Return to Sullivans Island (19 page)

“Great,” she whispered under her breath, assessing the scene before her. “Great.”

Inside of just a few seconds, Beth was suddenly and unfortunately overwhelmed with massive feelings of inadequacy. She blushed, broke a mortifying sweat on the back of her neck, and feared that if she said even one word, just one word, she would stammer like an idiot. Beth’s immediate thought was to slip the bottle into the cooler next to them without Max realizing it was her and then to scurry away to the ladies’ room to adjust her breathing and to press a cold towel to her temples and neck, call Cecily, rant, and beg for advice. Not possible. She had to go through the wine delivery ritual.

“Thanks,” Max said, and then looked up to see her. “Beth? Is that you?”

“Yep. Hi, Max. Are y’all waiting for a table?” She twisted off the cap of the bottle. “Gotta love those New Zealand wines. No cork!”

She poured a measure in a glass and put it in front of him.

“I didn’t know you worked here! What happened to your hair?”

Somehow, by the grace of all the gods in the Lowcountry air, Beth found the presence of mind to turn the awkward moment into something humorous. She turned her face to Max’s dinner companion.

“Men,” she said in the most nonchalant manner she possessed in her Never-Let-Them-See-You-Sweat bag of tricks. Then she turned back to Max. “Really, Max. It’s just hair.”

Max, feeling slightly cornered and off his game, made another sensitive remark. “But I thought you were a journalist!”

“I am a journalist, Max. I’m just doing this gig for the fun of it. Can I get y’all anything else?” Beth’s mouth went dry and she could hear her tongue clacking against the roof of her mouth.

By then, Max’s dinner companion was showing signs of annoyance, rapping her fingernails on the table.

“A table might be good. We did come here to eat, after all,” she said, and not very politely.

Beth noticed the absence of a wedding band on her hand, but an expensive wristwatch and, lo, a veritable minefield of sun damage and wrinkles around her eyes. She decided the old dame was well north of forty. She could have been fifty! Why was Max entertaining someone so old? It made no sense to Beth, whose heart still pounded despite her every attempt to calm herself.

“I’ll check on that right away.”

Instead of returning to the bar to help Lidia, Beth rushed inside to Drew, reprimanding herself every step of the way. Why should she help Max get a table? Max had not introduced her to his date. Max had not stood up like a gentleman would when he realized it was her. In fact, Max had been a jerk. Still, she was going to use her influence on his behalf, if possible. She wanted him to think she could make things happen.

Drew was flipping through the reservation book, brows knitted, completely focused. The dining room was so noisy she didn’t have to whisper.

“Um, I’ve got a situation, boss.”

“Oh? What’s up? I finally got those two tables to move.”

“Well, that’s good. Um, there’s this guy outside? Um, with a woman?”

“Someone you know?”

“Uh, yeah. Sorta.”

Drew looked at Beth directly in her face and saw her panic, or if not panic, he could see that she was very flustered.

“Does he have a reservation?”

“I don’t think so.”

“So…what do you want me to do?”

“Oh, hell…”

“Where is he?”

“Oh, crap. Corner of the porch. Sixteen.”

“Go wash your face. It’s all like blotchy or something. I’ll take care of him. By the way, I need you for Sunday brunch.”

“No problem.”

In that moment, as he swooped into action to heal and vanquish Beth’s embarrassment, Beth adored Drew. Work on Sunday? She would scrub the floors if he wanted her to. Without knowing any of the details, he had understood. And later that night when she tried to sleep, every bone in her body exhausted from work and stress, all she could see were the faces of Max Mitchell and that old woman, grinning at each other. She felt like a complete and utter fool.

8

New Shoes

[email protected]

Susan, not to panic, but there are two girls and two boys in our house this weekend. Should I ask Cecily to object on our behalf?

[email protected]

As you wish, but remember they are all over twenty-one and you’ll sound like an old woman, old woman! Didn’t you ever have a sex life? Love ya! xx

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Ladies do not discuss. xx

I
T WAS FRIDAY
morning. The first sliver of daylight had barely appeared on the horizon. Before Beth opened her eyes, she knew instinctively it was just sunrise. She was damp with perspiration, tangled in her sheets, wide awake, and thoroughly annoyed. Her legs throbbed from standing on the hard floors all night at Atlanticville. Her feet ached and her heels were rubbed raw from wearing real shoes. Beth had so much anxiety she thought her head might literally explode. Her cousin was arriving that afternoon with his entourage and there was not one crumb of food in the house. Max had not called in the middle of the night to apologize for his frosty behavior. He had not called at all, just for the record, and now it was almost a week since their dinner quasi date. Well, she said to herself, Max was an ass and that was that.

“I’m totally over him,” she said to the darkness, feeling sick inside.

She was not over him. Not one bit.

