Savannah Breeze

by Mary Kay Andrews

  “Sure. My daughter needs me to baby-sit some afternoons and nights, so Harry’s been filling in for me. Until last week.”

  When I issued the old ultimatum, I thought.

  “Thanks,” I said. “I’ll check over there.” There was no reason for me to confide in this woman, but for some reason, I felt the need to explain just how important it was that I shanghai Harry back to the motel.

  “We’re fully booked for St. Patrick’s Day, and we’ve still got a lot of work to do before we can rent out those rooms,” I told her.

  “Uh-huh.”

  But I still felt the need to unburden myself. “The Sheetrock’s up, but we need to paint yet, and there are a couple of bathrooms that have to have the tile patched, and—”

  “I know, baby,” she said, patting my arm reassuringly. “Harry showed me around the place a couple weeks ago, right before you took over. What a rat hole! But he says you’ve already worked miracles. You’re doing real good. Just cut Harry a little slack, if you can. It’s about killin’ him, losing the Jitterbug. Somebody like Harry, who’s always run his own boat…well, he ain’t really used to having anybody else bossing him around.”

  “I’m not bossing him around,” I objected.

  “Somebody’s got to run the show,” she agreed. “And when it’s a woman, we always get called the bitch, right?”

  “Exactly,” I said, smiling.

  She stuck out her hand. “By the way, I’m Cheri Johnston.”

  “And I’m BeBe,” I said, taking her hand and shaking it warmly. “Thanks for letting me know about the marina. I’ll check for him over there. Where is it, exactly?”

  “Right on Lemon Creek,” she said. “After you cross the first bridge going toward Thunderbolt, take a left at the sign for CoCo Loco’s.”

  “Got it,” I said, and I climbed in the car.

  She knocked on the window, and I rolled it down. “And don’t you dare let him know I told you where he was at.” She grinned. “Us girls gotta stick together.”

  “Amen to that, sister.”

  I bit my lip as I passed the motel on my way off the island. The neon NO VACANCY sign was still blinking on and off. Yet another thing to add to my endless punch list, and we only had forty-eight hours until opening day.

  Still, we’d come so far.

  It had been Weezie who’d insisted we temporarily redirect our efforts to the exterior of the motel. “Once people see how cute it is, they’ll start calling and asking about your rates,” she’d promised.

  Under Weezie’s tutelage, I’d painted the weather-beaten old Breeze Inn sign a fresh white, with retro turquoise lettering, and Harry had installed up-lights that cast intriguing palm-shaped shadows on the front of the buildings. Weezie and Daniel had spent a full day working around the grounds, pruning the scraggly old palm trees, planting tubs of shocking pink and purple petunias, and patching the concrete porches in the fronts of all the units. Daniel had raked a fresh load of crushed oyster shell into the parking lot, filling up all the potholes and bare spots, and Weezie had even placed a pair of turquoise-painted Adirondack chairs in front of each unit.

  “They’re on loan from Acey, the guy who does a lot of refinishing work for me,” she’d explained. “He builds them in his spare time, and I told him it would be good advertising.” She pointed out the small brass plate on the back of each chair, which did, indeed, have “Chairs by Acey” engraved, along with his phone number. “People can buy them from you, right here in the office,” Weezie, ever the entrepreneur, suggested. “They sell for ninety dollars apiece, and you’ll get a ten-dollar commission for each chair you sell. And then Acey will replace them with new ones.”

  Even I had to admit, the Breeze Inn had been transformed from a raggedy-ass dog to the picture of shabby chic charm. As long as you didn’t open the door to most of the units, that is.

  As soon as we’d finished spiffing up the outside of the inn—“Stop calling it a motel,” I’d instructed Harry. “It’s an inn now. And we charge inn prices.” I’d taken color photos of the Breeze with a borrowed digital camera, and e-mailed them, along with a brief (and highly hyped) press release to a travel writer at the Atlanta Journal-Constitution who’d once written a glowing article about Guale.

