by Nan Dixon
* * *
ABBY PUSHED THE remnants of lunch to the end of the kitchen table and convened the weekly Fitzgerald House staff meeting.
Dolley checked her laptop. “This week we have three sets of Moons checking in—two today, one on Wednesday. There’s a Scrapbooking Sister group coming in today, thanks to Bess’s efforts—two rooms and one of the parlors for their work.”
“There’s a group coming for the Scary Sister weekend—three rooms. They’re staying Friday through Monday.” Dolley tucked her bright red curls behind her ears. “Another Repeater couple, oh...it’s their fortieth anniversary. Neat. They’ll be here Saturday and Sunday.”
“So I need three honeymoons and one anniversary basket. Got it,” said Marion.
“Ten out of twelve rooms occupied.” Abby grinned. “Nigel, keep the vacancy sign up. I’d love to fill up this weekend.”
If they could keep up this pace and open more rooms, they would easily make their balloon payment. Assuming nothing else broke down.
“That’s better than last year at this time.” Dolley tipped her chair back on two legs. “We need to firm up Fitzgerald House’s St. Paddy’s Day plans.”
“Give me a couple of days.” Abby took a deep breath. The celebration, parade and bedlam would be here before they knew it.
“I can pull together the packages.” There was an unexpected sharpness to Dolley’s tone.
The group around the table went quiet. Abby pushed her hair back and looked at her sister. “You already do so much.”
“So do you,” Dolley replied.
“But I don’t have to hold down an outside job,” Abby explained.
“That doesn’t mean you have to do everything around here.” Dolley pointed a finger at her.
Marion patted Abby’s arm. “If she’s volunteering, let her do the work.” She leaned in. “You need to learn to take help when it’s offered.”
“I do,” Abby said defensively.
Marion raised her eyebrows. “And be gracious when you do.”
Abby huffed out a breath. “Thanks, Dolley.”
Her sister rolled her eyes.
Abby looked at her to-do list without seeing it. She did let people help her.
“Nigel,” she said. “The hallway near Eleanor Roosevelt needs touching up—again.”
He nodded, running his fingers through his white hair. How much longer would they have him to rely on? They’d celebrated his sixty-fifth birthday last month.
He’d been driver, handyman, assistant gardener and jack-of-all-trades since Mamma had first turned their home into a B and B.
“I think we should add wainscoting in the hall,” he suggested. “It’s too narrow. People bump the walls with their luggage. It would take a little more of a beating and we wouldn’t have to paint the whole wall.”
The group discussed the hallway and the following weekend’s catering event.
Abby checked her notes. “Nigel, Bess would like the tables set up by four-thirty, so she can bring in the flower arrangements.”
Bess was part owner and operator of Fitzgerald House, but she also worked at a local florist and landscaping business, which was why she rarely attended the staff meetings.
“I’ll shoot you copies of the St. Paddy’s Day info before I post it.” Dolley closed her laptop. “I’ve got to get back. My client is howling for his website redesign. Can I help it if he’s changed his mind—three times?”
Abby couldn’t wait for the day that her sisters didn’t have to work second jobs. Someday the B and B would support them all. She would make it happen.
Nigel picked up his notebook. “I’ll paint the hallway tomorrow and get those bids on wainscoting. Got to get to it.” He ambled out the door.
“Hey, Abs, it’s karaoke night at McMillian’s.” Dolley slipped her computer into a messenger bag. “Want to go?”
“I’ll pass. I barely wake up with two alarms now. If I gallivanted with a night owl like you, our guests wouldn’t get breakfast tomorrow. Plus, I have an association meeting tonight.”
“Your loss.” Dolley shrugged on her jacket.
“Any more surprises coming this week?” Abby asked. Although having dinner with Gray hadn’t been a hardship.
“I’m sorry about the Smythe mix-up, really, I am.” Dolley tucked her phone into her pocket. “I was working on the arrangements but didn’t want to get your hopes up. The assistant was talking to two other places at the same time. Originally, he’d asked for a twenty-percent discount.”
“I’m glad you talked him down to ten percent.” She touched her sister’s hand. “You’re our best negotiator.”
“Yeah, yeah.” But her sister grinned. “We need new registration software. After I shifted the other bookings, I had to wait for a system backup before locking in Smythe’s reservation.”
“We need a lot of things. We need to fix the third-floor water damage. We need to open more rooms. But foremost, we need to make the loan payment.”
Personally, Abby would like to replace her eight-year-old car, but that wouldn’t get her any closer to restoring the main house and opening Southern Comforts. Hard work, frugality and dedication were the only ways she would open her own restaurant.
“You’re right. Loan payment first.” Dolley sighed and headed out the door.
Marion pushed her wiry body away from the table. “You know you can’t live and breathe the B and B. A young, pretty thing like you should be out enjoying yourself.”
Enjoying herself? “I’ve got a business to run.”
“And you do it well.” Marion wrapped her arm around Abby’s shoulders. “Just don’t be afraid to accept help when it’s offered and to have a little fun.”
“I feel guilty.” Abby leaned her head on Marion’s shoulder. “Both Dolley and Bess work so hard.”
