Finally, one sunny afternoon, Grandmama shook me awake gently.
“Huh?” I said, rolling over groggily.
“BeBe, sweetheart,” she said. “Your granddaddy and I need to have a talk with you.”
“Are you all right?” I asked, suddenly alert.
“I’m fine,” she said, perching on the sofa arm.
I sat up, yawned, and rubbed the sleep from my eyes. “What time is it?”
“Nearly two o’clock,” she said, her lips slightly pursed.
“Yes,” chimed in Granddaddy. “And here you are, sleeping the day away.” He frowned. “That’s what we want to talk to you about. Things can’t go on like this, young lady.”
“Spencer!” Grandmama exclaimed. “Hush.” Her face flushed slightly.
“Sweetheart,” she said slowly, taking my hand in hers, “your granddaddy and I have been talking. And we are just so proud and grateful for the way you’ve pitched in and helped out while I was ailing. You’ve been a godsend.”
“Mostly,” Granddaddy said. “But now it’s time—”
“Spencer!” Grandmama snapped. “We agreed that I would do the talking.”
“Beating around the bush,” Granddaddy muttered. “Just tell her flat out.”
“Tell me what?” I asked, glancing from one to the other.
“Well…it’s just that, um, I’m feeling much better now. And the doctor says if I’m careful, I can do pretty much whatever I want. And we thought…”
“We think it’s time you moved back home,” Granddaddy put in. “High time. You can’t just lay around on this sofa all day long.”
“Spencer, for heaven’s sakes!” Grandmama exclaimed.
“Wait a minute,” I said. “Let me get this straight. You’re kicking me out? That’s what you wanted to talk to me about?”
“Well,” Grandmama said, “I wouldn’t say we were kicking you out. But we do agree that I’m well enough for you to go home now.”
“Yeah,” Granddaddy said. “I even packed your stuff. Not that there’s very much of it. Traveling kind of light these days, ain’t you?”
I blinked. “You’ve already packed for me. And you want me to leave.”
“Lorena’s got her bridge club girls coming over here at four o’clock,” Granddaddy said. “And she’s been after me to Swiffter the living room. Can’t hardly do that with you underfoot.”
Grandmama stood up and punched Granddaddy hard on the arm. “Spencer Loudermilk! I swear to goodness I don’t know what to do with you.” But then she tucked an arm around his waist, and he kissed the top of her head. And for a minute there, the two of them looked like a couple of lovelorn teenagers.
“Okay,” I said, looking around the room for my aforementioned luggage, which consisted of a brown paper sack from the Winn-Dixie. “I guess I’ll be going, uh, home. I’m sorry, guys, if I’ve been underfoot. I didn’t realize I’ve been cramping your style.”
“You haven’t been underfoot,” Grandmama said. “Just ignore your grandfather. He’s an old fool. He’s just cuttin’ up because his poker buddies are supposed to come over here tomorrow night, and he knows you’ll fuss at them for smoking cigars.”
“It’s all right,” I said, gathering up the paper sack and my pocketbook. “He’s perfectly right. You’re much better now, and you two need your privacy. So I’ll just be heading home, unless you need anything else.”
“Not a thing,” Granddaddy said, a little too heartily. He slung an arm around my shoulder and basically force-marched me to the front door. Then he kissed me on the head, and tucked something in the back pocket of my jeans.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Just some folding money,” Granddaddy said. “The least we could do after all the baby-sitting you’ve been doing around here.”
I pulled out the wad of folding money. It was five crisp one-hundred-dollar bills.
“Where’d you get this?” I asked, alarmed. Had he been withdrawing money from an account that was riding on empty?
“Don’t you worry about that,” he said airily. “I have my resources.”
“No, really,” I said. “I know you didn’t take it out of the money-market account, because the checkbook isn’t here. Where did this money come from, Granddaddy? I need to know, to keep all your accounts straight.”
“You don’t know about all our accounts, young lady,” he said. “I’ve got money squirreled away. And that’s all you have to know about that.”
