Bunco Babes Gone Wild

by Maria Geraci

  Steve grinned and began loading up the wheelbarrow.

  It was obvious the two men had a close friendship. As Dave said, he’d forgiven Steve, but he hadn’t forgotten. Why had Dave confided that to her? She’d only known him a few days. Maybe it was because she’d confided all her Spencer angst to him. Probably that was it.

  “We were just taking a quick swim break,” Georgia told Kitty, feeling the need to explain. She retrieved her discarded jeans and tried to put them back on, but she couldn’t. They were just too gross, all sweaty and heavy. The T-shirt covered more than a short dress did, so she decided to stay the way she was.

  Dave, on the other hand, slipped back into his jeans and work boots and began helping Steve load the debris into the wheelbarrows.

  “I guess I should give them a hand,” Georgia said to Kitty.

  “Don’t worry about it.” Kitty handed her a bottle of water from Dave’s ice chest. “They’ve got it.”

  Georgia took a sip of the water. “Thanks. I’m pretty beat.”

  Kitty smiled at her. “This looks amazing,” she said, gaz ing at the large open space they’d created by knocking down the wall. “You guys got a lot accomplished this morning.”

  “Thanks,” Georgia said. She liked Kitty. She was warm and easy to talk to.

  The two of them chatted and watched on as Dave and Steve worked in unison. They scooped up the debris, loaded it into the wheelbarrows, then made quick work of dumping the mess outside.

  “They make a good team.” Kitty said. “Steve’s really hoping Dave will move here to work with him.”

  Georgia lowered her eyes. “They do make a good team,” she agreed, knowing she didn’t sound overly enthusiastic. It bothered her knowing that Dave had already made up his mind about the job. It seemed almost unfair. But then Georgia really couldn’t blame him. It was a risk. Turning it down was actually the smart thing to do. Georgia waited till both men were out of the building to ask, “What exactly happened between them? They were partners once, right?”

  Kitty nodded, hesitating slightly as if she was pondering what to say. “They had a construction company down in Tampa. From what Steve’s told me, it was pretty successful. But Dave wanted to keep the company small and Steve wanted to expand. Then Steve met his ex-wife, Terrie. She hooked him up with this developer, Ted Ferguson,” Kitty paused. “I think we mentioned him the other night at Bunco.”

  Georgia cleared her throat. “Yes, I think my sister referred to him as the evil land baron.”

  Kitty grimaced. “To be fair, I sort of helped Ted in his evil expansion.”

  Me too! Georgia wanted to shout. “How did you help?” she asked instead.

  “I was the Realtor in the deal, but that’s another story,” Kitty said, rolling her eyes. “Back to Steve and Dave. Steve broke up the partnership and left Dave to form a company with Terrie and Ted. They all made a lot of money and everyone was happy. For a while.”

  “Everyone except Dave.”

  “Yeah,” Kitty admitted reluctantly. “But Steve’s more than ready to make it up to him. He wants to put Dave in charge of renovations at Dolphin Isles.”

  “Dolphin Isles?”

  “It’s a development of tract homes that Steve’s company built here a few years ago. The workmanship is kind of spotty. It’s one of the things Steve wants to fix. He thinks it’s right up Dave’s alley.”

  Except that Georgia knew Dave had no intention of getting on board. She decided to change the subject. “So, Steve’s divorced?” she asked carefully. Kitty didn’t seem the type to mind a personal question.

  “Three times.”

  “Holy shit,” Georgia muttered.

  Kitty looked like she was used to the reaction. “Pretty bad odds for a relationship, wouldn’t you say?” Georgia followed Kitty’s gaze as Steve maneuvered the empty wheelbarrow back into the center.

  “But you’re in love with him,” Georgia said softly.

  “It’s that obvious, huh?”

  Georgia smiled. From what she could see the feeling looked mutual. Did she look at Spencer the way Kitty looked at Steve? And just as important, did Spencer look at her the same way too?

  Dave began piling debris into the wheelbarrow. He glanced over at Georgia. “Thanks for your help today. We can get the rest of this.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Positive,” he said.

  “What time should I come back tomorrow?”