“And so do you.” Marion gave her a quick, tight hug. “But there’s more to life than Fitzgerald House. If your mamma wasn’t taking care of your aunt in Atlanta, she’d say the same thing. Live a little.”
Abby didn’t think so. When Papa had died, Mamma had worked 24/7 to make their home into a B and B. Enjoying life would come after Abby had opened her restaurant. “I’ll think about it.”
She had goals to achieve. She didn’t have time for fun.
Marion gathered up her notebook. “By the way, I hired Cheryl, trial run.”
“Good.”
“Her boy is here with her. I said it would be okay until she got her feet under her. Don’t be surprised if he’s in the garden or near his mom.”
“Of course.” Marion had a big heart. “Do you think they want some sandwiches?”
Marion grinned and then piled the uneaten sandwiches on a plate. “I’ll check how she’s doing. I’m thinking these will be appreciated. She ’bout fainted at the sight of your banana bread.”
* * *
GRAY WALKED INTO the sunroom, and Abby almost dropped the food and tea description cards she’d been setting out for teatime. No man should look that good in jeans and a chambray shirt.
Her face warmed. At dinner last night, he’d encouraged her to tell him about Fitzgerald House. He’d been easy to talk to. Had she talked too much?
No. If she had, he wouldn’t have insisted on eating in the kitchen from now on. Right?
Mamma always advised her daughters not to get involved with guests. So Abby would stay professional if it killed her.
“Hi,” she said. “Are you done working for the day?”
“I just met with a contractor,” he said. “Now I need other options. I hope you can help or point me in the right direction.”
“I’ll try.” Why was Gray in Savannah for six months? She should have asked when he’d registered, but yesterday had been...awkward.
She se
t the cards by the teapots and straightened the napkins. Still not quite looking at him, she asked, “What are you doing in Savannah?”
“Rehabbing a warehouse on River Street.”
“The one that the work started and stopped on last year? I remember the man who owned it, but he hasn’t been around for a while.” He’d stayed at Fitzgerald House several times.
“That’s the one. Derrick ran out of money and needed to liquidate fast.” Gray had a gleam in his blue eyes. “I helped him out.”
It sounded more as if Gray had gotten a great bargain. “Will you still develop it as condominiums?”
He nodded. “Great location. Very marketable.”
Abby’s shoulders tightened. How many times had her daddy used the same phrase about the Tybee Island condos he’d started to develop? Great location. Those condos had sat for years half built, looking sad and lonely. Actually, the previous owner of Gray’s River Street warehouse reminded her of her father. Smiling, charming and unable to finish what he started.
Because of her father, her mother’s family mansion was now a B and B. Because of her father, she and her sisters’ college funds had disappeared. Instead of going to football or basketball games, they’d learned how to make beds and clean rooms.
Marion came in, wheeling the loaded tea trolley and distracting Abby from her thoughts.
“Marion, this is Mr. Smythe,” Abby said.
“We met this morning.” Marion maneuvered the trolley across the room. “How was your warehouse?”
“A mess.” Gray eyed the food on the trolley as though he hadn’t eaten in months.
“You’ll soon set it to rights.” Marion moved to the fireplace and turned on the gas flames. “There. That’ll take the chill off the room.”
“Thanks, Marion,” Abby said, amused by the way Gray gaped at the food.
“My mother would kill for that trolley.”
Abby could believe it. The silver four-tiered trolley was an heirloom that her own mother had always loved. She set the description cards next to each platter.
“It’s been in the family for generations. Did you have enough to eat for lunch?” Abby had made two sandwiches, but she didn’t know how big an appetite her guest had.
“Lunch was great.” Gray headed over to the trolley. “But I’ve got room for one of those bars.”
If the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach, all she had to do to win Gray’s was make him her brandy-pecan bars.
“Coffee or tea?” she asked.
“Coffee.” He demolished one bar. “I’ll have to run to Atlanta and back each day if I keep eating this way,” he mumbled around a second bar.
She poured his coffee and set the cup and saucer next to his chair.
As she left, she whispered to Marion, “Let me know if I need to bring up more bars.”
She was almost out the door when he called, “Wait, Abby, I have a question.”
She paused. He waved her over to a chair, before taking another bar.
“Can you recommend any contractors?” he asked. “I’m putting the work out for bids.”
Settling into the chair, she tried to remember who’d worked on the warehouse before Gray took over. “Did you talk to Jeb Haskins?”
“Just met with him.” He frowned. “Not letting that guy back on the project. I have a couple of other names, but I like the work you’ve done on your B and B. I wondered who you’d used.”
“I can give you the names, but our focus has always been on restoration. I’m not sure this would be the same kind of job.”
“You’re right—I’m not looking for restoration, but I need a contractor who’s experienced with old buildings.”
Abby’s heart warmed at his respectful tone. “I use Sam Forester. He’s done all the work here since we started. He and his son, Daniel, run a local construction company. I’ll call and see who he’d recommend.”
“Thanks. Add this Forester to the list, too, would you? They’ve done a nice job here.”