  “Great,” she’d e-mailed back. “The place looks adorable! We’re doing a last-minute travel planner for St. Patrick’s Day. You just made it under the wire.” As soon as the story hit the Wednesday paper, our phone started ringing, and by the end of that day, we were completely booked for the entire four-day weekend.

  “People are nuts,” Harry had said when I’d shown him the reservation sheet.

  “We’re the ones who are nuts,” I told him. “I should have bumped the rates up to $500 a night. Not a single person wanted to quibble about prices with me.”

  Only forty-eight hours to go. And my staff had gone AWOL. Again.

  I found Marsden Marina with no problem. It was a collection of ramshackle wood-frame buildings, including a seafood market, bait shack, and boatyard. And Harry’s station wagon was definitely parked there, along with three pickup trucks and a shiny red Ford Explorer with Atlanta license tags. But there was no sign of Harry, or even Jeeves. There was no sign of anybody, much.

  I finally found one person at the seafood market. She was sitting at a plastic table in the middle of the concrete-floored room, busily coloring Princess Jasmine a riotous shade of pistachio. A wall-mounted television was playing a tape of The Little Mermaid.

  “Hello,” I said, looking around the empty shop, with its trays of iced-down shrimp, blue crabs, oysters, and flounder. “Is your mama or daddy around?”

  “Nope,” she said, putting her crayon down to stare at me in that unnerving way children have. “Who are you?”

  “I’m BeBe. What’s your name?”

  “I’m not allowed to talk to strangers,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest.

  “That’s a good idea,” I agreed. “Are you allowed to be here all by yourself, without any grown-ups around?”

  “I’m not all by myself,” she said gravely. “Jesus is with me always.”

  Very profound. But not too helpful, I thought.

  “I was looking for my friend today,” I said, finally. “His name is Harry, and he has a cute little white dog named Jeeves. Do you know Harry? Or Jeeves?”

  She nodded.

  “Have you seen them today?”

  Another nod.

  “How long ago was that?”

  “I can’t tell time till next year.”

  Right. I walked over and took a closer peek at The Little Mermaid. It looked to me like the movie must be close to ending.

  “Was Harry here when the movie started?”

  Nod.

  “Right at the beginning of the movie?”

  Nod. “It’s Harry’s movie. He just lets me watch it when he comes over.”

  “Do you know where Harry went?”

  “He and my daddy went out to catch some bait. They’ll be back right when everything in the movie gets happy.”

  Which should be quite soon, I thought, from the upbeat tempo of the music.

  Just then, a door behind the seafood counter opened and a young woman wearing white rubber hip boots and a knee-length black rubber apron struggled through it carrying a huge white plastic bucket full of shrimp.

  “Hey, Mama,” the little girl chirped. “This lady knows Harry and Jeeves.”

  “Hi there,” the woman said warily, setting the bucket down on the floor. “Can I help you?”

  I gave her my brightest smile. “Your daughter is very smart. She doesn’t talk to strangers, especially when she’s all alone.”

  “She wadn’t alone,” the woman said. “I wouldn’t leave Amber by herself. I was just out in the shed, sizing shrimp. And I could hear everything going on in here.” She motioned to the seafood counter, where, for the first time, I noticed a baby monitor with a glowing green light.

  “What do you want with Har
ry?” she asked.

  “He works for me,” I said, and even to me, it sounded incredibly stupid and insipid. “At the Breeze Inn.”

  “Yeah,” she said. “I heard all about you. Like Amber said, they ought to be back any minute. My husband’s got a charter in the morning, and Harry just went out to help him catch some bait. Does he have to clear that with you, or something?”

  “No,” I said sharply. I wished acutely that I had not come here.

  We heard the chugging sound of a boat motor then, and the woman craned her neck to look out the door.

  “Here they come right now,” she said, flying out the door to meet them.

  I stood awkwardly in the doorway of the bait shop, watching the men tie up the boat and start unloading equipment.

  “Jeeves!” The little girl stood beside me, issuing a shrill whistle by putting her fingers in her mouth. The dog bounded over the side of the fishing boat, clearing the dock by barely an inch. He trotted up to the bait shop, his tail wagging happily, and the little girl scooped him up in her arms.

