by Cook, Claire
"You're welcome." Carol reached in for a suitcase. "She's at my house. Dennis is going to work remote, and I bribed Siobhan to help out with the younger kids. Hurry, we're going to miss our flight."
Mayor Menino welcomed us to Boston yet again as we entered the pedestrian walkway.
Carol stopped. "What the hell did he just mumble?"
"Uh-uh-uh," our father said. "We'll have no making fun of His Honor the Mayor on my watch."
The rest of my family strode quickly along the moving walkway, but the combination of movement on top of movement plus exhaustion made me dizzy, so I jumped off and jogged along beside them.
When we got to security, Carol handed me an empty Zip-lock bag and I transferred my makeup and the rest of my potentially dangerous items into it. Then I chugged what was left in the water bottle I'd been carrying around for about a day now. Carol handed out our boarding passes and we breezed right through security, no big surprise since it was not quite 4:30 A.M.
Even Carol hadn't been able to get the four of us seats together. Or a nonstop flight. I spent the first half of our trip in a middle seat in the back of the plane, wedged between two strangers. Before I turned my phone off, I thought about sending a text to John, just in case. But what would I say? Hope Horatio is happy now? Sorry we crashed and burned before I crashed and burned? My sleep and caffeine-deprived brain couldn't come up with anything better, and what's the point of leaving an in-case-of-crash message if it's not going to be memorable, so I gave up.
We deplaned in Charlotte and rolled our bags to the next flight, following single file behind Carol, like a human twist on one of our favorite picture books growing up, Make Way for Ducklings. By popular request, our mother would read it to us practically every night. One or two of the younger kids would curl up in her lap on the sofa, while our dad and the rest of us would slide the coffee table out of the way and act out every scene. We'd fight over who got to be Kack, Lack, Mack, Nack, Ouack, Pack, Quack, and. . . .
I counted the ducks on my fingers as we merged with the throng of people already boarding the plane for Savannah. Jack. Jack was the name of the eighth duckling, the one I'd forgotten. I sighed.
I was wedged between two different people on the flight from Charlotte to Savannah. To make matters worse, apparently they weren't even going to serve us water since the flight was so short. The coffee I could have had on the first flight was just a fantasy now. My stomach growled at the thought of the over-salted pretzels I'd never taste. The guy to my right was hogging the entire armrest. I leaned in, hoping he'd take the hint. He didn't. Finally I just elbowed him out of the way. Sometimes you can't take it any more. I hope John Anderson is happy now, I thought randomly, as if it had been his elbow.
When we touched down at the Savannah/Hilton Head International Airport, it felt like I'd been struggling to stay awake for centuries.
I rolled my carry-on to the end of the jetway and found my family clumped together, waiting for me. "What time is it?" My voice came out as a rasp, like it was dying of caffeine withdrawal.
"Eight forty-eight A.M.," Carol said way too cheerily. There's nothing worse than being sleep-deprived in the company of someone who's a perkier version of Julie from The Love Boat.
I groaned. "How long till check-in?"
"Seven hours and twelve minutes." Maybe I wouldn't hire her for an event after all. "Can you believe this is the first time I've been away since Maeve was born? I've barely even gone to the bathroom by myself."
"We'll have no bathroom talk on this trip," my father said.
We rolled our suitcases behind Carol and I looked around for a place to nap. It was a cute little airport, charming and so beachy it even had a flip-flop store. The atrium was scattered with rocking chairs. They looked pretty damn comfortable from here. I pivoted to the left and started to roll my way toward one.
Michael grabbed my arm. "Come on, you don't have time to rock. We need to find a rental car."
"We just have to pick it up," Carol said. "It's already reserved. It's part of the package."
"You got the car thrown in, too?" I said.
Carol nodded. "I most certainly did. When you add it all up, it turned out to be cheaper to go than to stay home. At least that was the angle I pitched to Dennis."
Carol talked the guy behind the rental car desk into upgrading us from an economy car to a compact.