I was starting to panic. “You don’t have cash hidden around here, do you? That’s not really a good idea. If there was a fire or something—”
Grandmama laughed. “Don’t worry. It’s not like he’s got a fruit jar full of hundred-dollar bills hidden under the bed, if that’s what you mean. Your grandfather still has a very good head for numbers. Always has had. We’re nicely fixed. And you children will be too, when we’ve passed. So you go on home now. Maybe take a shower and fix your hair. And put on some of those pretty clothes you used to wear.”
“Yeah,” I said dully, heading for the door. “I’ll do that. I’ll drop by later in the week to check on you.”
“Be sure and call first,” Granddaddy said.
I could have sworn I heard the lock click behind me as I headed for the Lexus.
For an hour, I drove aimlessly around town. It was one of those nasty, bitter-cold days when you could almost see the blooming azaleas and dogwoods shivering in the wind whipping through Forsyth Park. Because of course, I wasn’t really driving aimlessly. I drove straight downtown, past the park, and circled my block of West Jones three times, praying for a sighting of Steve Arrendale. I wanted to run him down, or at the very least maim him. But it was late afternoon, and the street was deserted. I scowled every time I saw the SOLD sign posted in my front parlor window.
Already the town house was looking forlorn and bedraggled. The boxwoods in their antique cast-iron urns by the front door had big brown splotches, and the ivy cascading around them had died, leaving a windswept carpet of dead leaves on the front stoop. Pigeons had taken up residence under the front portico, and there was a nasty mound of droppings on the sidewalk.
Stop this! I finally told myself. I drove over to Weezie’s house on Charlton Street. I was tired, I was depressed, I hadn’t had any food all day. I needed sympathy. And hard liquor. And my best friend.
I tucked my Winn-Dixie luggage under my arm and rang the front doorbell.
“Oh!” Marian Foley wore a pale pink polyester jogging suit and a look of surprise. “Why, BeBe,” she said. “How nice to see you. Does Eloise expect you?”
“Hi, Mrs. Foley.” I gave her a dutiful peck on the cheek. Weezie’s mother was big on proprieties. “No, Weezie’s not expecting me. I just decided to drop by on the spur of the moment. Is this a bad time?”
“Not at all,” she said. “We were just sitting in the kitchen with a cup of tea, having a little mother-and-daughter chat. I’m sure she’ll be thrilled to see you.” But her look said otherwise.
I followed Marian to the back of the house, to Weezie’s kitchen, where she was sitting at her oak table looking deeply unhappy. There was a pot of tea on the table, two mugs, and a plate of lumpy, misshapen neon-orange muffins.
“BeBe!” Weezie said, brightening, and at the same time instantly taking in the grocery sack.
“Hey,” I said wanly. “I didn’t know your mom was here. I can come back later. Just call me. On my cell,” I said, knowing she’d get my meaning.
“Oh, Mom doesn’t mind, do you?” she asked, looking from me to Marian.
Marian’s shrug said she actually minded very much.
“BeBe was just dropping by some of her grandmother’s old handkerchiefs for me to sell in the shop,” Weezie said, brazenly lying. “I’m making little flower boutonnieres out of them to sell in Maisie’s Daisy.”
“Other people’s used hankies,” Marian said, shuddering. “Why on earth would anybody pay good money for something like that?”
“Just another wacky trend, I guess,” Weezie said glibly. She grabbed me by the elbow and headed me out the back door, in the direction of the shop. “We’ll be back in a minute, Mama. Go ahead and pour yourself another cup of tea.”
“I’ll save you a muffin, BeBe,” Marian said. “They’re orange-pistachio. It’s a new recipe. You use a bottle of Nehi Orange Crush soda, a box of orange Jell-O, and a can of those mandarin oranges, and—”
“Later, Mama,” Weezie said, rolling her eyes once her back was turned to her mother. Marian Foley is a very nice lady, I suppose. She’d been a lifelong closet drinker up until a few years ago, when she went through rehab and took up cooking as therapy. The problem was, she was a much better drinker than cooker.
