by Lisa Wingate
Mark was right. Despite the efforts to give the place a village look, the towers were an eyesore. I tried to picture something similar shooting up in place of the Excelsior. I couldn’t.
“So, let me show you around.” Casey was as friendly as ever, greeting me with an easy smile, his blue eyes lingering with a flattering amount of interest. “You look nice.” He leaned in and kissed me on the cheek.
“I look like a bumblebee, but I only brought a small travel bag when I came here, and with all the dirty work on the Excelsior, I keep running out of clothes.” I wasn’t sure why I felt the need to tamp down the illusion of romance; I just did.
Pulling away a little, Casey smiled again, undaunted. “We have stores here on the Outer Banks.”
The comment was a quick reminder of how vastly different our financial situations were. In better days, running out and buying more clothes might’ve been my first thought too.
“Too busy to think about it, so far.”
“Finished sorting through the building yet?” He closed my car door, whirling a hand abruptly at the valet.
“Working on it. Everything’s such a mishmash. I’m just trying to make sure I don’t throw out items of value—sentimental or otherwise.”
Slipping a hand against the small of my back, he guided me up a ramp toward a pair of brass doors that looked like they could’ve come from the dining room on an old luxury liner. The Titanic, maybe. Potted jasmine lined the walkway, the scent syrup-thick on the air. “Sounds like you could use some help with that. I know of a good estate service. I’ve used them before when we’ve contracted on old properties. I could call and make some arrangements, take the burden off.”
I was momentarily at a loss. Casey had an answer for everything, and all of his answers sounded good. That was what worried me.
He pointed out the virtues of the village’s design as we strolled in. “Each of our entrances is ramped for convenient handicapped access. The residents have key cards to automatically open the doors, but any uncarded visitors have to go through the office. No unauthorized access to the facility. Our clients don’t have to worry about a thing, including solicitors showing up on their doorsteps, kids selling Girl Scout cookies, and politicians looking to shake hands.”
“That’s nice.” Too bad for the Girl Scouts. This place could be a gold mine. The people sitting on the conversationally grouped lobby furniture, the ones coming and going from the elevators, those passing by with golf bags and tennis rackets in hand, definitely had the look of money. I couldn’t help wondering where the Shores hid the income-assisted apartments that Casey had mentioned during our dinner at the Black Pelican. The apartments that Clyde could afford … with a little help. None of these people looked like they needed government assistance to pay for their waterside condos.
We stood in the rotunda and looked upward, Casey pointing to the second-floor library on the balcony, the private movie theater, the doorway to the game room. Strolling on, we passed the indoor pool and spa, saw happy retirees swimming and chatting. They looked like they enjoyed it here, like they’d been commissioned as extras in a commercial about luxurious retirement living. In fact, everywhere we went on the tour, people gave the appearance of contentment. The facilities were clean and well-managed, even though much of the staff did seem unusually young. Kids from foreign countries, I quickly gathered—Russia, Ukraine, Malaysia.
Casey picked up on the fact that I’d noticed. “I think I told you that quite a few of our employees come through a work-study program. They’re with us for a year, which gives them the chance to develop language skills and international business knowledge that will be valuable to them after they go back home. When they finish with their work tour, if they’ve saved the funds to do it, they have a month left on their visas to travel before they return to their own countries.” He pushed open a kitchen door, giving me a view of a crew washing dishes while cooks worked the hot line nearby.
The place was poorly arranged, doubling the strain on the employees. Workers were scurrying everywhere, threading past one another with trays and serving dishes for the dining room buffet. I glanced around at the various supplies and cans on the shelves. Cheap ingredients. I never would’ve allowed that stuff in one of my restaurants, but it probably passed in a retirement village where a meal plan was part of the fee. One thing I’d learned from our corporate eateries in all-inclusive resorts—when the food was complimentary, the people were easily pleased.
We wandered on, looking at a sample apartment, more common rooms, and an upper balcony that afforded a view from land’s end. All in all, by the time we finished the tour, I couldn’t really fault the Shores for anything. The place was clean. It seemed generally well-thought-out. The residents appeared to be satisfied with it. Other than the fact that the towers were out of step with the landscape and there were some rather sad restrictions about residents having grandchildren and other minors stay with them, it seemed like a pretty good life.
