“A week.”
“And?”
“And they’re not sure how much longer. Aunt Gwen’s slipped the groove a little. They’re looking into a babysitter to keep her out of trouble.”
“So you’re gonna keep on holding down the fort while they’re gone?”
I crossed my arms over my chest, wishing I had my glasses to look over at him. “As a matter of fact, I plan to convert the lobby into a pirate-themed bar. Drive the guy next door out of business.”
Skip laughed. “Hell, I’m not even in business yet. Hoping to open end of October, but there’s a lot to get done in the next six weeks if that’s going to happen.”
“Then I’m sure you’re very busy,” I said in what I hoped was a dismissive tone.
He reached out and laid two fingers right below my neck in the little notch where my collarbones meet. He leaned close, the two fingers the only actual contact between us but suggesting a whole lot more. I knew he could feel my heart thumping with those two fingers.
“Remember that spring I started working here? You came down for spring break and I took you out for ice cream?” he said.
“We drove down the coast for almost two hours. I thought you were kidnapping me.”
He smiled. “I couldn’t resist. I had a new license and a used Jeep.”
“As I recall, that Jeep was three different colors.”
“Plus primer.”
“Four colors,” I said. I vividly remembered that day. Spring sun, freedom, and a guy who sent my high school hormones through the roof. I was torn between running away with him and insisting he drive me home before my aunt and uncle called the state police. We pulled off and watched the ocean and he told me about his father’s fishing charter. I’d told him about my dreams of running an elegant hotel.
We did get ice cream, and we got home before the sun set. I remember thinking how strange it was that my aunt and uncle hadn’t said a word. My parents had been a lot pickier about dating, so much so that I felt like I was getting away with something even to go to the movies. Life was freer in Barefoot Key. Then, but not now.
“Too bad we’re not sixteen anymore,” I said.
“We could pretend.”
I shook my head. “I don’t have the freedom to run away for the day. I have to manage this place. People are counting on me.”
Skip looked like he was going to argue, but he dropped his hand and broke the connection between us.
“Call me if you need help with the final game show question.” He spun and swaggered down the outside corridor and disappeared down the steps toward the beach.
I shut the door firmly and slid the bolt in place. Barring a fire or a hurricane, I would not be opening that door again tonight. Settling in with a beer and a plate of cold chips halfway through the final round, I tried to focus on what I knew.
“This Florida College began as a school for the deaf and now houses freshmen in the historic Ponce De Leon hotel on its campus,” the quiz show host said.
Just as the answer rolled to the tip of my tongue, my cell phone chirped.
“Flagler College,” the text read.
Skip McComber is under the false impression that he can run my pool pump, manage my dog, tell me quiz show answers, and get under my skin.
Chapter Four
Uncle Mike had long held a seat and the job of community relations coordinator for the Barefoot Key Chamber of Commerce. When asked, he couldn’t tell me exactly what the job entailed, but he said I’d figure it out. One more example of people giving me credit for being more savvy than I really am.
The chamber of commerce met in the birthday party room at the putt-putt golf course near the pier downtown. Only a few frazzled parents were chasing colored balls around with short clubs while their children alternately cheated or complained in the waning Florida sun. So we had the place mostly to ourselves, with only a bored teenager working the front window and handing out little pencils and scorecards.
The fifteen members of the chamber who were present represented a wide variety of tourist attractions and other businesses in Barefoot Key, some existing for decades. In its heyday, the town had a population of nearly fifteen thousand permanent residents. A tourist boom in the 1950s upped that number exponentially and left its mark wherever you looked. Many small motels and shops like The Gull and the Sunshine Souvenir Stand were still doing business. But there were abandoned motels, roadside stands, and diners on the fringes of town. Years ago, Barefoot Key was a perfect stopover for the night as tourists drove down the Gulf Coast in search of Florida adventures and sunshine. But times had changed.
These days, people moved faster, preferring the highway as they hustled toward big cities and theme parks. I wondered if people were ready to go back to a different time when it was about the Gulf Coast journey, not the roller-coaster destination. Maybe I was old-fashioned. Certainly I was nostalgic about the place I’d vacationed dozens of times.
“Randy Fischer,” a man said, vigorously shaking my hand and pulling me out of my folding chair so everyone could see me. “I own a golf cart rental downtown. Look me up if you ever need one.”
He put a hand on my shoulder and turned me to face the members present. “Like you to meet Savvy Thorpe. Mike’s niece. She’ll be running The Gull until Mike and Carol get back from taking care of Carol’s mother in Michigan.”
“Not an easy job,” a woman said. I wondered if she meant running The Gull or running after Aunt Gwen. She wore a black apron with an embroidered ice cream cone on the front and plenty of remnants of ice cream servings. Her short white hair contrasted with the hot pink reading glasses on top of her head. “Sally Broomfeld,” she said, leaning across the table and shaking my hand. “I own Sally’s Scoops, two locations in town.”
“How long have Carol and Mike been gone?” Randy asked.
“Almost two weeks.”
“Heard from ‘em?” Sally asked.
I nodded. “Today. Aunt Carol said her mother’s not being her usual difficult self.”
