Hatteras Girl (Heart of Carolina Book #3) (5 page)

Selena glances at me and then returns her attention to her pet. “He’s in his mid-thirties. Lives in Manteo in that large green house with the white fence. The house needs painting. It’s hideous, actually. Isn’t it, Shakespeare?” She gives him a kiss on his nose and smiles when he licks her cheek. “What kind of man of his clout would neglect his own home? Beyond me. I feel like giving him the number of my house painter.” With a sway of her hand toward the back of the office, she says, “His contact info is in the Rolodex. He’s out of town a lot, but I’ve seen him at the Food Lion, so I know he buys groceries.” Then she stands and heads toward her desk. This is Selena’s way of dismissing me without saying, “That will be all,” like a queen addressing her servants in a movie.

Even though we’re in the century of modern electronic conveniences, Selena believes that some inventions, such as the Rolodex, can never be replaced. I have an Excel spreadsheet with local business owners’ names and addresses in it, because I find a computer the best place to keep my data. Our editor still holds on to the white alphabetized cards and flips through them when she needs information.

Cassidy passes me and moans that she’s hungry. “Do you think Selena will order takeout for us today?”

I note Selena’s arched back as she logs on to her computer. “I doubt it.” Her cell rings to the tune of “Who Let the Dogs Out,” and she’s laughing within seconds. I overhear her say, “Melody, you are too funny and kind. Shakespeare and I would love to be there. . . . Seven? Oh yes, that will be just fine.”

No wonder we can’t figure her out. Selena is either a beast or a kitten. Bert once said he thought the full moon had something to do with her mood swings, but I don’t think she’s that easy to predict.

At the Rolodex on the shelf by the copier, I search through the cards and then realize I don’t know if the owner’s last name is Rexy or what. I ask Bert.

“Davis Erickson,” he says as he slams his computer screen with an open palm. He notes my bewildered expression and volunteers, “This old thing needs a good-morning touch before it will work on Mondays.”

I nod and slip back to the Rolodex. When I jot down the info from the Davis Erickson index card, I think: He’s in the realty business; I could ask him about the Bailey House. In fact, I’m pretty sure I once left him a message when I was trying to get information about the bed and breakfast. That was almost a year ago, before Minnie’s husband died. Since Lawrence’s death, Minnie’s and my dreams seem to be on hold. I haven’t talked about our plans for the Bailey place with Minnie in a long time.

“Two hours and fifty-three minutes,” Bert says as his cell phone rings from under his agenda book.

I’m confused until I realize he must be referring to how long our meeting lasted today.

7

When Selena opens a can
of tuna for Shakespeare, I leave the office. The smell of tuna burns my nostrils and makes my stomach queasy. Once, as a joke, my roommate in college stuck a cookbook called
101 Terrific Tuna Dishes
under my pillow. I had crazy dreams that night—even though I took the paperback out to the Dumpster before getting ready for bed. One dream I still remember all these years later involved a huge bowl of tuna noodle casserole that the dean of UNCCharlotte claimed he’d made especially for me. He held the bowl up to my face and said I had to eat it or I wouldn’t graduate.

Taking my striped notebook, I head to the Sunnyside Grille. The blue sky holds an abundance of filmy white clouds, and the sun’s rays sift meekly through them. Spring is here, and although the weather can be fickle, I know that soon it will be summer, my favorite season.

There was a time when I’d drive home to work on an article when the office got too noisy—or smelly—but these days, with the warmer weather, I prefer walking the three blocks from the office to the restaurant. Like Zane counts the steps up to our duplex as he pounces up them, I count my steps from the door to the office to the door of the Grille. One hundred ninety-four, if I take long strides.

Inside, I find an empty barstool near the center of the counter. I like to sit at the bar when I’m alone. When you sit on a barstool, your aloneness isn’t as obvious as it is at a table with two or four chairs.

I told my mom once how much I like to listen to customers order. I think you can learn a lot about people as you hear the different ways they choose to ask for their food from a waitress or waiter. “Some people are rude or just plain strange,” I commented. “And some put a question mark on the end of everything they say.”

