Telling myself I was not navigating directly toward the pirate and its owner, I headed down the line of vendors. But I wasn’t fooling anyone. I wanted to razz Skip about his statue and revel in the success of my Old Florida theme. I’d never been to one of these chamber events before, but I’d heard about them. And it seemed to me tonight’s was a huge relative success. I wanted confirmation.
I searched for someone else wearing the peach-colored polo shirt embroidered with the chamber’s logo like I was. It wasn’t sexy, but I’m a team player. All the members wore this uniform and acted as hosts for the party.
I should have watched where I was walking. That would have been a more hostess-like move. But I was on a collision course with one of the cheerleader waitresses and a tray loaded with shrimp and cocktail sauce. Bright red cocktail sauce. And I didn’t even have a chance to swerve.
Like Black Friday shoppers wrangling over the last TV at Walmart, we hit the ground. In her defense, the cheerleader waitress held the tray aloft over our tangled bodies on the sand, but that just heightened the drama as I watched the slow tip and slide. I knew what was coming. After a lifetime of hiding behind brainy glasses and avoiding girls blessed with boobs and hair confidence, I was at the mercy of one of them.
I didn’t really blame her for letting the cocktail sauce slide my direction and not hers. She had a lot more money in her hair and bikini than I did in my ponytail and polo shirt. Plus, I had my glasses on for safety.
Just before the big splash—mercifully it was a lightweight plastic bowl containing an astonishing quantity of cocktail sauce—my vision focused on a single object. It could have been desperation, but I’m sure that was Skip McComber running toward me, his expression conveying perhaps shock and definitely amusement.
This was a hell of a display for a gal who prided herself on being savvy.
The sauce, cool compared to the warm evening air, spattered my neck and shirt. It oozed through the fabric and dampened my bra. One of my ears was clammy with cocktail sauce.
A hand grasped mine, pulling me to my feet.
“If you really wanted to do the Old Florida theme, it would be better to wrestle an alligator,” Skip said, pointedly looking at my cocktail sauce covered chest. “More action than taking down a cheerleader. Crowd would love it.”
The cheerleader in question reached a hand toward Skip as she ogled his impressive biceps and forearms. In deference to health codes and food service, he wore a yellow T-shirt advertising Skip’s Beach Shack. And he completely ignored the cheerleader, leaving her to roll to her feet and slink off with her empty tray.
“Aside from the obvious,” he said, gesturing at the wreckage of my polo shirt, “any damage done?”
He held me at arm’s length, apparently not wanting to share my food stains.
I sighed. “Never better. But I have to run home and change.”
“And miss the party? You could…uh…maybe brush some of that off?”
I gave him a look that would win a sarcasm contest.
“Or find something else to wear. I think they’re selling Barefoot Key T-shirts at one of these stands. Or I could fix you up with one of my bar T-shirts. Even has an old-time graphics scheme.” He pointed both index fingers at his T-shirt, which did, indeed, have an old-fashioned beach shack and palm trees inside a giant tequila glass. Like a Florida-style snow globe.
I hated to confess I was soaked all the way through. I needed a new bra or the red sauce would permeate a fresh shirt like ketchup through a bun. Maybe I could get a red shirt and hope nobody got too close.
We walked a few paces toward Skip’s busy drink tent and I found my deliverance in something I thought I would never wear.
A tube top sundress. No bra required or expected. Colorful. Old Florida. Okay, maybe 1970s Florida, but it was still old. And it was available in a huge range of shades and patterns.
“Maybe I’ll get one of those,” I said.
Skip followed my pointing finger and his eyes lit up.
“Wouldn’t mind seeing you in one of those.”
I rolled my eyes and cut off into the dress tent, not bothering to see if Skip followed me.
“Something not too revealing,” I told the lady working the counter. Although she had fifty pounds on me, she was shoved into a tube top sundress in a bright orange hibiscus pattern. She looked all right. Maybe I could pull this off, too.
I arranged myself in a tropical blue dress with splashy yellow flowers, hoping people would focus on the pretty pattern instead of my inadequacies in the boobage department.
“Not bad,” the clerk said. “Wouldn’t have thought you had a figure under that godawful polo shirt.”
I handed over twenty-five bucks, slid into my flip-flops, shoved my wrecked clothes in a plastic bag, and sashayed from the tent.
Skip was right where I’d left him. He did not look at the yellow flowers. Instead he moved in and kissed my bare shoulder, giving me goose bumps everywhere.
“You taste like shrimp sauce,” he said. “Very sexy.”
I thought I was trampy in this dress, but I’d take sexy. There were still several hours of party to get through, and I couldn’t let being taken down by a cheerleader then subsequently scrunching into a tube top with a skirt wreck my game.
“I need a beer,” I said.
“Coming right up.”
I shook my head. “Think I’ll head over to the beer tent. I’m supposed to be sort of supervising. Or hosting. Or something.”
“But you’re incognito now. You could get away with anything. Get drunk, sing karaoke, have sex with one of the vendors. Preferably me.”
“Tempting,” I said.
