None of your business, I told myself as I tooled down Victory Drive, oblivious to the pink and purple beauty of the head-high azaleas in full bloom. She was married to him a long time ago, I rationalized as I turned north toward downtown on Drayton Street.
There is something very wrong here, I was thinking when I turned onto West Jones. I’d told Harry all about my three unfortunate marriages. He’d been sympathetic, even understanding, but he’d failed to mention his own past with the beautiful and bitchy Tricia Marsden.
Holy shit! I stopped the car in the middle of the block, right in front of my town house. Or, technically, Steve and Gretchen Arrendale’s town house now. I had to stop, because a moving van had the street blocked. The Arrendales’ front door was open, and men in white coveralls were busily trundling furniture out of the house and into the back of the van.
I jumped out of the Lexus and ran over to the sidewalk. There was a FOR SALE sign propped up in the Arrendales’ parlor window. And a matching one in the window of my town house.
“Hey,” I called, running after the two men who were coming out of the Arrendales’ with a massively ugly pseudo-Georgian mahogany china cabinet. “What’s going on here?”
“Moving,” said the man on the dumb end of the cabinet. He had a red do-rag wrapped around his head, and forearms the size of tree trunks.
“The Arrendales? Where are they going?”
They got to the van and started up the metal loading ramp. I followed them right up and into the van, which was half full of cardboard boxes and furniture wrapped with padded moving quilts.
“New house out at Turner’s Rock,” one of the guys said, grunting as he let down his end of the cabinet.
“Are they here? Are they still in the house?”
“No, thank you, Jesus,” said Do-Rag. “She’s already over at the new house. So she can supervise,” he said, making a face about the supervise part.
I looked around the van, searching for the Maybelle Johns painting. My Maybelle Johns painting.
“Have you already packed up all the art in the house?” I asked. “I’m looking for a painting. It’s an oil painting of a little girl.”
“She packed up all the art,” said the guy in the plain white baseball cap. “Doesn’t trust us ignorant apes to touch her valuable art collection.”
“But the painting of the little girl. Did you see it? Before she packed everything?”
Do-Rag shrugged. Baseball Cap shrugged. “House was full of pictures. They all look the same to me,” Do-Rag said.
I climbed down out of the van, then darted inside the open door at the Arrendales’.
The place was a mess. Cardboard boxes were stacked everywhere. Rugs were rolled up, furniture was padded and taped. The walls were bare. I ran upstairs to double-check, but it had been cleared first.
When I got downstairs, I went out the kitchen door, into the courtyard garden. I let myself out the wrought-iron gate and into the lane that backed the town houses, and then let myself in through the gate that opened onto my garden. At my town house. I hauled an empty trash can over to the kitchen window and climbed up to peer inside. Empty. The kitchen was as empty as it was the last time I’d seen it.
I climbed down and went out to the Lexus. I picked up my cell phone and called James Foley’s cell. No answer. I called the office, just in case. Still no answer. Out of desperation, I called Weezie.
“Hey,” she said, answering after the first ring. “Are you out shopping with all your ill-gotten gains?”
“No,” I said, my voice grim. “I drove over to West Jones Street. To make sure it hadn’t been knocked down. But it’s worse than that.”
“What?”
“It’s been sold again. To the Arrendales. And now they’re selling it and their house.”
“Why? Where are they going?”
“The movers are there right now. They said they’ve bought a big new house out at Turner’s Rock. But they haven’t seen my Maybelle Johns. I need to talk to your uncle, right away, but I can’t get hold of him. Do you know where he is?”
“As a matter of fact, I do. James and Jonathan went on some kind of field trip with the historical society, to Charleston. Mama said they’re not due back until tonight.”
“This is a nightmare,” I said. “And I can’t wake up.”
“Just relax,” Weezie advised. “James will get it all straightened out. Go back out to the beach and kick back and relax. You remember relaxing, don’t you?”
“Only vaguely.”