  Dave barely looked at her. “No need. I can do the follow-up myself.”

  “Okay, well, I guess I’ll see you around.”

  “Sure,” he said without much conviction.

  She couldn’t help but feel like she’d been dismissed, which was silly. She’d only planned to spend one day on this project and tomorrow was Sunday. She needed to work up a kick-ass financial plan to restructure the loan on the Bistro so she could present it to the bank first thing Monday morning.

  So really, it was just as well.

  12

  Monday morning came bright and early. Georgia took a quick shower, then helped Frida and Ed with the first wave of business. At eight thirty, she made a bogus excuse about running an errand, then ducked out and ran up upstairs to get ready to go mano a mano with Bruce Bailey.

  Although she seriously didn’t expect much of a fight. Any man married to Bettina had to be . . . well, quite frankly, a pushover, to put it nicely.

  She hadn’t called to schedule a meeting, primarily because there hadn’t been time, but that was all right. In her experience, most times a surprise attack worked in your favor. She’d arrive the second the bank opened, ambush Bruce, then wow him with her proposal before the poor schmuck knew what hit him.

  She couldn’t wait to see the expression on Frida’s face when she discovered that the Bistro would be safe after all. She’d thought about discussing her loan restructure plan with her sister, but there was always the marginally slim chance that Bruce would reject her proposal, and she didn’t want to get Frida’s hopes up.

  She dressed in the Alexander McQueen navy blue slacks and matching blouse she’d worn on the drive down from Birmingham. After slipping on a pair of pearl earrings and carefully applying makeup, she took one last look at herself in the tiny mirror above the dresser in Frida’s guest room. She looked more put together than she had in days. Other than the night of the Bunco party, she’d been going native—letting her hair dry naturally and running around bare-faced. But now she looked more like her old self. Feminine, but definitely businesslike. A take-charge look that screamed “I am woman, hear me roar,” yet was soft enough that it didn’t rile up any of the male lions in the pride.

  She tiptoed down the stairs and managed to slip out of the Bistro without either Frida or Ed noticing. At exactly 9:05 a.m. her Honda Accord was parked in the Whispering Bay Community Bank parking lot. She slipped her leather satchel under her arm and walked inside the building.

  There was a counter at the rear with two tellers servicing a small line of customers, an office to the left, and one to the right. Both office doors were closed.

  A woman sitting behind a desk in front of the lobby smiled at her. “Welcome to Whispering Bay Community Bank. May I help you?”

  “I’d like to see Bruce Bailey, please.”

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  Georgia didn’t want to reveal too much, but on the other hand, she didn’t want to be turned away either. She hesitated a moment, then pulled the business card proclaiming her as Moody Electronics’s CFO from the side pocket of her leather satchel and handed it to the receptionist. “I’m afraid not, but I’m only in town a few days and I was hoping Mr. Bailey would agree to see me.” It wasn’t really cheating. If the receptionist thought Georgia’s business had something to do with Moody Electronics, then that was her assumption.

  The woman looked at the card. “Mr. Bailey is with a client right now. But if you wouldn’t mind waiting?” Her gaze slid over to an empty chair.

  “Of course,
thank you.” Georgia took a seat. Waiting wasn’t so bad really. It gave her time to mentally rehearse what she would say to Bruce. Every once in a while, she glanced over to check out the activity in the bank line.

  An elderly gentleman accompanied by a middle-aged woman with short, spiky, gray hair entered the lobby. The man walked slowly, using a cane. He took one look at Geor gia and scowled. “I have a bone to pick with you, missy.”

  Georgia stilled. “Excuse me?”

  The woman accompanying the man smiled apologetically at Georgia. “Earl, that’s not who you think it is.”

  “Course it is. I’m not blind.” He shrewdly eyed Georgia. “She’s just gussied up, that’s all.” He pointed his cane at her.

  “DeeDee here was at your place the other day, or was it last week? Anyway, don’t matter. She was in town and I asked her to pick up a dozen of them bran muffins you make. Those things are better than any damn laxative, if you know what I mean. But there was only eleven of ’em in the bag. So unless DeeDee stiffed me, you owe me one bran muffin, girlie.”

