At eight o’clock, the desk phone rang. It was Sadie. “Are you sure my husband hasn’t called here looking for me?”
“Very sure,” I assured her.
“Anyway,” she went on, “I think you’d better send that man over here to my room. There’s something wrong with the bathroom sink. Every time I turn on the faucet, it smells like rotten eggs.”
“That’s Tybee water,” I explained. “It has a high sulphur content. It’s very healthy. Full of vitamins.”
“Revolting,” she said, and hung up. But fifteen minutes later, the phone rang again.
“Ice.” Sadie again.
“I beg your pardon?” I said.
“Where the fug’s the ice?” Her words were slurred. Just how big was that bottle of Stoli Harry had delivered to her room?
“The ice machine is in the breezeway, to the right of your room,” I said. “You’ll find an ice bucket on your dresser.”
“Fug.”
More guests checked in. I fielded requests for directions to town, gave restaurant recommendations, and told at least a dozen more callers that we were, unfortunately, all booked up, with not so much as a broom closet suitable for occupancy. At ten, a man called and asked for Harry Sorrentino.
He’d been half asleep, watching ESPN, but he took the call and listened with mounting excitement.
“Yeah. Okay. No problem. I’ll be right there.”
He hung up. “I’ve gotta go.”
“All right,” I said.
“I’ve been on the clock since six this morning,” he pointed out.
“I know. So go already.”
“I might be a while,” he warned. “You got a problem with that?”
“Not at all,” I said wearily. “I wish I had the energy to go with you.”
At eleven o’clock, I started to look longingly in the direction of the recliner where Jeeves snored in happy oblivion. At eleven-thirty, the phone on the desk rang again.
“Breeze—”
“BeBe!” Sadie shrieked. “Get over here! The fuggin’ toilet is backed up.”
By the time I got to my unit, water was streaming out from under the door. Sadie Troy, clad in red satin pajamas, sat in the middle of my bed, surrounded by her luggage, a half-full highball glass in her hand. Young Peyton, pajama clad also, perched wide-eyed on the rocker, his feet tucked up under him.
“What happened?” I asked, wading toward the bathroom.
“I dunno,” Sadie said, running her hand through her gleaming dark hair. “Peyton went in there to brush his teeth, and all of a sudden, the damn thing sort of ’sploded.”
I peeked inside the bathroom. Water ran over the side of the commode. A small bar of soap floated at my feet, and sodden towels swirled around on the tile floor.
“For Chrissake, make it stop!” Sadie ordered.
So I squatted on the floor and surveyed the situation. There was a valve at the base of the commode. Common sense said to turn it. I did, and the running water stopped running. But now what? Weezie would have known what to do. Weezie could rewire a house with nothing more than a dull butter knife and a roll of duct tape.
But my name was not Weezie Foley. My name was BeBe Loudermilk. I was vice president of the National Honor Society at Savannah Country Day School. I had made my bow at eighteen at the St. Cecilia’s Debutante Ball in Charleston and I had a bachelor’s degree in art history from Agnes Scott College, but I had no experience with plumbing.
I closed my eyes and tried to think. My daddy was not what you would call a do-it-yourself type. If something went wrong at our house when I was a child, he simply had his secretary call somebody and take care of it.
But once, I recalled, on a Sunday, we’d had a stopped-up commode. And my father had attacked it with a big rubber plunger. There was a plunger in this bathroom. I’d seen it, in the corner. So now I picked it up, put it in the bowl and pumped, up and down, vigorously, half a dozen times.
And after what might have been maybe the seventh time, I heard a loud “thwuck.” When I pulled up the plunger, a hunk of pink fabric appeared. I took a close look. A very lacy, delicate, pink underwire bra dangled from the bottom of my plunger.
“Sadie?” I called, walking into the bedroom, brandishing the plunger and the bra. “Does this look familiar?”
She blinked. “Wha’ the fug?” She pointed at the child, who was now cowering in the chair. “Peyton! Did you flush my bra down that toilet?”
“Nooooo,” the child wailed. “I waaant my mamaaaaa.”
