a few minutes. You've got just enough time to get settled."
"Thank you."
I accept the ticket he holds out to me and tuck it into the windshield before driving slowly onto the deck of the ferry waiting ahead. There aren't any other cars aboard today, but that isn't unusual. Magnolia Falls doesn’t pull tourists like some of the more well-known island towns like Manteo or Tybee. Those who do come tend to visit around the time of the Independence Day celebrations. They’ve likely all cleared out by now. A few more will trickle in during the holiday season, but for the most part, the island is largely self-contained.
Which always leads me to wonder why Jack, captain of the ferry since before I was born, insists on running the route whether anyone else is aboard or not. Once I have my car parked, I step out and walk over to my usual spot. Leaning against the railing, I look out over the choppy blue-green water. As the vessel starts moving, I hear a low thud, and look down at the source of the noise. A rowboat is attached to the ferry with a short rope tied to a hook, and a man in an old pair of khaki fishing shorts and nothing else but a hat over his face, is sprawled across it.
"Hey there, Carson," I yell down.
He re
aches up and takes the hat off his face, then grins up at me.
"Grant Laurence, is that you?"
"It is. How’re you doing, Carson? I see you got yourself a new boat."
He looks around like for a brief second as if he had forgotten where he was.
"Oh, no," he says. "This ain't new."
"So, your houseboat is still doing alright?"
"The Oh My Damn is still going strong," he assures me. "It's going to take a lot to take that old lady out. This here, though," he pats either side of the rowboat. "This here's my vacation spot. I like to ride up and down the bay in the nice weather."
"Does Jack know you're down there?"
"He's the one who screwed in the hook. I convinced him it would be good to have a lifeboat. You know, just in case the ferry runs into rough seas during one of the crossings. I could scoop people up and bring 'em ashore."
Considering we’re already almost done crossing, I don't think the chances a lifeboat would ever be needed are very high. Even if there was a freak squall, there is a cabinet stocked with life preservers and inflatable rafts near the front of the ferry. I decide not to mention this to Carson. No reason to spoil his fun while he's on vacation.
I wait at the side of the ferry until we dock on the other side of the bay, before walking over to the guard on this side. He knows who I am before I even get there, and knows I don't need a permit for my car. Since I maintain a house on the island, I’m still considered a resident. I rarely drive when I'm here, anyway. I'd much rather walk around the village the way I always have, unless there's a specific reason the car is needed. It's still early enough for me to not go directly to the school. Instead, I weave my way carefully through the side roads that surround the main portion of the town. At the center of the island, no cars are allowed. Even delivery drivers have to follow the same roads I am. It feels like stepping into another time, but that's what makes it home for the families who have lived here for generations.
I glance in the direction of my family's compound. I'll try to get up there and visit my parents, but I don't know if I'll be here long enough this time. Turning onto my street, I see the same neighbors who have been here for generations. Years ago, their grandparents moved here when they first got married, and then they turned into parents, and then grandparents. That's the way the neighborhoods work here. Space on the island is limited, and no one is willing to give up any of the natural beauty or historic areas to develop more homes. Instead, the houses get passed through the generations of the families, recycled as lives go by.
The house I bought belonged to the great-grandmother of Marvin, one of my closest friends in high school. We spent a lot of time here, especially during the summers. She'd bring us stacks of chocolate chip cookies on a shining antique tray, and cool glasses of peach iced tea in her finest tea set. The first few times it happened, I felt uncomfortable, thinking she was doing it for my benefit. I didn’t say anything about it for a long time, but I felt strange every time we'd go hang out there and play the absurdly complex board games that amused the hell out of Marvin but bored me. Games that like are better suited to my brother Archer. One afternoon while we were there, the mailman came by and dropped a package on her porch. Right after the box hit the concrete, Alma Mae ran out of the kitchen in her housecoat, holding a teacup in one hand, and the antique tray, full of cookies, in her other hand. She chased that mailman down the sidewalk until he stopped, drank his tea, and shoved some cookies in the breast pocket of his shirt.
That's the day I asked Marvin about the tea set and the tray.
He explained they were wedding gifts, but that she put them in the china cabinet she was also given, and they were forgotten. After her husband died, she thought about it and decided it was ridiculous to never use something she cherished just because she never thought the occasion was special enough for it. There were so many things she and her husband had wanted to do together, and never got the chance to do because they were waiting for when they were "ready," or when something was important enough to celebrate. Then, he ended up dying far younger than either of them had ever anticipated, and she was left alone with empty memories and unused fine china. So, she took it, and the antique tray that had belonged to her mother, out of the china cabinet, and used it for every possible occasion.
Years later, it was her story, combined with the inspiration from my great uncle – and the inheritance he left – that led me to start DreamMakers, Inc.
