Return to Sullivans Island (12 page)

“Katie?” Barbara hollered out again. “Bring reinforcements! We got ourselves a binger here!”

Seconds later, Katie handed Beth another bottle and took her empty one away. Beth was so embarrassed she wanted to run out of the office and never see these people again in her life. But Barbara Farlie had other plans.

“So, what do you want to write about?” she said.

Beth knew she had better have some ideas but she had yet to learn about pitches and things like that. But still jarred from the sight of the demolition outside, she just blurted out, “Well, have you seen the disaster outside at Bert’s?”

“Yeah, what about it? That place was a dump.”

“Well, seems to me that every old-timer on this island is going to be pretty pissed—I mean, upset. Don’t you think so?”

“Doesn’t matter what I think. I want to know what you think. Why is that news, beyond the obvious?”

“Where are you from, Ms. Farlie?” Beth had a hunch she was dealing with someone from the other side of the causeway, perhaps even the Mason-Dixon Line.

“Michigan. I was in the army. Wrote for
Stars and Stripes
for over twenty years. Then the dust in Afghanistan began to upset my asthma and I decided I had been in the trenches long enough. So, I came here—my old aunt lives on the Isle of Palms. My kids are grown and scattered with the wind. My husband Amos kicked the bucket three years ago and left me lonely. Ah, Amos. He was a good man. Anyway, I figured this would be a good retirement job and it’s got great benefits, namely, my kids come and bring my grandchildren because everyone likes the beach. But to get back to our conversation about the wrath of the old-timers?”

“Listen, I grew up here. So did my mother and grandmother and her mother before her. This island is a crazy place. We like things just as they are. I’m telling you, if they put up some glitzy new building next door and start selling ten-dollar coffee and ten-dollar muffins, people around here are gonna burn it down.” Beth was surprised by her own passion.

“Really?”

“Well, not literally. But they won’t support full-blown gentrification. That’s for sure. Would you pay ten dollars for a cup of coffee?”

“Hell no. You know, that’s an interesting position. I wonder how many islands in this state have developers coming in and trying to change things.”

“I’m just guessing here, but I would say all of them?”

“You got a car? And a camera?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. I’ll tell you what. You bring me twelve hundred words and some good pictures of what’s going on out there and on the other islands. If it’s any good, I’ll pay you for it if we run it. And I’ll cover your expenses either way. How’s that?”

Beth considered it for a minute. What did she have to lose? She could even take Lola with her, couldn’t she?

“That sounds great! Thanks!” Beth stood and shook Barbara’s hand soundly.

“Beth Hayes?”

“Yes ma’am?”

“Welcome to hell, honey, welcome to hell. By the way, love the flip-flops.”

Barbara was smiling as she said it. Naturally, Beth smiled back, but she wondered what Barbara Farlie meant.

5

Hello Trouble

[email protected]

Susan, Got to Paris fine? Dead in the Seine? Want to let us know? Hmmm? xx

[email protected]

Maggie, honestly! Busy eating pommes frites and drinking Dom with de Gaulle’s grandson and his wife. Whaddya think I’m doing? Love Paris! Love you too!

E
ARLY THAT AFTERNOON,
armed with her digital camera and a small notepad, Beth left the house, feeling some urgency to document the final hours of Bert’s Bar. After all, this was the end of a landmark and if she was going to be a successful journalist, she needed to be smack in the center of things. Where Bert’s once stood, the scene was now all but a pile of rubble, the air swirling with dust and tiny bits of debris. Chunks of cement and ragged piping were being tossed into dump trucks by a streamlined backhoe, designed to work in small spaces. The noise was surely going to destroy the lunchtime business of the surrounding restaurants and that cash flow for the foreseeable future which would result in a litany of complaints to the Town Council and headaches for everyone.

At the scene, there were still a few people hanging around watching, but the crowd that had been there earlier in the morning had gone on about their day. Beth walked toward the site with a brisk stride of purpose. She stopped to take in the details of the drawings that were posted on the brand-new gleaming placard along with the permits. Two thick tubular columns stood on either side of the display window. The placard itself was almost six feet tall and constructed of brushed chrome, as was the frame of the window itself. Copper pyramids topped the columns to discourage perching birds and the droppings they left behind. The non-glare glass that protected the documents from the elements was etched along the frosted edges in shapes that suggested seagulls in flight.

“Seagulls,” Beth said out loud. “Ew. How original. And just what the heck is all this?”

The whole thing was offensive because the obvious truth was that if the placard was an indication of the money that would go into the new construction, the future building would stand out against everything else in the realm, just as the old islanders and Beth had feared.