I decided to skip the late lunch. Ditto shopping. I wasn’t in the mood. And as I drove back toward the beach, I could see charcoal-edged clouds skittering across the horizon. So much for a walk on the beach.
Harry’s beat-up station wagon was parked in front of the office at the Breeze. I exhaled slowly. Relax. Kick back. And for God’s sake don’t ask why he never mentioned being married before.
63
Harry was sitting at the kitchen table in the office, fiddling with the same outboard motor he’d been fiddling with since the day we’d met.
When I walked into the office, Jeeves hopped down from his armchair, barked a cheerful greeting, and scampered over to allow me the privilege of scratching his ears.
Harry looked up, but he didn’t offer to let me scratch his ears, so I just lavished that much more attention on his dog, who didn’t argue about it.
“You’re back,” I said. Duh.
“Yeah,” he said, putting down the screwdriver he’d been using on the engine, and wiping his hands on a greasy rag. “You too, huh?”
This was some scintillating conversation we were having. Like Hepburn and Tracy. Only not.
“I went into town, to check on things,” I said, sitting down at the table across from him.
He held up a bottle of beer that had been sitting near his elbow. “Want one?”
“No thanks,” I said.
“How were things in town?” He went back to fiddling with the motor.
“Not too good,” I admitted. “Those snotty Arrendales, the ones who bought my painting from Roy Eugene Moseley? They’re moving. Their house and mine both have sold signs out front. And my painting is already gone. I looked.”
“Tough,” Harry said, sipping his beer and looking quizzically at an unidentifiable hunk of iron that he’d unscrewed from the motor.
“Tough? These people…these carpetbaggers have moved, they’ve moved my painting. And my house has been sold again.”
“Buy the house back,” Harry said. “You can afford it now. And buy a new painting. You can afford that too.”
“We’re not talking about just any old painting here,” I said. “We’re talking about a Maybelle Johns portrait of my aunt. It’s a family heirloom, Harry. The artist—a famous Savannah artist—won’t be doing any more portraits. And my aunt—it was painted when she was just a little girl—is long dead.”
“Oh,” he said. Not “Oh, shit.” Or “Oh my God, how awful.” Just “Oh.” More like, “Oh, so what?” or “Oh, big, effin’ deal.”
“What about your house?” he said, sitting back in his chair, finally giving me his full attention. “Do you know who bought it this time?”
“I have no clue. I tried to call James Foley to see what he knows, but Weezie says he’s out of town until late tonight.”
“So now what?” he asked.
“I wait,” I said, with an exaggerated sigh. “Waiting sucks. I’m no good at it.”
“You’re a woman of action,” he observed.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“Not bad. Just true.”
I stood up abruptly. “It’s just that I hate being a victim. I hate feeling powerless, like I have no control over events shaping my life. Major events,” I added.
“Nobody likes that feeling,” Harry said.
He was trying to be reasonable, damn him. “But everybody, at some point in their life, does. We just have to deal with it, try to make the best of a ba
d situation,” he said.
“Is that what you’re doing?” It came out sounding nasty and hateful.
“Who? Me? I’m just trying to get this damned motor running. Mikey found an old metal johnboat washed up in the creek, and if I can get this motor running, we can do a little crabbing and shrimping now that the weather’s turned.”
“What about the Jitterbug?” I asked.
He looked surprised. “What about it?”
I reached in my pocket, brought out the set of keys Tricia Marsden had given me, and tossed them in his direction. He caught them in midair, looked down at them, and then back at me.
“Where’d you get the keys to my boat?”
“Tricia Marsden gave them to me,” I said. “Interesting woman, Tricia.”
“Interesting how?”
“She’s spectacular looking. Not the kind of woman you expect to find running a marina.”
“Is she?” He shrugged. “Not to me.”
“She’s gorgeous.” I stated it as a fact. “And you must have thought so too, at some point in your life.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Is there a point to this conversation we’re having about Tricia Marsden?”
