“I’ll buy it,” I said fiercely. “It’s my painting, James.”
He held up one hand. “We’ll get back to the painting in a minute. As to why the Arrendales have moved, it has to do with Mrs. Arrendale’s pregnancy.”
“Gretchen,” I said bitterly. “Social-climbing carpetbagger.”
“They’ve recently learned that she’s expecting triplets,” James said.
“Appropriate,” I said. “The bitch is having a litter. I hope they all have colic. Simultaneously.”
“Tsk-tsk,” James tsk-tsked. “Gretchen Arrendale is currently unable to walk up stairs. And as you know, both your town house and theirs have all the bedrooms on the upper floors.”
“That explains why they’re selling their place, but why was my house being sold again?”
“The Arrendales had actually bought your house from St. Andrews Holdings,” James said. “They’d even started knocking through the walls that separate the town houses. But then they found out about the babies, and decided they needed something more modern, and convenient for a family with three infants. They found a spec house being built in that new community out at Turner’s Rock, bought it, and put both town houses on the market last week.”
“So, I could buy back my house?” I asked. “And theirs too? I wouldn’t have to live next door to the Arrendales anymore?”
“I think they’ll entertain any reasonable offer. Jonathan says the talk around town is that their finances are overextended right now.”
I sat back and let that sink in. The Arrendales, bless their status-grubbing little hearts, were offering me what I’d wanted. My house. And if James was correct, I could probably name my price. I had the money. I could do it. So why wasn’t I jumping on the bandwagon here?
“I just want the painting of my aunt Alice,” I said. “That’s the most important thing.”
“Since when?” James asked, looking over the rims of his stylish new glasses. I was pleased to see he hadn’t done anything about the crow’s-feet. Thank God for that.
“Since right now,” I said. “There are other houses, as somebody pointed out to me last night.”
“Other paintings too?” James asked.
“Not like mine,” I said. “Look. Can we use the town houses as a bargaining chip? Tell the Arrendales I’ll buy my house and theirs—for their asking price—if the Maybelle Johns painting of my aunt is included in the deal.”
“I’ll ask,” James promised.
“If she sells me back the painting, I’ll see that Gretchen gets invited to be on the Telfair Ball committee,” I said rashly.
“I’ll mention that,” James said.
“Speaking of the unspeakable Arrendales,” I said, “what kind of progress have you made with our injunction against Sandcastle Realty?”
“The judge granted our motion for a temporary restraining order,” James said.
“That happened before I left town,” I reminded him.
“There’s been an interesting development while you were gone,” he said. “I told you the Arrendales’ personal finances are stretched thin, but I’ve also heard that the money people behind Sandcastle Realty are getting antsy about having so much money tied up in a project that’s in limbo.”
“Good,” I said, smiling. “Excellent.”
“They’ve authorized me to make you what I think is a pretty interesting offer,” James said.
“Offer away.”
“They’ll pay you $2.6 million to walk away from your claim to the Breeze Inn.”
“That much? For real?”
James nodded. “Roy Eugene Moseley paid $650,000 of your money for the place. They’re offering to quadruple that, and to forgive the option money they paid Moseley. But they want an answer immediately. Ideally, they could finish construction of the first units before the end of summer. The meter’s running, BeBe.”
I stood up and walked over to the window behind James’s desk. The sun was shining and it made even the greasy industrial water of the Savannah River look green and inviting.
A chunky black tugboat was chugging past on the river. From the name on the tug’s stern, the Barbara Jane, I knew the boat belonged to Waymire Towing. The Waymire family had owned and run tugboats on the Savannah River ever since I could remember, and ever since I could remember, all their boats had been named for company founder Ray Waymire’s daughters: Barbara, Alice, and Helen. I knew if I went outside and walked farther along Factor’s Walk, I could see the Waymire docks, could see the Helen III and the Alice II tied up there too.
This was a Savannah thing. In Atlanta, bustling, maddening Atlanta, nothing stayed the same. Companies were formed and went bust, corporations transferred families in, then back out again a few years later. It all came down to money and expediency. But Savannah was different somehow. In Savannah, we cling tenaciously, foolishly, even, to a sense of continuity.
The old joke goes that it takes three Savannahians to change a lightbulb: one to screw in the bulb, and the other two to form a committee to save the original lightbulb.
I thought about the Breeze Inn. The existence of the Breeze wasn’t really vital to a lot of people. It wasn’t historic, wasn’t a Revolutionary War battleground. It wasn’t even all that attractive. I would probably never get rich running it. On the other hand, if I walked away from it right now, I’d come away a wealthy woman. I would have my old life back.
“BeBe?”
James swiveled around in his chair to look at me.
“I think I’ll keep it,” I said.
“Excuse me?”
“I’m not selling the Breeze,” I said, firmly.
I sat back down in the chair facing my lawyer. “Can you work out the details? I can pay Sandcastle’s option money back now.”
He frowned. “It might get a little tricky, but if that’s what you want…”
“It is,” I said.
He nodded and wrote something on the legal pad in front of him. “I’ll get Janet working on the deal right away. In the meantime, I had a call this morning from an attorney down in Vero Beach. Owen Techet.”