Who had her cousin Mike said he was bringing with him? What time was he rolling into town? Who cared? She had her own agenda. And not one but two jobs for Pete’s sake, whoever Pete was. She needed to polish her article and turn it in to the
Island Eye News
. In addition, she had to work again at the restaurant that night. And Saturday night and now Sunday for the brunch shift. And another thing, if he had any pride at all, Max should regret having been seen with that old hot mess of his, she thought. The question was how in the world would she make him realize that he should regret it? It was too early to call Cecily or anyone except her mother in France, where it was noon. But she would not call her mother to discuss Max because she felt her mother would never understand the depth of her feelings or even the reason for her discontent. Her mother would tell her to snap out of it.

Cecily was the answer, not her mother. If she had learned only one single thing from Livvie Singleton’s granddaughter, she was certain that Cecily would have an idea on how to make Max Mitchell squirm. Lucky in love or not, Cecily was more experienced.

She decided to walk Lola and transform her own frustrations into a plan, and most important, she needed to shake off her funk. By the time the rest of the world began their day, Beth would be one step ahead. Hopefully.

She pulled on a pair of shorts, an old T-shirt from an Alison Krauss concert, her flip-flops, and crossed the dunes, stopping halfway down the sandy steps. The sun’s ascent was unfolding slightly east of Breach Inlet and its slow rise was so dramatic that Beth caught her breath and jerked Lola’s leash. She would have sworn on a Bible that that side of the world looked as if it might actually burst into flames.

Despite the promise of another sizzling day, at that hour the fine white sand was soothing and cool as it passed through her flip-flops. By noon, that very same sand would gather enough heat to scorch the calluses of the carelessly unshod, who would race and holler bloody murder across the many island paths that led to the shore. That thought brought the curl of a smile.

The incoming tide was laced with ripples so quiet you could have said that it was sneaking its way ashore. Scores of miniature birds dug in earnest for their breakfast around the water’s edges, scampering away as the next wave threatened to wash away their tiny world. Beth marveled at the predictability of it all, that the tide would change every six hours and that the sun would rise again each morning. It gave her courage or fortitude or some measure of peace. She wasn’t sure why, but she felt reassured knowing life went on and, like the old people always said, things always seemed better in the morning. And they did.

The beach was empty except for a few people and their dogs in the distance near Station 22. On another day she might have jogged down the beach to join them. But that Friday morning she was just ambling along, thinking about her lot and taking in her little dog’s fascination with her new surroundings. She unhooked her leash and Lola took off running. Lola sniffed every lump of seaweed at the high-water mark and chased the fat seagulls who watched Lola with keen-eyed suspicion. As one or another moved toward Lola, she barked energetically and they would waddle away. This made Beth smile too.

As soon as she felt it was a decent hour, she could call Cecily. If nothing else, Cecily would make her laugh and it would feel good to unburden her heart.

What would Cecily advise her to do? She would probably begin by telling Beth that she had no business chasing after a man of Max’s age, that the older woman she saw him with could have been there for another reason in spite of her clothing or lack thereof. But once she realized that Beth was really and truly dead serious about gaining Max’s affection, how to make it happen would take center stage. Cecily loved a challenge. Beth hoped Cecily had some secrets to share with her—a Gullah perfume or a root tea that would bring him around. No matter how loudly Cecily denied her success with men, Cecily surely had
something
that worked because her dance card always had a waiting list. Wherever she went, men seemed to fall all over themselves to get her attention.

Perhaps she should call her Aunt Sophie too, just for a second opinion, she thought. Sophie was cool and even more experienced and she might be able to enlighten her in the ways of older men. The excuse for a chat with her Aunt Sophie sounded like a great idea.

What would Sophie do if she fell in love with an older man like Max, say some old coot around fifty? Or, heaven forbid, sixty? She thought about it for a few moments and decided that first Sophie would manage to show up where said old coot was going to be—perched on a barstool or dining alone in a restaurant. Sophie would look totally gorgeous, which was easy enough for her, and second, she would completely ignore him, pretending the old fart was merely a gaseous fume. Her eyes would pass over his once or twice without recognition. Genius! With an ego the size of Max’s? Being ignored would drive him right out of his skull. And before the waiter could deliver the champagne he would surely send over to her, Sophie would turn slowly but deliberately on her kitten heels and depart without a wink or a nod. Sophie’s version of Max would be left stranded, choking on his newly found massive infatuation with her. Maybe something like that would work for her too. She was a little insecure about her ability to pull off that scenario, but surely there was a ploy that would be worth a try.

“Ooooh! This is all so stupid!” Beth cried aloud to the salty muses in the morning air, half expecting a reply. “What am I doing wasting all this energy? Ridiculous!”

She clapped her hands and called out to Lola, who ran back to her, sticky and sandy.