“She can’t stand you.”
“The feeling’s mutual.”
“And yet you were married to her.”
“Jesus!” he said, jumping up. He paced to the other side of the room. Jeeves scampered after him, his ears twitching in agitation, but Harry ignored him, pacing back in the other direction, with the dog right at his heels.
“What were you doing messing around with Tricia?” he demanded, stopping directly in front of me.
“I went to the marina on the spur of the moment,” I said, backing away from the intensity in his eyes. “I didn’t plan to. I just did. I was headed into town, and I saw the turnoff for the marina, and I turned in. I thought I’d see what it would take to get the Jitterbug back for you.”
“You decided that. On the spur of the moment.”
“Yes,” I said defiantly. “I owe you. I owe you a lot. For going to Florida with me. For getting my money back from Reddy. It wouldn’t have happened without you.”
“You owe me exactly $4,800,” Harry said. “Not a dime more. That was our deal.”
“I disagree,” I said softly. “I paid off the boat. It’s yours again. But Tricia told me to tell you she wants it out of the marina right away. She says she’ll start charging you storage fees if you don’t move it within twenty-four hours. And she won’t sell you the trailer it’s sitting on. She really hates your guts, Harry.”
He went into the bathroom and closed the door.
Now what?
I heard the toilet flushing, then water running. Five minutes later, he came out of the bathroom and sat back down at the table and started fiddling with the damned motor again. If I could have picked it up and flung it out the door, I would have.
“Harry?” I sat back down across from him. I took the screwdriver out of his hand, and put it in my lap for safekeeping.
He put both palms down flat on the tabletop. “I really wish you hadn’t gone to the marina today.”
“But I did.”
“What do you expect me to say?”
“How ’bout, ‘Thanks, BeBe.’ Or maybe, ‘Did I mention I used to be married to Tricia Marsden? It’s a funny story.’ Or I don’t know, maybe you could just talk to me and not act like we didn’t start some kind of relationship thing down in Florida. I would deeply appreciate it if you would say any of the above.”
He picked up the bottle of beer and emptied it.
“It’s not a funny story,” he said flatly. “It’s not even interesting. But since you insist, here it is. Tricia and I were married for about ten minutes, several years ago. I don’t talk about it, and I try not to think about it, because it represents a really screwed-up time in my life. I was friends with her old man, Jimmy. Tricia and I had known each other for years. When Jimmy got sick with cancer, he was worried about what would happen to her, after he died. Her mother split when she was just a kid. So we got married. Bad idea. Really, really bad idea. We fought about everything. And then we split up. It was the first good idea we’d had.”
“What did you fight about?” I asked. “And why does she still hate you?”
“I told you,” Harry said. “Everything. Anything. Why do you care?”
“I care about you,” I said, crossing my arms over my chest. “Remember?”
He looked away.
“We wanted different things. After Jimmy died, Tricia had all these big plans. To expand the marina, build condos, a restaurant, a hotel, all of it. And she thought I should want that too. But I didn’t. She thought that because I’d gone to law school, I should be a lawyer. But I didn’t want that either. I’m a fisherman. It’s what I’m good at. It’s what I enjoy. She’s still pissed about it. And I don’t give a damn. Satisfied?”
“No,” I said. “What about us? You’ve been avoiding me ever since we got back to Savannah. What’s that all about?”
“I don’t know,” he said, running his hands through his hair. “I feel like…I feel like we’re going down that same road I went down with her. I do care about you. Honest to God, I do. You’re not like any woman I’ve ever known before. You’re bossy, and funny, and infuriating, and sexy, and one minute I feel like decking you, and the next minute—”
I got up and went around the table and sat in his lap. I wrapped my arms around his neck. “And the next minute, what?”
He kissed me. And then he groaned. “Noo. This is not going to work.”
“Why not?” I kissed him back. I nibbled at his ear, and whispered, “I’m not like Tricia. I don’t want you to be anything you’re not. You can fish, or shrimp, or herd goats for all I care. Just as long as you let me do what I want.”
