“Counting on?” I sat up, pulling the sleeping bag over my exposed skin and trying to get oriented. I was naked, stiff from sleeping on concrete, and beginning to feel the morning after questions coming.
Damn that hurricane.
“Hurricanes can sometimes be your friend,” Skip said, stretching long arms over his head, not caring how much skin he was showing. “I might get a new roof out of it. I could use that.”
“Oh. Never thought of it that way.”
“The Gull might end up with a facelift sponsored by your friendly agent if the damage is bad enough.”
“I don’t want damage,” I said, a sinking feeling fully replacing the satisfaction of the earlier hours.
“Doesn’t matter if you want it or not. You get what you get.”
If I were on a playground swing, this would be the point where I realized I’d blissfully gone too high and now the swing was wobbling out of control. I had to slow down or risk a dangerous jump. I hate those decisions.
I reached for my clothes in the dark shelter and started to pull them on, not caring that I was tugging the covers around with me.
“Want me to turn on the lantern?”
“Not yet,” I said quickly. I wanted to get my clothes on and see what my motel looked like. I wanted to regain control of the weather, my property, and especially my nerves.
“Say when.”
I zipped my jeans, slithered into my tank top and covered up with my hoodie.
“When.”
Skip switched on the lantern and lay back watching me. He was totally naked and didn’t care.
“You seem upset.”
“Hurricane,” I said.
“Probably more of a tropical storm by the time it hit us.”
“Whatever.”
He sat up and looked me over. “No one’s going to blame you for damage to The Gull. Even smart people can’t stop gale winds.”
“I know.”
“So why are you putting on your shoes and edging toward the door?”
“Curiosity.”
He sighed. “Wait for me.”
Skip pulled on jeans and boots and rummaged in his pocket for the key. As he opened the door, my heart was on a railroad track, racing over an abandoned bridge. We walked up two steps and into his bar. It looked exactly the same as yesterday. Aside from the boarded windows allowing almost no light, nothing had changed. The power was out, but that was no surprise.
“So far so good,” he said.
The good news lasted until he opened the beachside door. Attempted to open. Sand was piled so high he had to pour his weight behind a hard shove just to open the door a few inches.
“Other door,” he said. As we crossed the bar to the parking lot side, I was picturing every door on the first floor of The Gull barricaded by a mountain of sand.
“You’ve got the patio and the pool deck in front of all your doors. You’ll probably be fine,” he said, guessing my thoughts as usual.
No resistance from the other door stopped us, and we stepped into the early morning light of the empty parking lot. Skip paced out several feet and looked up at his roofline. My attention was fixed on The Gull next door.
A potted palm lay on its side across the patio door.
Sand swirled in piles and small hills on the pool deck.
One loose board from the edge of the roof swung like a pendulum in the wind. It looked like an abandoned Wild West town from a movie set. But it was all intact.
“Damn,” Skip said. “No new roof for you.”
“I was happy with the old one.”
“All the window boards held, don’t even think that patio door is damaged.”
“Good.”
“Maybe,” he said. “Might have been nice to replace it. It’s older than you are.”
“Part of the charm.”
“You talk a lot about the old charm. Starting to think you actually care about this place.”
“Of course I care about it,” I said.
“Thought you were building your resume and biding your time until you can get out of here.”
The outrage rumbling in my chest had a number of possible causes. Damn near all of them had something to do with Skip McComber.
I tried to keep my voice steady. “You think I only care about the motel because I can get something out of it? That’s a hell of an insult.”
Skip held up both hands in front of him like he was trying to stop traffic. “You said yourself you needed to do something to get into hotel training camp and demonstrate business savvy.”
I rolled my eyes at his use of my nickname. It felt like a violation of the self-incrimination amendment.
“So I wasn’t so sure how much you were attached to The Gull,” he tapped a finger over my heart, “in here.”
I stared at him, not able to come up with a suitable answer, not knowing how much what he said was the truth.
“Guess maybe I underestimated you,” he said.
I let out a deep breath. Too much drama over the past hours was messing with my reason. I needed to start making a list of damages and costs. It would restore my equilibrium for at least the time being.
Skip was probably thinking the same thing. He leaned out and sighted down the side of his bar. “My building looks okay. Just got a lot of sand and water to sweep out.”
“I wonder how downtown looks,” I said. I thought of the people I’d met at the chamber of commerce meeting, all of them dependent on their businesses and local tourism. A storm like this wasn’t catastrophic, but it put a serious hitch in the account books for a few weeks. And might make it tough to make the monthly bills. With bills of my own, I could sympathize.
“Will it put your construction project back very much?” I asked.
He shook his head. “I’m mostly doing inside stuff right now anyway. Didn’t have much in the way of outside renovations planned. Kind of like the old look, except for the pirate statue.”
“You don’t like life-sized statues?” I asked.
“When I was a kid, I always hoped the Gator in a Gown statue would get washed out to sea,” he said, grinning. “Or at least knocked over. My buddies and I were often tempted to graffiti it, but Granddad would’ve killed us.”
