A Tail for Two

by Mara Wells

  She did not miss being unemployed, though, and after wrestling with plumbing and electrical problems, single-handedly regrouting the lobby bathroom, and negotiating lower rates from the cable company, she didn’t need a blazer to make her feel kick-ass. Her Dorothy uniform of cutoff jeans and thrift-store T-shirts was more comfortable anyway. Oh, who was she kidding? She did miss that blazer. Who would’ve noticed if she’d never returned it? The Donovan Resort, and every one of its sister properties, would likely never open for business again.

  Riley and her poodle circled around to the front of the building, and as always, Riley admired its graceful lines. Although a bit faded in places, the cheerful pink façade never failed to lift her mood. She’d loved coming to Grams’ as a child, imagining the building had been painted her favorite color just for her. When her mom popped into town, they’d lived in a series of one-bedroom apartments in neighborhoods near the port—not always the most kid-friendly places in Miami. It was a relief to be dropped off at Grams’ when Mom’s job took her away for long stretches, and Riley cried every time Mom picked her up when the cruise finished. “You’ll be back soon enough,” Grams said each time they said goodbye, and she’d been right.

  Mom moved up at the cruise line, assigned to lengthier charters and adventure cruises until it wasn’t uncommon for her to be gone for six or eight weeks at a time. Grams and the other residents at the Dorothy welcomed Riley and made her feel like part of a large, loving family. Now the Dorothy was Riley’s home, too, and her job was to make sure that all those who’d helped her through her childhood and rocky teens were safe and happy. Really, she was simply returning the favor.

  Inside, LouLou panted with excitement as they neared the elevator. Riley wished there was something in her life she loved as much as her poodle loved a ride on the elevator. The car shook on its slow ascent; a lesser dog might be afraid of the movement, the noise. Not LouLou. Her tail never stopped wagging. As soon as the doors rumbled open, LouLou dashed inside, tugging Riley along. The building was only a two-story, but the elevator took its job seriously, stretching out the ride so that it felt as if more than a mere one floor of distance had been covered.

  At the ding, LouLou was as excited to exit the elevator as she’d been to enter it. Dogs. Riley knew she should be taking life lessons from her pooch about the importance of living in the moment, but it was hard to shake off the feeling that she should be doing something different. Something more. She just didn’t know what. Or how on Earth she’d ever make time for more, whatever that might be.

  “Ah, my favorite girls are here!” Mr. Cardoza opened his door before Riley had a chance to knock. A proud “eighty-five and still alive,” as he liked to say, Mr. Cardoza cut a dapper figure in his tailored chinos and navy suspenders. His thick head of gray hair and status as a longtime widower made him the most sought-after of the silver foxes in the building. His refrigerator was always stuffed with offerings from the female residents of the Dorothy—casseroles and lasagnas, homemade pies and mango preserves. He should be thirty pounds overweight, but his strict regimen of daily walks and trips to his senior-friendly gym kept him fit.

  “What can we do for you today?” Riley kissed both his cheeks with genuine affection. When she was fourteen and going to her first high school dance, he’d driven her in his old Saab and explained in excruciating and embarrassing—at least back then—detail how a young man should act around her. And exactly what she should not allow, on or off the dance floor. Thanks to his thoroughness, she’d been perfectly happy to dance with a group of her girlfriends and sit out the slow dances.

  Riley cocked her head at the familiar grinding sound coming from his kitchen. “Is it that new garbage disposal? I told you to stop jamming chicken bones down there.”

  “The ad said it could grind anything.” He tucked her hand into his elbow and escorted her to the kitchen, LouLou trotting behind them, her fluffy ears brushing Riley’s calves. “Anything.”

  “Anything but chicken bones. As we’ve discussed. Many times.” Riley unclipped the leash, and LouLou promptly nosed around the kitchen, finding bits of who-knew-what in the hard-to-clean space between the floor and cabinet lip. “Alright, Mr. Cardoza, let’s take a look, and if it’s chicken bones again, I’m leaving you to fend for yourself. Also as we’ve discussed. Many times.”