"We bought a vacation package for four," she said. "So it's your responsibility to make sure we have a car that will actually fit four people and their luggage without charging us one cent more. Otherwise, you'll be reading all about it on Trip Advisor." He gave in just to get rid of us.
"Not much of a bucket of bolts," our dad said when we finally set eyes on our no frills, white Ford Focus. "I was hoping for something more along the lines of the little deuce coupe your mother and I drove on our honeymoon. Salmon and white, brushed chrome fins. Holy mackerel, that car had some fins on it."
"Not now, Dad," Michael said. He grabbed the keys from Carol. He clicked the trunk open and we managed to cram our suitcases in. Michael and I climbed into the back seat, sitting sideways so our knees could fit.
Carol tapped breakfast into the GPS and before we knew it we were settled in at a table at Back in the Day Bakery on Bull Street in downtown Savannah.
"Wow," I said. "It's like we just time travelled back to the '50s." Our mid-century chairs circled a funky rustic table made out of reclaimed wood. Two old-fashioned bakery cases just across from us were filled with every mouth-watering thing people used to be allowed to eat. I tried to guess the flavor of the cupcakes: red velvet, milk chocolate, coconut something or other. . ..
A sign on one of the robin's egg blue distressed walls said: If you're afraid of butter, use cream—Julia Child. There was a huge chandelier-like mobile hanging over us made entirely out of marshmallows and white kitchen string. Either that or I was so tired I was hallucinating.
Carol decreed that it was too early for cupcakes, so we ordered four large coffees and four savory ham and cheese biscones, which turned out to be a Southern-style fusion of biscuits and scones.
"I hope all y'all enjoy 'em all," a pretty blond waitress said as she put our plates down in front of us.
"All y'all?" I said after she'd walked away. "And wasn't there another one in there, too? Can you actually have three alls in one sentence?"
Our father's eyes followed the departing waitress. "You're darn tootin'," he said.
"Ohmigod," Carol said as she bit into her biscone. "This is the most amazing thing I've ever tasted. Let's just stay here the whole time and eat."
I pointed a finger casually over my head. "Does anyone else think those might be real marshmallows?"
My father winked at the waitress, who was now safely behind the bakery case.
"Dad," Carol hissed. "Knock it off. She looks about twelve."
"Sorry about that, chief," he said. He took a sip of his coffee. "This décor is taking me back. For a second there, I might have imagined I was a young whippersnapper again. 'Tis one of the true joys of getting older—you have a tendency to drift."
Michael pulled out his phone. "Shit, I'm supposed to be remote today."
"Ha," I said. "You couldn't get much more remote than this."
"Shh," he said. "I have to send a bunch of emails ASAP so it looks like I'm working."
Carol pulled out her phone, too. "I need to look busy, too. I've got three events next week."
I took another sip of my coffee. I should probably email John's boss to quit, just to make a clean break, but then again, I had almost a week before I had to show up at Necromaniac the next time. And even though Carol had found us an amazing deal, it probably wouldn't really turn out to be quite as cheap as staying home. Maybe I could post something to tide me over, and then I'd reassess after I'd slept on it.
I yawned and reached for my phone. I logged into our private work chat. Keli was living up to my confidence in her. She'd started several new threads and the Gamiac
s had jumped right in. But it was important for me to add my expertise as long as I was officially involved. I was a teacher through and through, and a good teacher can always come up with an assignment, even on zero sleep. I thought for a moment.
Let's talk about unrequited love, the one who broke your heart. The one you haven't thought about in years. Or minutes.
I logged out again. My father opened his laptop. I moved his plate and coffee mug out of the way to give him some space.
"Why, thank you kindly, sweet Carol—"
I shook my head.
"ChristineSarah." He looked over his shoulder. "You don't see any of that wire fire whosamajiggie around here anywhere, do you?"
Michael looked up. "You mean Wi-Fi?"
"Doubtful," I said. "It doesn't look like the computer was even invented yet around here."
"Of course they have Wi-Fi." Carol slid her chair over so she could see the laptop screen. She ran her finger along the mouse pad. "Look, it's right here. Okay, all set, Dad." She slid her chair back and reached for her biscone.