“I love that statue,” I protested. “It’s got character.” I glanced around my pool patio littered with small pieces of debris. “This is a mess.”
“Barefoot Key’s been through this plenty of times,” Skip said. “We’ll be fine.”
From his tone, I couldn’t tell if I’d been initiated into the storm survivor’s category or reminded I was an outsider. For the hundredth time, I tried to imagine my future. Here in Barefoot Key? Probably not after my aunt and uncle returned. Working at the Grand Chicago in a crisp navy blue suit? That was the plan. It just seemed a little windblown right now, too.
And I had no idea what Skip’s idea of our future was either. We just hooked up for the second time this year. The difference was that this time I wasn’t here on a one-week break. We’d have to figure out what the next day and the next would bring for our relationship. At least until I could hand The Gull back over to its rightful owners.
Skip’s body language was unreadable, and his expression pensive as he shaded his eyes and looked up and down the strip of motels, shops, and bars along the beach. I followed his glance and decided nearly everyone looked to be in the same shape we were. Messy, but still around. A few other people were walking around their property looking alternately up and down, assessing.
For a distraction, I walked around the end of The Gull to check out the parking lot. I didn’t look to see if Skip followed me or not. Maybe we both needed processing time.
Water pooled in quivering puddles, some sticks and leaves were shoved up against the room doors. A used tire had rolled in and lodged in the front flower bed crushing the yucca plant. The aqua sign with the sea gull stood as still as ever. The neon lights advertising vacancy or not didn’t work, but I didn’t see any damage. W
hen the power came back on, we’d probably find it was strangely fine. It had apparently withstood a few storms in its half century.
Rita rolled in and Tulip jumped out the passenger side window without waiting for the car to stop.
“Holy shit, we got a mess,” Rita said. “Better get going on it.”
I swung around to see what Skip would say, but he was gone. He had his own mess to clean up.
“Hope you got a little sleep last night,” Rita said. “Although you probably had a lot more fun if you didn’t.”
Chapter Ten
“My nephew Ralph is pretty useless, but at least he’s a warm body. And we really need someone for crap jobs like cleaning up storm junk,” Rita said.
“Two questions,” I said. “Will he work for minimum and can he start today?”
Rita laughed. “Hell, he could have started last week. He hasn’t had a job since he graduated from high school last June.”
“Very encouraging,” I said. “We don’t have to untrain him.”
“Figured you’d see it that way. I’ll get him in and show him the ropes if you want to do something about the fall fishing package guys we got coming in later.”
“Deal.”
Although the hurricane had only rolled through two days ago, people were already going about their normal routines. Tourists drove through town. The trash truck emptied the dumpsters. The doors at the souvenir stands were open. Fishing boats were going out to try their luck in the calmed waters of the Gulf.
A group of six men were scheduled to come in this afternoon to put up for the night. They’d go out with McComber Charters in the early morning to see what they could reel in. Six rooms that would have been empty otherwise were booked, and maybe I could hook them for another night if the fishing was good. My account books would have a sunny side and demonstrate I had the business savvy people seemed to think I did.
I hoped my fishing charter guys would have smoother sailing with the elder McComber than I was having with the younger.
After our night in his storm shelter, we’d both been busy. The truth is, that wasn’t much of an excuse. We’d both practiced some serious avoidance. I didn’t know if we’d try to surpass our last record of six months, but we had a start. Over the past forty-eight hours, I’d vacillated between showing up naked on Skip’s doorstep and showing him the door if he bothered to come nosing around again.
Maria came in the lobby and sat on the vinyl couch, swinging her feet up and taking a break.
“All done,” she said. “Sand swept, rooms spiffed up. And I’m in no hurry to go home.”
“Got a good babysitter?”
“My husband’s home for the week. The trucking company he works for had storm damage at its central warehouse, so they’re not moving any merchandise until they get it repaired.”
“Don’t you want to go home and spend some time with him?”
Maria pursed her lips and sucked in a deep breath. “Do you think I need any more kids?”
Not being an expert in that department, I kept my mouth shut. I printed out the guest list for the night, only six names on it.
“Is it weird that all six men have the same last name?” I asked. “I hope they’re not a cult or something.”
“All separate rooms?”
“Yep.”
“Brothers,” Maria said. “Probably still fight if they have to share a room.”
“I don’t have any brothers. And I’m obviously no expert on men,” I said.
Maria assessed me with a serious look from her feet-up position on the aqua couch. “I think things are going to work out for you just fine,” she said.
“Got a crystal ball?”
“Not exactly. But close.”
“How close?”
Maria swung her feet down and came over to the counter, leaning on it with both elbows. She glanced around and spoke just above a whisper.
“I know things,” she said. “Things that are going to happen.”
I put down the list of fishing brothers and gave her my full attention.
“Maybe it’s what they call a sixth sense,” she continued. “I’ve always had it to some degree, but it seemed to get a little sharper with each baby I birthed.”
I laughed, trying for levity because I was getting a little weirded out. “Your kids probably can’t get away with anything.”