  This put Frida’s bran muffins in a whole new light. Geor gia didn’t know whether to be irritated that he’d confused her with Frida or to laugh at his whole muffin-stiffing accusation. “I’m afraid you have me confused with my sister, Frida.”

  The old man’s bushy brows came together.

  “Earl, I told you, that’s not Frida Hampton,” insisted the woman who Georgia supposed was DeeDee. She turned her attention to Georgia and smiled. “Sorry about that, but I can see how Earl would be confused. You and your sister look a lot alike.”

  Earl scrutinized Georgia further. “This isn’t the coffee gal?”

  Georgia extended her hand. “My name is Georgia Meyer and I’m—”

  “Earl!” a male voice laced with a strong southern accent boomed. “What brings you here?”

  Georgia whipped around to see a man in his early forties come out of the office. This must be the schmuck—er, Bruce. He grasped Earl’s hand and gave him a vigorous handshake. Behind him was another man who looked maybe a couple of years younger. While Bruce was balding and had a small potbelly, the other man looked blue-blood handsome-sleek. He wore immaculately pressed khaki slacks, a white cotton shirt with a Ralph Lauren insignia on the pocket, and Gucci loafers. “How are you this morning, Earl?” Blueblood asked in a smooth voice.

  Earl growled at him. “What do you care? Already got my land, don’t you?” He turned his attention back to Bruce and began a litany of complaints about having to wait in line for a teller. Georgia glanced at the bank window. There was only one person in line that she could see.

  Blueblood watched the exchange between Earl and Bruce with amusement, until his gaze settled on Georgia.

  “Well, hel-lo,” he said, in a tone more appropriate to a singles bar than a small-town bank. “Can I help you?”

  There was something about his voice that Georgia recognized. Had she met this guy before? “Not unless you’re Bruce Bailey,” Georgia answered in her sweetest voice. Kill them with kindness, she chanted to herself, or rather kill them with sweetness, she amended. It might be the twenty-first century, but a woman in business could still catch more flies with honey than vinegar. She’d save her claws for when it counted.

  “I wish I was Bruce,” the man said, extending his hand. “Ted Ferguson. Maybe you’ve heard of me?”

  Georgia tried to hide her surprise. She hadn’t expected to meet Ted here. “As a matter of fact I have heard of you. I’m Georgia Meyer.” She shook his hand, waiting to see how long it would take him to recognize her name.

  It only took a second for the telltale gleam of recognition to light up his face. “Spencer always did have an eye for talent.”

  Yuck. “I’m glad to finally meet face-to-face,” she said.

  Ted frowned. “Did Spencer send you down to check out the condo project? Because I can assure you, everything is going according to schedule.”

  Georgia gazed around the bank, hoping no one was within earshot. She was relieved to see Bruce had gone off to help the old gentleman with his bank transaction.

  “I’m actually here on personal business,” Georgia said.

  “Personal, huh? By the way,” he said, leaning in way too close to confide in a low voice, “that old coot you were talking to is Earl Handy. He sold us the land we’re building the condos on. Don’t let his sad-old-man-with-a-cane routine fool you. He owns most of this town and is richer than Midas. He’s also meaner than a junkyard dog.”

  And apparently he has constipation issues, she wanted to add. Maybe that’s what made him so mean. Only Georgia had found Earl kind of cute. In a crotchety-old-man sort of way.

  Ted glanced at his watch. “I’d love to stay and talk, but I have to get going. You sure your visit here has nothing to do with the condo project?”

  What? Did he think he could trick her into making some sort of admission? “Positive,” she said, smiling sweetly.

  “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Georgia. And tell Spencer I’m sorry to miss the big game this weekend. Got this Black Tie Bunco shindig in town I can’t pass on. Public relations and all,” he said with a wink. She’d have to be blind not to notice the way he was staring at her breasts.

  It was official now. She didn’t care how chummy he and Spencer were. Frat brother or no, Ted Ferguson was off her wedding invitation list.