  Mr. Cardoza nodded solemnly and slipped LouLou a sliver of chicken from a plate of already precut-to-poodle-size bites. “You won’t leave before you let me make you my famous café solo?”

  So it was chicken bones. Again. But pass up his hand-ground dark-roast coffee? Riley placed a hand to her chest. “Never!”

  She opened the cabinet under the sink and pulled out the flashlight and pliers she’d bought especially for Mr. Cardoza’s apartment. It was both her nature and her Donovan hotel training to anticipate guests’ needs, and she’d known from the first call from Mr. Cardoza about his unauthorized garbage disposal that she’d be back again and again. Easier to keep supplies here than to haul them back and forth on the daily. She looked over to where Mr. Cardoza sat, LouLou in his lap taking bites of chicken from his fingers. The things I do for caffeine. And chicken. And Mr. Cardoza.

  Riley’s butt buzzed again, and she grabbed the phone. Grams’ Google wouldn’t Google. Riley shoved the phone back in her pocket and flipped off the power to the garbage disposal. It was going to be a long day, but what else was new?

  At least the long hours of her job kept her from thinking too much about her life, but sometimes in the wee hours of the morning, with antiseptic and Band-Aids freshly applied to whatever scrapes and cuts she’d acquired during the day’s maintenance challenges, she did worry. Was her blazerless status at the Dorothy her whole future? Would she be patching stucco and unclogging drains for decades to come?

  When she thought of her careful plans so carelessly destroyed, she could cry. Did cry. But crying never changed anything. She firmed her chin, got hold of a semicrushed chicken bone, and yanked it out of the drain. The bone popped out with a slurp and a cheer from Mr. Cardoza. Riley turned to give him a thumbs-up before diving in for the next one. For now, it was enough to be needed.

  Chapter 2

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.” Caleb Donovan checked his phone for the address, hoping it was a mistake. This couldn’t be the property Grandpa William thought was the answer to their problems. But no, 1651 was definitely it. The Art Deco façade, once painted in a Miami Beach palette of pastel pinks and oranges, had long since faded. Latex strips hung like old palm fronds in need of trimming. Sagging gutters promised roof problems, and the overgrown crown-of-thorns shrubs flanking the entrance threatened to jab someone in the eye with their spiky branches.

  Grandpa William had said “quaint.” He’d said “charming.” He’d said “original period details.” Caleb should’ve known real estate code for money pit when Grandpa William first said “fresh start,” something Caleb could really use after the chaotic, life-altering disappointments of the last two years but seriously doubted this old apartment complex could provide.

  But he was here. Might as well take a look, even if Grandpa William’s plan was half-baked and, well, surprisingly sentimental. The surprise wasn’t that Grandpa William wanted to rebuild the family business but that his plan apparently also included rebuilding the family. Or at least the part of the family currently not serving time for fraud, embezzlement, and a slew of other state and federal crimes.

  Caleb slammed the door of his carmine Porsche Boxster, then immediately patted the door handle apologetically. In the left-behind neighborhood not far enough south to be part of the upscale South Beach scene but not north enough to technically be part of North Beach, either, the Boxster was distinctly out of place on a block full of aged Volvos and family-oriented SUVs.

  A coconut fell from a curbside palm tree, bouncing off the Porsche’s front bumper with a loud thump.

  “Son of a—” Ca
leb kicked the coconut into the street and inspected the bumper and front grill. No visual damage. No chipped paint. He ran a hand over the area to be double sure then glared up at the offending palms when he felt the slightest indentation above the bumper. A half-dozen lawsuits-waiting-to-happen hung high above the sidewalk, ready to attack a vehicle or a litigious neighbor out for a power walk.

  Wasn’t there supposed to be some kind of manager on-site? Someone making sure the coco palms were trimmed regularly so that innocent bystanders weren’t thunked on the head by coconut bombs? Of course, it’d be terrible if someone were hurt—he’d read somewhere that falling coconuts killed more people than sharks—but at the very least, the manager should make sure the building wasn’t liable for injuries and damages.