Our father looked over his shoulder again. "Where do I plug her in?"
"It's Wi-Fi, Dad," Michael said. "The whole point is that it doesn't need to be plugged in."
"I should have stuck with my Smith Corona." He ran his hand through his mane of white hair, then pulled one finger back and hit the mouse pad. "A gentleman's messages are his alone. They're not intended for sharing with the whole wide wireless world."
I scooted my chair a little closer and squinted at his laptop screen. "Ohmigod, Dad. You have a date."
Carol leaned over. "Savannah Sweetie?"
Our father grinned. "'Dear Billy Boy,'" he read. Maybe it was because I was so tired and we were in a bakery straight out of Ozzie and Harriet, but it was almost as if we were kids again and he was reading us a bedtime story.
He cleared his throat. "'Meet up with this Cray-Cray Lady tomorrow at high noon at the Crystal Street Beer Parlor for a Slow Ride. Your Sugar Butt.'"
"Whoa," I said. "I don't think we should let you go alone, Dad."
Chapter
Twenty-two
Michael chugged the rest of his coffee and put his mug down with a thunk. "Okay," he said. "The three of you are going to have to lure Phoebe outside, and then I'll take it from there."
"We can't do that," I said. I turned to Carol. "Can we?"
Even Carol was starting to look a little bit weary around the edges. "Give me a minute to think this through."
She yawned.
The rest of us yawned, too. I put my forearms on the table to keep from falling into my empty biscone plate.
"I know," I said. "What if we just go to the hotel first? Maybe our rooms are ready and we can nap. It's almost eleven and check-in is at four, right? So that's only…." I struggled to do the math but my poor dilapidated brain couldn't go there.
"Five hours," Carol said. "They'll never let us into our rooms this early. That's how they get you. It's like you have a zero percent interest credit card and then you're one minute late on one payment, and they jack it up to twenty-three percent."
"Oh, please," I said. "Can't we just take a little nap?"
"I wouldn't mind some shut-eye myself," our father said. "I'd like to be well-rested for Sugar Butt."
Michael scratched his scalp with both hands, hard, as if he were trying to dig a hole into his head. Then he buried his face in his hands.
Carol and I looked at each other. She shrugged.
Michael lifted his head again. "Yeah, I'm too beat to handle anything right now. Let's get some sleep somewhere and then we can figure out a plan. How long are we here for anyway? Or do I already know that?"
"Three nights," Carol said.
"Three nights?" I said. I can't stay here for three nights, I almost added. And then I remembered I could. I had nowhere else to be and no one to notice I was gone.
Going from the almost frosty air-conditioned comfort of Back in the Day Bakery to the heat and humidity of Savannah was a rude awakening, like stepping into a sauna wearing yesterday's deodorant. We bunched together on the sidewalk while Carol and I rummaged for sunglasses. Our father put on his Coast Guard Auxiliary hat again. Michael just looked miserable.
We crossed the street and headed for our rental car. "So," I said. "Is the hotel right around here?"
"Not far," Carol said. "It's on Hilton Head."
"Hilton Head?" I said. "Isn't that in like a whole other state?"
"Hilton Head Island?" Michael said, as if there might be another Hilton Head that was closer. "Why the hell did you get us a room way out there?"
"It was part of the package," Carol said. "Relax, it's only an hour away. And I was saving this part as a surprise, but the place we're staying at is a waterfront resort."
I wiped a glob of sweat from my upper lip as I tried to imagine how a hotel room that cost less than staying home could possibly be waterfront.
Michael and I wedged our tired bodies into the backseat. Carol pulled up the GPS on her phone and started the car. My head bobbed back and forth as we took a couple of rights and then a left. We merged onto US 17 and a sign welcomed us to South Carolina.
When I woke up we were in paradise. We drove along a tropical road flanked with lush vegetation and past a guard gate, which appeared to be for decorative purposes only. Gorgeous walking trails snaked along beside us. I rolled down my window. It was still hot, but unless it was a mirage, the fronds of the palm trees were blowing in a gentle wind. I was pretty sure I could smell the ocean.