Later, Mom said that ever since I told her I enjoy listening, she became self-conscious. “I think everyone listens to me now, and I don’t want to order,” she said. “I don’t want people to think I don’t know how to speak.” I hugged her, told her not to worry, that I am the only one who eavesdrops on people, so she should feel free to order as she wants. She gave me a look that still held doubt. Now whenever we are in a restaurant together, she asks Dad to order for her. I feel I’ve taken something from her that she’ll never get back.

Buck greets me with a smile. In addition to his yellow restaurant shirt, he’s wearing a black ball cap that has Sunnyside Grille printed on the front. “Hey there, Heartbreaker.” He tips his cap.

“What?”

“Yeah, it was some night on Saturday, wasn’t it?”

“What do you mean?” I squint my eyes to show that I’m not sure what he’s up to.

“That man.”

“What?”

“Your alleged date. Once you left, he wouldn’t stop crying.”

I laugh. “Stop!”

“It’s true. He looked so forlorn, like he’d never be the same again.”

I just shake my head and watch as he pours Diet Pepsi into a mason jar.

When he hands me the jar, he says with a straight face, “Anything for the Heartbreaker. I wouldn’t want to get on your bad side.”

“I didn’t break his heart.” I feel I must defend myself.

“That’s not what he told me.”

“You talked to him?”

Before he can answer, Buck is summoned by another customer, a beefy man with a flimsy mustache, wanting a cup of cheddar soup and fries. He asks if the soup has onions in it, saying he can’t eat them because he’s allergic. Buck says the soup has no onions, but the customer wants him to go to the kitchen to make sure. Buck leaves as I pull my notebook from my purse and dig around for my pen.

When my cell phone rings, it’s Minnie asking when I’ll be home. Zane is at Ropey’s and she needs to know what time he can drop off her child at the duplex.

I think of the interview from last week that I need to type up. “I’ll be home by five,” I say. “How long do you work today?”

“Nine.” She sighs. “Jackie, have I ever told you how much I appreciate you?”

I don’t want Minnie to feel guilty that I spend a lot of my free time taking care of her son. “Minnie, don’t worry,” I tell her. “I’ll save you a slice of meatloaf.”

Buck is back from the kitchen, and I overhear him telling the customer that the cheddar soup has no onions. The man has changed his mind while Buck was talking to the cook. He wants a hamburger with no onions. Buck places the order at the computer screen.

“Actually,” Buck says when he returns to my end of the counter, “your date paid and left. So, Hatteras Girl, will you be seeing him again?”

I smile. “Hatteras Girl?”

“Yeah. Do you like that name better than Heartbreaker?” His smile is exceptionally big today, just like when he was a boy with freckles and still had some of his baby teeth.

“What made you decide to call me Hatteras Girl?”

He leaves to bring a plate of fried clams to a customer. When he comes back, he refills my drink. “You are like a ray of sunshine—you enter a place, light it up, and keep it bright. You dress like you’re on vacation all the time, and you love living in the Outer Banks. You’re the epitome of a Hatteras girl.”

My heart dances at his words, but I say, “Something tells me you’re up to no good.”

“What would make you say that?”

“I’m not sure I can trust you.”

He shoots me a questioning glance.

“Everyone knows that you’re just Jellyfish Boy.”

“Jellyfish Boy,” says Betty Lynn as she swings behind the counter. “That’s a good name for Buck. I like it!” She stands across from me and complains about her sunburn. “I fell asleep on my boyfriend’s raft yesterday and got sunburned so badly. It hurts to wear clothes. I want to wear a halter, but Blake won’t let me.”

“If it’s any consolation for you,” Buck says, “he won’t let me wear one, either.”

Betty Lynn giggles, her blue eyes shiny. With a graceful turn, she heads to a table to refill iced tea. As she walks past a table with two men, they both look up from their burgers to watch her.

Yet Buck hasn’t named
her
Hatteras Girl, although with her fair features, she looks more like a beach girl than I do. Even today with the sunburn, she could be packaged as Malibu Barbie.

When she returns to us, she places the iced tea pitcher behind the counter, takes a look around at the handful of dining customers, and says, “If anyone needs me, I’ll be in the bathroom putting aloe vera on my back.”

Once she’s gone, I look at Buck. He’s watching the Braves play the Giants on one of the big-screen TVs above the counter. I try to think of something to say and what comes out is, “Did Blake ask you to fix the molding in the women’s bathroom?”

Buck’s attention turns to me. “Blake doesn’t let me go into the women’s bathroom.”

