Return to Sullivans Island (18 page)

There was an elegant woman behind the counter with long, thick strawberry blonde hair that was surely the envy of every woman she met. She looked up from her paperwork and smiled at Beth when the bell on the door tinkled as she entered.

“Hi,” she said, “can I help you find something?”

“Yeah, gosh, a map. I need a map. Thanks.”

“Sure. Now do you need a map of the state? The county? A local map? A map of Thailand?”

“I
wish
I needed a map of Thailand!” Beth smiled and relaxed. “No, I guess I need a map of the local area.”

“What are you looking to find? I mean, around here everything is either on or off Highway 17. Save your money. I can just tell you where to go.”

“Oh dear. Well, here’s the thing. I have an assignment for a weekly newspaper in Charleston to write about the changing face of the beach towns. You know, shopping malls and condo communities? I’m supposed to go along the coast and ask people if they like the changes, hate the changes, don’t care about the changes. I mean, right now I don’t know why I ever thought this was such a good idea.”

The woman looked at Beth and remembered being Beth’s age, just starting out in the world, really too young and inexperienced to do much of anything besides sound like she just dropped in from Mars and had no clue where to begin or how to do her job. Her heart softened.

“You poor thing. I’m Vicki Crafton,” she said. “Have you had lunch?”

“Hi, I’m Beth Hayes.
Island Eye News.
My dog’s in the car.”

Vicki took this to mean that Beth had not had lunch and that she felt uncomfortable leaving her dog in the car alone, especially in the heat of the day.

“Well? Does your dog bite?”

“My dog? Goodness no! She wouldn’t bite a bug! She’s a mini Yorkie.”

“A Yorkie! A little tiger! Oh, I love them! Bring her in and let’s get you something to eat. I’m famished. A lot of people come in here around lunchtime, so if you hang out for a while, you’ll hear lots of stories. My dog’s in the back office. They can have a playdate.”

“Cool. I’ll be right back.”

“Hey! Let me ask you something.”

“Sure!”

“Is your mother Susan Hayes? The ‘Geechee Girl Remembers’ columnist?”

“That’s her.”

“Well, the nuts don’t fall very far from the tree, do they? Ha!”

“No ma’am, they don’t!”

Beth hurried outside to get Lola. Beth was so proud of Susan. Wait till I tell her! she thought.

Lola was thrilled to have a walk across the parking lot and she yanked Beth toward the grassy area on the side of the store.

“Okay! Okay! Got it!”

When Lola’s business was completed, Beth picked her up, pushed open the door of the bookstore, and there stood Vicki with her dog.

“Oh my goodness! He’s so cute! What is he?”

“Soft-coated Wheaton terrier. His name is Mac and he loves everyone and everything. Say hello, Mac.”

Mac. Sounds like Max, she thought. Was there a conspiracy for the world to remind her of Max everywhere she looked? Mac, who had been sitting politely, stood up, looked up at Vicki, made a soft woof sound, and wagged his tail vigorously.

“Your dog talks!”

All five pounds of Lola and the forty-two pounds that was Mac went around in circles, sniffing each other. Then Mac ran off to the back office with Lola on his heels.

“That’s where the toy basket is. Dog heaven. And my husband Tom is back there in case they cook up any nonsense. Anyway, speaking of cook, I’m gonna faint from hunger. Want to split a chef salad or a sandwich? I’ll send someone over to the BI-LO to pick something up. The portions are huge. I’ve got drinks here.”

“Sounds great.”

“I’ll go get it,” another lady said.

“That’s Carol. She’s been with us forever.”

“Turkey on white bread with mayo and lettuce? Hey, Carol. I’m Beth.”

“Sounds perfect,” Vicki said.

Over the next hour and a half, Beth nibbled while she interviewed the customers, employees, and owners of Litchfield Books and took their pictures; it seemed as though everyone had a story to tell. People railed against Lowe’s, which wanted to open up a super-store that was almost four times the square footage allowed by the town. When that plan failed, it was considered a people’s victory. They moaned the loss of Hard Rock Park, saying it was just too expensive in the current economy, but who could have known the markets would implode? Everyone agreed they’d had a fantastic roller-coaster, the best one they had ever been on. There was hope that they would reopen. And then there was the bickering about beach renourishment that was so desperately needed because of unpredictable erosion that threatened the stability of all the beach homes. Plenty of politicking went on as each little municipality fought for its share of the budget of the Army Corps of Engineers. And last there were the Bikers.