“Techet?”
“He represents Sandra Findley,” James said. “He thought you’d want to know that Roy Eugene Moseley was arrested in Fort Lauderdale on Friday. He’s being held without bond on a variety of federal and state charges, including theft, fraud, burglary, forgery, and resisting arrest.”
“Hmm,” I said, trying to sound noncommittal. “How fascinating.”
“Very,” James said drily. He reached into the center drawer of his desk and pulled out a padded courier envelope, which he pushed across the desk toward me. “This came by messenger this morning.”
I opened the envelope, and a thick braid of yellow gold slid into my lap. “My Daddy’s watch!” I cried.
“Roy Eugene Moseley was wearing that when he was arrested,” James said. “Jay Bradley sent the Lauderdale cops the theft report you filed after Moseley disappeared. Techet persuaded them that they should return it to you.”
I fastened the watch around my left wrist. It hung there like an oversize bangle bracelet, but I didn’t care.
“After Moseley’s arrest, they discovered he’d been illegally squatting in the model apartment of a high-rise condominium project called La Dolce Vita, right there in Fort Lauderdale,” James said. “When they searched the premises, they found his luggage, which contained quite a few other pieces of jewelry. Owen Techet says the Findley woman’s emerald and diamond earrings were in his shaving kit, along with two diamond engagement rings, one white gold, the other rose gold, an opal and diamond ring, some pearls, and assorted other pieces.”
“My jewelry,” I said, twisting Daddy’s watch. “Grandmama’s jewelry. I never thought I’d see any of it again.”
“You still haven’t,” James reminded me. “Techet says the Fort Lauderdale police will arrange a showing of all the recovered pieces for Moseley’s victims, just as soon as all the charges against him are sorted out.”
“Techet tells a pretty entertaining story about how Moseley was apprehended,” James went on. “He was on an eighty-six-foot yacht called the Reefer Madness, which he’d apparently grounded on a sandbar about a mile from the marina the boat was stolen from.”
“Really?”
“The Coast Guard found the yacht.”
“‘Semper Paratus,’” I said brightly.
“I beg your pardon?” James said.
“The Coast Guard motto. It means—”
“Always prepared,” James said. “I was a priest for twenty-five years, you know.”
“Right,” I said.
“When the Coast Guard boarded the yacht, they arrested Roy Eugene Moseley, who continues to insist that his name is Rory. And after they boarded, they did a thorough search of the yacht. They found the boat’s first mate, a man named Liam McConnell, tied up and handcuffed and stuffed in a gear locker. They also discovered a large cache of drugs aboard the yacht.”
James folded his hands on the top of his desk.
“Should I ask any more questions about your trip to Florida?”
“Probably not,” I said.
“Mr. Techet says his client, Sandra Findley, would like to talk to you, when you’ve had a chance to rest up from your trip.”
“I’ll give her a call,” I agreed, standing up. “We’ve got some unfinished business. Is that all?”
“Just one more thing,” James said, glancing down at his folder. “I got a call from a restaurant broker while you were out of town. He has a client who’s looking for restaurant space in the historic district. They’d be interested in talking to you about Guale. Either leasing the space from you, or buying it outright.”
Funny. For years my life had revolved around Guale. There had rarely been a day I didn’t spend at Guale. I hadn’t given a lot of thought to the restaurant in the past few days. But I had promised Emma Murphey a job. A restaurant job.
“I’ll have to think about it,” I said. Then I went over and kissed the top of James’s head.
“James!” I said, drawing back. “Are you wearing hair product?”
65
Weezie
On Monday it felt so good to be home that I didn’t even mind the kinds of mundane business chores that used to bore me to tears. Today, I was sorting through a cigar box full of old costume jewelry I’d bought as part of a lot at an auction the week before I left for Florida.
Most of the stuff was worthless, cheap plastic pop beads, hopeless tangles of inexpensive gold-and silver-colored chains, the kind of stuff most of our moms had in the bottom of their jewelry boxes. But I’d bought the box because I’d spotted a signed Miriam Haskell sunburst brooch in among the detritus, and now it was time to dump out the box and pick through the pieces one by one, looking for anything else saleable.
I was examining a flashy pair of rhinestone drop earrings with sterling-silver settings and Austrian crystal stones with my jeweler’s loupe, looking for what I hoped would be the Eisenberg hallmark, when the phone rang. It was Daniel.
“Hey,” he said breathlessly. “Can you meet me at the restaurant?”
“Which restaurant?” I asked. After all, Guale had been closed for weeks now, and he’d subbed at half a dozen other places since then.
“Guale,” he said. “Meet me around back. Come now, okay?”
I picked up my pocketbook and the keys to the truck and headed for the door. Jethro, who’d been asleep on the floor under my worktable, suddenly came to life and bounded right behind me.
“All right,” I told him. “But you have to stay in the truck. They have very strict rules against dogs in restaurants.”
He didn’t seem to mind, and when I opened the passenger-side door of my old turquoise pickup, he jumped up into his usual seat.
In five minutes, I was pulling into the lane that ran behind Guale, which was on Congress Street, in the heart of the old city market district.