  She buried her nose in his fur and made a face. “Shoo-eee.” She laughed. “You stink!” She set the wriggling dog down and he promptly sat on his haunches, looking up at me expectantly.

  “He likes you,” Harry called. He was walking toward me, carrying another white plastic bucket full of fish. He was dressed in a bright yellow rain slicker and faded blue jeans. His hair was windblown, his face sunburned, and he looked the happiest I’d seen him since we’d met.

  “I know,” I said, bending over to let Jeeves lick my fingers, which he did with heartwarming enthusiasm. I’ve never been really partial to dogs, but this one, I had to admit, was starting to grow on me. “But he’s kind of smelly.”

  Harry laughed. “He jumped into the bucket of chum we were using. Ground-up mackerel usually is kind of smelly. What’s up?” Harry asked, unzipping his slicker. “And how the hell did you track me down over here?”

  “I, uh, well,” I stammered. “It’s getting kind of late, and I got back from Home Depot, and you’d disappeared, and we’ve really got to get those other units knocked out tonight…” I bit my lip. “And you could have told me you were going fishing. Left me a note, or something. I thought you were off drinking. So I went over to Doc’s Bar—”

  His face darkened. “You went to Doc’s? You went in there looking for me?”

  “Well, yeah. Every time you disappear, it seems that’s where you end up. And you could have told me you were working an extra job. I would have understood. And this thing about your boat, I’m sorry about that too. I know what it’s like to be broke—”

  “You don’t know shit!” he said, his voice hoarse. “You think I’m some kind of deadbeat?”

  “No!” I protested. “But there’s so much work to be done at the Breeze, and we’ve got all those bookings, and you just walked off and left the Sheetrock, and we’ve still got to paint—”

  “I didn’t just walk off,” he said, his eyes narrowing. “That joint compound has to dry completely before we can paint, which won’t be for several hours yet. I would have been back in plenty of time to start painting. But you just assumed I’m some falling-down drunk—”

  “I didn’t know,” I said quietly. “If you’d just told me what your situation was—”

  “My situation,” he said, “is none of your damned business. I’m not your charity case. I was doing just fine with my life until you showed up. I’ll paint your damned motel, and I’ll finish fixing it up, and just as soon as you pay me what you owe me, I’ll be out of your hair. But in the meantime, do me a favor, will you?”

  “What?” I said through clenched teeth, determined not to let him make me cry.

  “Stay the hell out of my way.”

  26

  As the sun came up on Friday morning, I put the last paint stroke on the bathroom wall of unit fourteen. My knees screamed in protest as I bent down to pick up my paint pan, but I couldn’t hear them over the accompanying screams from the rest of my body.

  Done. Or as near done as we were going to be. I rolled up the canvas drop cloth and hobbled to the door, stopping only to take a final look around. The room glowed a soft, golden yellow. It had been Weezie’s idea, of course, to give each unit a name, instead of a number, and an accompanying decorating scheme, which, of course, was dictated by Weezie and her very particular ideas about what was appropriate.

  And so, what we’d been calling unit fourteen had become the Sunflower Suite. It was furnished with a pair of what looked like old metal hospital beds we’d found in the storage shed. Weezie’d spray-painted them with flat black Rust-Oleum, and pronounced them perfection. A beat-up oak dresser that had served as the shed’s tool bench had also been painted black, and paired with a trio of mirrors Weezie had picked up at her favorite store—Tar-zhay. The “living area” featured a pair of wicker armchairs, from Maisie’s Daisy, which were separated by a table fashioned from a stack of ancient leather suitcases that Weezie swore she’d found in the lane behind her own house on Charlton Street.

  And the crowning touch came from an unexpected source: Marian Foley.

  I’d been really worried about window treatments for all the rooms, fussing about how much blinds or shades or even ready-made drapes would cost, when Weezie’s mother came up with the perfect solution.

  “Why don’t I just whip up some curtains for you?” she’d asked, setting down the dish of beanie-wienies she’d insisted on dropping off for our dinner.

  “Whip up?” I said dumbly.