She flicked her hand. “All mothers have that sense. Kids are predictable. What I’m talking about is something else. Last year when that big sinkhole happened up by Tallahassee, I had a dream about it the night before. And that man in Tampa who robbed all the churches on the same night? I saw that coming in a vision.”
“Have you told anyone about this?”
“Only a few people, people who share the gift.”
“There are others?”
Maria glanced around and leaned closer, lowering her voice even more. “Ever since I got a computer, I found a way to put my gift to some good use.”
“I’m almost afraid to ask.”
“Stock trading. You can do it on the Internet.”
I’d minored in business. I knew this. But Maria was still a mystery.
“Exactly what are you doing?”
“It’s called day trading. You have to be good with predictions and you gotta be fast. It takes dedication.”
“I’ve heard about it,” I said. Quite a lot. But I didn’t have the spare money or the nerve to try it. I looked Maria over carefully. Blue housekeeper’s uniform, curly dark hair cut short, dark complexion overlaid with a tan, big brown eyes. I wouldn’t have picked her out as a day trader, but what did I know?
“So how are you doing this?” I asked.
“I formed a group. We all go to St. Mary’s. Some of us work days, some afternoons and nights. We take shifts sharing an account and our…uh….”
“Intuition?”
“That’s a good word for it.”
“Are you making any money?” I asked. It sounded too good to be true.
Maria looked down at the countertop and several seconds passed. Finally, she looked me in the eye. “I’ll tell you that we’re looking for a good cause to spend our money on, but that’s all I can say. We swore each other to secrecy, most of our husbands don’t even know.”
I raised my eyebrows at that.
“Men make a mess of things,” she said, her face relaxing into a smile. “But not all of them. Which brings me back to you. I had a vision about you before you got here. My dream started out with the old Gator in a Gown statue in a flowing white dress, but it shifted around and when it finally ended, it was you in a wedding gown.”
There was absolutely nothing I could say in response. Except that I’d always felt a certain connection to the Gator statue. Maybe Maria the day trader just provided the answer.
And maybe it was a cautionary tale about getting too much Florida sun.
****
Turned out, Maria was right about one thing. The six Texas fishermen were brothers. Three tall, three short, no in-between. Even during check-in, I could see why they couldn’t or shouldn’t share a room. Having never had a sibling or a brother, I’ve missed out on the joy of elbowing, fighting for first in line, and bickering that seems to go with the territory.
These Texans were experts. I suspected Jude McComber would need every ounce of his personal equilibrium to keep them all afloat early the next morning. Rita was still trying to instill job training in her new maintenance man, so I manhandled the Texans and handed over keys to six rooms that were not adjoining. I wasn’t taking any chances with a stray punch or any roughhousing tearing up my motel.
My motel. I tried out that expression a few times as I sucked in air-conditioning in the now empty lobby. The longer I breathed Gull air, the more I felt it becoming part of me. Had I been in training to run The Gull all my life? Maybe I should have spent all that tuition money on something else. Like a library full of first editions. Or a convertible.
I slid the frosted door op
en and stepped onto the pool deck. The six Brady brothers were all there, drinking out of a cooler they’d rolled in. They waved me over. I hesitated, so one of the tall ones opened the lid on the cooler and gestured at the goods inside like he was a game show host.
He’d make a good TV personality. Long lean body, chiseled jaw. He’s what I thought of when I thought “hot Texan.”
“Think it violates the innkeeper’s code of conduct to drink with guests?” I asked.
“I believe it’s a requirement south of the Mason-Dixon Line,” the tall hot one said. “Especially when you own the place.”
One of the brothers tossed a rubber ball for Tulip who retrieved it with a level of enthusiasm that suggested she was in the game for the long haul. I guess I hadn’t played with her as much as Uncle Mike probably did. Tulip and I would both be delighted when my aunt and uncle rolled back into town. Whenever that was going to be.
“I don’t own it,” I said, choosing a chair in the middle of the group and using the edge of my shirt to twist off the top of my beer bottle. “Just babysitting it until my aunt and uncle get home from vacation.”
“How long they been gone?”
“Over a month.”
Six pairs of nearly identical eyes swung toward me. All the brothers gave me a questioning look.
“How long were they gone on their last vacation?” This question was from one of the short brothers.
“They’ve never taken one before.”
Now all six men made sounds that were all variation on the theme of “um-hmm.”
“They’re coming back,” I said, sounding a little defensive. Maybe desperate.
A tall and short Texan leaned toward me and clinked their beer bottles with mine. “So what are your plans for the place?” the tall one said. “Not much to look at, but it’s got character. Plus, you can’t beat the price with a fishing trip thrown in.”
Maybe it’s a sign of my general fear of failure and being found out as less savvy than I pretend, but I got all warm and fuzzy at approval from visiting fishermen. Could be the alcohol talking, since my reputation for not holding my liquor was better documented than my college transcripts.
My bolstered ego lasted another thirty seconds until Skip swaggered onto the pool deck. He was over six feet of tasty man with exposed abs and intense eyes that always made me wonder which side of the balance sheet I was on.
Unforgettable Heroes II Boxed Set Page 120