He shook his head. “That’s just it. We want different things. You’ve told me a million times, you want your old life back. I know what your old life was like. You’re like that Billy Joel song, you’re an uptown girl. You want the big house in town, and your restaurant and the clothes and jewelry and parties and all the stuff that goes with it. And I don’t. I’m happy right here at the Breeze, just as it is. I’m happy running the Jitterbug, fishing, and having a beer at Doc’s whenever I feel like it. It won’t work, BeBe.”
He stood up and dumped me unceremoniously onto the floor.
I stood up slowly, dusting the seat of my pants.
“That is just the biggest bunch of crap I ever heard, Harry Sorrentino!” I cried. “How do you know what I want? And how do you know what will make me happy, when you won’t even take the time to find out if you make me happy?”
But he wasn’t listening. He went to the closet and started pulling clothes off the hangers, throwing them into the still-unpacked suitcase he’d left open on his bed.
“Where are you going?” I demanded. “Don’t tell me you’re running away from home.”
“I’m checking out,” he said, his voice tense. “I can’t stay here anymore. You don’t need me anyway. You’ve got Cheri and Stephanie. They can work the desk. Until you sell the place to those developers.”
I marched over to the bed and sat on top of the suitcase and folded my arms over my chest. “Nuh-uh. No. I am not letting this happen. I won’t let you leave like this. I promised Granddad I wouldn’t screw it up this time. And I’m not.”
His voice was tight. “I don’t want to do it this way. But you’ve got me backed into a corner. There are some things you just can’t control, BeBe. I’m going now. There’s a unit next to Mikey’s coming vacant at Tybee Terrace. Just leave my stuff here for now. I’ll come back and pack it all up when you’re not around.”
“Just like that?” I asked, watching him go.
“Yeah,” he said. “I gotta go get my boat moved.” Then he turned abruptly. I threw myself down on the bed and closed my eyes. I wouldn’t watch him go. I couldn’t. I heard the door slam. Then a moment later, I heard it open aga
in.
“Harry?” I sat up.
“Forgot something,” he said. I watched in disbelief as he strode over to the kitchen table and hoisted the boat motor onto his shoulder. He left again, without a word. I heard the door slam again, and then a sad whine. Jeeves sat erect on his haunches, ears quivering, black button eyes glittering with unspoken sadness.
I jumped up and gathered the dog in my arms, nestling my face in his fur.
The door opened. Harry, chagrined, put out his arms and Jeeves leaped into them.
He closed the door, and I heard the station wagon’s engine cough and start up.
I ran out onto the porch, enraged by the injustice of it all. “And your little dog too!” I screamed.
A kid riding by on his bike slowed, then pedaled furiously away.
64
James Foley was sporting a Hollywood tan and an expensive-looking new silk-blend sport coat. His old oversize eighties-era eyeglasses—the ones that always made him look like a younger version of Mister Magoo—had been replaced with tragically hip new frames. He leaned back in his office chair and guzzled a bottle of spring water.
“You’ve changed,” I said, looking him up and down. “Is that Jonathan’s doing?”
He blushed. “And Janet’s. The two of them went through my closet and purged it of everything except the tweed sport coat I bought before I entered the seminary. They said it’s been out of style so long, it’s come back in.”
“I liked you better when you were sweet and geeky,” I said. “You were unique. Gay, and yet hopelessly clueless.”
“Yes, well.” He coughed and tapped the open file folder on his desktop. “I called Steve Arrendale this morning, right after I talked to you.”
“What did he say?” I asked, leaning forward in my chair. “Where’s the painting? Will he sell it back to me? Why did they move? And how did my house get sold again?”
“One question at a time,” James said, laughing. “First of all, the Arrendales have your Maybelle Johns painting. I’m sorry, BeBe, but Arrendale says he has no intention of giving it back to you.”
Savannah Breeze Page 39