She froze. Gray wanted to talk to the Foresters? Samuel fit their work in between his other projects to help keep her costs low. Gray’s work might slow down her own restoration.
But she couldn’t keep business from Sam and Daniel. They were practically family.
Hoping he hadn’t noticed her delay, she said, “I can do that.”
Abby tapped her lip, thinking of other contractors she could direct him to.
Gray stared at her mouth, making Abby’s heart beat a little faster. What was it the magazines said? If a man stared at your mouth, he was thinking of kissing you?
“I’ll be back with those phone numbers.” She scrambled out of the chair. “Have another bar.”
He could have a bar, not her.
In the hallway, she leaned against the wall and inhaled. A man had stared at her mouth and stolen her breath.
* * *
AFTER ABBY LEFT, ten older women swooped into the sunroom. Half of them had the soft drawl Gray associated with Savannah and wore outrageous red hats. The other group was on one of those sisters things, like the ladies in the library last night.
Gray made polite chitchat for a few minutes. Then he guarded the pecan bars and let the women have the sandwiches. Their conversations churned around him.
His thoughts drifted to Abby. Today she wore a khaki skirt and sleeveless white blouse, and he’d wondered if she lifted weights to keep her arms so trim. As he’d been pondering what those plump pink lips would taste like, she’d taken off.
Abby came back into the parlor, giving no sign that she’d felt even slightly uncomfortable. She worked the room, setting a hand to a shoulder or giving a quick buss on the cheek to the red-hat women. She sat on an ottoman next to the ladies from the sister outing and asked about their day. Her smile wasn’t the practiced one she’d given him earlier. This smile shone like a beacon.
Once she’d made her rounds, she stepped toward him. “I’ve talked to Samuel. He’s come up with two contractors he feels are qualified.”
She handed him a note written in clear, precise script.
“Thanks. I appreciate the help,” he said.
“No problem.” Glancing over at the trolley, she added, “I can bring out more pecan bars if you want.”
He shook his head. “You’re a witch, aren’t you?”
She laughed. “Only in the kitchen.”
Gray watched her walk away, appreciating her fine ass.
He grabbed another bar and cup of coffee and carried it into the courtyard garden to make his calls. He sat at a cast-iron table tucked under a green umbrella on the patio.
He set up appointments with contractors for that afternoon. When he phoned the Foresters he got the son, Daniel.
“Fitzgerald House still serves wine at five-thirty?” Daniel asked.
“They did last night, Argentinean wines.” And damn fine appetizers.
“I’ll just invite myself to happy hour. Then we can walk over to your building after a glass of wine.”
“I’ll see you then.”
Pleased with his progress, Gray propped his feet on another chair and took a sip of coffee. He smiled at the fountain, a huge frog spewing water over copper lily pads. He could even swear he saw a bronze troll wink from where it was half-hidden under a palm tree.
The gardens were an intense green loaded with splashes of color. If his mother could see the landscaping, she’d probably try to lure their gardener back to Boston with her. He inhaled a lungful of flowery scents. The sun warmed his shoulders and eased the tension in his muscles.
There was something about this place. He could almost close his eyes and take a nap. For the first time he could remember, he noticed birds singing.
His phone buzzed. “Smythe.”
“Gray, my friend. How’s business?”
“Good.” He didn’t recognize the voice, and the number had come up as private.
“Just wondering if you’ve considered my proposition.”
He still didn’t know who he was talking to. “Who is this?”
“Jeremy Atwater. I ran into you at the opera opener last month. Intermission.”
Gray frowned, trying to picture the guy.
“We talked about a great biotech investment opportunity,” Atwater said. “You wanted to think about investing in the company.”
Ding. Gwen had dragged him to the opening. This yahoo had caught him while he’d waited in the drink line.
“We’re putting together a ten-million-dollar tranche. I’d love to get together and talk about how much of the tranche you’d like to take, unless you and your dad want to take the whole thing.” Atwater laughed.
Gray gripped the table’s edge. “I’m out of town. I’ll have to forgo this opportunity.”
“Oh.” Atwater’s tone dripped with disappointment. “I could talk to your father.”
“You could.”
“Umm. I can’t get past his assistant.”
Gray shook his head. “I’ll mention you called.” It was as much as he would commit.
“Great, great.” Atwater rattled off his phone numbers, though Gray was barely listening.
Even from a thousand miles away, the vultures found him and tapped him for money. He closed his eyes and rubbed at the headache now pounding in his temples.
“Hey, mister, can we catch rainbows again?” a small voice asked.
Gray looked up into a face dominated by a pair of brown eyes. How had the kid snuck up on him? “Joshua, right?”
“Yup.” The boy scratched at an ugly-looking scab on his hand. “Can we go catch rainbows?”
Gray checked his watch. “Sorry, kid, it’s too early.”
The boy’s shoulders slumped. “Oh.”
“Are you staying here?” Gray asked. He’d thought he’d heard Abby and Joshua’s mom talking about a job, but maybe he’d been mistaken.
“Mommy’s working.” Josh kept rubbing at the small circular scab.