“Peyton!” Sadie leaped off the bed, splashed over to the rocker, and thrust the bra into his face. “Tell me the truth right this minute. Did you do this?”
“Noooo,” he cried, squirming to escape her wrath.
“Lying lil’ fugger,” she mumbled. “Wait till I tell your daddy.”
“I WANT MY MAMA!” Peyton cried.
“Me too kid,” I said, yawning. And I went to look for a mop.
28
I was lolling about on the sugary sand beach at Mango Cay, the warm sun glinting off the azure water, tropical breezes caressing my bare shoulders. Travis McGee reached for the ice bucket, where the Dom Perignon had been chilling since our afternoon swim, pausing only to plant a hot, passionate kiss on my warm and willing lips. The champagne bubbles tickled my nose, and suddenly I heard a sharp, annoying buzz.
And now a banging, accompanied by more buzzing.
“Hey! Anybody home in there?”
I sat up and was acutely, painfully aware that Mango Cay was a dream, and my reality was right here, on a motel sofa. It was six A.M. I’d finished cleaning up Sadie Troy’s flooded bathroom at around one, trudged back here, to Harry’s apartment, and fallen dead asleep on the sofa.
“Coming,” I hollered.
The man in the doorway had wet hair. He wore a white undershirt, drawstring pajama bottoms, untied sneakers, and an unhappy expression. Mr. Abel, from the Starfish Suite.
“Good morning, Mr. Abel,” I said, groggily. “Did you sleep well?”
“Yeah,” he said unenthusiastically. “But you only gave us two bath towels. My wife went out for her morning run, and when she gets back, she’s gonna want towels.”
“Fine,” I nodded. “Be right back.” I took two bath towels from the laundry room and brought them out to him, along with another sliver of soap, as a goodwill gesture.
“All right?” I asked, handing them over.
“Yeah. Also, I didn’t see a coffeemaker in our room.”
Coffeemakers for all the units were on my to-buy list, but they would have to wait until we got a positive cash flow going.
“Oh,” I said, trying to think fast. “I guess I forgot to tell you. We always serve coffee and muffins to our guests right here in the office, from eight till ten.”
“No coffee in the rooms?” He frowned.
“You can always take it back to your room,” I offered. “But this way you can meet our other guests.”
“Whatever.” He turned and walked away.
“And good morning to you too, Captain Sunshine,” I muttered.
After putting the coffee on to perk, I took a quick shower, dressed, and straightened up the office area, since we were apparently going to have our first official coffee klatch. I knocked lightly on Harry’s door, but there was no answer. I went to the window and glanced out at the parking lot. No station wagon.
Where was Harry? Had he returned last night? He hadn’t offered an explanation for where he was going, and after our last fight, I wasn’t about to ask, and I sure as hell wasn’t about to go looking for him either.
Instead, I bustled around the office, fielding still more phone calls. I managed to take several reservations for upcoming weekends in April, and I even—hallelujah!—booked the Sunflower and SeaGlass units for a whole week apiece the last week of the month, which was apparently spring break for some schools in Atlanta. I wrote notes inviting all our guests to join me for coffee and muffins after eight, and made a quick
run through the property, slipping notes under everybody’s door.
By eight o’clock, I had coffee and tea ready, platters of warm muffins, and a motley assortment of mugs and cups and saucers set out.
“Helllooo.” A head popped in the front door, and then another. They were Michael and Eugene, the couple in the Palmetto Suite, who’d arrived at ten last night, exhausted from the drive down from Atlanta.
“Are we too early?” This, I thought, was Eugene, who’d told me last night that he’d just recently taken early retirement from the state department of education. He was tall, with a high forehead, thinning brown hair, and an impish smile.
“She’s got coffee brewed,” his partner said, sniffing the air. “And somebody’s been baking!” Michael, I thought, remembering that the shorter half of the duo was the one with the thick thatch of white hair, mustache, and horn-rimmed glasses. He wore white linen slacks, an Irish fisherman’s sweater, and polished loafers without socks.
“Not me,” I confessed. “I do a lot of things, but baking isn’t one of ’em. These are from a chef friend. And since you’re the first ones here, you get your pick.”