Alma Mae only had one child, who also died young, which meant by the time she passed, the rest of her family was settled in their own homes, and no one needed her house. So, I bought it. It's been the sanctuary I retreat to when I visit Magnolia Falls, but don’t want to stay in my parents' home. The only downside is the house around the corner, just one street over. Although I haven’t been there in ten years, it still brings a touch of tightness to my chest when I think about it.
Tossing my bag into the bedroom, I peek into the kitchen to see if the grocery order I called in earlier had been delivered. The non-perishable items are neatly stacked on the now-vintage cream Formica kitchen table that originally belonged to Alma Mae. I know Quincy from the grocery store has put everything else in the refrigerator or freezer. A handwritten bill sits on top of a box of Raisin Bran. I've given him my credit card countless times, but he refuses to store the number or charge me for my groceries without me there. Instead, he meticulously records every item and price, adds it up, puts in the tax, and circles the total at the bottom of an old-fashioned receipt book. I'll have to bring it in to the store and settle my tab in person.
By the time I get to the old high school, it’s barely morning anymore, but I had timed my walk to get there before noon. I told Mrs. Burke I'd be there later this morning, and wanted to stick to that schedule. My route takes me to the back of the building, and I walk in through a door leading to the sports fields. Though classes haven't started yet, the school is buzzing with the anticipation of late summer. Sports teams, cheerleaders, and the color guard are back for practices. Teachers are setting up their classrooms. And somewhere in the deeper recesses of the building, I hear a chorus rehearsal. The school's music department is revered throughout the state, even though it is a literal trek to get to competitions, and many of their rivals have no clue where Magnolia Falls actually is.
When I reach the front hallway, I see that the row of heavy wooden chairs used to shame those sent to the principal for disciplinary reasons is still lined up to the side of the office. A sullen-looking boy with spiked green hair and an incredibly unseasonable assortment of clothing sags in the center chair of the row. I hope he hasn't been there since the last day of school. Of course, the vice principal called me from a coat closet this morning, so that isn’t out of the realm of possibility. He looks up at me as I walk up to the door. I hold up a fist in solidarity and am surprised when he throws one up in return.
A woman I don't recognize sits with her back to the door at the desk Mrs. Burke once occupied as I step into the office.
"Hello," she says.
"Hello. I'm Grant Laurence. I'm here to see Mrs. Burke."
A door down the short hallway leading away from the lobby area opens.
"Did I hear the door open?" Mrs. Burke asks as her head pokes out into the hallway.
The woman behind the desk gestures at me.
"This is…"
"Grant! You're here! Come in, come in."
Mrs. Burke gestures at me enthusiastically, and I stride down the hallway, ducking into the office just before she shuts the door, and locks it.
"Hi," I say. "It's good to see –"
"Did anyone see you?" she asks.
"I don't think so. Just the woman at the desk."
"Good. Go ahead and have a seat."
"Why did you have me meet you here?" I ask as I take a seat in the blue-cushioned chair across from her desk.
"I told you, I need to talk to you. Where else would you meet me?"
"You called me from a
coat closet," I point out.
"That was so no one would know you were coming," she says.
When she doesn’t offer any more explanation, I shake my head slightly and decide to move on.
"What can I do for you today, Mrs. Burke?"
"I heard you… do things for people."
The way she says it makes me wonder if this sweet lady – who always had candy canes and a decorated office during December, and dressed as a witch every year for Halloween – has mistaken me for some type of assassin.
"What do you have in mind?" I ask cautiously.
"As you know, Mr. Bernheimer and I have worked together for many years. And there’s a bucket list item I want to fulfill for him."
A flicker of worry moves through me at the thought of the principal, who seemed ancient even when I was in school.
"Is he alright?" I ask.
"Oh, yeah, he's fine. He's healthier than a horse, and three times as hardworking. As far as I know, he's not anywhere close to dying," she tells me.
"That's good to hear."
"This is more career-related than it is death-related."
"Career-related?"
"Well, as you know, Mr. Bernheimer has been working with the school district for many decades. Now he’s finally decided to bring his impressive career to an end. And while I know he would just as happily walk away at the end of this school year without any fanfare, there's something I know would make his career truly complete."
"What's that?"
"A prom."
That is definitely not even close to what I was expecting.
"Prom?" I ask.
"Yes," she replies matter-of-factly. "Prom. You see, when he was a senior in high school, there was a devastating fire, and prom was canceled. He never got to go. According to him, that was his last opportunity to be young and enjoy any semblance of childhood. Like most of the boys, Anthony was drafted into the military. It wasn't long after they canceled prom that he was called away to serve. He left behind his school, his girl, and his family. He didn't know if he would make it back and see any of them again. When he did, he came right back to the school and started working. He was a custodian and maintenance worker while he went through college. After he graduated, he became a teacher. Eventually, Anthony worked his way up to being principal, and it has meant everything to him. It still does. There were times when he was offered promotions, asked to run for superintendent, or join the board. He’s always refused. Being head of this school was the only thing he wanted to do. Now, that chapter is coming to an end."
Marriage Mistake Page 7