Kitabı oku: «Amazing Gracie», sayfa 2

2

By the end of the week Gracie had established a routine. Still up at the crack of dawn, she went for a walk along the river, always winding up at the Beachside Café for breakfast.

On her second visit, Jessie and everyone else in the place already seemed to know that she had just rented the Taylor place on the waterfront. They knew she wasn’t from the area and that she planned to stay at least through summer.

“I’m surprised they haven’t nailed down my credit rating,” she commented to Jessie, laughing at the accuracy and thoroughness of the waitress’s report.

“Oh, Johnny has that, too, I’m sure, but there are some things he manages to keep to himself.” She eyed Gracie with curiosity. “Why here? You look like a big-city girl to me. I’ll bet you don’t even own a pair of jeans.”

That was true enough, but Gracie decided not to confirm it. “Maybe I’ve just had a little too much of big-city living,” she said, which was the truth as far as it went.

“The fast pace’ll kill you, that’s for sure,” Jessie agreed, then peered at her thoughtfully. “Or was it a man?”

She nodded sagely, though Gracie hadn’t said a word. “It usually is, if you ask me. At the heart of any woman’s troubles there is guaranteed to be a man.”

“Not this time,” Gracie replied, even as an image of Max popped into her head. Max wasn’t a problem, not for her heart, anyway. He was just a simple pain in the neck, professionally speaking.

Unfortunately, her conversation with Jessie had stirred up the very memories she had been trying so hard to forget. Thanks to Max she was in a strange place, completely at loose ends. Listening to Jessie’s curious speculation reminded Gracie that this little sabbatical of hers would end sooner or later. What then?

Maybe thinking about the sorry state of her life and the dim prospects for her future explained why she noticed the house, the huge Victorian with its dilapidated, sagging porch and its intricate gingerbread trim. It was hidden away behind an overgrown hedge and a heavy wrought-iron gate.

Gracie figured she must have passed it half a dozen times before as she strolled along lost in thought, but this morning with the sun glistening on its fading white paint and grimy windows, it caught her eye.

Three stories tall, with a widow’s walk on the top, it was like something out of a book, albeit a Gothic horror novel at the moment. It was the kind of place kids would assume was haunted.

But despite its state of disrepair, Gracie could envision it all primped up with fresh paint and shining windows. In her mind’s eye, pots filled with bright flowers decorated the front porch and the lawn was tended, the hedge neatly trimmed. She could also imagine a simple, discreet sign hanging by the gate, declaring it a bed-and-breakfast.

“Ridiculous,” she muttered the minute the idea struck. She hurried her step as if to escape her own thoughts. Though the house was clearly unoccupied and ignored, there was no For Sale sign out front. Even if there had been, she wasn’t interested in staying in Seagull Point for more than a few months.

Was she?

Of course not, she insisted, again picking up speed after a last backward glance over her shoulder. Coming here in the first place had been impulsive. Staying would be, what? Lunacy? Jessie had pegged it. She was a big-city girl. The more exotic the city, the better. Seagull Point was a far cry from Cannes, France.

Still, she found herself strolling past the house again that afternoon and pausing in front of it on her way to breakfast the following morning to study it with a critical, experienced eye.

“It wouldn’t take much,” she murmured, ignoring the little voice inside that suggested boredom, not good sense, was behind the notion of buying the place. Once again, she dismissed the idea.

Unfortunately, it kept coming back. When she stopped at the hardware store to pick up a new broom and some nails to fix a loose board on the porch of the rental, she couldn’t help looking at the paint chips. Before she knew it, she had a whole handful.

“Johnny hasn’t talked you into painting the Taylor place while you’re here, has he?” the man behind the counter asked when he saw the collection of paint chips.

Gracie grinned. “No way. I have another project I’ve been thinking about, that’s all. It probably won’t come to anything. Is it okay if I take all these samples?”

“That’s what they’re there for. Let us know if there’s anything you need. I’ve got a fellow working for me who takes on odd jobs painting. Needs the extra money. He does good work, too, as long as you don’t mind him doing it evenings and on his days off from here.”

“Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”

On her way home, she stopped in front of the old Victorian once again. This time, though, she opened the rusty gate and stepped through. The grounds were far more expansive than she’d envisioned from the street, though at the moment they were a tangle of weeds. There was room enough for a badminton net and a croquet course in the back, plus an area with a brick fireplace that would be perfect for family-style barbeques for guests. The concept had an old-fashioned charm to it that appealed to her. Surely there were still people in the world who longed for the days when video games weren’t the entertainment of choice. Surely there were families that sought out low-key vacations far from the crowds at Disney World.

She tested the steps and found them solid enough, but to her regret the windows were too filthy to permit a halfway decent view of the interior.

“It doesn’t matter,” she told herself sternly. It was only a pipedream, after all. It wasn’t as if she were going to buy the place and settle down here to run it. She had a job waiting for her in France…if she wanted to go back. She could land another position with another hotel chain at the drop of a hat…if she chose. The sleepy town of Seagull Point, Virginia, was not what she needed, not in the long run. It was a temporary balm for her soul, no more.

Even so, she found herself spreading the paint chips out on the kitchen table when she got home, playing with combinations of color until she had two that she liked, a third that was a possibility. When the phone rang, she guiltily shoved them all back into a pile as she answered it.

“Hello, Max,” she said, anticipating who would be on the other end of the line. Max was the only person she’d told where she was going. Even though she’d given him the entire state to choose from, Max was apparently every bit as good at narrowing down possibilities as he was at spotting a discrepancy of a few francs in the Worldwide books. It had taken him less than a week to find her.

“Bored yet?” he inquired.

“Of course not.”

“What are you doing with yourself?”

“Nothing, Max. That’s the whole point of a vacation.”

“A vacation?” His voice brightened perceptibly. “Then that is all that this is? You will be back?”

“No, Max. I will not be back.”

“The staff misses you,” he said, trying a different tack.

“I miss them,” she said. She had felt vaguely guilty about abandoning them to Max’s puritanical fiscal whims. André in particular would not fare so well without her as a buffer between him and Max.

“Guests have asked about you.”

She did brighten at that. “Really?” She’d hoped that the regulars would notice her absence, but hadn’t really expected Max to tell her.

“Actually, they have mentioned missing the floral arrangements you put in the lobby.”

A twinge of panic fluttered in her stomach. “Where are the flowers, Max?”

“The florist and I had a slight disagreement,” he admitted. “He prefers dealing only with you.”

Gracie laughed as she thought of gentle Paul Chevalier standing up to Max and refusing to deliver flowers to the hotel. He must have been incredibly insulted to have taken such a stance.

“Would you like me to call him?” she offered. “I can smooth things over.”

“Would you?” he asked, sounding relieved, perhaps a bit too smug.

“Of course. But Max, you’re going to have to start dealing with these little crises yourself or else bring in a new manager.”

“I can’t do that, not when I’m holding the job for you. In the meantime, the rest of us will do the best we can. The hotel will not fall apart overnight.”

“Overnight? Max, I’ve told you not to hold the job.”

“Allow me my fantasies, ma chérie.”

“Max!”

“Au revoir.”

Gracie sighed as she hung up. A moment later she placed the international call to the florist. Even though it would be evening in France, she knew she would find Paul Chevalier in his shop, tidying up after a hectic day, checking his orders, planning his trip to the flower market at the crack of dawn. Sure enough, he answered on the first ring, sounding distracted and rushed as he always did.

“Bonsoir, Paul.”

“Ah, mademoiselle, bonsoir,” he said, his voice brightening. “Comment allez-vous?”

“Très bien. And you, Paul? How are you? I understand Monsieur Devereaux has upset you.”

“The man is an imbecile,” he declared.

“What has he done?”

“He has asked me to pluck out only the dead flowers and replace them. He does not seem to understand that each arrangement is a piece of art, unique, magnificent in its own right.”

“Definitely an imbecile,” Gracie agreed. “But, Paul, think of the guests. They appreciate your arrangements. They have told Monsieur Devereaux that they miss them. S’il vous plait, Paul, for me. Will you try to work with him?”

“You are coming back soon?”

“No, I’m afraid not.”

“You have abandoned us, then, left us to this imbecile?”

“Max is okay. Just be patient with him. He will learn.”

Paul sighed dramatically. “For you, mademoiselle, but only for you.”

“Thank you, Paul. You are a treasure.”

“You are sure you will not be back?”

“Very sure. Not to the hotel, anyway. But I will come back to visit, Paul. I promise.”

“Very good, mademoiselle. Au revoir.”