“Even off hours? The molding is hanging off the wall.”

“I’ll let him know. Not sure he’ll care, but I’ll tell him one of his most frequent customers sees it as a problem.”

“The third stall doesn’t lock, either.”

Buck grins. He picks up a pen and pad of paper near a stack of napkins. On a clean sheet he writes as he speaks, “Molding hanging off. Third stall door doesn’t lock.” Glancing at me, he asks, “Anything else?”

I lift my own pen and turn a page in my notebook. “You haven’t asked if I want anything to eat yet.”

After clearing his throat a few times, Buck gives me a huge smile and asks, “What can I get for you today?”

Actually, I’m still full from the eggs and bacon breakfast I made for Zane and me this morning. “I’m fine. Thanks for asking, though.”

He leaves me alone to jot down the questions I want to ask Davis Erickson for the upcoming interview.
What do you know about the Bailey House?
I scribble. I cross that out and try,
Being a Realtor, you must know about the Bailey House.
As I draw a rose around the letter B in Bailey, I decide I will try to work this question into the interview. Davis could know nothing about the bed and breakfast, but it won’t hurt to ask.

How much does it cost?
I add a few dollar signs beside this sentence.
Do you know if it’s for sale? Who owns it now? Someone mows the lawn, so who’s paying that person?
If he doesn’t know anything about the house, maybe he can direct me to someone who does.

When Buck goes on break, he sits on the empty stool to my right. I close my notebook and take the opportunity to ask him a question I’ve wondered about for a long time. “You and your dad used to work construction together, right?”

He picks at a jagged fingernail. My brother does the same thing. Growing up, Dad would see this and tell him to get the nail clippers. Sometimes Ron just bit his nail as if to say, “Why do I need clippers?”

“I see your dad’s van . . .” I continue when Buck doesn’t respond. “But you’re never in it with him like you used to be.” Even in high school, Buck went to carpentry jobs with his dad in the old gray van with Griffins & Company painted on both sides. After high school, he took some art classes at a community college, but even then he was a team with his dad; I’d see them together whenever I came to visit Minnie and Lawrence.

“We used to work together,” he says as though he’s talking to his hands.

I already knew this. I proceed slowly. With Buck, you never know how he will respond. “What happened?” I’ve heard so many stories on why he doesn’t work with his father anymore. Sheerly told me they got into a fight. But then Sheerly also thinks Blackbeard’s been spotted at the Bailey House.

“Now, Jackie, what could be better than working here at the Grille?”

I see the smile in his eyes. If he doesn’t want to be serious, then I know I’ll just have to play along. “I guess your dad never laid dollar bills for you inside the cabinets you installed or between the tiles you replaced.”

He grins. “The tips here are decent.”

“Construction must be hard work. I know nothing about it. Tools and I don’t get along.”

“I like building things. And on most days, I like tools.”

“Do you miss it?” My heart hopes for a real reply, one that will disclose more than just a good sense of humor.

He picks up a menu, flips it over, and says, “Don’t ever order the beer-battered shrimp here.”

Not being a seafood fan, I don’t think I’d ever consider doing that.

“So,” he says, eyes on my notebook, “what are you working on today?”

“This week I get to interview Davis Erickson.”

I can hear his tongue freeze inside his mouth.

“He owns Rexy Properties,” I say. “Do you know him? He’s older than me, which makes him older than you, of course.”

He stands, a silent frame beside me.

“Are you leaving?”

“I gotta go.”

Meekly, I murmur, “Okay.”

“See you around, Hatteras Girl.”

His lean legs take him out the front door, past the hostess who tells him to have a nice day.

I’m alone with my notebook until Betty Lynn returns and moans that she’s in so much pain she wants to go home early. However, she knows that Blake won’t let her leave until the lunch hour is completely over.

I watch her and the rest of the waitstaff carry plates heavy with hamburgers and golden fries, chicken salad, fried clams, and beerbattered shrimp. When I see an order for a Reuben sandwich, I think of Douglas and hope he’s not here. Today I feel guilty for lying and leaving him alone the other night. Swallowing, I shove the guilt down my throat with a sip of Pepsi. Douglas will be fine. He was probably glad to get rid of me, anyway. I think he needs someone who doesn’t love the taste of Diet Pepsi, knows what a jeepney is, and really likes to listen.