I kept trying to picture Clyde in it, to imagine what he would actually do here. I couldn’t, quite. But then, I didn’t know Clyde all that well. I had no idea what he’d been interested in, or how he had typically spent his time before he’d slipped in the bathroom and ended up in the hospital. The apartment Casey had shown me—the sort he was offering to Clyde—was efficient, if small. Unlike others in the complex, it lacked a balcony, which made it feel more like a room in a low-budget extended-stay hotel, but it had everything that was really needed.
Maybe this could be just the thing to break him out of his rut, I told myself as Casey and I stood by the jasmine, waiting for the valet to hustle after my car.
“So. What do you think?” Rocking back on his heels, Casey crossed his arms over a well-toned chest. He looked like a kid presenting the teacher with a crayon sketch he’d worked on long and hard.
“It’s nice. The people seem to like it here.” I wasn’t sure about the employee program. It bothered me that I hadn’t seen anyone local. Literally from top to bottom, the staff—other than the guard out front, the activities director, and the people in the office—came from some other country, yet Mark had talked a couple times about the need for solid, nonseasonal employment for young people growing up here, like Joel.
No telling what the Shores actually paid the imported workers, but it probably wasn’t much beyond their room and board. Not that it would really affect Clyde, but …
Casey was pleased. “I’ll run up some figures for you, balance out our offering price for your building, the buy-in on an apartment for Clyde, plus the assisted-living maintenance fees for … say ten years or so. I’ll need Clyde’s tax information so we can get him approved for the rent-assistance program, but it shouldn’t be an issue. We can always work it, one way or the other. Fortunately, he doesn’t own the Excelsior building, so it’s not an asset, as far as his financials go.”
I felt the proverbial wall, suddenly cold and hard against my back. “I’ll have to sit down and really talk to him about all of this.” When? How? I couldn’t keep putting it off. I had to get home to Denise … to take Tagg Harper’s target off her back.
“Are you sure you want to go that route?” Casey’s concern was lightning-quick and obvious. “You know, considering the shape he was in at the docks the other day and his recent history of ill-advised behavior at the hospital, a conservatorship could be more efficient. Once you start discussing the Shores, you lose the opportunity to arrange all of this without his fighting the process as you go.”
“You mean do it without telling him anything about it?”
He laid a hand on my arm, slid it slowly downward and held my hand, looking at my fingers. “Listen, Whitney, I know that sounds harsh. I know you’re having a hard time with it … because of the kind of person you are. You think about everyone else first. You care about whether they’re happy and okay. But you have to realize that you’re doing this for him, not against him. A person who’s not making rational choices is a danger to hi
mself and possibly to other people. And like I told you earlier, I’ve seen clients come here in his kind of shape and quickly brighten up, with some interaction and activities around. They do a whole lot better than they would have at home. It’s a win-win.”
I watched a retired couple stroll by with their golf bags, chatting happily. Did Clyde like golf? Had he ever tried it? “Maybe you’re right… .” But the options were as much a muddle as the second floor of the Excelsior.
Casey squeezed my hand, his face tender and sympathetic. “Let me work up a deal that will take care of cleaning out your building and the storage of whatever you want to keep. It’ll make things much easier on your end. We’ve done that before in cases where we’re buying a property that’s a teardown.”
I paused, gaped at him, that single word replaying in my mind. Teardown.
The idea came heavy and unwieldy, the weight of it cutting off oxygen and everything else.
There was a missed call waiting on my cell as drove away from the Shores. The museum was looking for me. I hoped this was good news.
Please, please, please. This has to be good news… .
What I needed right now was a break. A big one. Something that would let me delay the decisions about the Excelsior. As attractive, as easy, as Casey’s package deal sounded, that singular word had gone down like a lump of dried, day-old bread, the edges sharp and painful to swallow. Now it was sitting in the pit of my stomach, completely undigested, a pool of acid swirling around it.
Teardown.