“Is that good or bad?” Sally asked.
“Not sure. They think maybe she has dementia, and it’s not just a simple matter of bailing her out and paying her court costs anymore.”
“So they’ll be gone longer,” Sally said. “I’m curious about what you want to do with The Gull. Any big plans while they’re gone?”
“I’m not authorized to do much new. I’m a placeholder more than an actual manager.”
“You’re related aren’t you?” Randy asked. “Relatives don’t need permission. Especially since they’re probably not paying you much.”
They were paying me enough to make the first installment on my student loan. Combined with free room and board, I actually had forty-two bucks in my purse. If it went on much longer, I’d have to start using the full kitchen in my aunt and uncle’s owner’s suite, but I was getting by on take-out, frozen food, and ambition for now.
Randy introduced the other members, most of them names and business I recognized from many trips to Barefoot Key over the years and from hearing my aunt and uncle talk about their friends and neighbors. Skip’s father, Jude McComber, relaxed in an ocean blue McComber’s Charters T-shirt at the end of the table. He looked like an older and more sun-exposed version of Skip. Except he was wearing a shirt.
The meeting came to order. A reading of the minutes from the last meeting was waived and the “new business” part of the program was a hushed and tense discussion about some local businesses that were recently sold. Their owners, although members of the chamber, were not present.
“Wonder who’s gonna be next?” Jude McComber asked.
The already serious mood of the meeting dipped into funeral-mood.
“Come on,” Sally said. “We should talk about something fun. Like the annual event.”
From the conversation that followed, I learned about the annual fall fundraiser to promote local businesses and fund chamber expenses and advertising for the rest of the year. After listening for about
ten minutes, I realized no one had any good ideas for a themed event and the date was only a month away. There had been half-hearted suggestions of a casino night or a wine and cheese party. Someone had even ponied up Karaoke as a potential idea. After decades of doing the annual fundraiser, it appeared they were tapped out.
I couldn’t take the floundering much longer. “How about an Old Florida theme?” I suggested.
Eyes cut in my direction. “How do you mean?” someone asked.
“We could capitalize on our location, really sell the town’s history going back decades as a tourist stopover. Offer T-shirts and souvenirs with orange blossoms and palm trees. Stuff like that,” I concluded, not convinced anyone was buying what I was trying to sell.
“Sounds like a typical day around here,” Randy said. “We need to try something fresh, something modern tourists want that’ll drive ‘em here and not places that got hotels with pools on the roof and fountains as big as Niagara Falls.”
“Isn’t it possible that people are tired of those places? Maybe they want nostalgia,” I argued. “Roadside fruit stands. Water-skiing shows.”
People exchanged glances, shook their heads, and muttered a little. I knew these were tough times for local businesses. I’d seen the empty properties dotting the streets like a polka dot pattern, practically every other building in some locations as if a giant was using a checkerboard to pick off parcels of land.
Conversation about reviving the Old Florida mystique was officially stalled out now. My idea was a flat tire on their mopeds, and my semi-professional blouse was retaining heat like plastic wrap. I’d agonized over wearing the shirt and now it felt like a medieval torture device. Rita had the right idea. Tank tops are the secret weapon against Gulf Coast heat.
Not that they’d help me sell this idea.
Randy Fischer turned toward me with a neutral expression. “I don’t know about this. I’d think if ‘old’ was a selling point, we’d be doing a lot more selling around here. But I’m willing to listen. How long would you need to come up with some ideas?” he asked. “We could table this and come back in a week. But we really gotta get going.”
One week to come up with a plan for an event I’d never attended in a town I only temporarily lived in. Since a year wouldn’t be enough time, I didn’t see the harm in agreeing to a week. It was like ripping off a Band-Aid. Better to do it fast and minimize the suffering.
“I can try,” I said.
****
I sat on the laundry folding table, swinging my legs and hoping for momentum. Maria and LeeAnn loaded their housekeeping carts with fresh sheets, towels, soaps, and mini-hair products. While Maria had dark skin, eyes, and short, practical hair, LeeAnn was her opposite. Blond and brunette streaks colored her teased-on-top hair. LeeAnn was also a whole lot bustier than her friend and co-worker.
“Want to flip for top floor?” LeeAnn asked.
Maria cut her eyes to me. I overheard Rita telling her she better take the upper floor for the next few days because that’s where a twenty-something honeymooning couple were staying in one room and a fifteenth-anniversary couple were in another. I’d run into both couples last evening and they looked too happy to risk LeeAnn.
“I’ll do it,” Maria said.
“Are you sure?”
“Uh-huh. I don’t have kids in the pool or hanging off my cart today, so I don’t mind.”
“I need some fresh ideas,” I said. “Something new.”
Both maids swung their eyes to me. “Not much to change,” LeeAnn said. “Rita gives us the check in and out list. We clean the rooms according to the list. We like to think they’re nice and fresh.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Yep. But we’re not the idea people,” Maria said. “We’re just the maids.”
“Baloney. You could probably run this place better than I can.”
“We could trade,” LeeAnn said. “You clean the johns and I’ll stand around in the office and watch Rita take reservations and run credit cards.”