Dealing with that one little detail reminded her that she was only postponing the inevitable. She loved handling the day-in day-out crises that went with running a hotel. If Paul’s ego required careful handling, it was nothing compared to those of the chefs. More than once she had walked into a hotel kitchen to find the chef and the sous-chef squared off in a battle that shook the pots and pans. One terrible night she had ended up putting the final touches on elaborate desserts under the watchful gaze of the artistic, temperamental pastry chef after his own assistant had quit in a huff.

In truth, there was very little she hadn’t pitched in and done at one time or another to keep the hotel operating smoothly. Which meant, she concluded thoughtfully, that surely she could run a small little bed-and-breakfast in Virginia on her own. It would be an investment in her future, to say nothing of a home, something she hadn’t had since she’d sold off her family’s property, such as it was, in a long-dead Pennsylvania coal mining town.

There had been nothing charming or quaint about the place where she’d grown up. It had fallen to ruin years before, leaving behind citizens who were every bit as depressed as the local economy. She had been all too eager to see the last of it. She had known when she left after her mother’s funeral, less than six months after her father’s, that she would never go back there.

Seagull Point, Virginia, however, had promise. In only a few days she had seen that. There was hope in the burgeoning business district and in the freshly painted and recently renovated homes along the river. The people were friendly and upbeat. They were rooted, not in misery as her old neighbors had been, but in life. Gracie had seen evidence of prosperity in the packed seafood restaurants and actual traffic jams at the town’s main intersections on weekends.

There weren’t enough hotel rooms, either. She’d stayed in the only national chain hotel in the entire area. The others were all small, family-owned motels with a very limited number of rooms. A bed-and-breakfast, especially one in a house with historic charm and architecture, would fit right in. She didn’t have to make one of her notorious lists to add up the pluses and minuses. Fiscally the decision was sound. Emotionally, well, in the last couple of days she had developed a surprising longing for roots, sparked by that surprising and devastating discovery back in Cannes that she had no real ties in the world.

It wouldn’t hurt to ask a few questions, check on the property’s availability. Gathering facts wasn’t the same as making an impulsive offer. It was testing the waters, not jumping off a bridge. She would make a few casual inquiries, assess the possibilities. She would approach the whole thing in a slow, logical manner.

Famous last words.

“Not available,” Johnny Payne told her succinctly when Gracie asked him about the old Victorian.

Naturally that stirred her competitive spirit. Overcoming obstacles was her specialty. She thrived on it. “Why?” she asked.

He regarded her as if she had a screw loose for asking such an obvious question. “Because the owner don’t want to sell,” he explained patiently.

“How do you know? Have you asked?”

“It’d be on the market if they wanted to sell, now wouldn’t it?”

Gracie decided on another tack. “Johnny, what would that house be worth in today’s market? Can you give me a ballpark figure?”

“Don’t know,” he insisted. “Never thought about it.”

“You’re in real estate. It’s your business to know property values in the area. Surely you have some idea.”

He shook his head. “You ask me about a cottage on the riverfront, I could tell you in a heartbeat. That old Victorian’s one of a kind. It’s been in the same family since it was built as their summer home way back at the turn of the century or before, when this place was bustling with tourists running away from D.C. Haven’t been inside it myself in a dozen years or more. Can’t say what condition it’s in now, though from the looks of it, it can’t be good.”

He peered at her curiously. “Why are you asking so many questions? You thinking of sticking around, after all? If that’s it, I could probably get you a deal on that place you’re in. It’s more your size, anyway. You’d just be rattling around in that big old Victorian. Must be ten, fifteen rooms in there, altogether. The place sprawls all to hell and gone.”

Gracie wasn’t prepared to show her hand. If the owner thought there was an anxious buyer out there with plans for the house, the price could escalate beyond her reach. Assuming this mysterious owner could be located in the first place. Johnny was as tight-lipped as a clam about the owner’s identity. Maybe he feared he’d be cut out of a deal if she decided to contact the man directly.

“Could you at least look into it for me,” she pleaded, partly to reassure him that the deal would be his, if one were struck. “What would it hurt?”

“I don’t go around begging folks to sell their property,” he retorted. “It’s not polite.”