"Am I dreaming this?" I croaked.
We slowed to a stop to let a caravan of golf carts cross in front of us. The golfers waved. We waved back.
"I forgot how friendly Southerners are," Carol said. "It's so annoying."
"Unless you marry them," Michael said. "Then they stop being friendly real fast."
The long, winding road branched out in a series of forks, each marked by a carved wooden sign. One pointed to GOLF COURSE. Another to VILLAS. We turned left to follow the sign that said RESORT CHECK-IN.
The first glimpse of the resort blew me away. It was heavily landscaped and absolutely mammoth. A caramel-colored stucco building, maybe five stories high, appeared to stretch out forever in either direction. A welcome flag flew from a huge awning-covered portico.
Our dad put two fingers in his mouth and let out a long whistle. "Well, will you look at this. Fancy Schmancy."
"Okay," Carol said once we'd parked and wrenched our weary bones out of the rental car. "We're just going to leave our bags at the front desk, find the nearest patch of sand with comfortable chaises and umbrellas, grab a towel, and nap until it's time to check in."
"It would have been a genius plan if we could find the lobby," I said a few minutes later. Two pelicans flew over our heads, which meant there had to be a beach around here somewhere.
We backtracked across the parking lot and switched directions again, only to dead-end at another roadblock marked with black and yellow CAUTION tape. "Unbelievable," Michael said. "This whole place is a construction site."
"We're in," our father yelled. He held up a section of some kind of temporary plastic fencing, bright orange with little square grid-like openings that reminded me of graph paper.
The lobby was closed for construction, too, so we followed a long line of paper arrows until we came to a card table in the hallway. Two men were painting the ceiling with rollers attached to long poles as we approached. I put my hands over my head so I wouldn't end up with white-speckled hair.
I turned my back on a bamboo-framed mirror hanging on the wall beside me so I wouldn't accidentally see what I looked like. Carol had her hair pulled back in a curly-messy ponytail and still looked relatively presentable. But our father's thick white hair was sticking straight up in the back and one of his eyebrows looked a little off-kilter. With his duffle bag slung over one shoulder, he could have passed for a pirate. Michael's button-down work shirt from yesterday was untucked and had turned i
nto a mass of wrinkles. He looked exhausted.
We piled our luggage together and Carol handed over her credit card.
"Eureka!" Michael yelled when we finally made it to the pool area.
Two gorgeous swimming pools stood before us. Off to one side, a huge copper pelican stretched out in a manmade lily pond next to a fountain, reading a copper book. A sunken whirlpool, almost as big as one of the swimming pools, was tucked into a corner. I could feel the jets massaging the back of my neck already.
"Son of a witch with a capital B," Carol said. "We should have changed into our bathing suits."
"I thought about it," I said, "but it felt like way too much work. Maybe we can go in like this."
A chest-high white-painted metal fence surrounded the pool. We found the gate and Carol reached over and unlatched it from the inside. A young couple was sitting on the edge of one of the pools with their feet in the water. Other than that we had the place to ourselves. Except for the scaffolding that took over most of the pebbled concrete decking. And the big sign that read CONSTRUCTION ZONE KEEP OUT.
Michael walked over to a stone arch filled with rolled towels. He picked one up, shook the construction dust off it, and threw it on one of the lounge chairs. He slid the chair under one of the freestanding beach umbrellas. Then he climbed on, opened the towel and covered his face with it.
"Looks like a plan," I said. I picked out a lounge chair, climbed aboard, covered my face with a towel, started to get comfortable. "Is that smell me?"
"Siobhan and her friends call it smelling like ass," Carol said.
"I hope you show her the broad side of a bar of Irish Spring," our father said.
Carol laughed. "She'd haul me into court. You can't do that anymore, Dad."
"If you ask me," our dad said, "the whole world has gone to hell in a hand basket. And five will get you ten, Sugar Butt will agree with me on that."
I was pretty sure if I put one hand on the pool fence and followed it all the way around, I'd come to an opening that led to the beach. I bet the beach here was amazing. I couldn't wait to see it.