Beth harrumphed, snapped several photographs of it, and mumbled, “I’ll bet this rocket ship has night-lights and a dehumidifier.”

“Actually, it doesn’t, but that’s a good idea.”

Beth turned to the source of the manly voice and fell right into the laughing brown eyes of Max Mitchell.

“Given the climate and all…” he added, putting his sunglasses on top of his head like a surfer.

Did she know him? It seemed to Beth that this was a reunion after many lifetimes of separation. Cosmic. And Max, usually calm, cool, and copasetic, was so taken by her face and the sound of her voice that he actually felt a shiver of déjà vu. But Max Mitchell shivered over women a million times a day, women of every shape and size, age and cultural orientation, married and single. He just loved them.

Then there was a virtual blast of pheromones and Beth, completely unaccustomed to anything like it, was rocked at the strength of it. What kind of kismet was this? Beth vowed to get her story and walk away as fast as possible. Max stopped himself, having sworn off female temptations until his project was further under way. He thought she was probably too young for him anyway. Or not.

This is ridiculous, they both thought, but knew they were caught in the net of fate’s intentions just like a couple of fish.

An awkward silence hung between them before they finally regained their senses and introduced themselves to each other.

“Um, I’m Beth Hayes.
Island Eye News.
” She hoped she sounded professional.

“Max Mitchell. Architect. And builder.”

They shook hands and by all appearances any passerby would have said the act of shaking hands was simply a cordial business gesture. But Max was astounded by how small and soft Beth’s hand felt in his. For a split second, as any man would, he wondered if the rest of her was so, well, so what was she like in the sack? And Beth, whose hormones had been practically dormant most of her life, thought his hand was the most perfect hand she had ever touched, and for a brief moment she wondered what both of his hands would feel like on her face.

“This is your idea?” She gestured toward the site with her chin.

“Well, yeah, I guess so. I have several minority partners but it’s mostly my own investment.”

“Right.” Beth struggled to maintain her composure. “Of course.” Never before had she felt so off guard. This was not some frat boy, not even some law school student. This was a man. A man who was angular, tanned, and fit, with longish dark hair that skimmed his collar with curls, and who smelled like something she wanted to guzzle.

“You’re with the local paper?” Max said.

“Yeah. I’m doing a piece on the changing face of coastal communities in the Carolinas.” Beth blushed, knowing she had deliberately inflated the scope of her assignment to make herself sound important. “Maybe, if you have a few minutes? You’d like to comment?” She realized he was taking a lingering inventory of her breasts and blushed again.

“Sorry, I don’t do interviews. Usually, that is.”

“Oh. Well. Shoot. It must be like a thousand degrees today,” she said, not wanting to appear pushy by asking if he would make an exception.

“It is. I just checked. Can I buy you a drink? Nonalcoholic, of course. I mean, I wasn’t thinking of plying the press with alcohol to sway your opinion or anything like that. Unless you
want
a beer or something. I mean, that’s fine with me.”

Beth giggled. “Sure. Why not? But hey, Max?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you smirking at me?”

“Who me? Never. Never smirked at a woman in my entire life.”

“Right,” she said, satisfied that she had nailed him for the indiscretion of his traveling eyes. But traveling eyes or no, she liked it that he had called her a woman. She liked it very much. It seemed that lately this was happening more and more. And despite his words to the contrary, Max Mitchell was smirking from ear to ear.

They crossed the street to Poe’s Tavern. Max put his hand in the concave area of her lower back in a proprietary and a protective measure, as if the sparse oncoming traffic was a danger to her life. Beth could not recall any one of the guys she had ever dated doing anything beyond taking her hand or elbow to move her across a crowded room. This was different. It made her warm to him even more. The small gestures mattered tremendously to her because she had experienced so few.

They took a seat at the bar and ordered iced tea. They squeezed their lemon wedges into the tea and added exactly three large spoons of sugar to their glasses, stirring it around in an attempt to dissolve it. Beth considered this similarity of taste to be a positive omen of common ground.

“So, Max Mitchell, tell me something.”

“Anything you want to know. My life’s a completely open book.”

“I’m sure. Off the record, how did a nice guy like you get mixed up in a controversial project like this?”

“Controversial? What do you mean?” His perfectly shaped eyebrows were knitted together in genuine concern.

“For real? People here hate change. Don’t you know that?”

“Change is inevitable, but don’t quote me on that.”

Beth giggled.

“I’m not going to quote you on anything unless you want me to. And yeah, change is inevitable. Disraeli said so, like a zillion times?”

“Disraeli? Where’d you go to school?”

“BC. Who cares? I also know that the building you propose to put right on top of Bert’s grave is pretty flipping radical.”