“And you don’t have to worry about the beer tent. My dad’s working it.”
I tried to picture Jude McComber responsibly checking IDs and somberly cutting people off after they had too many.
“Since he’s an alcoholic,” Skip continued, “you’ve got a professional in charge there.”
“Your dad can’t be an alcoholic,” I said.
“Why not?”
“Because he owns a business. He’s a local personality,” I protested. “And he has a beautiful name. I think Jude is a saint’s name.”
“Drunks can own stuff and have personality. And I bet there have been plenty of saints who hit the bottle.”
I thought about Jude McComber’s secret life. Hell, maybe it was no secret. Just because I didn’t know it didn’t mean it was classified. Since I’d shown up at The Gull over a month ago, I’d found out how little I knew about anything.
“In his defense, he doesn’t drink on the boat. Never did. But he’s a crappy businessman. Everything went downhill when he took over the charter boat from my granddad.”
“So you bought a bar.”
“Like the irony?” he asked.
“I’d still like a beer,” I said. I thought getting a little sloppy might bring everything into focus and make me forget about my outfit.
“Offer of drinking, karaoke, and sex still stands, but I have to get back to work. People are knocking back my barefoot mixers like they’re gonna disappear with the sunset.”
When I reached the event sponsored beer tent, I had no trouble finding Jude McComber. He stopped me at the entrance, holding out a hand and rolling like a wave on the sea. He peered intently at my face.
“I’m supposed to ask your age,” he said.
He did not look like he was in any shape to be in charge.
“I’m fifty-two years old,” I said, highly doubting he was paying any attention.
“Proof?” he asked.
I cocked my head and sucked in a deep breath. Which was a mistake because the booze vapors coming off him put me over the legal limit by just breathing.
“Do you know who I am?”
He focused on me again. “Sure. I…uh…didn’t recognize you in that,” he pointed at my trampy 1970s tube top dress. “Savvy Thorpe,” he said like a revelation had come from the Almighty.
> “You’re drunk,” I said.
“Yep. But not crazy like the rest of you chamber nuts. I don’t think even a nice shindig like this is going to get us all out of the crapper.”
I wanted to protest. It was such a success, this evening by the Gulf shore with crowds, wine, color. How could the business community of Barefoot really be going downhill at the rate it appeared to be? Certainly the location, if nothing else, should keep it afloat.
“Come on,” I said. “This is great. Maybe it’s a new beginning for Barefoot Key.”
“Or a really pretty ending,” Jude said, polishing off a plastic cup of beer.
I considered my answer. Jude didn’t seem like a mean drunk, just a skeptical one. And maybe he had good reasons. “Your fishing business is going all right, isn’t it? The package deal we put together with The Gull already has some bookings. You fill up your boat, I fill up my motel.”
“Not gonna do me a helluva lot of good if the marina I operate out of sells out.”
“Is it going to sell out?”
He looked at me like I was a little girl who thought the upside down fish in her tank was just sleeping. “See that tent over there?” He pointed to the multicolored tent operated by Sandshore Realty and staffed by a few sharp-looking salesmen. I’d planned to stop by there this evening and see what they were going to do. Maybe someone should warn them the last real estate company that invested in property here ended up losing their shirts and selling low, dropping values for everyone and leaving an ugly stain on the whole town.
“Now that you’re not wearing your chamber shirt anymore, maybe you should go ask them what the hell they think they’re up to,” Jude suggested.
“Are they up to something?”
He tipped his cup over and appeared to be considering its empty condition, the gesture removing any credibility from his thoughts on the local real estate market.
“Everybody’s always up to something,” he concluded, his words slurring.
“Maybe they have good intentions. They see a great opportunity for growth in a cool beachside community.”
“Smart girl like you shouldn’t dress like that,” Jude said. “Makes you gullible.”
I didn’t get a chance to disagree because a flash went off in my face.
“You look great in that Old Florida dress,” Dalton said, oozing closer and checking out the digital photo on the screen of his camera. “I’ll put this picture in my magazine article for sure.” He looked at me closely, an expression of concentration on his face. “I think my mom had one a lot like that in the 70s.”
That was my motivation for escaping the beer zone and heading for the tents. They were colorful, so I thought I might blend in better. Perhaps people would mistake me for a tourist or a local looking for fun.
The Sandshore Realty tent was set apart from the others and distinguished by having strangers in business casual instead of locals in dressed up swimwear. It looked like a crystal bowl among paper plates. Maybe I was lowering my standards the longer I hung out in my beach motel on the Gulf coast, but I was starting to think paper plates were all right.
A salesman wearing a button-down and trousers handed me a brochure. “Have you heard of our company?” he asked. His nametag identified him as Robert.
“A little,” I said, not interested in showing my hand and not being really untruthful. What did I know about this company?
“We’re a small real estate company looking to grow by investing in wonderful beach towns like this. Places with character that need a little money to push them into the next century.”
“That’s quite a goal,” I said.
“A good one. These little towns have plenty of attractive features,” he said, glancing over my outfit. “And we’re always looking for people to join our team of associates.”