The population that made up the world of motorcycles was a curious one. First, there were the people who owned the big Harleys. They ran the gamut from professors to investment bankers. That group just liked the feel of the wind in their hair and the roar of their engines. They would come to the Myrtle Beach area as a group and frankly, despite the noise of their bikes and some moderate rowdiness, they were very good for business. But unfortunately, there was another caste, distinctly different from the white-collar-turned-macho-for-the-weekend group. These guys were belligerent thugs who did drugs, got roaring drunk, and were out of order at all hours of the day and night. They were continuous guests of the county and state, brought up on charges of public lewdness and breaking every law on the books regarding civil behavior. One group brought money to the merchants and the other brought fear. And none of them wore helmets. It was very hard to support one group and not the other without appearing to discriminate. The police force of Myrtle Beach was always overworked when the rough characters came to town, struggling to maintain order and to keep the noise down.

Beth listened to their stories, and as each one drifted from the store and back to their life, Beth saw that stopping there to buy a map had turned out to be a very lucky fluke. And, most important, she decided she had plenty of anecdotal information to produce a reasonably interesting article. She hoped.

“Gosh, thanks for all your help,” Beth said. “This was amazing. Really!”

“Glad to help,” Vicki said, and handed her a business card. “Just call me if you forgot something. Oh, and Beth?”

“Yeah?”

“Call me when you win that Pulitzer.”

“Oh yeah, that…right!”

On the drive back to Sullivans Island, Beth’s mind spun one gilded fantasy after another. She envisioned Barbara Farlie’s face, giddy as her eyes passed over the pearls Beth intended to write. She imagined that she heard whispers of recognition when she went out into the world and she could see herself nodding modestly in appreciation. Her stories would be picked up and syndicated as her mother’s had been, and they would be featured together on the cover of some respected magazine as the greatest mother-daughter journalist team of the year, maybe ever. Max Mitchell would read her work and be so astounded by her maturity and intellectual prowess that he would be reduced to a stammering flibbergibbit, begging for her affection. Those expectations were beyond ridiculous and she was well aware, but it was fun to dream.

After throwing together a draft and changing her clothes, just by the skin of her teeth, she made it to her other job on time. Drew was there at the podium answering the phone and taking reservations. Robert was going over the dinner specials with Billy Condon, the chef, and Alan was setting up the bar, doing inventory of the liquor, wine, mixers, and garnishes. Beth gave everyone a little wave and greetings were exchanged.

Hey! Welcome aboard! Good luck! What did you do to your hair? Gee, it looks great! Whew! Sure am glad you showed up! It’s been crazy here! Put your bag in here with mine….

Beth put her handbag away, and as quickly as she could, she went to Drew’s side to immerse herself in learning the unappreciated art of taking and organizing dinner reservations.

“This part of the job makes my left arm hurt,” Drew said. “Did you cut your hair?”

“Yeah.”

“Nice. Okay, here’s the deal. A table for two usually stays an hour and fifteen at a minimum, but if they order dessert, that’s another twenty. Table of four, that’s closer to two hours, especially if they have cocktails at the table and then wine, but you have to allow for two and a half hours. Tables of over four start the horror show. Two hours for sure, sometimes closer to three, especially for parties of eight or more. This is the layout of the dining rooms. See how I have the tables marked off by number? So, why don’t you answer the phone the next time it rings and let’s see how it goes?”

Beth had barely digested what he had said and in the next breath she was to answer the phone?

“Um, what if I goof this up? I mean, what if I take too many tables for seven-thirty or something?”

“We’ll deal with it.” The phone rang and then rang again, lighting up two lines. “Go ahead. I gotta go talk to Billy about the tuna ceviche. Some customer called saying they got sick from it, that there must have been some shellfish in the marinade.”

“They probably just want a free dinner,” Beth said to Drew’s back as he walked away.

Drew stopped in his tracks and spun around to face Beth.

“I knew I liked you,” he said. “The world is filled with liars, you know.”

“Got it,” Beth said, and answered the phone. In her most adult voice she said, “Thank you for calling Atlanticville Restaurant. Please hold. Thank you.” She pressed the second line. “Thank you for calling Atlanticville. This is Beth speaking, how may I help you? For tonight? How many? And at what time?”

