Rubbing my eye to stop the annoying twitch, I followed him back into Fat Frankie’s. The good thing about being single with no kids or pets was that I remained mobile. When I wanted to take off on vacation, I simply notified my landlord and bribed the doorman to water my plants. But the bad thing about being single with no kids or pets was that my boss knew I was mobile, too. It wasn’t fair.
Since Sheila designated herself driver for the evening, I designated myself as the drinker and retrieved a double Absolut on the rocks, not bothering with the fruit. My glass of cabernet was no longer going to do the trick.
Drink in hand, I dropped into a chair and told Sheila my fate.
Unsympathetic, she laughed loudly. “I’m just glad it’s you and not me!”
I shot her the finger.
Chapter 2
Rumton was a dive. The type of place I wouldn’t stop for fuel if the needle bumped empty as I passed it during a road trip. The type of place so devoid of traffic, it had only one four-way stop, and no stoplights. Although the town was off a main highway that paralleled the coast, nothing appeared for long miles on either side of it. No nightclubs. No health clubs. No shopping malls. No entertainment venues. No…; movement.
And to make things worse, Rumton residents couldn’t get to the beach even though their little piece of desolate paradise sat a mere two miles from the ocean. An expanse of wetlands separated the town from a sparkling strip of sandy beach beyond, and there was no way to get from one to the other. Anyone wanting to play on the strip of beach neighboring Rumton had to get there by boat, from the ocean. Not only that, but they had navigate their boat from another town.
Driving east, a narrow paved road turned into a bumpy dirt road that dead-ended into splotches of woods mixed with wetlands. Although the view of grassy marsh was pleasant, I couldn’t see the Atlantic, even though I knew it was just beyond the horizon. And while it was scenic, it was also a breeding ground for bugs. I’d barely stepped out of my Range Rover when a cloud of vicious mosquitoes descended on me. Although I immediately abandoned my plan to explore further on foot, I drove away with six or seven bites that quickly grew into quarter-sized, itchy welts.
I felt limp and worn out, as though I’d been driving for seven days instead of seven hours. Nerves prevented me from getting a decent night’s sleep, I’d skipped breakfast, and only ate a few bites of the fast food cheeseburger I’d bought somewhere near Columbia. Filled with apprehension, mosquito-bitten, tired and hungry, I cased the entire town. Even driving slowly, it only took fifteen minutes. It resembled any quiet, small town that someone might drive through on their way to somewhere else, had they inadvertently taken a wrong turn. Mostly, Rumton consisted of large fields that may have been farmland at one time, and sporadic crumpling wooden buildings that may have been huts or barns in a prior decade. Patches of tired-looking houses on a network of several roads made up the residential section. And a three-block section of buildings, connected by four-way stop signs, made up the downtown area. Some people might call it quaint, but all I could see were the abandoned, boarded-up buildings and blaring inactivity. I knew I’d have to get a much more thorough look around, but a complaining stomach made me pull into the only place that looked like it might serve food. A sun-bleached wooden sign hung over the front door. It read, “Chat ‘N Chew.”
Hungry but not wanting to leave the security of my car, I sat in the dirt parking lot and decided to call my boss’s aunt. The stupid phone blinked ‘NO SERVICE.’ I held it up higher, craning my neck to see if any signal strength bars appeared, and waved it around over my head. Nothing. Of course Rumton wouldn’t have wireless phone coverage. What had I been thinking? They probably didn’t have cable television or high speed internet access, either. Thank goodness I’d signed up for satellite internet service last month so I wouldn’t be totally cut off from the outside world.
Driven by rage over my uncooperative phone and the growing hunger pain in my stomach, I took a deep breath and boldly entered Chat ‘N Chew.
A twangy song emanated from the bill of a five-foot-tall pelican. The bird, a radio hanging from its pouch, was one of several carved wood sculptures scattered between square tables. A soda fountain, complete with backless swivel barstools, stretched along the rear of the building.
