Beach Town (45 page)

“Do me a favor?” she'd asked, turning hollow eyes on her daughter.

“Whatever you want,” Greer replied.

“Bottom drawer of my nightstand, there's an envelope. Could you get it for me?”

The envelope was addressed to Lise, with a Florida return address Greer didn't recognize and a three-month-old postmark. Lise opened the envelope and a photograph fell onto the white blanket. She turned it over and smiled, then handed it to Greer.

The photo was one she'd never seen, one of those bad eighties studio specials from Sears, Roebuck. It was a color portrait of the Happy Hennessys: Clint with his gleaming dark handlebar mustache and sideburns; Lise with her poufed-out, bleached, teased, and tangled big hair; and little Greer, wearing a pink dress with a unicorn and rainbow print, and a giant pink bow plunked in the middle of her blond ringlets.

“There is so much wrong in this picture, I don't even know where to begin,” Greer said. “The hair, the clothes. My God, are those shoulder pads on your dress?”

“We thought we were very hip, very
Dynasty,
” Lise said serenely.

“I can't believe you fell in love with a man who had a mullet
and
a porn-star 'stache. I've never seen this picture before. Where'd you get it?”

“Clint sent it to me, just recently,” Lise said. “I'd never seen it either. We went to Sears to have the portrait made but, a couple days after that, we had that last big fight and we broke up. He must have gone back to the studio and picked them up. I'd forgotten all about them.”

“Should have forgotten about him, too,” Greer sniped.

“No,” Lise shook her head. “I don't want to forget him. Those were good times. We had you, a little house. Mostly we were happy.”

“And then you weren't, and he walked out,” Greer reminded her.

Lise sighed. “I wish you wouldn't keep harping on that. It doesn't matter who was right and who was wrong. I thought it did, back then, but what did I know? I'd give anything to take back all the stupid stuff we said.” She clutched Greer's hand. “I'd give anything for you to have gotten to know your dad. It's not too late.”

But Greer was sure it was too late. She'd made some vague assurances, and Lise had drifted off to sleep again.

“And what about you?” Eb asked. “Can you be as generous minded as your mother?”

That gave Greer a chuckle. “I wish you could have met Lise. She was not your textbook mom, that's for sure. She was complicated, but amazing. I don't think I ever realized just how special she was, until she was gone.”

Eb took her hand in his and lightly kissed her knuckles. “She must have been pretty special to have raised a daughter like you.”

Greer turned around to face him. “You're just saying that because you want to get into my pants. Again.”

“You don't seem to be wearing any pants,” Eb said. “But if you insist, I do happen to have a little something in my billfold.”

*   *   *

The alarm on her cell phone rang at 6:00 a.m. Eb's arm was flung over her bare breasts, his leg rested on top of her thigh. She inched toward the nightstand, groping for the phone, but he reached it first and tapped the Off icon.

He kissed her ear and tried to roll her toward him.

“No-o-o,” she groaned. “Baby, I've got to go to work.”

“It's dark,” he murmured. “Can't make a movie in the dark. Don't go.”

She kissed his forehead, then swung her legs over the side of the bed. “Believe me, I wish I didn't have to.”

He snaked an arm around her waist. “What time do you have to be at the casino?”

“Seven o'clock call, which means I need to be there now.”

He flopped back onto the bed, grabbed the pillow she'd abandoned, and propped it behind his head.

“Damn, these pillows are pathetic.” He tossed the pillow aside and sat up. “And the mattress is even worse.”

“I could have told you that weeks ago,” Greer said. She yanked open a dresser drawer and grabbed clean clothes, then moved toward the bathroom.

Eb scooped his clothes from the floor. “Guess I better get going too. I don't want Allie to see me sneaking out of here.”

Greer poked her head around the door. “Hey. Look at that. We spent a whole night together and didn't even fight once.”

He laughed and kissed her. “I call that progress. Can I buy you dinner tonight?”

“I'll call you when I get off work,” she promised.