“I’m gonna kill myself,” Weezie said under her breath. “Or her.”
She unlocked the door to the antiques shop and snapped on the lights as we stepped inside. Quiet classical music flowed from hidden speakers, and she sank down onto a funky wrought-iron chair and patted the seat of its mate opposite her.
“What’s really in the sack?” she asked, getting right down to business.
“Money. Half a million. I hit the lottery last night. Didn’t you hear?”
“No,” she said, arching one eyebrow. “Mama watches the Food Channel nonstop. This whole town could burn to the ground and I wouldn’t know a thing about it.”
“What’s she doing here?”
“Their hot-water heater exploded. The whole house flooded. Their carpet’s ruined, and they can’t move back in until everything dries out.”
“And they’re staying with you?”
“Mama is. And that’s the problem. Daddy just turned right around and went down to South Carolina to go hunting. So it’s just Mama and me.”
“And the muffins,” I added.
“Have you ever seen anything so hideous? I shouldn’t be like this,” Weezie said, shaking her head. “I’m ashamed of myself for being like this. But she makes me…”
“Crazy,” I said.
“Exactly. I can’t be in the same room with her for more than an hour at a time. She sucks up all the oxygen in the atmosphere.”
“I know,” I agreed. “She’s a wonderful woman, but…”
“Impossible,” Weezie finished. “But I’ll get through it. Somehow. But enough about me and my troubles. What’s going on with you? What’s really in that sack?”
“I’m homeless,” I said, blurting it out. “My grandparents kicked me out of the house.”
“For real?”
“’Fraid so,” I said. “Here I thought I was being so noble, sacrificing myself to help take care of them, and it turns out they’ve been plotting to get rid of me.”
“Why?”
“I don’t blame ’em,” I said. “They don’t need me anymore. Grandmama is feeling much better. They’ve got their own life. And they don’t need me underfoot.”
“You can stay here, of course,” Weezie said. “Mama can move into my room with me, and you can have the guest room.”
“No ’effin way,” I said. “To tell you the truth, I came over here intending to ask if I could bunk with you for a while. But there’s no way I’d move in now. You’ve got enough to deal with.”
“I’m begging you,” Weezie said, grasping my hand. “Please. I just want another sane human being to talk to.”
But I shook my head and stood up. “Can’t do it.”
“But where’ll you go?” she asked.
“A motel,” I said, and the answer surprised even me. “I’m thinking of checking into the owner’s quarters at the Breeze Inn. Tybee’s supposed to be lovely this time of year.”
Weezie grinned. “Save me a room. If they don’t get that carpet replaced soon, I’m outta here too.”
18
Harry Sorrentino’s station wagon was missing from the parking lot at the Breeze Inn. I frowned and fidgeted with the ring of keys in my lap. I had practiced my speech all the way out to Tybee. I would tell Harry in a calm, reasonable way that he would have to vacate the manager’s quarters because I needed to move in. Immediately. It was the only way, I would say, that I could protect my property rights from developers who were trying to swoop in and steal the place out from under me. And him. I had decided, in a magnanimous gesture of goodwill, to allow Harry to stay on, rent free, as long as he moved into one of the vacant motel units and stepped up his efforts at renovating the rest of them. If I couldn’t sell the motel immediately, as originally planned, I could at least get the Breeze Inn ready to start renting rooms and become a paying proposition.
A seagull skimmed past the windshield of the Lexus and left an ugly greenish-white splatter as a souvenir. I swear, the motley creature laughed as it soared off on a gust of wind and I hit the power-wash button for the windshield wipers.
I knocked hard on the door of the manager’s unit, to no avail. I jiggled the key ring some more, then walked around to the back of the log cabin, where I remembered seeing a set of French doors. Maybe Harry was home, but napping. Or maybe he was just being obstinate and refusing to open up, as he had the first night I’d laid eyes on him and the Breeze Inn.