“She’s a natural,” Drew said to Robert, who nodded in agreement.

“A table for eight at six? Sure, we can do that. And the name please?”

As if she had been a hostess all of her life, Beth repeated those same words over and over until the tables for that night were completely committed not once but twice.

“We can offer you a table for four on the porch at around nine-thirty? No? Well, if you’d like to give me your number, I can call you if we have a cancellation?”

“How’s it going?” Robert said, passing her by with a tray of appetizers for a table of four.

“Is it always like this?”

“Pretty much. Well, especially on the weekends.”

Beth answered the ringing phone again and again, apologizing, disappointing people, declining large parties, politely suggesting other evenings, and taking reservations for Friday, Saturday, and the following week as well.

The way the restaurant worked reminded Beth of a synchronized drill team. Or perhaps a dance company. Everyone had a part and the execution of it was a panorama of beauty to watch. Trays floated by, lifted high over heads, people ducked or stepped aside, candles were lit and relit, menus collected, distributed, re-collected, and stacked. Customers were greeted with grace and a smile and whisked to their table, seated, handed menus and wine lists, and on and on it went. Until that table of eight at six never materialized. And those other two tables of four lingered well past what would have been a reasonable time. They had been brought their checks, the bills had been paid, and their tables had been cleared down to the votive candles. They even declined the drinks at the bar that Drew offered hoping to pry them away from their tables. Three tables held hostage by customers in a restaurant of diminutive proportion made a difference.

“Where’s the table of eight for six o’clock?” Drew asked.

“I don’t know,” Beth said. “They never showed.”

“Didn’t you take a phone number?”

“Yeah, of course, but I must have written it down wrong.”

“Great,” Drew muttered under his breath.

“I’m so sorry, Drew!”

“It’s okay. And these other two tables have been here so long I could charge them rent.”

“For real,” Beth said.

The porch was packed, the dining rooms were packed, and the waiting area was bulging with bodies. It was clear, even to Beth, that they would never be able to serve them all. The kitchen closed at ten and all of those patrons, standing three deep around the bar, were waiting in vain.

Beth thought that Drew looked especially harried and said, “What can I do to help? I mean, I’m not taking any more reservations, that’s for sure. For tonight, anyway.”

“Did you say you could bartend?”

“Sort of.”

“Well, sort of is good enough for now. Get out there and give Lidia a hand, okay?”

“Yes sir!”

Beth’s exuberance was endless and just for a moment Drew remembered his own youth and the fires that had smoldered within him. Drew was barely thirty-five yet Beth suddenly made him feel every one of his years. What if his life was half over? Was he losing his edge? Did he seem that old to her? The thought of actual old age and the certainty of death made him shiver. But his dread was fleeting because as soon as someone nodded in his direction to gain his attention, he automatically resumed his professional posture and went back to work, forgetting about the Grim Reaper and all the geriatric insults that were sure to come.

“Need a hand?” Beth said to Lidia, who was filling drink orders as fast as humanly possible, plopping them on trays and shoving them toward the waitstaff. Despite the advancing hour and the whirl of the ceiling fans, the temperature on the porch had to have been over ninety degrees. Lidia’s upper lip and décolleté glistened with moisture.

“Yeah, thanks. Take this over to table sixteen in the corner. They’ve been waiting forever.”

“You got a corkscrew?”

“Don’t need it. It’s a New Zealand wine. A lot of the winemakers there quit using corks.”

“Oh! Boy, what I don’t know could fill a library!”

“You and me, honey!”

Beth picked up the tray with the wine bottle and two glasses and made her way slowly through the crowd. All at once, her heart lurched against her ribs. There at the table in the corner sat Max Mitchell and a startlingly attractive woman with blond hair, a narrow chin, too much lipstick, and an insignificant and bony cleavage. The woman, who appeared to be about ten years older than Max, was obviously dressed for a highly anticipated wardrobe malfunction. One tug on the breezy ribbons of her flowered camisole and all would be revealed. Her fluttering eyes were fixated on Max’s face. She smiled knowingly, nodding her head as he spoke, as though every word that spilled from his lips was ex cathedra. Beth noticed things that others did not, and while that simple act of practiced noticing had boosted the academic regard for her writing, it had not added one fig of value to her personal life.