“Goodie!” Eugene said, reaching into the basket for a muffin. While he and Michael poured themselves coffee, I started greeting other guests filtering in. The mother and daughter from SeaGlass, reintroduced themselves as Judy and Sarah Murry. Sarah, sipping from a can of Diet Dr Pepper, tanned and impossibly long legged in hot pink shorts and flip-flops, was a college student. Judy was a divorced fashion designer from Florida whose pierced eyebrow gave her the look of an exotic Indian princess.
“Not muffins!” Sarah groaned. “I’m doing Atkins.” Her mother popped a bit of muffin in her mouth. “Oh, Sarah, give it a rest. I’m sick of hearing about diets.”
By nine o’clock, Harry’s living room was full of guests chatting about their weekend plans. At nine-thirty, a wan-looking Sadie crept into the room, without Peyton.
“Morning,” I said. “Did you two finally get some sleep?”
“Just barely,” she croaked. “The little man woke up at seven on the dot, wanting to know why he couldn’t watch Saturday-morning cartoons.”
“Sorry.”
“You’ll never know how sorry I was,” she said, pouring herself a mug of black coffee. She flicked at the muffin basket. “Croissants?”
“Muffins,” I said cheerily. “From the best restaurant in Savannah.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Really? What’s it called? Can you get us dinner reservations for tonight?”
“The restaurant’s called Guale,” I said proudly. “Unfortunately, we’re closed right now for remodeling. But check back with us later this summer.”
“Hmm,” she said, breaking off the top of a muffin with her fingertips. “Don’t know when we’ll get back down here again. Our schedules are impossible.”
“Where’s little Peyton this morning?” I asked.
She rolled her eyes. “Back in the room. He whined incessantly until I agreed to find him a McDonald’s so he could have his goddamned pancakes and sausage.” She shuddered violently. “His mother lets him eat any kind of crap he wants during the week, and of course, on the weekends that my husband has custody, I have to pay the price.”
“And your husband? Will he be joining us this morning?” I asked maliciously.
“This afternoon. If he doesn’t miss his flight. We’ve both got parties tonight and I told him I’d never forgive him if he didn’t make it.”
“Fingers crossed,” I said perkily, moving away with rapid speed. I desperately wanted to meet the man who’d committed himself to a lifetime of Sadie.
“Miss?” A fiftyish woman in white tennis shorts and sweater came into the office, her round face flushed, her hair damp with sweat. This was Ellie Cater, a dog breeder from North Carolina. “I just got back to my room, and the maid hasn’t cleaned it yet.”
Ah yes. The maid.
“Sorry,” I said, putting down the coffeepot. “We’re a little short-staffed this weekend. I’ll take care of it right away.”
Two hours later, after changing fourteen sets of linens, sweeping sand out of fourteen rooms and scrubbing the last of fourteen toilets, I caught a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror of the Sunflower Suite. Dark circles under my eyes, hair an impossible tangle. No makeup. My mother never, ever left her bedroom without a smooth coat of Merle Norman foundation, blush pink rouge, and Maybelline mascara. She was so dedicated to Tangee “Captivating Coral” lipstick that she kept a tube of it in the pocket of every skirt, coat, and pocketbook she owned. When she died, I threw away nearly a dozen tubes of the stuff, all worn right down to the metal nub.
What would Mama say, I wondered, if she saw me now. I’d never seen her do any real housework. From my earliest childhood, we’d had a series of “girls” who kept the Loudermilk household running smoothly.
Now, I was the girl. I peeled off my elbow-length rubber gloves and tucked them into a side pocket on the large rolling cleaning cart left in the storage shed by the previous owners of the Breeze Inn. As I trundled it down the breezeway toward that same shed, I glanced around the half-full parking lot. Still no sign of Harry’s station wagon.
Back in the office, I slathered lotion on my hands and transcribed messages from the answering machine. Most were just people looking for rooms for the weekend, a couple of inquiries for future bookings. I returned calls, took reservations, and at some point in the afternoon had a muffin and a cup of coffee for a late lunch.
