“Canceled it?”
“The resort has been making people pay more for their premiums—”
“I heard,” Maggie said grimly. “But I told your mother to pay whatever she had to.”
“She did. But a month ago they told everyone in housekeeping that they were going to be raising the co-pay again. It's over two hundred dollars a month, and Mama said she couldn't afford it.”
Maggie's pretty little face was red with anger. “How could you let her, Grace? With her history?”
“She didn't tell us until after she'd done it. They laid her off last winter during the slow season, right when she had to get the new propane tank for her house and she's still trying to pay that off.” There were tears in Grace's eyes now. Laurel remembered the day she first heard Sara Jayne's diagnosis, followed by the news that temporary employees at the Garrison resort—which meant her mother—didn't qualify for benefits at all.
“Reetha and I will pay for the X-rays,” Grace was saying. “It'll take us a couple of weeks—”
“No!” Maggie shouted. Then she stopped and took a deep breath. “Your mama can't wait. I'll call St. Francis on Monday and make an appointment for her. I'll talk to them, get them to hold off on the bill, or—something. Just get your mama there!”
“I will, Dr. Maggie. I'm sorry I—”
But Maggie had already started down the hall, moving so fast that Laurel had to run to keep up. Their dash ended in the parking lot outside the nursing home. Then a little ball of fury exploded next to Laurel.
“May Stuart Lawrence rot in hell!” Maggie yelled. “May he be damned and rot in hell!”
“They always do stuff like that, Maggie. Those sons of bitches at the resort and the gardens have always—” Laurel stopped. She'd just remembered who owned the resort and had a controlling vote in the gardens.
Maggie was looking at her. Clearly she'd remembered who owned the whole mess too. “Oh, Doodlebug,” she said softly, as if something tragic was unfolding in front of her.
And in that moment, Laurel made a decision. “Wait right here,” she said. And she dashed back inside the nursing home.
Grace was still standing in the hall where Maggie had left her, trying to get herself together. Laurel rushed up. “Don't worry about the X-rays,” she said.
Grace pulled back. “My sister and I will be fine,” she said politely.
“I'll take care of it. Tell them to send the bill to me. I'm Laurel McCready. I own the resort.”
“Oh, my land! You're the one Miss Peggy—”
“Yeah, I am. What's your name?”
“Grace Marshall.”
“Well, Grace, you get those X-rays and any other tests your mama has to have. And then, if it turns out she has a problem, you let me know what you need—Emory, anything. You hear?”
“But I can't—”
“I've been where you are, okay? I'm for real. You can ask Dr. Maggie. Here, let me write down my name and my phone number.”
Grace began to cry now—not just tears, big wrenching sobs. “I don't know what to say.”
“Don't worry about that. Just do what you've got to do for your mama.”
“Thank you! Oh, thank you! I've been so scared. If Mama needed . . . it can cost so much. I didn't know what we'd do.”
Feeling like Wonder Woman and Oprah and Stuart Lawrence's worst nightmare all rolled into one, Laurel hugged her. “It never should have happened. And it won't anymore. The resort is my responsibility now, and this bullshit is going to stop.” And before Grace could start thanking her again, she ran out to Maggie in the parking lot.
“Are you all right?” Maggie asked, when they were driving back from the nursing home.
“Couldn't be better.”
“Wasn't that a stop sign you just ran?”
“Sorry.” She slowed down a little. But she needed to get home. She had a phone call to make.
Chapter Thirty-six
STUART LAWRENCE WAS NOT HAPPY about meeting with the redneck chick on his day off. Sunday was church and golf day for Garrison execs and he was teeing off, or whatever the hell golfers did, at two. On the other hand, he needed her to sign his power-of-attorney form, so he sighed, to let her know how pushy she was being, and allowed as how they could probably meet in his office over at the resort for just a few minutes. She agreed without apologizing, which was clearly what he expected her to do, and hung up.
The executive offices for the resort and the gardens were housed in three white stone buildings at the back of the resort, connected by red brick pathways that were bordered with low boxwood hedges. Stuart's office was in the middle. Laurel strode up to the front door, banged on it, then let herself in and yelled into the empty entryway that she was there. Stuart appeared and conducted her to his office.
After the splendor of his home, Stuart's office was a surprise. The room was small, furnished with commercial carpet, an old wooden desk, a couple of padded chairs, and a lamp. On the walls were pictures of the Lawrence men—Junior and Senior, separately and together—shaking hands and posing with other men, all of whom looked rich and pleased with themselves. On the desk was a picture of Stuart's father standing with Mr. Dalt on a dock near a large body of water. One of them had caught a huge fish, but it wasn't clear which of the men had actually bagged the thing, since they were holding it between them. Possibly they had double-teamed it.
Stuart's office—specifically the rattyness of it—was interesting. Obviously someone at the resort had decided he didn't rate more than cast-off furniture and cheap floor covering. That could give a person one hell of an inferiority complex, never a good thing in a man.
At the moment he was sitting behind his desk, looking patient and slightly martyred in his golfing clothes. Which, for some reason, made Laurel even madder. “Do you have health insurance?” she demanded.
