Arms crossed, he surveyed the impromptu drinking party on my pool deck. He didn’t look happy.
“Need something?” I asked.
Skip cast around the deck like the answer to my question was somewhere under one of the aqua umbrellas.
Since he didn’t answer, I filled in. “These are the Brady brothers. From Texas. They’re all going out with your dad on the charter boat tomorrow.” I turned to the brothers six. “This is Skip McComber, his family owns McComber’s Fishing Charters.”
The brothers all put down their beers and got up to shake hands with Skip. Those guys had manners. Skip, however, looked like he’d walked into a formal wedding wearing flip-flops. Awkward.
“You’ll find his father, Jude, is much more talkative,” I said. Skip shot me a look.
“Long as we catch something,” one of the Bradys said, “conversation is optional.”
Another odd silence. I took a deep breath of man-smell. Six different scents mixed with the pool’s chlorine and the salty Gulf. But there was another one of familiar spice coated with sawdust that held my attention.
One of the Bradys offered Skip a beer. He shook his head.
“Computer trouble,” he said, addressing his words to me and sounding like he’d just found something he’d been looking for since last Christmas. “I’ve got computer problems.”
“Try unplugging it and waiting two hours,” a tall one said. “Works every time.”
“Not that kind of problem. Stupid spreadsheet program,” Skip said.
I didn’t have to be a college grad to know Skip was asking me for help, or at least using it as an excuse, but I didn’t rush to let him off the hook. He could ask nicely. Maybe even beg a little.
“I was hoping,” he said, lowering his voice and moving closer. “You might come next door and help me figure it out.”
“You live next door?” one of the Bradys asked.
“Not exactly,” Skip said.
He didn’t elaborate, so I played hostess. Which I guess I technically was since we were all knocking back brews on my borrowed patio. “Skip bought the pirate bar next door and he’s fixing it up. He used to be the maintenance man here at The Gull. He can run the pool pump, get doors unstuck, and get Barbie dolls out of toilets.” Skip’s look was somewhere between puffed up and pissed off. “But he can’t run a computer, I guess.”
“I can run the computer. Just don’t know how to make all the columns do what I want on the spreadsheet thing,” he said defensively. “Guess I’ll figure it out since you’re busy.”
“We can move this whole party,” a tall Brady suggested. “Wouldn’t mind seeing your bar.”
“It’s not open yet.”
“So we’ll roll our own cooler over.” They all stood up, picked up their bottles, and headed for the bar. From their smooth transition, I’d guess they’d moved a party before. One of the short ones grabbed the cooler handle and towed it behind him.
No one could doubt the Bradys from Texas were easy to get along with. As they poked around Skip’s bar and offered their genuine praise of the place, I tried to get to the bottom of the spreadsheet problem. Skip seemed torn between showing off his bar and squeezing close behind me at the makeshift desk in his unfinished office space.
“Thought I might get you alone,” he said.
“Plenty of chances for that.”
“Seemed like a good chance.”
“You know, I almost thought you were faking your accounting problem just to get me away from my drinking party with six attractive men,” I said, rolling my eyes at Skip when he tried to feign innocence. “But you have this ledger so screwed up, I don’t even think you could fake it. You need a bookkeeper. Desperately.”
“You’re hired.”
“I already have a full-time job.”
“So do I, but you have me over there all the time fixing stuff. Seems like this is fair play.”
I thought about that for a minute. I had some showers running slow, a doorknob that came off in LeeAnn’s hand, and two televisions that wouldn’t communicate with their remote controls. Skip couldn’t identify red ink from black and would be in a heap of trouble if an auditor ever sniffed his way to the former pirate emporium. We could be good for each other.
“Deal,” I said.
Chapter Eleven
All I could imagine about the article in the Old Farts magazine was that it would be sweaty. Partly because Dalton was writing it, but mostly because the air-conditioner in the lobby and office at The Gull was out to lunch the day Dalton came for a final interview. October on the Gulf Coast is not Michigan-sweater-weather, and I was itching to yank off the polyester polo shirt. I had only set aside my new tank tops so I would look semiprofessional for Dalton Longfellow.
Rita’s nephew hauled in a toolbox and pretended to prod around, but he was pretty distracted by his cell phone. Probably updating his status on some social network. I’d guess it would say something like “can’t fix this lame a/c” or “working sucks.”
I needed a pro. Or I was never going to survive pouring on the charm and serving up lemonade to the editor-hopeful across my desk.
“You’re a sight for sore eyes,” I heard Rita say to whoever slid open the glass door in the lobby. I knew who it was.
“You always say that,” Skip’s voice said, carrying into my office and making my itching worse. My attitude was in the shitter. But I was sweating out pleasantries and calling in favors.
Skip poked his head in my office. Shirtless. Of course. Wearing cargo shorts and work boots. And smiling.
“Hear you need me,” he said. He nodded toward Dalton, acknowledging him and giving me a look that suggested he understood my predicament. “You know part of the charm of these old beach motels is their quirkiness,” Skip said. “Just like guests, you don’t always know quite what you’re going to get.”