The Rip Shack, Kellie’s shop, the upstairs residence … gone. The massive marble cornices and gargoyles would end up in an architectural salvage shop somewhere… .
Clyde would be forced to accept a new life, most likely against his will. A conservatorship … could I face that? Would it be good for him or would it break him? Yet, something terrible could happen to him, alone at the Excelsior. Something probably would sooner or later. I couldn’t live with that possibility either.
Mark …
The charity and the Rip Shack were his vision, the dreams in which he’d found solace after surviving the unthinkable. How could I make a choice that might take away those hopes? Something about Mark tugged at me in a way I didn’t have words for yet. But I was afraid of it too. Could I trust it? Could I trust him? What if he was doing the same thing Casey was doing—trying to play me because I had something he was after? What if it wasn’t me he wanted, but the building?
What if it was me he wanted? What if he felt the same mysterious, undeniable connection I felt?
There had to be some way of postponing this, of taking time but not losing everything back home and letting Tagg Harper win. The story keeper necklace could be the solution.
Taking a breath and holding it, I returned the museum’s call.
The phone rang, then rang again, a third time, a fourth. A recorded message came on. “Thank you for calling Benoit House Museum. We’re not in the office right now, but if you’ll leave a message …”
I waited for the tone, left a call-back request, and then hung on the line, hoping against hope that someone would answer. Of all the times to be playing phone tag. I even tried Tandi’s cell, but it rolled to voice mail.
Finally, there was no choice but to give up. Throwing myself back against the headrest, I rubbed the burgeoning ache in my forehead. I needed to know something. I’d promised Denise that I would figure this out, that I’d be heading home soon.
I hadn’t even checked in with her today, and I knew why. I didn’t have any answers, and I couldn’t hold up under the load of one more stone. If Denise reported bad news, if there had been another incident at her house, if Tagg Harper had shown up at the restaurant again …
It was easier to just assume everything was all right.
Sometimes self-delusion is the only thread left to keep you hanging upright. But delusions are slippery things to hold on to. I felt my grip sliding as I parked in the alley behind the Excelsior and walked around.
Mark was casually washing his store windows, whistling to himself. He smiled when he saw me, but the expression faded as I came closer. He read me, just as he had all along. The way he saw into me was both compelling and disturbing, as always. I could never decide whether to step in or run and hide.
“What’s going on?”
“Nothing.” A complete lie. Could he tell? Probably. “It’s just been a … complicated day.”
“How’s your partner doing?”
Panic dealt a sudden blunt-force blow. Blood prickled up my neck and into my cheeks. Did he know about my meeting with Casey Turner?
“What?”
“In Michigan. Your partner.” He squinted at me. “Whitney, are you okay? Is there something I can help with?”
Yes, I wanted to say. Yes, there is. Stop being such a great guy. This would all be so much easier if you weren’t. “Sorry. I’m just a little out of it right now, I guess. I haven’t talked to Denise today … but she would call me if there was any problem.” Such a lame-sounding excuse. About now, Mark was probably wondering if I was concerned about my cousin at all.
He moved a few steps closer, his head inclining a bit. “A little short on sleep last night? Sounds like you’ve hired one of my employees out from under me.”
It occurred to me that I hadn’t even talked to Joel about actually paying him for the work he was doing. That was stupid. Of course he’d need to be paid. “He said it would be fine with you. He told me he was on temporary furlough from the Rip Shack.” The tone came out sounding passive-aggressive. I felt like I needed to defend myself, but not for any reason Mark would’ve understood.
“Well, of course it’s fine.” A pause, and then, “Whitney, are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yes.” No wonder he was confused. Yesterday, I’d been melting all over him in the park. Today, he probably felt like he’d run into my frigid alter ego. “Thanks, though. And thanks for being fine with Joel working upstairs. I can definitely use the help.”
“I’m glad. He needs good people around him. He’s had a lot of disappointments over the years. He may be nineteen, but there’s still a little kid in there who’s desperately trying to convince people to want him around. He’ll mature out of some of that … if he can stay out of trouble long enough.”