As I rolled to a stop behind the restaurant, Daniel was just walking out the back door. He was wearing my favorite pair of tight black jeans, a faded black T-shirt, and beat-up Converse Chuck Taylor’s.
I hopped out of the truck. Jethro stayed in his seat, content to hang his head out the open window.
“Hey,” I said, greeting Daniel with a kiss. “What’s the big deal that I had to drop what I was doing to run over here in the middle of the day?”
He reached in the pocket of his jeans and held up a key.
“We’re celebrating,” he said, his eyes dancing. “We’re reopening Guale. And BeBe is bringing me in as a full partner.”
“Really? That’s wonderful.”
“As soon as we’re up and running and making a profit again, I’ll start payments to buy BeBe out completely. Guale will be all mine.”
“Daniel!” I wrapped my arms around his neck. “Oh, baby, that’s so great. I can’t believe it. But what made BeBe decide to sell out? She didn’t say anything about that to me when we talked last night.”
He was unlocking the fire door to the restaurant. “I got the feeling she just decided this morning. She called and asked me to meet her over here. And when I got here, she was standing in the entryway, looking around, as if she didn’t recognize the place. She just said her heart wasn’t in it anymore. The only provision she made on our deal is that I have to hire some chick y’all met down in Lauderdale.”
“That would be Emma,” I said. “She’s a wonderful cook, and she’ll be a great addition in the kitchen.”
“We’ll see,” he said, sounding like the temperamental genius he liked people to think he was.
“What about BeBe?” I wondered. “What’ll she do if she’s not running this restaurant? Guale has been practically her whole life.”
“She didn’t say and I didn’t ask,” Daniel said.
“Just like a man.”
He held the back door open and motioned me inside with a grand sweep of his arms.
“Entrez!” he said.
The kitchen was dark and chilly and eerily quiet. And for the first time in years, there were no delicious smells wafting from the range or the ovens. In fact, the only smell was the faint scent of Lysol.
I followed Daniel through the dark kitchen, and I jumped and had to suppress a scream when he turned suddenly and swept me into his arms.
“You’re mine, Eloise Foley,” he said, his voice husky. “Guale is mine, and you’re mine. And we are here to celebrate this momentous occasion.”
“Champagne?” I asked.
“Later,” he said, taking my hand and leading me out of the kitchen. “Right now, I thought we’d check out that big leather banquette in the private dining room.”
66
After I left James Foley’s office, I decided to drop by the home to see my grandparents. I met Granddad at the door as he was bringing in the last sack of groceries from his trip to the store.
Grandmama was unloading the sacks and already finding fault with their contents.
“Spencer Loudermilk,” she exclaimed, holding up a bottle of cherry red dish soap. “What is this vile liquid supposed to be?”
“Detergent,” he said, busying himself with the TV Guide. I wondered idly why he bothered with it, since he had every listing memorized by heart.
“Well, it’s not like any kind of detergent I ever saw,” she said. “You know I always use Palmolive verdant spring.”
“This kind was buy one-get one,” Granddad said, snapping on the television with the remote control and settling back in his chair.
“Well, yippee-doo,” Grandmama said. “Now I got two bottles of gunk I don’t intend to ever use.”
She went to the pantry, got a bottle of Diet Dr Pepper, and poured one over a glass of ice for me. “I have to buy this myself,” she explained. “Your grandfather keeps bringing home that generic mess. Tastes like battery acid.”
She motioned for me to sit down at the kitchen table, and I did as she sugge
sted. “Now, what’s this talk about a new fella in your life? Your grandfather said you seem pretty smitten with this man.”
I sighed. “I was. But I don’t think it’s going to work out with Harry.”
“Harry. That’s a good, strong name. You don’t hear that name too often anymore,” she said. “I like it.”
“You’d like him too, I think. Come to think of it, this is the first Harry I’ve ever dated,” I told her. “Well, I don’t guess we ever really did date. Except for once, down in Fort Lauderdale, he took me out to dinner.”
She went on unloading groceries, putting the canned goods in the cupboard and the milk and eggs in the refrigerator. “What makes you think it’s not going to work out with this Harry person?”
“He told me so. Yesterday. And after he told me it wasn’t going to work out, he started packing up his stuff. He’s leaving me. And the Breeze Inn.”
She clucked disapprovingly. “That’s a shame. How do you feel about it?”
“Mad. Hurt. Confused. I finally get this mess of a life of mine halfway straightened around. I finally find a man I like—and respect. And he dumps me.”
“Did he say he doesn’t like you anymore?” she asked.
“No. He says he’s crazy about me. But he says we don’t want the same things in life.”
“That’s just plain ridiculous,” Grandmama declared, shaking her head. “And just like a man to make up some kind of hogwash excuse for running away. Honey, if you leave it up to this man, the two of you never will get married.”
“Married!” I yelped. “Who said anything about getting married? I’ve been down the aisle three times already. And it never works out.”
“But you’re allowed a mulligan,” Granddad said, strolling into the kitchen. He opened the cookie jar, reached in, and grabbed a handful of cookies.
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