I was being recruited? After thirty seconds of conversation?
“Here’s some information about our company. My number’s on there if you think you’d like to hear more.”
I was pretty sure I’d heard enough already but was in the lucky position of having nothing to lose. “Do you think your company can reverse the damage done to property values in Barefoot by the last real estate company that invested and lost its ass?” I said.
“We have nothing to do with that company,” he said quickly, his tone losing some of the manicure it had before.
Maybe it was my outfit making me feel so salty. I stuffed his brochure down the front of my elastic dress and sashayed off. Picking fights with strangers is no way to enjoy the sunset.
Chapter Eight
My aunt and uncle had called faithfully every few days to give me the progress report on the reformation of crazy Aunt Gwen. Except for today. They’d already called three times.
“We should be glad it’s hitting on a Sunday night,” Rita said. “Not a whole lot of reservations to cancel that way.”
“So we’re totally empty?” I asked.
“Except for you. You can come to my house and hunker down if you want.”
This was my first official hurricane and the last thing I wanted to do was ride it out alone. Growing up in Michigan, we had the occasional tornado threat but never an all-night howling wind with storm surge potential. What did I know about handling that? And what would I do to protect the motel?
“Of course, if I were you, I’d spend the night in Skip’s storm shelter like he offered. Hurricane or not, most women I know wouldn’t pass up a night with Skip McComber. And it would probably just be the two of you since he doesn’t have any employees and his folks will be at home.”
I considered the wisdom of locking myself up with Skip. Our history was a pretty clear indication of what would happen. The knocking in my chest where my heart was supposed to be was another indicator. Over six years of sometimes friendship, sometimes tension, occasional action, and always attraction had weathered me down like a rock in a stream. Spending a steady five weeks here with him next door was temptation my college education had taught me nothing about.
“Probably not a good idea,” I finally said.
“Don’t see why not. He’s available. You’re available. What’s the problem with you two?”
“I’m supposed to be focusing on The Gull.”
“And?” she asked skeptically, hands on hips.
“And Skip messes up my focus.”
Rita shut down the computer and locked the file drawers under the checkout counter, handing me the keys. She switched the outside sign to No Vacancy.
“Skip said he’d come over and get the hurricane plywood on as soon as he’s done at his place,” Rita said. “We’ve got boards sized and stored for all the beach side windows. Used them plenty of times before. Just have to put them up.”
“What else?”
“All the patio tables, chairs, and umbrellas go in the shed. Hard to fit them all in, but it can be done when we get all the plywood out. That comes out first.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I don’t know crap about preparing for a hurricane. Think there’s a chance the whole thing will miss us?”
Skip slid the patio door over and stepped in.
“Sure,” Rita said in answer to my question. “It’d totally wreck the orgasm they’re working up on the news channel, but it could turn south or stall out and we’d just get some tropical weather out of it. Happened before.”
“I’m hoping for that.”
“Hate to ruin a good orgasm,” Skip said.
“I bet it happens all the time to those guys on the Weather Channel,” Rita said. “Mother Nature is a tease.”
I stayed out of this conversation, figuring I should maintain some dignity as the manager of The Gull. A gust of wind bracketed the patio door and I shivered.
“Just an early band,” Rita said. “The big stuff will hit later. Are you sure you want to stay here?”
Skip raked me with a look. “You can’t stay here alone.”
“But I don’t want to leave The Gull. My aunt and uncle trust
ed me with it.”
“They don’t expect you to stop a hurricane,” he said.
“But what if the power goes out and I have to do something important?”
“Like what?”
“Like unplug stuff. And get junk out of the pool. And use flashlights or something.”
“You also have to flush the toilets once every hour so they don’t overflow,” Skip said, his expression serious.
I almost thought he wasn’t kidding for a minute until Rita laughed.
“You’re not helping,” I said.
“But I’m just about to. I pulled all the boards out of the shed. I’ll start screwing them to the window frames while you two haul the patio furniture into the shed.”
We battled wind gusts and horizontal rain showers for an hour as we did what we could to secure the outside of the motel. Rita and I toweled off and tuned in to the Weather Channel for a few minutes on the lobby television, but they were stuck in a loop providing no new information. My aunt and uncle called to tell us they were following the storm on television, too, and urged us to stay safe.
Rita shook the water off her coat. “Maybe it’ll go south of us and we’ll just get some wind and rain,” she said encouragingly. “I’m headed home. I can’t leave my dog alone any longer. She’ll chew the arm off the sofa if it gets real ugly. You watch out for yourself here and don’t forget Skip’s offer of his walk-in cooler. You might need it.”
Rita stopped in the door and turned. “Mind if I take Tulip home with me? My dog’ll be happier with a playmate and it gives you one less thing to worry about.”
If Tulip was any kind of a service dog, I’d insist on keeping her nearby. But she was more talented in the entertainment and mischief department. Sending her home with Rita was an easy choice. I clipped on her leash and handed her over closing the door behind them.
Unforgettable Heroes II Boxed Set Page 118