  “Sew some,” Marian said. “Just some simple café curtains. Do you have any fabric?”

  “No,” I said, still dumb.

  “Mama, that’s a great idea,” Weezie enthused. “Let’s go take a look out in that shed where I found the beds and the dresser. There are stacks of old linens on the shelves. Maybe we could cut up some old sheets or something.”

  They were back five minutes later, each bearing an armload of white fabric.

  “Chenille bedspreads!” Weezie crowed. “There must be twenty or thirty of ’em out there. And they’re all the same. They’ve even got fringe.”

  “Can you do that? Make curtains out of bedspreads?”

  “Of course,” Marian said nonchalantly. “It’s all just a matter of straight seams, hems, and rod pockets. Nothing easier.”

  An hour later, they’d set up an assembly line, and the Marian Foley Drapery Factory had gone into business.

  “They’re wonderful,” I said, leaning down to give Marian a hug. “And you’re wonderful to do this for me. And to think I didn’t even know you could sew.”

  “Every girl should know how to sew,” Marian said, sniffing meaningfully. “I made all of Weezie’s clothes until she was in high school and decided it was ‘uncool’ to wear homemade stuff.”

  “I was a brat,” Weezie agreed. “But you are a genius, Mama.”

  And now, Friday morning, I was almost ready for business. Almost.

  The last load of sheets, and towels for the bathrooms, were in the dryer, which was still, thank God, working. And I still had to get Harry to nail up the little plaques Weezie’d painted, above the door to each suite.

  “Suite. Sweet my ass,” Harry muttered, standing in front of the Sunflower, fastening his tool belt.

  “Admit it, the place looks amazing,” I said.

  He ignored me, set up his stepladder, and began screwing the plaque into place.

  That’s how it had been between the two of us, ever since he’d stormed away from me at Marsden Marina.

  He’d worked at fever pitch, done everything I’d asked of him, and more, but despite my repeated apologies, had uttered not one word to me that wasn’t work related.

  “You want one of these things above your unit too?” he’d asked, looking down at the basket of plaques.

  “Yeah,” I’d said with a sigh. “Mine is now the Surfside Suite. The concierge at the Gastonian called me last night. One of their regular guests decided to com
e down at the last minute, and she asked me, as a favor, to see if I could fit her in at the Breeze.”

  “You said we were full.”

  “Not exactly. I upped the price to six hundred a night for the Surfside. For that kind of money, I can sleep on the sofa at Weezie’s house.”

  “Thought you wanted to be on the property full-time in case something came up,” Harry said.

  “Shit. That’s right. Guess I’ll have to find a place to sleep out here.”

  “Jeeves might let you share his chair.”

  “I’d settle for the sofa.”

  He nodded and started to go back to work.

  “Harry?”

  He turned around.

  “I really am sorry. We got off to a horrible start. And I regret that. But I want you to know, I really do appreciate everything you’ve done around here. You know, I’ve been running my own businesses for a lot of years, and I’ve never seen anybody work as hard, or as diligently, as you these past few weeks. I know I’ve been a pain in the ass, but now that the Breeze is open, I’m going to see to it that you get the money you’re owed, and that you get the Jitterbug back.”

  “It’s okay,” he said. “You’ve had a tough time. I haven’t made things any easier.”

  I stuck my hand out. “Truce?”

  “Truce,” he said, shaking mine.

  “Shit,” he said, looking down at his palm, which was now covered with sunflower yellow paint.

  “At least it’s latex,” I told him.

  A black Dodge Ram pickup truck spun into the parking lot, sending up a fine shower of crushed oyster shells.

  “Damnit, Daniel,” I hollered at the driver. “You’re messing up my parking lot.” But I gave him a smile to let him know I was only half serious.

  He hopped out of the truck cab and went around to the driver’s side and extracted a large cardboard box. “I baked some, uh, muffins,” he said gruffly. “I, uh, wanted to do something to celebrate you opening the motel.”

  “Inn,” I corrected. I tipped the box’s lid open and sniffed the sweet smell of warm baked goods. “The Breeze Inn. Daniel, these smell divine.”