Stargazey Nights

by Shelley Noble

  He stopped at the South Carolina border for another cup of coffee, then again for a quick breakfast on the outskirts of Myrtle Beach before turning south for the last leg of his journey. The sun was up and it promised to be a decent day. There was just the hint of fall in the air, so he wouldn’t be sweltering in his suit in the unair-­conditioned church. He wondered who had arranged the funeral? He should have asked Beau. Would it be in the church? Or graveside. Who would officiate? Would they expect him to say a few words?

  The road cut through marshland and scrub forest, parcels of farmland dissected by gated condos. Not all were new. And many seemed to be empty. It was a different landscape than he remembered, and the closer he got to Stargazey Point, the more anxious he was to get there. It was similar to the same feeling when he was a kid though now there would be no Ned waiting with a cold Coke and a package of cheese crackers.

  Cab smiled though it hurt. Simple pleasures. How he had looked forward to sitting on the front porch of Hadley’s store, drinking out of the bottle and sitting with the “men.” He’d felt so grown-­up.

  He almost passed Silas Cook’s smokehouse. He slammed on the brakes and, looking over his shoulder, backed up in the road until he came to what was—­had been—­the best barbecue place on the whole coast.

  Silas’s place had never been upscale; actually, if the health department had cared, they would probably have closed him down. But those officials always came to Silas’s for their barbecue, so they left him alone.

  But this. The old shack was practically falling down, the roof had caved in, and the sign that had always hung over the door had half fallen to the ground. The earth in front was hard packed, but one look at the side of the building and Cab knew what had happened. The best barbecue place on the coast was going under the bulldozer.

  For a moment, Cab just sat there.

  Things changed. That was good. But things in Stargazey Point had changed without him, and he felt like a stranger.

  He revved the engine and pulled away, throwing up gravel and dust, and when he drove into town ten minutes later, he breathed a huge sigh of relief. The buildings had a new coat of paint. There was a new art gallery, well good for them, a ­couple of antique stores, a real-­estate office, a tea shop, Flora’s. He remembered it though he and Ned didn’t go there much except on special occasions. It had been given a gingham face-­lift. The whole town had spruced up.

  Next to the tea shop, the Stargazey Inn looked pretty much the same, a square, cream-­colored building with doors and windows picked out in blue, a nod to the Gullah tradition. It had a new coat of paint, at least on the outside, but Cab suddenly wished he’d booked a real hotel back in Myrtle Beach.

  But what was the point of that? He wanted to be here. Wanted to see any ­people he might remember. Look in at the carousel and Ned’s house. So the hotel was a little old. How bad could it be?

  He took his suitcase and garment bag out of the back, pushed open the white, wrought-­iron gate, and walked up to the front porch. He stopped at the closed door. There was a row of rocking chairs along the porch but not a person in sight.

  He opened the door—­and stepped into a foyer that gave new meaning to quaint. Floral and checks and pastels covered the walls, the wicker furniture, the windows. The beds were probably soft and buried under a mound of homemade quilts.

  Cab resisted a shudder and walked over to the cherrywood registration desk.

  “Hello?” He dinged the bell that sat on the counter. Heard a rustling of paper, and a mousy-­looking young woman hurried out of the office, wiping her hands on her skirt.

  She stopped when she saw him. And her eyes widened before her mouth slowly lifted in a smile.

  “Mr. Reynolds?”

  “Yes. I believe Beau Crispin made a reservation for me.”

  “Yes, he did.”

  Cab opened his wallet and pulled out his Amex card.

  “Oh that won’t be necessary,” she said is a soft drawl. “There’s no charge.”

  “I don’t . . .”

  “Well, I could hardly charge you when you’re Ned’s nephew, now can I?”

  Of course she could. She couldn’t have more than six rooms if that; most landlords would have doubled the rates. Captive audience. But he would argue about it later.