“I don't understand.”
“I'll take a simple yes or no.”
“Of course I have health insurance.”
“Well, I just met a woman whose mother doesn't. Her mother is a maid at the resort, and she dropped her insurance because you—we—made it too expensive for her. Now she's sick—”
“Laurel, I can see why you find this upsetting.”
“Upset? I'm pissed. I told this woman—her name is Grace Marshall—that I was going to pick up her bills, whatever they are—”
“Do you have any idea what that could cost you?”
“Probably better than you do. I went through it all before when my ma was dying and the resort wouldn't lift a finger to help. I know damn well I can't pay for everyone.”
“I'm glad you realize that.”
“That's why we're going to make sure people have insurance.”
“Laurel—”
“You've been rich all your life. You don't know what it's like when they tell you your mother has something real bad and you're scared it's going to kill her. But you're even more scared that there might be something they could do for her that you'll never even hear about, because you don't have the money to pay for the best treatment.” He sat back in his chair. He'd given up trying to interrupt. “You don't know what it's like when you come home from the hospital and the mailbox is so full of bills you don't even bother to open it, because if you do you'll throw up. Or when you're sitting next to your mother's hospital bed, and all you can think about is how much it's costing her to die. You don't know any of that, but I do. And I'm not letting anyone else go through it. Premiums for employees at the resort have got to go down.”
He waited for a moment. Then he said, “Are you through?”
“I am.” She sat back.
“Do you have any idea how much it costs to provide benefits for our employees?” he asked. Every inch of him said how much he resented having to explain his policies to the likes of her. In spite of herself, she felt guilty for bothering him. She fought the feeling.
“No, I don't,” she said.
“We employ over three thousand workers at th
e gardens and the resort. Insuring all of them—with a minimal plan, mind you—runs over ten million a year.”
She couldn't keep from being shocked. He saw it.
“Exactly,” he said. He finally looked at her. He had the coldest eyes she'd ever seen. They were looking at her like she was beyond stupid. “It's an astronomical sum. Even after raising the co-payments, we're still looking at a figure in excess of seven million. I don't have the precise numbers on hand.”
“But if someone gets sick?” A tone of pleading was creeping into her voice and she hated herself for it.
“Laurel, with all due respect, you don't begin to understand what's involved here!” Stuart's coldness was rapidly giving way to anger. “A few years ago, we were facing the prospect of bankruptcy at the resort. And we were considering closing down the gardens.”
That was a stunner. There were always rumors that the gardens and the resort were doing badly, but this was coming from a source who knew what he was talking about. “You guys were going out of business? Seriously?” she asked. It would mean hundreds of people losing their jobs in a one-industry town.
“It was a very real possibility. Of course we kept it quiet; it wouldn't have helped our image with potential visitors if it had been known. I'm sure you can see that.”
Laurel nodded, trying to make herself absorb the idea of the gardens and the resort not existing.
“We've managed to stay open, but our revenues are still down—not through any fault of ours, I might add. In fact, we've done remarkably well considering the challenges we've faced. Times have been difficult, and families have cut back. A vacation is one of the first items on the budget to go.
“Furthermore, we're going to have to upgrade our facilities if we want to remain competitive. And we should be expanding. We've been exploring the idea of building adult-living residences near the golf course. Our architects are projecting an initial cost of between fifty-eight and sixty million dollars. I promise you no one will invest with us if our financial picture looks the way it did.”
Stuart's anger had subsided. Now he sounded reasonable and responsible again. She tried to remember the panic in Grace's eyes.
“Meanwhile,” the reasonable and responsible voice went on, “our health insurance costs are rising at an annual rate of twenty percent. We simply can't afford that.”
Grace's face was fading away.
“There's got to be some other way,” Laurel said, knowing she was losing ground.
He let out a deep sigh. “Laurel, the decision to increase the premiums was not taken lightly. We held off as long as we could. But sometimes you have to make the tough calls. I'm sure if you were to ask any of our employees if they'd rather have cheap health insurance or know that the resort and the gardens will still be here next year, they'd opt for their jobs.”
He was right. People might bitch about the gardens, but no one in their right mind would want the Garrison cash cow to tank.
“I'm sure what we've done seems harsh to you. But it had to happen. And that's why I advised you to sign your power of attorney over to me. You hear a story like the one this maid told you—and I admit it's heartbreaking—and you react emotionally. All you want to do is make it better for her. That does you great credit. But I'm responsible for the livelihoods of three thousand people. I have to look at the bigger picture. These are complicated, difficult questions. Only an informed, experienced person can wrestle with them and still hope to sleep at night.”
She should have known he'd get around to the power of attorney.
“I hope I've answered your concerns,” he said.
She hated him, but she nodded.
He got up to let her out of the office, and she had to keep herself from running out the door.
Chapter Thirty-seven
BY THE TIME Laurel got home she hated herself as much as she hated Stuart. She wasn't fit company for the dogs. Naturally, the phone rang.
“So, I'd like to take you out for that date. How about supper?” a familiar husky voice said in her ear.