“Can I get you to fix the air-conditioning?” I asked.
Skip opened the control panel on the front of the wall thermostat. He smiled. “Another nice thing about these Old Florida places is you’ve got people who’ve worked in ‘em for years. Know all the ins and outs.” He ducked into a recessed office closet and snapped open a metal door. “So you know just who to ask.”
A click from the closet was followed immediately by a rush of air from the vent. It was warm at first, but the coolness brushed me before I could even complain.
“Gotta get a picture of this,” Dalton said. “Shirtless man saves the day.”
I resisted the compulsion to roll my eyes, focusing instead on the cold air now blasting me. I wondered if putting up with Dalton’s dorkiness was worth the potential free publicity from his magazine. I’d already sunk three nights free lodging in his visits to Barefoot. For all I knew, he was stringing out his “research” to get free vacations. Hell, maybe he didn’t even work for the magazine.
Dalton snapped a picture of Skip and looked giddily at the image on the back of his digital camera. My guess was he’d gotten it for his last birthday. “I’ll put this picture next to the one of you in that tube top dress thing,” Dalton said.
No amount of frigid air-conditioning was going to make that okay. “I’d prefer to focus on the motel instead of me,” I said. “I’m only temporarily running this place,” I continued, shooting a look at Skip and wavering between wishing he’d leave and hoping he’d stick around. “So it’s really about the motel, not the person behind this desk.”
“Like a human interest angle,” Dalton insisted. “I’ll choose a bunch of pictures to put in. Depends on my editor, too. You’ll just have to be surprised when it comes out.”
“When do you think that might be?” I asked.
Dalton looked at his old-man walking shoes. “Not sure. The higher-ups at the magazine don’t seem to recognize my talent. I’m hoping this article will change their minds.” He rubbed his hands together. “I can’t wait to see my name next to the headline Barefoot holds Key to Old Florida. See what I did there? It’s a pun
.”
I smiled politely, imagining he got the same kind of encouragement from his mother.
“Why don’t I show you our new website,” I suggested, reverting to business savvy and hoping Skip would get bored and take his ripped abs next door. “I think the branding I’m working on says it all.”
Dale scooted his chair a little closer and leaned into the monitor, shoving his glasses into position on his sweaty nose and making me appreciate Skip’s ability to know which lever to switch.
In addition to pushing all my buttons, he was a handy man to have around.
****
When the lingering sweat smell was all gone, eaten up by cool air-conditioning, I could think again. There was some office work I could do if I wanted an excuse to stay inside for the afternoon. I moved a few piles around on the desk, feeling at loose ends with my life, my position as temporary-ish manager of The Gull, my love life, and whether or not I should get another one of those slutty dresses.
“Heard about the Sunshine?” Rita asked, sliding into an empty chair by the office door and crossing one bare leg over the other.
“The shop?”
“Uh-huh. Sold out,” she pronounced, obviously waiting for my reaction.
I took a slow breath. Rita had time on her hands and I hoped stalling would make what I feared go away. “You mean she sold all her merchandise?” I asked. “Good for her. I picked up some nice clothes.”
Rita gave me a look.
“People know a bargain when they see one,” I continued, trying to smile but knowing I was being a pain in the ass.
“Guess that real estate company knows a bargain when they see one,” Rita said.
I gave up trying to hide from the truth. “What do you think the real estate company will do with her place?” I asked, feeling like I’d swallowed something large without chewing first.
“They told her what she wanted to hear, if you ask me. Said they liked what she had going and promised to keep something like her shop in the same location.”
“That sounds nice, but they have no obligation to do that unless it’s in the contract. When they own it, they can do whatever they want,” I said. “I’m glad they don’t have enough property to do anything that’ll compete with us.”
Rita gave me the look again. “You don’t think they’re gonna come knocking on our door next?” she asked.
“The Gull’s not for sale.”
“The Sunshine wasn’t, either, until rumor got out that Sandshore Realty was paying better than people had a right to expect based on their last property valuations.”
“My aunt and uncle don’t have a mortgage, and they have never said a word about selling. As far as I know, they plan to stay here until either they turn to dust or The Gull does.”
“Huh,” Rita said. “Never know what people are gonna do until they do it.”
The heavy feeling in my throat wasn’t any better. “Is this happening anywhere else in Barefoot? Anyone else suddenly selling to Sandshore?”
“Hard to say, people are pretty close-mouthed about their business until it’s obvious. Or they’re friends like the Sunshine.”
“But this same thing happened a few years ago, right?”
“Uh-huh,” she said, slipping off her sandals and examining her pedicure. “Bunch of places sold, folks moved on, and they’re either still empty or sold out for less. Shitty deal for everyone, especially, I guess, those dumbasses in the real estate company that bought ‘em and lost money or got stuck.”
“Businesses aren’t in the habit of losing money or making bets they think won’t pay off,” I said.
“That what they taught you in college?”
“Some of it.”
“‘Cause that’s not what we’re seeing around here. Guess Barefoot Key is the exception.”
The bell on the lobby door jingled and Rita returned to the desk. I heard her out there going through the ritual of checking someone in for the night.