  “You know. I bet Ned looked just like you when he was younger. I mean, he’d gone gray. But he was still tall, and I bet his hair was dark like yours. And you definitely have his eyes. You know, most ­people with dark eyes look intense, and sometimes formidable. But Ned’s always had a sparkle to them.”

  Cab suppressed a yawn. He was really tired, and this chatter was pushing him over the brink.

  “Oh, listen to me prattling on. We’re just so glad you could make it after all. Did you bring your fiancée?”

  “No.”

  “Well, we’ll all be sorry not to meet her. I’ve given you room four. It’s our biggest, and it has an en suite bath.”

  Cab just bet it did, with an ancient tub and zero water pressure. “I’ll only be staying tonight.”

  She been coming around the edge of the desk, but she stopped again. “Oh. Everybody was hoping you’d be able to stay a while.”

  She walked past him and picked up his suitcase.

  He was so astounded he forgot to protest until she started up the stairs. What she lacked in finish, she made up in energy.

  “I’ll take that,” he said, running to catch up to her.

  “Oh, it’s no trouble. We—­I don’t keep a bellboy during the off-­season.”

  He cast a sideways look at her.

  “Well, I never have a bellboy. But the rooms are real nice, and real clean.”

  She let him wrest the suitcase and bag from her.

  She led the way to the second floor, to a room in back. She opened the door with a flourish, then looked anxiously at him.

  The room was painted a light blue, and in the middle was a huge, four-­poster bed, with some kind of white bedspread covering the mattress, which was at least three feet high. A highboy and wooden wardrobe completed the furnishings, not a closet in sight.

  Just as well he and Bailey had argued. She would have demanded instant departure to the nearest four-­ or five-­star hotel. Normally, he would, too, but the landlady was so eager to please and so obviously proud of her handiwork, he didn’t have the heart to leave. Plus, he was about to fall on his face from fatigue and anxiety.

  “Very nice, Ms.—­”

  “Mrs.”

  To Cab’s dismay, her eyes filled with tears.

  She shook them way. “Bridges, just call me Bethanne. Everybody does. There are towels in the bathroom. Anything else you need?”

  “No thank you. I’ve been driving all night. I’d like to get a ­couple of hours’ sleep before the funeral.”

  She looked at a man’s watch she wore on her left arm. “You have plenty of time, the funeral isn’t until two.”

  “And is there somewhere I can get a quick lunch before then?”

  “Flora’s serves sandwiches and salads and things. We only serve breakfast.”

  “Do you know where the funeral is?”

  “It’s going to be at the First Zion Baptist Church.”

  “He’s going to be buried there?”

  “He insisted on it. Said he’d been listening to them singing every Sunday that he could remember.”

  Cab smiled. Ned had grumbled about “that damn singing” waking him up every Sunday since he could remember.

  “That’s where most of his friends went, and that’s where he wanted to be buried, so he wouldn’t be lonely.”

  Cab’s throat spasmed. He was afraid he might burst into tears. He hadn’t done that in years. He really needed to get some sleep.

  “Well, thank you Ms.—­Bethanne. Until later.” He gently ushered her out
the door, but she turned before she left.

  “We all loved Ned. He was a good man.”

  Cab nodded. He was a good man. And no one knew it better than Cab.

  Chapter 3

  SARAH DAVIS PUSHED PENNY FARLOWE out the door of Flora’s Tea Shoppe.

  “Careful. You’re jostling the coffee and pastries,” said Penny, owner, baker, and waitress of Flora’s. Flora had sold out years before, but Penny kept the name. As Penny told anyone who asked, “You can’t go changing the name of a place that has always been known as Flora’s.”

  “Won’t matter if you don’t hurry your butt. The guy will be registered and upstairs before we get there.” Sarah, barely five feet and a pencil to Penny’s cushioned frame, gave her an encouraging nudge.

  “Ow. I know that. But maybe we should leave the man alone. I mean, he’s grieving and all.”