  Caleb thumbed through the notes on his phone until he found the name. Riley Carson. Hired a year and a half ago. His trained-from-the-cradle real estate developer’s eye took in the three boarded-over windows on the front of the old apartment complex, two stories high, and the peeling paint on the portico’s stepped columns. So far, not so good.

  This Carson guy might think he could get away with collecting a paycheck from Grandpa William for doing nothing, but Caleb wouldn’t let anyone take advantage of his grandfather, not on his watch, and especially not now that he feared Grandpa William was growing soft—definitely in the emotions, but maybe it was impacting his business sense, too. With Caleb’s parents on frequent, prolonged business trips and his two older brothers striking out on their own, cutting ties with their father before Caleb was even in high school, Grandpa William was the one person he could count on.

  Although the past two years had made Caleb question a lot of things about what it meant to be a Donovan, his love for his grandfather never wavered. The very least Caleb could do while scoping out Grandpa William’s claim that the crumbling apartment complex had “unlimited potential” as a condo conversion was to put the fear of God—or at least a fear of the Donovans—into this do-nothing building manager.

  Caleb strode toward the double front doors, cutting across the front lawn that was more sand than grass. Okay, he admitted to seeing some potential. Install a bit of lush landscaping—a bougainvillea or two and a handful of traveler’s palms—and the curb appeal would improve one thousand percent. Above the arched front door, the name Dorothy stood out in relief, a pale reminder of how many buildings from the era were named after women. Original details, indeed.

  “Well, Dorothy, I can’t say it’s a pleasure to meet you.” Caleb stopped at the call box that was easily as old as he was and punched in the code Grandpa William’d given him. The box wheezed and the door locks clicked, but when he pulled on the handle, it didn’t open.

  Fantastic. Not only did the place need a serious makeover, but the technology was both outdated and inoperable. He knew from viewing dozens of foreclosed properties that the possibilities for disaster were endless. But this wasn’t a foreclosure. It was Grandpa William’s secret weapon, a property his grandfather had separated from the company holdings before the authorities confiscated all of Donovan Real Estate Group’s assets.

  “One property at a time,” Grandpa William had said last night over drinks on his deck overlooking the Intracoastal Waterway. “That’s how you build a solid business.” Caleb had bought into the fantasy that he’d somehow restore the family name and bank accounts.

  Now, Caleb wondered if he was being naive. He’d only done one thing in his life—follow in his father’s business footsteps. For good or for bad, real estate development, especially in the hospitality industry, was his specialty. Hotels, casinos, time-shares—that was the world he knew, and the one his father so carelessly lost with his less-than-legal approach to dealing with city officials and the IRS. Residential real estate wasn’t Caleb’s thing.

  But things could change, even his things. They had to. Since the trial and his father’s subsequent conviction, he couldn’t rely on his father’s example anymore. Robert Donovan wasn’t the respected and powerful businessman he’d portrayed himself to be. He was a criminal. Caleb hadn’t believed it at first, not at the indictment, not at the beginning of the trial. Seeing was believing, though, and as the prosecution slowly and methodically convinced the jury of Robert’s guilt, Caleb became convinced, too, and he’d lain awake many nights after, cursing himself for his gullibility. His blind faith. He should’ve seen the fall coming, should’ve listened to his brothers’ numerous warnings over the years. But he hadn’t, and he’d lost the business right along with his father. Caleb fingered the metal key chain in the pocket of his pressed trousers, the keys his grandfather had tenderly handed over.

  “Lots of good memories in that building.” Grandpa William wasn’t usually nostalgic, but he had a distinct gleam of tears in his sharp blue eyes. “Never could part with it. Figured I’d go back someday and make something of it. Now it’s your turn, Caleb. Rebuild. Make the family whole again.”

  Grandpa William’s plan included Caleb’s half brothers and Caleb convincing them to work on this project with him for the good of the family. The family they’d wanted so little to do with that Knox joined the Marine Corps as soon as he was legally old enough to sign the paperwork himself, and Lance started his own construction company, refusing any jobs their father tried to send his way.