“Is that what my aunt and uncle did all day?”
“Not exactly. They were also the fire department, running around putting out little fires,” Maria said.
“Most of those stupid little fires would have burned themselves out eventually anyway,” LeeAnn commented. “People have too much drama.”
“What you need is an aqua colored shirt. Maybe get the hotel logo embroidered on it. It’ll get you in the spirit,” Maria said.
I sighed, slumping on my temporary seat. “I hate aqua.”
“Shit. Everybody born after 1979 hates aqua. Maybe we need a change,” LeeAnn said. “It could be your first big rebellious move. They left you in charge.”
“But told me not to change anything.”
“Huh,” LeeAnn huffed out. “That’s bullshit. They don’t really expect you to just keep the lights on and toilet paper on the rolls. I think they’re just testing you out.”
Maria shoved her cart toward the door and parked herself in a plastic chair older than I am. “Maybe you should tell us what your plans are. Assuming you’ve got some.”
I rolled my shoulders and itched an imaginary spot on both elbows. Tulip wandered in and I scratched her ears while I put my thoughts into words. She brought in the smell of salt water and sand, reminding me what I loved about this place.
“I want to return it to them in better shape than I got it.”
“But the same,” LeeAnn said sarcastically.
“Yes.”
“Not sure what they taught you in college, but that sounds like a dumbass idea.”
“I need to gain some real experience as a manager so I can shore up my application to be in that manager trainee program at the Grand Chicago.”
“You still hoping for that?” LeeAnn asked.
“Of course. That’s what I went to school for, and I don’t have any other prospects. I have student loans that aren’t going to wash out with the tide.”
“So you need to show your stuff,” Maria said sympathetically.
I nodded. “And since I can’t change things, I have to add things,” I said.
Total silence for fifteen seconds.
“Right?” I asked.
“What are you gonna add?” Maria asked. “We have twenty-four rooms. That’s that.”
“I don’t know. Perks, I guess.”
LeeAnn laughed. “You’re a cute girl, probably even pretty if you’d show some skin. But come on, what kind of perks are you thinkin’ about?”
I rolled my eyes and slid off the table. “I’m going to take a walk on the beach before it gets hot and figure it out.”
It was barely past eight o’clock in the morning, so I didn’t have my Florida heat armor on. No sunscreen, no ponytail. I was also missing my academic armor. No glasses. Sunrise on the Gulf Coast is less impressive than sunset for obvious geographical reasons, but morning on any beach is beautiful. Some mysterious army of tractors pulling trailers rigged with giant rakes had already been by and combed the beach. I never thought about where that beach crew came from but figured it was one of the city-funded perks of Barefoot Key.
I rolled my toes in and out of the grooves left in the sand, trying to get my thoughts in a groove. What kind of amenities could I offer guests that would fill rooms on quiet weekdays in the fall? What services could I tack on some extra fees for that people would jump at? What did Barefoot Key and The Gull have as playing cards?
My parents were seasoned travelers. I could ask them for suggestions since they’d stayed in fifteen different hotels in all fifty states. But I needed to figure this out for myself.
I watched a fishing charter leave a wharf several properties farther down the beach. I could see at least half a dozen people and lots of long fishing poles sticking up all over the boat like a case of bed hair. An idea swirled through my head like the sand between my toes.
“Fishing charter,” a voice said behind me.
I jumped. “You shouldn’t sneak up on
people like that.”
“Hard to make noise in sand,” Skip said.
“You should try. I might have had a heart attack or something and then you’d have my blood on your hands.”
Skip picked up a long lock of hair brushing my shoulder and twisted it in his fingers. He leaned forward just a little and glanced down my shirt. “You look perfectly healthy to me.”
I stepped back, hoping to restore my heart rate to something close to healthy.
“One of these days we should talk about last spring,” he said. “Maybe over some tequila.”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “I thought you would have called me if you wanted to talk. You’ve had plenty of time since April.”
Skip put his hands in the pockets of his cargo shorts and rocked back on bare heels in the sand. He was shirtless as usual. And he wasn’t taking my bait.
“Saw you staring at the fishing charter boat,” he said.
“I was thinking about something.”
“Thinking of teaming up with a local charter and offering package deals? Could be a great add-on to rooms at The Gull.”
My heart rate steam-trained up the scale again. That was exactly the idea I’d been formulating, and I didn’t appreciate him acting like it was his. Just like the Jeopardy incident the other night. The danger of years of slightly lusty friendship was that you could know a person too well. And they had your thoughts on speed-dial.
“I knew that answer,” I said.
Skip tipped up one side of his face, giving me a questioning look.
“On Jeopardy. Flagler College. I knew that.”
“Figured you did.”
“So why did you text me the answer?”
“Maybe I wanted you to know I knew.”
It was on the tip of my tongue to ask him why he cared what I thought about his brainpower, especially after six months of silence from him after our spring break fling that apparently ended almost six years of friendship. Or flirtation. Or both.
I decided to live to fight another day on that count.
“So how would that work? If I did offer a package?” I asked.
“You would make a deal with a local charter—”
Unforgettable Heroes II Boxed Set Page 115