The French doors, salt misted, revealed no sign of my motel manager. In the dim light from a single table lamp, I saw that the room looked much the same as it had before, except now the outboard engine was missing from the table, and in its place was a huge cast net, which was draped over the table and three chairs.
I rapped on the glass panes of the door. “Harry!” I called. “It’s me. BeBe Loudermilk. Harry, are you home?”
No answer. I sighed and walked around to the front. I glanced at my watch. It was starting to get dark, nearly five-thirty now, and it was getting colder too. I thought longingly of that ugly woodstove inside the log cabin. Then I thought about my favorite winter coat, the soft, camel-colored quilted jacket with the Burberry lining, and the cashmere Burberry scarf I always wore with it. The jacket and the scarf had been in my bedroom closet in the West Jones Street house. My house. My home. Gone, all of it. I shivered and pulled up the collar of the worn red sweater Weezie had donated to my clothing cause.
Damn Harry Sorrentino. Where was the man? I didn’t want to just move in and kick him out without giving him the benefit of my speech. But really, enough was enough. I was cold and tired, and come to think of it, hungry too. For a moment, I regretted not sampling one of Marian Foley’s weird orange Nehi muffins. But only for a moment.
Suddenly, I remembered the money Granddaddy had given me, and patted the pocket of my jeans just to reassure myself that the money was still there. I could leave this godforsaken place, check into the Holiday Inn down the street, go out and have a nice seafood dinner someplace, then go back and go to sleep on a real bed, without the Weather Channel droning in my ear, without listening to people shuffling to and from the bathroom, without the springs of my grandparents’ Hide-A-Bed poking me in the ribs.
I got back behind the wheel of the Lexus, and even started to back out of the parking lot before changing my mind.
No, I thought. Hell no. Sure, I could check into a motel, and the money would last for a few days, but what would I do when the money ran out? Go sniveling back to my grandparents for another handout? Admit to them that I was homeless and penniless, and worse, that they were probably well on their way to the poor farm too, thanks to my stupidity?
Oh no. For better or worse, I was now the owner and sole proprietor of the Breeze Inn. And Harry Sorrentino could just get used to it. Whenever he showed up again. If he ever showed up again.
I made a quick trip to the Tybee Market for dinner supplies. I’d resigned myself to finding only the barest of necessities in the oldtimey grocery store, but was amazed by what I found. A full-service deli, baked goods, even fresh seafood and decent produce. I paused in front of the meat case and drooled over a display of fresh-made crab cakes, and a display of iced-down, fresh-caught shrimp, but steeled myself against such profligate spending and settled instead
for dinner makings consisting of a can of tomato soup, a box of crackers, and for a splurge, a bottle of California chardonnay and a chunk of aged cheddar cheese.
When I got back to the Breeze there was still no sign of Harry. Which was a good sign, I told myself. Still, after I unlocked the front door of the log cabin, I stood for a long time before stepping over the threshold.
“Harry?” My voice cracked a little, with unaccustomed uncertainty. I gave it one more try. “Harry?”
I set my grocery sack on the kitchen counter, and my Winn-Dixie luggage on the wing chair facing the television set. I had to unload half a case of Heineken just to put my groceries in the small refrigerator. In the kitchen, pots and pans were stacked neatly in a wooden cupboard beside the stove, and I felt a small involuntary twinge of guilt as I dumped a can of soup into a small copper-bottomed saucepan, then put it on the stove to heat.
Another twinge hit me as I went to open what must surely have been the bedroom door. During my first visit here, Harry had been distinctly territorial about his private quarters.
I shrugged and opened the door anyway. His quarters were now mine. The room was larger than I’d expected, although still only half the size of my bedroom on West Jones Street. An old iron bed with a sagging mattress, covered with a faded, though neatly arranged pink chenille bedspread, took up the wall facing a bank of three windows. Old wooden fruit crates stood on end for nightstands on both sides of the bed. A wooden splat-back chair and cheap Formica-topped dresser were the only other pieces of furniture in the room. The linoleum floor, although bare, was swept clean.
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