The restaurant was deserted, except for two old men drinking coffee and playing a game of dominos. One was completely bald and looked seventy-five or eighty while his friend had a full head of thick white hair and may have been ten years younger. They nodded in my direction and the younger of the two tipped an imaginary hat.
“Bull had to run home, but she’ll be back in a bit,” one of them said. “Coffee’s there behind the counter, next to the iced tea. Get me a refill when you pour yourself some, would you, Lass?”
The waitress was a woman named Bull? Who’d left the place wide open in the middle of the day? And had the man really called me Lass?
A black and tan basset hound ambled up to sniff my legs before lazily stretching out over one of my feet. Trying to get comfortable, it farted loudly and almost immediately started snoring. A string of drool trickled slowly onto my shoe. The man eyed me, awaiting his refill.
Careful not to disturb the sleeping dog, I removed my foot, retrieved the coffeepot, and refilled his cup.
“Do people make their own food here, too?” I joked, carefully pouring another cup for myself. I set it on the table and decided not to bother looking for cream. Wishing I hadn’t worn my melon-colored Versace pantsuit, I wiped crumbs out of the chair before sitting down.
“Go ahead and help yourself. She’s got a pot of chicken soup back there, and some corn muffins,” one of them said. “Butter ran out, though.”
“Don’t need no butter if you’re eatin’ corn muffins with soup!” the other challenged.
“If Bull’s going to go to the trouble to make corn muffins,” the first argued, “she ought to make sure she’s got butter to go with them. Real butter. Not that spreadable stuff that tastes like goat crap.”
“How do you know what goat crap tastes like?”
The man with the hair caught me staring in disbelief. I think my mouth might have been open. He asked where I was from.
“Atlanta,” I said, casually, trying to fit in. I made sure to shut my mouth after I’d finished speaking.
A thick wrinkle between his bushy eyebrows grew deeper.
“Georgia,” I added.
“I know where Atlanta is,” he grumbled. “Was just wondering why in the heck anybody would want to hang their hat there.”
“It’s where I work.”
Perplexed, he shrugged his shoulders, and went back to the corn muffin debate. I drank my black coffee. Eventually, a round woman with an amazing amount of peroxide-blond hair piled on top of her head barreled through the front door.
“Haven’t seen you ‘round here before,” she said in greeting. “I’m Bull. I own the place. Can I getcha something, Hon?”
“Did you say Belle?”
“Nope, you heard it right, Hon. Bull. Real name’s Dixie, but ever since I took down Bucky Junior with a body tackle twenty years ago, people have been calling me Bull,” she explained. “It grows on ya.”
“Why did you, uh, tackle Bucky Junior?” I asked.
“We was throwin’ a real nice party for his mama’s birthday and he stormed in like a maniac, all liquored up. He was convinced that my boy, Albert, was sweet on his girl. So he started tearin’ up the place, demanding for Albert to come out and face him.” Remembering, she clucked a few times. “Problem was, Albert was down at the Bellamy fishin’ hole with – you guessed it – Bucky’s girlfriend. But still, I didn’t appreciate him tearin’ up my place. Not one teeny bit. Especially during his own mama’s party. So I took him down. What can I get ya to eat?”
Dumbfounded, I asked to see a menu.
“She wants a menu,” one of the men said. They chuckled and turned around to get a better look at me.
“No menus, here,
Hon,” Bull said. “You got a hankerin’ for anything specific?”
Yes, I thought. A wood-fired rib eye and chocolate chunk crème brulee from Buckhead Diner. My stomach growled loudly. “Um, anything will be fine. Maybe a sandwich?”
“Comin’ up. You allergic to anything, Hon?”
Just small hick towns. I shook my head no.
She grabbed a cup of coffee and joined me at the table. “That’s good. So many people nowadays can’t eat this or can’t eat that. Take Riley over there, for instance.” She waved a hand in the direction of the men. “He just went and got himself one of them fancy allergy workups at MUSC in Charleston? They told him he can’t eat wheat anymore. You know how many things got wheat in them?”
“A lot?”
“Breads, muffins, cereals. Heck. ‘Bout everything you can bake has wheat flour in it.”