  Somehow, though, Grandpa William had faith in Caleb, that he could do this. Rehab a building, reel his brothers back in, take the nightmare of the past few years, and turn it into some kind of American Dream fairy tale. It was unrealistic; Caleb had thought so when Grandpa William spelled out his terms, but now, looking at the run-down Dorothy, he wondered if it was downright delusional.

  When Caleb’s father had argued that Caleb didn’t need college, that he could learn everything he needed on the job, it was Grandpa William who’d paid Caleb’s college expenses. Grandpa William who showed up at parents’ weekend, helped him deck out his dorm room, and was the only family member at his graduation. At the very least, Caleb owed him a walk-through.

  He used the key to open the front door and stepped into the lobby. Original terrazzo floors, pockmarked and stained, would need to be restored. Rattan furniture circa 1970-something would have to be replaced and, judging by the mold growing on the cushions, possibly torched. He checked his phone again. The manager’s apartment number was 101. Mr. Carson was about to get an earful, for sure. Or maybe Caleb would simply fire him with no explanation. Florida was an at-will employment state, after all, and Mr. Carson shouldn’t need to be told that he was seriously derelict in his duties.

  Caleb was about to take the right hallway, following the placard’s directions that apartments 101 to 108 were to the east, when straight ahead, a single elevator dinged. An older woman, white-haired and thin, pushed herself forward on a cheery yellow walker. She angled her path toward the five-foot-high bank of mailboxes against the lobby’s south wall. She wobbled as she walked, and when she held out the mailbox key, her hand wobbled, too. Wobbled so much the key shook right out of her hand and hit the floor. He rushed to her side, bending to pick up the key.

  “Here you go, ma’am.” Caleb pressed it into her palm, glad that Grandpa William, though well into his seventies, was in good health. There’d been a scare a few years ago, right at the start of the legal troubles, but he’d pulled through. He walked with a cane—an intimidating hand-carved contraption with a silver handle specially molded to his hand and engraved with his initials—but he was still as headstrong and opinionated as ever. “Slippery things, those keys.”

  The woman exhaled a labored breath, and for the first time, he saw the clear tubes snaking from her nose to a small oxygen tank mounted on her walker. “Aren’t you the gallant one? Thank you, young man.”

  “No problem. You take care now.” It didn’t surprise him that a woman of her age lived in such a run-down building. It was a sad truth that those on limited retirement incomes often couldn’t afford any better. A
rush of gratitude flooded him. Thank goodness Grandpa William separated his personal holdings from the Donovan business when he did so he could keep the home he’d custom-built over twenty years ago.

  A high-pitched yip brought Caleb’s attention back to the elevator—not a cute Deco-style box with brass trim that would make a great selling point but a clunky 1970s-era contraption that, no surprise, clearly needed updating. A tiny dog, some color between orange and pink, dashed out of the ancient elevator before the doors stuttered to a close. The fuzz ball, no taller than eleven or twelve inches, turned dark eyes up to him and let out a soft woof.

  “Ma’am?” Caleb called, and when the woman didn’t turn around, he tried again, louder. “Ma’am? Your dog?”

  “That’s not my dog.” She angled her walker back toward the elevator, a few envelopes in her left hand. Her shoulders sloped dramatically in her faded housedress, and she leaned more heavily on the right side than the left. “Never had a dog. I’m a cat person myself. How about you, young man?” Even her smile was a bit crooked.

  “I don’t have any pets.” Caleb slid his hands into his dark trouser pockets and rocked on his heels. “Never have. At least, not of my own.”

  “Isn’t that a shame.” She shuffled a few steps forward before resting again. “Everyone needs a little unconditional love in their lives, don’t you think?”

  Caleb straightened, her words hitting him almost as hard as Grandpa William’s “You owe it to your family to try.” He cleared his throat before saying, “I thought cats were too independent for that kind of sentiment.”

  She blinked rheumy eyes at him. “No one loves more fiercely than an independent creature. It’s too bad you don’t know that yet.”

  Caleb didn’t know what to say so he stuck with a safe “Yes, ma’am,” and she made a humming sound of agreement before continuing her slow progress toward the elevator.