“He’s good help.” And on top of everything else, I could send Joel off the deep end if I ditched the Excelsior. I’d be one more person who’d let him down.
I offered Mark a lame excuse about needing to go check on Joel’s progress. He seemed confused and a little surprised when I didn’t invite him along. “Thanks, Mark. I’ll see you after a while.” I couldn’t do this conversation anymore. I really couldn’t.
“Sure.” Folding his hands over the squeegee handle, he leaned on it like he intended to ponder me as I walked away. “Talk to you later.” A come hither look warmed his brown eyes, and I felt myself responding to it.
“Yes. Definitely.” I hurried off before things could lead someplace that would only muddy the waters.
“Whitney …”
I stopped with one hand on the stairway door, turned, and saw him standing there, the old metal canopies of the Excelsior silhouetted behind him. There was an openness in him that I hadn’t seen before. A vulnerability. For some reason—I wasn’t sure why—my mind took a snapshot.
The kind of image you know will haunt you at some point later on.
“I meant what I said yesterday in the park.”
“Thanks.” I hurried through the door, pulling it shut behind me. Closing my eyes, I leaned against the porter’s closet and tried to think.
Could Mark really help me find a way out of the mess with Bella Tazza? Tagg Harper had, no doubt, been counting on the fact that we couldn’t hire legal help for our code commission case, even if we could keep ourselves afloat financially for that long. But now Tagg was getting desperate, wondering where I was and what sort of plan I might be hatching. What would happen if we brought big guns to the fi
ght?
One thing at a time. Just go see how Joel’s doing upstairs.
But the second floor was empty when I reached it, the stairway door unlocked. Maybe Joel had run out to grab something to eat and left the doors unlocked because he was coming right back?
The tennis ball thudded overhead. Whack, whack, whack. Apparently Clyde and Ruby were having a recreation break. She probably needed to be taken to the park.
I left the second floor and trotted upstairs, then stopped on the balcony, surprised.
Voices drifted through the screen. Joel and Clyde? Talking … and laughing … and throwing Ruby’s tennis ball? I slipped silently inside, hesitated in the hallway.
“But … so … like, what’d you do then? Did he shoot the dude?” Joel’s voice.
“I was just a young fella, stuck on the far side of the world, first time in my whole life. All a sudden there I was, starin’ down the muzzle of my sergeant’s pistol and thinkin’, This thing could happen and not a soul but him and me is ever gonna know it. Then I thought, If he don’t shoot me, he’ll sure enough throw me in the hoosegow, and when my daddy gets wind of it back home, I’ll wish I’d got shot. But every once in a while—and y’all young folks can mark my words on this, because it’s somethin’ that’ll be true as life goes on—every once in a while, you hit a minute in your life when you know the Almighty is standin’ right over your shoulder, and he’s expectin’ you to be true to yourself—to the moral fiber you got inside. And if you don’t stand up for that, you’re gonna be less of yourself tomorrow than you was today. You gotta make your decision in the blink of an eye. Who you gonna be? You gonna be less or more when you wake up tomorrow?”
“That’s really profound, Mr. Franczyk.” There was a girl’s voice too. One of the other clerks from the Rip Shack? Or maybe Joel had invited his girlfriend over?
Clyde snort-laughed. “I ain’t ashamed to admit, it didn’t feel real profound right then. Truth told, I was a half step from soilin’ my standard-issue drawers. But I did what I thought was right. I stood there in front of that shrunk-up old man who was clutchin’ them two blankets he’d stole off our line, and I said, ‘Sir, Sergeant, sir, you ain’t gonna shoot this fella over a couple blankets? You’re just tryin’ to sure enough shake him up a bit, sir, ain’t ya?’” Clyde sniffled and coughed. “Was a long minute, the sergeant stood there lookin’ right through me, crazy-eyed like. Then, little by little, the crazy cleared up, and when it was gone, the sarge just seemed wore out. He went hollow and walked off without a word. Seemed like the tiredest man I ever seen. That Vietnamese fella went to babblin’ and gettin’ rid of them blankets, and he scampered off, checkin’ over his shoulder all the way.”