I raised my eyebrows with feigned interest.
“And soy sauce, if you can believe that.” She added three spoonfuls of sugar to her coffee and took a gulp. “Not that I’d ever use soy sauce. But who would’ve guessed it has wheat in it?”
“Not me.” My left eyelid twitched and my stomach growled, simultaneously. “Listen, uh, Bull, I’d love to talk. In fact I have some questions that you might be able to help me with. But could you go ahead and turn in my sandwich order?”
Bull hooted and slapped the table. “This one wants me to turn her order in,” she said to her only other customers. The men laughed, too, as though I’d said something funny. Even the basset hound picked its big head up to look at me.
“Guess you better get back there and turn it in, then, Bull,” the man with hair said. “Maybe your left hand can turn it in to your right hand!”
Bull stood and walked to the kitchen, shaking her head. “Turn yer order in,” she muttered. “That’s a good one.”
Embarrassed, my cheeks warmed. How was I to know Rumton’s Chat ‘N Chew was a one-woman operation? At least I’d been able to provide the trio with some entertainment.
“Excuse me,” I said to the men, feeling more out of place by the second. “I need to call Millie Ackworth, but my mobile phone doesn’t work here. Is there a payphone nearby?”
“Mad Millie? She a friend of yours?”
“She’s my boss’s aunt, and I’ll be staying at her house for a few days,” I said. “Why do you call her Mad Millie?”
“What’s your name, Lass?”
“Jaxie. Jaxie Parker.”
“I’m Pop and this here’s Riley,” the one with the hair said. “We call old lady Ackworth Mad Millie because of the cats.”
“Oh, she’s not mad, like kooky mad.” Riley’s fingers made a swirling motion by his head. “Not much so, anyhow.”
“The woman just likes her cats,” Pop added. “Must have ten or fifteen of the critters.”
“Inside?” I asked, feeling the color drain from my face. I was horribly allergic to cats. I would get itchy skin and sneeze if I was near someone who had been near a cat. One cat. And this woman had ten or fifteen?
“Right-o,” Pop answered. “She’s got playhouses and scratching posts and all those gizmos, according to Riley. Don’t know why. A cat can play in a tree for free.”
“But Mad Millie don’t let hers outside,” Riley added. “Says they’re indoor cats.”
“Only reason they’re indoor cats is because she won’t let them out,” Pop said with a shrug, much like the one he’d given me upon finding out I lived in Atlanta. Neither made sense to him. “Got to be a little crazy to keep an animal cooped up. One of the reasons I don’t much care for the woman.”
“Pop and Mad Millie ain’t spoke to each other in years and years,” Riley informed me. “Now, me, I could care less ‘bout Millie havin’ so many cats. Each to his own.”
“Only reason you talk to her is for the pie,” Pop said.
Riley shook his head, disagreeing. “Not just for free pie. She makes good jam, too.”
Bull appeared with a giant deli meat sandwich on rye bread, and asked if I wanted something to drink besides coffee. I shook my head, staring at the food, wondering if the nearest hotel would be north or south of Rumton.
“What’s wrong, Hon? You don’t like ham?”
“The sandwich is fine, thanks,” I said miserably.
“Jaxie here is supposed to be staying at Mad Millie’s place,” Riley explained. “But she must not like cats.”
I sniffled, just thinking about sharing a house with ten felines. “I’m allergic to them.”
“Huh,” Bull said, plopping into the seat across from me. She took a potato chip from my plate, ate it, and took another. “Guess you’d best find somewhere else to stay. Whatcha doin’ in Rumton, anyhow?”
The two men listened for my answer, too, and I decided there were probably no secrets in this town. A visitor from Atlanta was big news. I’d probably be the talk of the town for the next week.
I explained that my boss grew up in Rumton, told them about the firm I worked for, and the purpose of my visit. They all knew Aaron well, and Bull said something about his family being good people.
“Going to save the town, huh?” Pop chuckled. “What exactly do we need saving from?”
I answered, throwing in a few statistics for good measure, and hoped they couldn’t see the tic in my eyelid.