“What do you mean
flipping radical
? Is that journalismspeak for
very
?”

“Very funny. I mean, I’m just surprised you could get something so contemporary-looking past the design review board.”

“You’re right. It wasn’t easy. But given the tax revenue it should generate—”

“Ah geez. Money. It’s always about money, isn’t it?” Beth had some idea of what he meant but she was only mildly knowledgeable about taxes or finance in general.

“Seems to be. The root of all evil. St. Paul said that. Or maybe it was St. Timothy.”

“Some apostle. Whoever. Anyway, look around.”

“I’m looking.” But he was only looking at her.

“You’ve got a problem whether you know it or not. All these other buildings are from the thirties and forties or earlier, and if they’re not, they’re built to look like they are. This island has a certain style. If you come in here—where are you from anyway?”

“Atlanta.”

“Cool. Well, I’m just saying don’t expect our population to embrace something that looks like it belongs in a
Jetsons
episode.”

“Wow. Are you always this hostile when you noninterview someone?”

He smiled at Beth and she blanched. Rude, rude. Professional journalists were not supposed to rebuke their subjects if they wanted their subjects to divulge what they needed to learn and she knew it. But was this an interview? Maybe it was.

“Oh, crap. I’m sorry. You’re right. Let’s start over.”

Max, who seemed to possess a perpetual grin, said, “Right. Crap. Let’s do that.”

He was making fun of her, and as disturbing as it was on one level, she liked it on another. “Okay. So. Tell me about your project, Mr. Mitchell.” She spoke in a deep and very serious voice.

“Well, Miss, Miss…shoot! What was your last name?”

“Hayes.”

“Right! Miss Hayes, when it’s completed, it will blend into the landscape very nicely. Scout’s honor. And I’m going to venture a guess that every resident of this island will be thrilled we built it.”

“And why’s that?”

“Because this is going to be a multipurpose retail space.”

“I heard that this morning. Is that like a mini mall?”

“Exactly! It will minimize the need to go off the island to buy organic groceries. You’ll be able to get a healthy breakfast in a place where you can actually sit at a table, to buy things for your house and garden. You’ll even be able to color your hair to match the fire engines, if that’s what you’re into.”

“Oh please, this hair of mine. Okay, you’re right. We don’t have any of those luxuries here on the island but it’s all just right over the causeway.”

Beth wished desperately that the salon was already open for business because, at that moment, the blazing redness of her hair fed her massive insecurities.

“And gas isn’t getting any cheaper, is it?”

“Actually, it is.”

“Okay, granted, but there’s time. Is it becoming less important?”

“For real.” She looked up at him and he was staring at her again. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I was just wondering…”

“Wondering what?”

“Who are you? Who is Beth Hayes with the crazy hair and eyes like the water around the mystic Isle of Capri?”

Beth didn’t quite know how to respond. No one had ever asked her a question like that. Should she paint herself as an environmentalist or an intellectual? A woman of the world? She decided then just to be herself because what did it really matter what he thought of her? This whole rush of excitement was ridiculous anyway.

“Um, I’m just me. I grew up on this island, sort of, and I went away to school and now I’m back.”

“Fresh out of college?”

His smirk in full blossom was one thing, but now he had implied that she was too young to be taken seriously. So, she said to herself, you do care what he thinks! Look at you! You’re a mess!

“Out of college, yes, but not so fresh. So, how old are you anyway? Like fifty?” Beth said, thinking it was a pretty clever retort.

“What? Um, I’m thirty-seven. And, not married. See?” Max remembered that his hair was getting a little thin on the sides but he thought it could be seen only in certain lights. Maybe he needed to wear more sunscreen. But to buoy his credibility, he held up his left hand.

Beth saw no evidence that a wedding band had ever been there.

“Why would I care if you’re married or not?”

“Because I want to have dinner with you tonight and it wouldn’t do for a woman of your stature to be running around with some Lothario, would it?”

“Heaven forbid. So, you want to have dinner? Tonight?”

Beth gulped, knowing she was at risk because if he had said, Let’s go jump off the bridge around seven-thirty tonight, she would’ve said, Okay, that sounds like a great idea. She was a smitten schoolgirl with all her good judgment on a temporary leave of absence.

“That was my freaking thought. Seven-thirty? You make a reservation and I’ll pick you up.”

“Okay, that sounds like a great idea.”

She scribbled her address, her cell phone number, and the telephone number at the house on her pad, tore off the scrap, and handed it to him. He gave her his card.

“In case you chicken out,” he said, “you can call my cell.”

“Chicken out? Really? Do you have a reputation I should know about?”