  Sarah snorted, a country habit she’d picked up since returning to Stargazey last June. “Grieving my foot. If Cabot Reynolds III were grieving, he wouldn’t have had his secretary send that god-­awful, nouveau riche, New Jersey big-­haired flower arrangement. He would have come down to make the funeral arrangements himself. And he would have been here for the viewing.”

  “You sure have gotten unforgiving since you’ve been living up in New York with all those Yankees. Bad enough you talk just like them now.” Penny moved aside to let Sarah open the gate to the Inn. “How do you know he’s a third?”

  “I looked him up, and I’ve always been unforgiving. It’s one of my better traits.” Sarah flashed her a smug smile and followed her up the walk. Jumped ahead to open the door. “I’m beginning to feel a little step and fetch it, doing all this work,” Sarah said, relapsing into a brutal Southern accent.

  Penny pushed past her. “I’d say something unladylike, but I don’t want to shock Bethanne.”

  They bustled inside . . . to an empty foyer. Exchanged looks.

  “Damn,” Sarah said, just as Bethanne came down the stairs.

  She saw them and put her fingers to her lips. Then she giggled. Something, Sarah realized, they hardly ever heard from the young widow. “You’re too late.”

  Sarah huffed. “I told you we should have just grabbed a tea bag and come on over. So give us the lowdown.”

  Bethanne looked over her shoulder as if she thought maybe Cabot Reynolds might be afraid to stay upstairs by himself and had followed her back down. “He drove all night to get here, so he’s sleeping for a ­couple of hours.” She walked behind the registration desk.

  Penny put down the plate of pastries and pulled off the plastic wrap. “We might as well eat these, seeing how he’s out for the count.”

  “I told him he could get a quick lunch at the tea shop before the funeral.”

  “I’ll get dressed early and meet you there,” Sarah told her. “I’ll even buy you lunch.”

  “Sarah, you’re terrible.”

  “I know. It’s because I’m bored.”

  Bethanne looked at her like she was crazy, which Sarah had to admit might be true. She’d given up a second year of teaching at Columbia’s Cultural Studies Department to do research on the “Disappearing Gullah Culture of the Carolina Shore.” Like there wasn’t enough written about that already. What she was more interested in doing was recording the remnants of that culture in a real setting, with primary source material and live, on-­site interviews before it disappeared altogether. So far, she hadn’t had much cooperation from the locals.

  At least it masked the other reason she had come back to her “roots,” which was to make sure her great-­grandmother was not living alone, neglected by social ser­vices, and poor.

  Ervina was none of these things. She was just crazy. Or the wisewoman, depending on who you talked to.

  Whatever it was, Sarah hoped to hell it didn’t run in her veins. She reached for one of the lemon tarts Penny had made just that morning. “So? What does he look like?”

  Bethanne shrugged. “He looked really tired.”

  Penny snatched the plate away. “You’re as bad as Sarah. She knew him when he was young. All she said was he was a skinny white boy.”

  “Sarah.”

  Sarah shrugged. “I know, I had an aberrant moment of being un-­PC.” She grinned. “But it’s true. That’s the main thing I remember about him. And that he’d show up every summer with some god-­awful version of what his folks thought was beachwear, and Ned would have to take him over to Hadley’s and buy him some dungarees. And he never had his size, so The Third would go around all summer hoisting those pants up. He was the prototype of boyz ’n the hood. Only he didn’t know it.”

  “Well, he’s a lot better dressed now,” Bethanne said.

  “You’re going to have to do better than that if you’re eating my lemon tarts.”

  “Well, he’s tall . . . and dark . . . and handsome.”

  Penny pushed the plate back toward her. “Girl, you’ve been reading too many romance novels.”

  “No. Really. He is. Try to imagine Ned Reynolds about forty years ago. Really dark hair. And darker eyes. Only Ned’s always had a twinkle since I knew him. His nephew’s eyes have a glint, but I don’t think it’s fun.”

  “Do I detect a note of interest?” Sarah knew the minute she’d said it that it was the wrong thing to say.

  “Sarah, how could you say such a thing?” Bethanne’s eyes filled with tears.