“Huh,” Bull said again, raising a penciled-in eyebrow to think. The moment passed and her attention went back to my food. “Aren’t you going to eat? I thought you were hungry.”
“Yeah, that’s why Bull rushed to turn yer order in!” Riley teased.
Not wanting to make a bad first impression, if that were still possible, I bit into half the sandwich. I made some appreciative food noises, even though the cat issue had caused my appetite to vanish.
Bull eyed the other half of my sandwich and I told her to help herself. She did.
“Pop’s got a room you might could stay in,” she said through a hearty bite.
The old man looked me over, as though sizing up a stray dog to determine whether or not it was a biter.
“It’s okay, really,” I said to everyone. “I’ll just get a hotel. I’m sure I could find something near Charleston. Or go the other direction, toward Georgetown.
Bull harrumphed and helped herself to a handful of my chips. “How you gonna save Rumton if you’re beddin’ down somewhere else?”
She had a good point.
I took another bite. “Maybe Millie has a room the cats don’t go in?” Despite the circumstances, my appetite had returned and the ham sandwich was delicious. She’d spread cream cheese on the thick bread and added pieces of tomato, sliced paper thin. I suddenly wished I hadn’t given up half my meal.
“Oh, go on and offer her a room,” Bull told Pop. “That big old house of yours is wasted with just you livin’ there. How many bedrooms you got, anyhow? Five or six?”
“Seven,” he said, giving me the once-over. “How long will it take you to save our town, Lass?”
“I’m hoping I won’t be here more than a couple of weeks. But my boss has allocated a month or up to six weeks, just in case.”
“Huh,” Bull said, polishing off her half of my sandwich. “Amazing that a tiny thing like you from big snazzy Atlanta can up and save our little town in a few short weeks. I mean, we all been livin’ here our whole lives.”
I couldn’t tell if she was being sarcastic or just making an observation. “It’s basically the same as coming up with an advertising or public relations campaign for a business,” I explained, feeling silly, wondering if my boss was nuts for thinking I could do this. “But in this case, the goal is to promote your town, so it’s called a revitalization plan. We need to come up with some ideas to bring in new business and new residents, like maybe a manufacturing plant that will create jobs. Or promote Rumton as a tourist destination. Find a hook, or an angle to capture people’s interest in the area. Then it’s just a matter of getting the word out. And of course the more interest there is in an area, the
more valuable the property will become.”
“Huh,” the three of them said.
“Aaron said that Rumton needs some basic things, like a medical office. A new fire truck for the volunteer squad. An ambulance. Updated equipment and computers for your school. And a way to bring in new residents, to grow the area.” I ate some chips before Bull managed to finish them off. “To make these things happen, the town needs to see an appreciation in property values and needs something to generate revenue. Which takes us back to the PR side of things. What would bring people and business to Rumton? That’s the bottom line question.”
I drank my coffee and hoped I looked as confident as I sounded. Like it would be easy. Just another campaign. No big deal.
“Aye, I have a room you can bunker down in for a spell,” Pop finally said. “Got a private head.”
“I don’t have much cash, since I planned on staying with my boss’s aunt. And I was going to put everything else on a credit card, then expense it.”
“Your company payin’ for everything?” Riley asked.
I nodded.
“Pop’s rooms go fer a hundred dollars a day,” he said.
Bull laughed. “Leave it to Riley to exploit a situation! You need a swindler in your revitalization plan, you know where to find one.”
“It ain’t comin’ outta her pocket,” he said. “A big company is payin’ it. Heck’s fire, that income can be the start of our revitala-zaah-shun plan.”
“A big company owned by Aaron Ackworth,” Pop reminded Riley. “His folks were good people. E’eryone hated to see them move when they caught the Florida bug.”
Riley shrugged, relenting the point. “I suppose yer right. Aaron called last week to make sure his girl would have the town’s support. Guess we ought to give it to her.”
Realizing they already knew who I was and why I was there, I felt silly. Why had they let me ramble on trying to explain it all? What else did these seemingly simple-minded people know?
Carolina Booty Page 2