When the phone rang at two, I picked it up again. “Breeze Inn.”
“BeBe?” It was my grandmother. “Is that you, BeBe?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said quickly. “How are you? Are you feeling all right?”
“I’m fine,” she said. “But what was that you said when you answered the phone?”
“Oh. Breeze Inn.”
“What’s a Breeze Inn?”
“It’s an inn, Grandmama. I bought the sweetest little inn, out here at Tybee. And I’m having just the best time fixing it up and running it.”
Hah! God would strike me dead sometime for telling such a boldfaced lie to my granny. “But how did you know to call me out here?”
“That friend of yours, Weezie. I saw her at the drugstore this morning, and mentioned that we haven’t heard from you in over a week, so she gave me your new number. An inn? What in the world?”
“Well, it was just such a good investment, I couldn’t resist,” I lied. “Right on the water, down at the south end of the beach.”
“That’s nice, I guess,” she said. “But what about the restaurant?”
“We’re doing some remodeling, and I was tired of just sitting around doing nothing, so I picked this place up for a song. It was sort of a whim, you might say.” Wow. The lying was getting really easy.
“Just a minute, darlin’,” Grandmama said. “Spencer wants to speak with you.”
“BeBe?” Granddaddy’s voice boomed. “Lorena thinks you’re upset with us.”
“No!” I protested.
“You haven’t called. Haven’t come by. Been more than a week.”
I winced. “I’m sorry. I’m not upset with you at all. I’ve taken on a new business project. It’s an inn, out at Tybee Island. And it’s keeping me really busy.”
I could hear my grandmother’s voice in the background. “Spencer Loudermilk, you give me that phone right now.”
Now she was back on the line again. “He’s the one who’s all worried about you. I told him, ‘Spencer, BeBe is a grown woman. She doesn’t have time to check on a couple of old poops like us every day.’”
“You’re not an old poop!”
“No, but your granddaddy is,” she said, chuckling. “What’s that? All right, he wants to talk to you again. Now, when you’re not busy, you give us a call, you hear?”
“BeBe?” I had to hold the phone away from my ear. “Listen, there’s something funny with one of our bank accounts. Now, it’s nothing drastic, bu
t next time you come over, we need to take a look at that thing.”
I swallowed hard. He knew. He knew what I’d done.
“All right, Granddaddy,” I said meekly. “Can it wait till after St. Patrick’s Day?”
“Absoutely,” he boomed. “Talk to you soon. Call your grandmother though, so she won’t pester me about you.”
“Spencer!”
I hung up the phone and banged my head on the tabletop. How had I dragged them into this mess? And how was I going to make it right again?
29
Somehow, I made it through the next twenty-four hours. In between mopping and taking reservations and running loads of sheets and towels and playing the smiling innkeeper, I kept an eye out for Harry Sorrentino, my errant “factotum.” I alternated between being frantic and furious over his whereabouts.
Half a dozen times Saturday, and again Sunday morning, I picked up the phone to call the police and report him missing. Half a dozen more times I resolved to pack up his books and clothes and tools and fling them out onto the street. How dare he take off and leave me in the lurch like this? Was he dead or drowned? I had no idea, and no idea of how to find out.
Come Sunday afternoon, I’d convinced myself I just plain didn’t care where he’d gone. I was sitting in one of the Adirondack chairs in front of the manager’s office, enjoying the late-afternoon sun and sipping a glass of wine, when the old station wagon came chugging into the parking lot.
“Son of a bitch!” I muttered. With an effort, I stayed seated. Jeeves heard the car and came bounding out the office door, barking a greeting to his long-lost master.
“Hey, hey, sport,” Harry laughed, kneeling down to scratch the belly the dog offered. Jeeves wriggled deliriously under his touch, then jumped up and began running in circles around Harry and the station wagon.
“Hang on there, buddy,” Harry told the dog. “Let me get my stuff unloaded.” He opened the wagon’s hatch and removed half a dozen heavy-duty fishing rods, a tackle box, and a large cooler, then headed for the porch, where I was sitting.
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