 

53

Greer was pacing off the perimeter of the casino blast site with the state fire marshal when her cell phone vibrated in her pocket. She'd set the ring to silent so she could concentrate, and she was annoyed by the disruption. She looked at the caller ID number but didn't recognize it, so she let the call roll over to voice mail.

The fire marshal's name was Samuel Stillwell. He was young, with an earnest face and the thickest Southern drawl she'd ever heard, so deep she had to keep asking him to repeat whole phrases.

“Blay-ust zahn?” she finally said, shaking her head. “I'm sorry. I'm not getting…”

“Sorry,” he said. “I'm from Savannah, and I always assume folks know what I'm saying.” He repeated the words slowly and deliberately, and this time she got it.

“Oh! Blast zone. Of course.”

Her phone buzzed again, and this time when she looked at the caller ID screen it popped up as a call coming from Clinton Hennessy. She frowned at it.

“Please, go ahead and take your call,” Stillwell said. “I need to call and check in with my office anyway.”

He stepped into the shade of the casino, and Greer shrugged and tapped the Connect button.

“Greer? Is this Greer Hennessy?” The voice was male, but it didn't sound like Clint.

“This is Greer. Who's this?”

“My name is Wally Patterson. I work for your dad. I just tried calling you on my phone, but when you didn't answer I figured I'd try on Clint's phone.”

“Look, Wally, I'm working right now, which is why I didn't take your first call. Why can't Clint call me himself if he needs to talk to me?”

“Uh, your dad's been in an accident. The thing is, along with some other stuff, he got a pretty bad concussion, and the doctors at the hospital say they need authorization from a family member to run some tests. As far as I know, you're all the family Clint's got.”

Greer's knees were suddenly rubbery. She sank down onto a concrete bench near the railing overlooking the bay.

“Where is he?” she asked shakily. “What hospital?”

“Warren Memorial,” Wally said. “Here in Williston. I can give you the address.”

“No, text it to me, please. I don't have a paper and pencil with me,” Greer said.

“So you'll come? Clint was conscious in the ambulance, and he told the EMTs they should try to find his kid.”

“It's that serious?” Her stomach lurched.

“I'm not a doctor,” Wally said. “Your dad's a tough old bird, but he got banged up pretty good in the wreck. If he comes around, can I tell him you're coming?”

Greer looked desperately around the pier. Her first instinct was to say no. There was so much work still to be done before the Monday shoot. What difference would it make if she didn't go? Let somebody else give authorization for any procedure Clint needed. Hospitals did that all the time, didn't they?

She clenched and unclenched her fists. She didn't need this in her life. This mess, this complication, this … annoyance.

“Yeah,” she said, reluctantly. “I'll come.”

She raised Zena on the radio. “Sorry about this, but I've got a family emergency. My father has been in an accident and I've got to get to the hospital in Williston where he's being treated. You'll have to take over.”

“Oh no. Your dad was so cute the other day,” Zena said. “Of course. I'll be right there.”

“You'll have to finish up with the fire marshal, and make sure you understand everything he's telling you. He'll tell you what kind of notification we have to do with all the businesses and property owners on the pier, and within the blast zone. Then you can get started with that.”

“I got it,” Zena said. “Consider it done.”

*   *   *

According to the Kia's GPS, the hospital was about an hour away. She tried calling Eb but only got his voice mail. She left a message, telling him where she was going and why.

But why was she going? The urgent nature of her father's friend's call had been enough to propel her into the car and put her on the road, but what would she accomplish by showing up at the hospital?

She stopped at a convenience store on the state highway, bought a cold drink, and sipped it while her gas tank was filling. She kept looking at her cell phone, hoping it would ring, that there would be news about her father. He was better, she didn't need to come. Didn't need to get involved.

When the gas tank was full she pulled slowly away from the pumps. She wanted to head west—back to Cypress Key, her job, her commitment there, and most of all, to Eb. Hadn't she promised him she'd stopped running away?

Clint's friend—was his name Wally? He'd said Clint asked the EMTs to contact his kid, his only family, to let her know about the accident.