I typed Sandshore Realty into a search engine on my uncle’s desktop computer, a nagging suspicion lingering in my mind. I knew enough to know companies only bet on losers when losing is their goal. Why would a real estate company nose around and buy properties on which the last company lost money? I reasoned it could be the buy low, hang on, and sell high later philosophy. If so, there would probably be records of Sandshore Realty’s previous dealings. Somewhere. Looking for property transactions would be a lot more helpful if I knew where to start.
The flyer from the smooth guy at the tent was wrinkled from having spent the evening down my sleazy dress front, but it was still there under the desk mat in my temporary office. I slid it out and read it over for the first time. The website listed on the front was only window dressing. The site had glossy pictures, an About Us page that was as informative as a redacted CIA document, photo-shopped pictures of company executives, and a form to fill out to contact them.
There was no way I was going to learn anything about Sandshore Realty the easy way.
A small button at the bottom of the page caught my attention. Careers. I remembered Robert’s suggestion that I join their team but had passed it off as a direct result of my glorified tube top dress. A person could learn a lot about a company through the application process, and it was certainly a believable reason to ask questions.
Rita popped back in the office, the lobby quiet again. She lounged on the corner of the desk, killing time while she waited for a few more people with previous reservations to roll in. I closed the page I had on the screen because I didn’t want to share my half-brained plan with anyone. Especially someone who’d tell me it was half-brained.
“Ready for a birthday party?” I asked Rita, changing the subject.
“Whose birthday?”
“Some little girl. Part of my plan to fill in the empty slots in the company spreadsheets. I’m opening the pool for kids’ birthday parties on weekdays. Decent revenue, not much cost for us. Put it out on social media and got two booked already.”
“Nice idea,” Rita said. She said it in the same way you’d tell an old lady her new perm looks good.
“Glad you think so,” I told her, pulling up the party reservation on my computer. “Because I need someone to make balloon animals and do magic tricks.”
Rita rolled her denim buns off the desk and headed for the door. “I have to rearrange the complementary toiletries under the counter. Might need to order some extra shower caps,” she mumbled as she trudged off without looking back.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” I called out, knowing Rita would probably rather scrub seagull poop off the roof than play hostess at a princess-themed birthday party. Unless I let her be the princess.
Chapter Twelve
I wanted to relax and enjoy my date with Skip. It seemed like weeks since he’d officially asked me out and we both finally finished circling the idea. Sure, we’d had sex in his walk-in cooler on the night of the hurricane. But this was a date. It implied premeditation and potential commitment.
For fun, he suggested we recreate our first date when we were sixteen and we drove down the coast for ice cream. The weather was perfect, still hot but fading color mellowing everything into peachy coral shades, removing harsh lines everywhere.
My tank top, chosen in deference to the Sunshine, short-shorts and flip flops were all Florida style. No Michigan on my body. I even had a tan and a sun visor.
“Is this the same Jeep?” I asked.
“Believe it or not. When I got the guys at the dealership downtown to spray it all one color, I found out it looked pretty good,” Skip said, draping a beach towel over my seat to cover the cracks in the vinyl.
The baby blue paint did look pretty good.
“It even runs almost all the time. Nearly a perfect record so far of getting me home from wherever I’ve gone.”
“I’ll take it,” I said.
We took the same route down the coast we’d taken a half-dozen years ago. This time, we were eating dinner and then m
aybe adding ice cream. Skip kept his focus on shifting gears while I tried not to think about what I’d done earlier in the day. My curiosity has led me down some decent intellectual paths and beefed up my savvy image a few times in the past. Today, however, I wondered if I’d gone too far in investigating Sandshore Realty.
Skip pulled into a seafood restaurant, the kind that mixes elegant and casual to the extent you’re guaranteed to be dressed right for it. Not taking chances on shrimp cocktail, I ordered an innocent salad.
“You’re thinking about something other than that food,” Skip said.
I took a bite and tried to look enthusiastic. It was good food, but Skip was right about the focus of my attention.
“Do you always think about food?” I asked.
Skip looked up and right, pretending to seriously consider my question. Not only had he shaved and exposed all his handsome face, but he was also wearing a shirt. For added points, the shirt was not screen printed and did not advertise anything. Not even beer.
“Nope,” he said. “Sometimes I think about beer. And sex. And fixing stuff. Been thinking about my bar a lot lately.”
“Have you decided when your grand opening will be?”
“What do you think about Halloween?”
Still a few weeks away, I hoped I’d still be around. The news from Michigan had not been encouraging about my great-aunt. Carol and Mike were doing the rounds of doctors and social workers, searching for a good solution before returning to Florida. My parents, although they weren’t directly related to Carol’s mother, would have tried to help, but they lived several hours away in Michigan and were spending their retirement travelling. I wondered if my dad’s brother Mike ever considered retiring or if he planned to go out with the sunset at The Gull.
No matter how complicated things were up north, apparently my assurances about The Gull’s well-being were convincing enough to buy me more time in the driver’s seat. But I had no idea how much time.
Unforgettable Heroes II Boxed Set Page 121
