Southern Comforts. Nan Dixon

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      The B and B wasn’t set up for room service. Mr. Smythe would end up hunched over his coffee table. “I’m afraid it’s not a matter of money.”

      “It’s always about money.” He raised an eyebrow. “Why don’t you get your manager?”

      Didn’t anyone ever say no to him? She stood a little taller. “I’m Abigail Fitzgerald, owner, manager and your chef. This is an unusual request, and I apologize that Fitzgerald House can’t accommodate room service. I would be pleased to serve your dinner in the kitchen at seven o’clock. Your dining experience will be more pleasant there.”

      He took a long, slow scan from her head down to her sneakers. She refused to squirm under his scrutiny.

      “Fine.”

      He turned toward the stairway, his long legs taking the steps two at a time.

      She headed down the hall. What was she going to cook? Catching a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror, she saw a streak of dirt on her face and dust all over her shirt.

      What must he have thought? Now his dinner would have to be even more amazing.

      * * *

      THE ROOM WAS SPOTLESS. Gray wondered what the “owner, manager and chef” had been doing to get so dirty. Well, he had two weeks to decide if this arrangement would work.

      Two people had recommended staying at Fitzgerald House. Derrick, the man who’d needed to liquidate his Savannah warehouse, had raved about the food, and his attorney. Gray hadn’t planned to acquire property in Savannah, but his frat brother, Derrick, had been desperate.

      And Gray had needed a break from Boston. Drawing in a deep breath, he pressed the aching sinuses between his eyes. God, he’d had this headache for what seemed like months.

      Maybe Savannah would bring him peace. Maybe his mother and sister would leave him alone. Maybe he’d figure out what was wrong with his life. He rolled his shoulders. Right now, all he wanted was to get settled in his room.

      While he unpacked, he listened to the CNBC newscasters dissecting the financial markets. He rolled his shoulders. The past two weeks in Boston had been a work marathon. Standing in the entry while trying to register, all he’d wanted to do was get into his room.

      But helping the kid catch rainbows had been fun. He used to do the same thing with his little sister. He hadn’t thought about that in years.

      He set his laptop on the small desk. It barely fit. Now he understood why Ms. Fitzgerald had asked him to eat elsewhere, but, damn—the kitchen?

      He was in the Jacqueline Kennedy room. Her biography on the coffee table had him smiling. His face ached a little, as though he hadn’t smiled much lately.

      He opened the French doors to his private porch overlooking a courtyard garden. Leaning on the railing, he took a deep breath. The air smelled green. New. Nothing like the snow he’d left this morning.

      There was a tiny table and a couple of chairs on the porch. He could imagine having a beer or a glass of wine or even a shot of whiskey in the evening. But dinner? No way. At least the sofa in front of the flat-screen television looked comfortable.

      His cell phone rang. Reluctantly he moved back into the room and answered it. “Smythe.”

      “Adam Severn.” Severn’s frustration vibrated through the phone. “We’ll meet your deadline. Everything will be demolished and drywall installed and taped on time.”

      “Good.” Severn didn’t respond. Gray’s eyebrows shot up. Did Severn expect gratitude for meeting his contractual obligations? “Anything else?”

      “You’re all business, aren’t you, Smythe?”

      Should Gray tell him he’d helped a little boy catch rainbows? Nope. Wouldn’t want to ruin his image. “When I grant bids, I expect the work to be done as agreed.”

      “Well, the plumbers and electricians better not hold us up.”

      “Phillips will coordinate the other subs.” His manager would monitor the timelines. “Make sure you keep him informed.”

      “I won’t be held accountable for other people’s screwups,” Severn growled.

      “Get your own work done in a professional manner, and we won’t have any problems.” Gray shook his head. Severn’s company would never work on another one of his projects.

      Severn grunted an acknowledgment and hung up.

      If his time in Savannah was going to reduce the pressure he’d been under, he needed to turf problems like Severn to his project managers. Next time.

      He opened one of the complimentary bottles of water and booted up his laptop. He rolled the cold bottle across his forehead.

      Gray quickly worked through his emails. He hesitated, staring at Gwen’s familiar address. He paused with the cursor hovering over the open-mail icon.

      He shook his head and deleted the message. Why was Gwen still emailing him? He’d broken up with her. Just last week he’d asked her to stop contacting him. One of the bonuses about being in Savannah was that he wouldn’t constantly run into her.

      He worked through the rest of his mail. Nothing he couldn’t handle from here. Pushing away from the desk, he checked his watch—almost five-thirty. The B and B’s wireless connection had worked flawlessly. Excellent.

      He had time to kill before dinner. He could walk around town or have a glass of wine. What quality of wines would a B and B serve?

      The floor plan showed him a route to the library via a back stairway. As he emerged on the first floor, Abigail Fitzgerald’s voice filled the hallway.

      “Damnation, Dolley,” she said. “Why didn’t you warn me about Mr. Smythe?”

      He jerked to a stop before she could see him.

      “I should have known about his meals before he checked in,” Abigail said.

      He shouldn’t eavesdrop from the hallway, but his feet wouldn’t move. He leaned his shoulder against the wall.

      “The money is great. But—six months. Why didn’t you tell me?”

      There was a pause.

      “Whoops?” Pause. “We have to communicate or we’ll look like amateurs.”

      Not amateurs—just inept, Gray thought.

      Another pause.

      “Dolley, you owe me, big-time. The dining room’s already set for breakfast. The desk in his room is too small for meals. For pity’s sake, I was so stunned, I invited him to eat in the kitchen.”

      Invited? She’d insisted.

      “I don’t have time to Google guests.”

      Okay, that was enough. He would not listen to them discuss him СКАЧАТЬ