“Isn’t that carrying southern courtesy to an extreme?” Gracie asked. “Maybe they just haven’t thought of selling. Given the look of the place, maybe they’ve forgotten all about its existence. Or maybe they figure they’d have to pour too much into repairs to put it on the market. Coming to them with a prospective buyer and a firm offer could be an easy commission for you.”

“Sorry.”

“Johnny, for heaven’s sakes, tell her the truth,” Jessie prodded. “You haven’t said one word to Kevin Patrick Daniels since he beat out your boy for all-state in basketball their senior year.”

Gracie stared from Jessie to Johnny’s suddenly beet-red complexion. “This reluctance of yours is due to some old feud over basketball?”

“Around here, folks take their high school basketball seriously,” Jessie explained. “Don’t they, Johnny?”

He scowled at her. “You’ve got a big mouth, missy.”

Jessie gave him an impertinent grin. “Truth’s truth. You wouldn’t talk to Kevin Patrick if there was a million-dollar commission in it for you.”

“The man stole that title from my boy,” he muttered. “Ruined his scholarship chances, and for what? Not a damn thing. He didn’t need a scholarship. He was already headed for the University of Virginia, just like his daddy before him and his daddy before that.”

Jessie shook her head. “Kevin Patrick could hardly help the fact that he was named to that all-state team. He’d been high scorer here for his entire high school career. Derek was second best and that’s no reflection on him. It’s just that Kevin Patrick had a gift. He had one of those exceptional, once-in-a-lifetime records. It was too bad they went through school at the same time. Any other season, Derek would have been the superstar.”

“Damn right,” Johnny said.

“Let me get this straight,” Gracie said, trying to grasp the conflict between the two men. “You’re refusing to even check on this house for me because it would mean dealing with a man you blame for cheating your son out of a college basketball scholarship?”

“In a nutshell,” Johnny confirmed without embarrassment.

“How many years ago was this?”

“Eighteen. Right, Johnny?” Jessie said.

“That’d be about right,” he agreed.

“Eighteen years? You’ve carried on this feud for eighteen years?” Gracie was incredulous. “Why not put the screws to him, then? Make him sell me the house for a fourth of what it’s worth. Think what a laugh you could have over that.”

“Can’t do it,” Johnny said with finality. “I refuse to be in the same room with the arrogant, no-good son of a gun. You want to deal with him you’re on your own, but don’t say I didn’t warn you. The man’s a cheat and a scoundrel. He’s been managing that property for the past few years and you’ve seen it. He’s let it go to seed.”

Cheats and scoundrels were among Gracie’s favorite people. Negotiating with them and winning thrilled her almost as much as terrific sex. Not that she’d had much experience with either lately.

She studied the real estate man carefully. “You’re sure about this, Johnny? Selling real estate’s how you make your living. You don’t mind if I track down this Kevin Patrick Daniels and deal with him directly?”

“Suit yourself,” he said with an indifference that rivaled Max at his worst.

“Where can I find him?”

When Johnny remained stubbornly, steadfastly silent, it was Jessie who gave her directions. “Believe me, you won’t be able to miss it. There’s not another place like it on that road. Think of Tara and then exaggerate.”

The man lived on a blasted plantation and he allowed that beautiful old Victorian to fall to ruin? Gracie decided she might come to dislike Kevin Patrick Daniels almost as passionately as Johnny did. That would make buying the house for a pittance of its worth all the more satisfying.

If, of course, she decided she really wanted it.

Which she didn’t, she insisted. This was purely an exercise, a gathering of facts. Nothing more.

Two hours later she was searching a country road for the lane that would take her to Kevin Patrick Daniels, current manager of the property. If that run-down state was his idea of management, he ought to be a quick sell.

She knew the type. Never spend a dime unless the roof is actually falling down. Which it was. No doubt he’d rather accept her offer than put a new coat of paint or a new roof on the place. Her adrenaline pumped just thinking about the negotiations. She felt more alive than she had in months. Hopeful.

And that was before she glimpsed the Daniels estate. Jessie hadn’t exaggerated a bit. It was Tara on steroids. Every bush was tidily trimmed, every blade of grass on the rolling hillside had been neatly shorn to the precise same length. The house and the columns across the front were pristine white, which probably required regular touch-ups. The windows, tall and stately, glistened.

Oh, yes, indeed, Gracie thought, staring at it with a mixture of awe and disgust. Stealing that neglected Victorian from Kevin Patrick Daniels was going to make her day.