“Look at you! We need to shampoo your hair, miss! Turning into an island girl, are we? Chasing seagulls and rolling around on smelly things! Come on! That’s no way for a lady to behave.”

Beth showered herself and Lola and was towel-drying her little dog, who hated being groomed. Lola was a dog after all. She heard someone downstairs, opening and closing cabinets in the kitchen.

“Who’s there?” she called out.

“Just your caterer, ma’am!” It was the chipper voice of Cecily. “I figured that between running the road up to Pawleys yesterday and then your first day at Atlanticville, you probably didn’t have time to pick up groceries.”

Beth hurried down the stairs to greet her.

“You’re right! You are too sweet! Thanks!”

“Well, I was going for myself anyway so it’s no big deal…”

“Still! Thanks! You want some coffee?”

“Why not?”

Beth pressed the start button on the coffeemaker and the water began to drip, sending the rich smells of ground beans from Colombia swirling into the air.

“Too bad coffee never tastes as good as it smells,” Beth said, peering into the refrigerator. “Holy crap! What did you do? Rob the freaking Pig?”

Piggly Wiggly was the name of the family’s favorite grocery store chain and one was conveniently located in Mount Pleasant in a small shopping center.

“Nah, I just got a few things.”

“Yeah, like two of each for the Ark?”

“Yeah, I’m stocking the Ark. So what’s going on with you?”

“Well, I got up early. Couldn’t sleep. Took Lola to the beach and she got so sandy I had to give her a bath, which she hates. Whined the whole time, which I ignored. Anyway, my legs are killing me, my brain’s about to pop, my cousin’s coming—”

“You gonna waste the whole morning telling me nothing or are you gonna tell me what got you up so early in the first place?”

There was a pregnant pause and in the next moment Beth blurted out the truth.

“It’s Max. Who else? He came into the restaurant last night with this woman, who was older than him, and I mean by a lot. He acted so stupid when he saw me that I wanted to die. I mean, I kept my cool but it was clear he thought there was absolutely no reason for me to think anything was strange about seeing him with someone else.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing. I mean, I had to bring some wine to his table and when he realized who I was—the haircut and contacts, I guess—he didn’t stand up or introduce me to his date and I just felt awkward and stupid standing there. It doesn’t sound like much, I know. I mean, if you’d been there you’d know what I mean.”

The coffeemaker’s alarm pinged, the signal that the coffee was ready to pour.

“Sit down,” Cecily said, pointing to a chair at the kitchen table. “You take sugar in your coffee? Milk?”

“Just sugar. I’ll fix it. Thanks.”

Cecily placed a steaming mug before Beth and pushed the sugar bowl toward her. She watched as Beth added three teaspoons to her coffee and slowly stirred it. As she sat opposite her, she noted that Beth’s complexion was growing ruddier by the moment and that her sighs were deep and prolonged.

“Oh Lord. You got it bad. That’s a lot of sugar ’eah?”

“Yep. I guess.”

“Well, you want my opinion, right?”

Beth nodded her head.

“He’s oblivious, honey. First, he has no clue that he upset you last night. It’s the Max Mitchell Show. He’s not worried about how you’re feeling. His only concern is how you make
him
feel. And I don’t mean you in particular. I mean for him—and I might be wrong about this but probably not—women are interchangeable. I suspect there is a long line of bodies behind him and in front of him. I don’t want to see you in that pileup. You know what I mean?”

“You’re probably right but I can’t get him out of my mind. I mean—”

“How good-looking is this guy?”

“Movie star.”

“And how old is he again?”

“Like thirty-seven or something.”

“What’s a thirty-seven-year-old movie star man want with a young thing like you? Sex, that’s what.”

“Well, I do have a life, you know.”

“Right. Worse than that, what does a young thing like you want with an old guy like him?”

Beth tried to change the subject. “I have to finish my piece for the
Island Eye News
and I’m thinking I need to call him and go take his picture to run it with the article.”

“Humph.”

“What do you mean
humph
?”

“I mean, I’d see hell freeze first. But that’s me.”

“Well, it’s a legitimate excuse and it’s just business anyway.”

“I’d take a picture of a baboon in a red dress and use it before I’d go running to him.”

“Really?”

“Yes ma’am! Really.”

“Shoot.”

“Look, I gotta get moving before this whole day gets away from me. You got any mail for me?”

“Yeah, I threw out all the catalogs and junk mail and piled everything else in the basket on the counter over there.”

Cecily got up, poured the rest of her coffee down the drain, and put her mug in the dishwasher. She picked up the mail from the basket and thumbed through it.

“Well, praise the Lord! I was waiting for this bill!” She stuffed the mail in her bag and went to the door. “Listen to me, shugah-plum, whatever you have to do to forget this guy, do it. He just smells like trouble to me. Too much work.”