  “Now, now, Sarah was just kidding,” Penny said, patting Bethanne’s arm and frowning at Sarah. “But it has been almost three years, Bethie. No one would blame you if you got interested in seeing men again.”

  Bethanne shook her head so vehemently that her hair swung across her face.

  “Okay, whatever,” Sarah said. “Call me when he’s leaving for the tea shop, so I can get there in time to see him. You can come, too.”

  “Don’t you think that would be a little obvious? Besides, you’ll see him at the funeral.”

  “Yeah, but with all the folderol and rigmarole and ‘Praise the Lords,’ I might not get up close and personal.”

  “Why are you so interested?” Bethanne asked.

  “Like I said, I’m bored. Plus, if we can guilt him out, maybe he’ll give a big donation to the community center in Ned’s name.”

  CAB WOKE TWO hours later amidst flowers and frills and thought he must have wandered into a Martha Stewart magazine in his dreams. Then he remembered. The Stargazey Inn, the mousy, sweet inn lady. This froufrou room.

  He shuddered as his brain clicked in. He’d be back in his nice, sleek, urban condo tonight with any luck, but he really didn’t look forward to Bailey’s cold shoulder. But hell, it was his apartment. She could just be a little understanding.

  He staggered to the bathroom and turned on the shower full blast. Gave the showerhead the evil eye. It had to be an antique, and the water pressure—­

  And he was being a goddamn, condescending ass. It was a lovely inn if you liked that kind of thing. When had he gotten so damn smug and opinionated?

  The water was hot and cleansing, and he stood there, mindless, for way too long. Then he got out and dressed in his summerweight suit.

  He went downstairs. He was pretty sure he remembered the church from when he stayed with Ned, but he asked his hostess for directions anyway. Then she reminded him that the tea shop was open for lunch.

  He thanked her, but he didn’t have any appetite. Now that he was here, he realized how much he’d lost.

  She followed him to the door, pointed him in the right direction, said again how sorry she was, and he was out the door and standing alone on the sidewalk.

  He was a little early still, so he decided to walk; besides, if he remembered correctly, there wasn’t a big parking lot at the church. He started toward the south end of town. All two blocks of it. For the first few stores, everything looked normal and fairly prospero
us. But the sidewalk came to an abrupt end in front of a vacant lot, where weeds grew knee high and had turned brown and brittle. He could see the edge of a ­couple of discarded tires and what looked like an old icebox lying on its side.

  He walked on past two abandoned buildings, which he vaguely remembered as being stores. They were boarded over; the first had lost its steps, and the door stood several feet above the ground. The sidewalk, if there had ever been one, was gone.

  He didn’t understand how one end of town could have revived and the other been left to die. He willed himself not to look across the street to where the carousel building stood. If it was still standing. There had been near misses during several hurricanes that Cab could remember. He knew there had been more that he didn’t know about . . . because he hadn’t bothered to take the time to ask.

  He suddenly felt uncomfortably hot in his suit and was tempted to take off his jacket until he got to the church. But before he could act, he came to Hadley’s, and a smile tugged at his mouth. The single red gas pump, that had been ancient when Cab was a boy, was still standing in the middle of a concrete slab in front of the old clapboard general store, which had once been whitewashed but now had weathered to a dull gray.

  Cab took a step closer, stood at the bottom of the steps that led to the sagging porch as if he expected Ned or Hadley to come out the door.

  The door opened and a man did come out. He stopped, gawking as if he’d seen a ghost. He was a little softer, maybe a tiny bit stooped. Fifteen years ago, his hair had already receded several inches.

  “Makes you look like a MoonPie, only white,” Ned would tell him.

  “That’s not a very nice thing to say,” Cab had said. He must have been about eight at the time, on his first trip to spend the summer with his uncle.

  Hadley bent over to show his beginning pate to Cab. “You just remember this, young Cabot. ’Cause one day my forehead’s gonna push my hair right off my head. And I’ll be an egg instead of a MoonPie.”