  It was ten more minutes before Bruce Bailey came over to greet her. He had her business card in his hand. The receptionist must have slipped it to him when Georgia wasn’t looking. “Please, step into my office,” he said, ushering her through the door. He pulled out her chair, a move Georgia found old-fashioned for a business situation, but it was also a little endearing too. She noticed the bald spot on Bruce’s head was shiny with perspiration. Oh, dear. He was a sweater.

  “It’s quite a coincidence you’re here this morning, Ms. Meyer. Ted Ferguson and I were just talking business.” He paused. “He didn’t mention you were in town.”

  “Actually, I only met Mr. Ferguson a few minutes ago, in your lobby.”

  He eyed her card again. “I was under the impression he and Mr. Moody were close acquaintances.”

  Georgia shifted in her chair. It did seem a little odd that Spencer had never introduced her to Ted. Come to think of it, she’d never met any of Spencer’s old college friends. But then she never went to any of the Bama football games or other alumni functions Spencer was always running off to. Someone had to stay and run the ship. Moody Electronics might be open Monday through Friday, eight to five, but behind the scenes it was a twenty-four-hour endeavor. “I’ve spoken to Mr. Ferguson on the phone many times,” she said firmly.

  This seemed to satisfy Bruce. “Let me assure you, that whatever banking Moody Electronics is in the market for, Whispering Bay Community Bank can provide. With first-rate, special service, I might add.”

  “I’m sure Mr. Moody will be happy to hear that,” she said carefully. “The thing is, Mr. Bailey, I’m not here this morning representing Moody Electronics.”

  “You’re not?”

  How should she word this? “I’m here representing another business. A client of yours actually.”

  Bruce didn’t hide his disappointment. “What client is that?”

  She cleared her throat. “The Bistro by the Beach.”

  Bruce blinked. “I see.”

  Georgia set her leather satchel on the edge of his desk. “I realize the Bistro hasn’t been run as efficiently as it could be. But that’s all in the past. I’ve put together a payment plan that will bring the loan up to speed within six months.” She handed Bruce her loan restructure outline.

  He skimmed the page. “Let me get this straight. Mrs. Hampton has hired you as, what? Some sort of business consultant?”

  “Exactly,” she said, liking the sound of that.

  He glanced at the paper again. “There’s one problem. You forgot to add in late penalties. And usually whenever we restructure because of pa
st late payments, we require a good faith amount up front.”

  “I was hoping those could be overlooked. My—Mrs. Hampton has been a loyal customer for a long time.”

  “Forgive me for putting this bluntly, Ms. Meyer, but if Mrs. Hampton put her money into making her payments on time instead of hiring you, she wouldn’t have a problem. I assume you don’t come cheaply?”

  “I’m doing this . . . pro bono,” Georgia pulled out of the air. “I enjoy taking businesses that need help and turning them around.” That part at least was true. Except in the past she’d been paid for it.

  He placed the paper down on his desk. “Strange hobby.”

  “Small businesses need our help, Mr. Bailey. They’re the backbone of America.” She actually kind of liked the way that sounded.

  “I’d like to help, really, I would. Mrs. Hampton is a lovely woman and she does make the best muffins I’ve ever tasted.” Bruce patted his potbelly and gave her a dismissive smile. “But she’s going to have to pay late charges just like every other customer. Plus, we really need a good faith payment upfront.”

  It was definitely time for the claws to come out. “As I was saying,” Georgia said, as if Bruce hadn’t just spoken, “small businesses are the backbone of America. And Moody Electronics wants to give back to America.”

  Dear God. She sounded like a bad infomercial. Still, the idea was intriguing. Maybe once things were back to normal she’d talk to Spencer about doing some pro bono work on the side. She kind of liked the idea of helping out the little guy—or gal, as in her sister’s case.

  Bruce frowned. “I thought you were doing this on your own. Are you saying Moody Electronics has an interest in the Bistro?”

  “Not . . . like you think. Suffice it to say that I heavily influence all of Mr. Moody’s financial decisions and of course, once this local condo project gets under way, a project I believe you’re aware Mr. Moody has invested in?” The bald spot on Bruce’s head was now wet. Georgia fought the urge to pluck a Kleenex off his desk and pat it down for him. “Anyway, I’m sure Mr. Moody will be looking to expand his investments here in Whispering Bay.”