“Wiener.”
“It's got to be the Sportsman's Grill, because you own all the nice restaurants in town.”
“Don't say that.”
“I know you don't spend every night meeting and greeting at the Magnolia Room, but you do own—”
“I told you not to say that, goddammit!”
“Laurel? What's wrong?”
“I don't want to hear about the gardens or the restaurants or any of the shit I own!” And she slammed down the phone.
Two seconds later, as she was trying to find his number, her phone rang again.
“I'm sorry,” she said.
“Okay.”
“It's not about you.”
“Okay.”
And then before she could stop herself, she was spilling the whole story: about Grace and Maggie and her power of attorney and the loathesome Stuart Junior. “I didn't fight,” she said. “I hate that son of a bitch and everything he stands for, but as soon as he started talking I started thinking, What do I know? Those bastards are going to screw hundreds of people, and I couldn't think of a single way to fight it.”
“Laurel, it's all right.”
“I've never been to college. I've never run a business.”
“And he knows that.”
“I've messed up everything I've ever tried to do in my whole life.”
“No, you haven't.”
“I can't do this. I can't be the person who owns the whole goddam town. Peggy was either out of her mind when she made that will or she was drunk.”
“I'm coming over.”
“I sat in that man's office like a fool.”
“It'll just take me a couple of minutes.”
“Don't come. I'm going out to get something to eat.”
“Stay where you are.”
“It's better if I'm alone—”
But he'd already hung up. She found her keys and ran for her car, figuring if she drove fast she'd be all the way into town before he reached her dirt road. She got as far as turning on the ignition, but then she turned it off again. When Perry drove up fifteen minutes later, she was sitting on her porch, waiting for him.
“For the record, you're not a fool,” he said. “The guy's a bully, Laurel. Stuart Junior threw a lot of numbers at you because that's how he intimidates the peasants when they get out of hand.”
“I should have said something.”
“He shut you down, honey. He's been running things here for a long time, and he doesn't want interference.”
“I wasn't trying to—okay, I was trying to interfere. But somebody should!”
“And that somebody is you. But you've got to know what you're doing. You've got to be totally clear, totally prepared. With facts and figures—”
“I can't do that.”
“What do you mean, you can't? You have to, if you want to take him on.”
“I don't want to take on Stuart Lawrence. I don't want to know about the facts and figures. I just want people to have health insurance.”
“Damn it, Laurel, you can't waltz into the man's office trying to be a hero with nothing but the steam coming out of your ears!”
Which, of course, was exactly what she'd done.
“Is this supposed to make me feel better?”
“Okay, that was the wrong way to say it.” He regrouped. “Lawrence is a shit heel. But he's a disciplined shit heel; he knows his stuff. If you want to deal with him—if you want to do anything more than just sign that power of attorney and turn everything over to him—you have to do your homework. Make him give you the books.” She could feel her face go blank. “The financial statements. Learn the operation. See for yourself where the money's going. Know what you're talking about.”
She could imagine the look on Stuart's face when she informed him that she wanted to inspect his finances. As usual, Perry did his mind-reading thing. “You'll be okay,” he said. “Why does this matter so much to you?”
/>
“This is my town too. You're not the only one who hates the way the gardens and the resort Bigfoot everyone.” Then he smiled, a big spectacular dimple-producing smile. “Besides, I want to watch Laurel Selene McCready kick some good ol' boy ass.”
The best—and the worst—of it was, his smile said he really thought she could do it. No one had had that kind of faith in her since Peggy died.
“Let's get something to eat,” she said.
They didn't go to the Sportsman's Grill because it was too late. After ten the grill morphed from a place for family dining to a place for serious drinking. Laurel and Perry drove to McGuire's, a little all-purpose store with the best home-cooked takeout in the state. They picked up two fried chicken suppers, with an order of special fried okra and a can of bug spray, and took the feast back to eat on Laurel's porch. Perry sat across from her, not next to her, and didn't try to touch her once. And if she'd been afraid he was going to start up with his foolishness again, she needn't have worried. He kept up a stream of the kind of chitchat he'd have had with an elderly female relative, talking about his work with Maggie and how his mama was going back to school after all these years so she could be a teacher. By the time they finished eating, Laurel could almost tell herself she'd imagined his declaration of passion and the follow-up scene in the clinic the next morning.
As she walked with him to his car, she was congratulating herself on how well she'd handled the situation when he stopped and said, “Now, I'd say we're making progress, wouldn't you?”
“Huh?”
“You haven't called me Wiener in at least three hours. I told you you'd start adjusting your thinking.”
“I haven't adjusted a damn thing!”
“Well, you always were bullheaded. You'll come around.” Before she could put him in his place, he added, “But about Stuart Lawrence. It wouldn't hurt to do some research on him.”
“I should research Junior?”
“Trust me, he's done plenty of research on you.” He gave her a quick peck on the cheek, said, “You'd better go inside. It's past midnight and we've been sitting here so long we're going to be out of bug spray,” and on that romantic note he left.
The Ladies of Garrison Gardens Page 15