Funny, in all of this, she'd never thought of Clint Hennessy as
her
family. Oh, technically, she knew it to be true. There was never any doubt that Clint was her biological father. Lise had showed her Clint's baby pictures, and even Greer could see the strong family resemblance. She had his DNA.

But family was not the same thing as biology. For most of her life, Lise and Dearie had been her family. Her only family. She might have yearned for more, but looking back on it now, they had been all the family she needed. Somehow these two strong women had managed to raise her, to clothe and feed and educate her, and to launch her into the world and into a career in the industry they had both loved. With Lise gone, all she had left was Dearie, still feisty at eighty-seven.

Lise. Those last months, watching her die, had been the hardest thing she'd ever gone through. A part of her still felt hollowed out from all the sadness that poured out of her during her mother's illness. Would she be forced to relive that experience all over again—but with a man she barely knew?

Her phone rang and she snatched it up.

“Hey, babe,” CeeJay said. “Zena just told me about your father. So, you're really flying to his bedside?”

“I guess.”

“Greer? You are, or you aren't. Which is it?”

“I'm on my way to the hospital. His friend said they need some kind of authorization to do more tests, or procedures, on Clint—I'm not even sure which. As soon as that's done, I'm out of there.”

“Really?”

“Really,” Greer said firmly. “To tell you the truth, I honestly don't know why I'm bothering.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” CeeJay said.

“What's that supposed to mean?” Greer's eyes darted back and forth on the road, always vigilant for bears. Or any other mammal that might wander onto the asphalt. She'd only been on the road for ten miles and already she'd spotted enough roadkill to fill a zoo.

“It means I think you care more about your old man than you want to admit.”

“No,” Greer said. “It means I'm afraid Lise would haunt me from her grave if I didn't go to the hospital to check on Clint. So I'm going. And I'll be back tonight.” She hesitated, and then decided to throw her friend a crumb of information. “I actually have kind of a date.”

“With the Professor?” CeeJay squealed into the phone.

“Calm down. Yes, with Eb. We, uh, sort of made up last night.”

“Did that happen to involve makeup sex?”

“I'll never tell,” Greer said. “By the way, I let Eb know Jared was harassing you last night. I think he and Ginny are going to ask him to move out of the motel.”

“I can't say he'll be missed,” CeeJay said. “Let's catch up when you get back here.”

*   *   *

The hospital was the smallest she'd ever seen, no bigger than the elementary school in Cypress Key, and it was even built in a similar architectural style.

She'd forgotten to ask exactly where Clint was being treated, but since she assumed he'd been taken by ambulance to the emergency room, she decided to start there, driving around to a side entrance with a neon
EMERGENCY
sign.

A pair of automatic doors slid noiselessly open and she walked into a small, linoleum-tiled waiting area. The room was cold and smelled like antiseptic. A row of hard vinyl chairs faced a ceiling-mounted television, and a very young, very pregnant teenage girl sat on one of the chairs, with a hard-eyed woman on one side of her and a scared-looking boy on the other. The youngsters were holding hands.

A young male clerk in aqua hospital scrubs sat behind a reception desk, typing on a computer terminal. His name tag said “Mr. Gower.”

“Hi. I'm looking for Clinton Hennessy? He was brought in earlier today? He was in a car wreck?”

“Believe it or not, we had two car wrecks today. Was he the older gentleman?”

“Yes. He's uh…” Greer blushed. She had no idea how old Clint was. “He's in his seventies,” she said finally.

Mr. Gower clicked some keys on the computer terminal, then looked up at her with a sad face. “You're his next of kin?”

Greer felt a stab of anxiety. She swallowed hard, waiting for the bad news. She'd spent a lot of time in hospitals lately and had never heard anything but bad news in one. That antiseptic smell brought it all back to her. All the hours sitting in rooms like this, waiting for test results.

Her mouth went dry. “Yes,” she managed. “Is he…”

“He's back in curtain three.” Mr. Gower pointed toward a set of swinging doors.