Mac. Sounds like Max, she thought. Was there a conspiracy for the world to remind her of Max everywhere she looked? Mac, who had been sitting politely, stood up, looked up at Vicki, made a soft woof sound, and wagged his tail vigorously.
“Your dog talks!”
All five pounds of Lola and the forty-two pounds that was Mac went around in circles, sniffing each other. Then Mac ran off to the back office with Lola on his heels.
“That’s where the toy basket is. Dog heaven. And my husband Tom is back there in case they cook up any nonsense. Anyway, speaking of cook, I’m gonna faint from hunger. Want to split a chef salad or a sandwich? I’ll send someone over to the BI-LO to pick something up. The portions are huge. I’ve got drinks here.”
“Sounds great.”
“I’ll go get it,” another lady said.
“That’s Carol. She’s been with us forever.”
“Turkey on white bread with mayo and lettuce? Hey, Carol. I’m Beth.”
“Sounds perfect,” Vicki said.
Over the next hour and a half, Beth nibbled while she interviewed the customers, employees, and owners of Litchfield Books and took their pictures; it seemed as though everyone had a story to tell. People railed against Lowe’s, which wanted to open up a super-store that was almost four times the square footage allowed by the town. When that plan failed, it was considered a people’s victory. They moaned the loss of Hard Rock Park, saying it was just too expensive in the current economy, but who could have known the markets would implode? Everyone agreed they’d had a fantastic roller-coaster, the best one they had ever been on. There was hope that they would reopen. And then there was the bickering about beach renourishment that was so desperately needed because of unpredictable erosion that threatened the stability of all the beach homes. Plenty of politicking went on as each little municipality fought for its share of the budget of the Army Corps of Engineers. And last there were the Bikers.
The population that made up the world of motorcycles was a curious one. First, there were the people who owned the big Harleys. They ran the gamut from professors to investment bankers. That group just liked the feel of the wind in their hair and the roar of their engines. They would come to the Myrtle Beach area as a group and frankly, despite the noise of their bikes and some moderate rowdiness, they were very good for business. But unfortunately, there was another caste, distinctly different from the white-collar-turned-macho-for-the-weekend group. These guys were belligerent thugs who did drugs, got roaring drunk, and were out of order at all hours of the day and night. They were continuous guests of the county and state, brought up on charges of public lewdness and breaking every law on the books regarding civil behavior. One group brought money to the merchants and the other brought fear. And none of them wore helmets. It was very hard to support one group and not the other without appearing to discriminate. The police force of Myrtle Beach was always overworked when the rough characters came to town, struggling to maintain order and to keep the noise down.
Beth listened to their stories, and as each one drifted from the store and back to their life, Beth saw that stopping there to buy a map had turned out to be a very lucky fluke. And, most important, she decided she had plenty of anecdotal information to produce a reasonably interesting article. She hoped.
“Gosh, thanks for all your help,” Beth said. “This was amazing. Really!”
“Glad to help,” Vicki said, and handed her a business card. “Just call me if you forgot something. Oh, and Beth?”
“Yeah?”
“Call me when you win that Pulitzer.”
“Oh yeah, that…right!”
On the drive back to Sullivans Island, Beth’s mind spun one gilded fantasy after another. She envisioned Barbara Farlie’s face, giddy as her eyes passed over the pearls Beth intended to write. She imagined that she heard whispers of recognition when she went out into the world and she could see herself nodding modestly in appreciation. Her stories would be picked up and syndicated as her mother’s had been, and they would be featured together on the cover of some respected magazine as the greatest mother-daughter journalist team of the year, maybe ever. Max Mitchell would read her work and be so astounded by her maturity and intellectual prowess that he would be reduced to a stammering flibbergibbit, begging for her affection. Those expectations were beyond ridiculous and she was well aware, but it was fun to dream.
After throwing together a draft and changing her clothes, just by the skin of her teeth, she made it to her other job on time. Drew was there at the podium answering the phone and taking reservations. Robert was going over the dinner specials with Billy Condon, the chef, and Alan was setting up the bar, doing inventory of the liquor, wine, mixers, and garnishes. Beth gave everyone a little wave and greetings were exchanged.
Hey! Welcome aboard! Good luck! What did you do to your hair? Gee, it looks great! Whew! Sure am glad you showed up! It’s been crazy here! Put your bag in here with mine….
Beth put her handbag away, and as quickly as she could, she went to Drew’s side to immerse herself in learning the unappreciated art of taking and organizing dinner reservations.
“This part of the job makes my left arm hurt,” Drew said. “Did you cut your hair?”
“Yeah.”
“Nice. Okay, here’s the deal. A table for two usually stays an hour and fifteen at a minimum, but if they order dessert, that’s another twenty. Table of four, that’s closer to two hours, especially if they have cocktails at the table and then wine, but you have to allow for two and a half hours. Tables of over four start the horror show. Two hours for sure, sometimes closer to three, especially for parties of eight or more. This is the layout of the dining rooms. See how I have the tables marked off by number? So, why don’t you answer the phone the next time it rings and let’s see how it goes?”
Beth had barely digested what he had said and in the next breath she was to answer the phone?
“Um, what if I goof this up? I mean, what if I take too many tables for seven-thirty or something?”
“We’ll deal with it.” The phone rang and then rang again, lighting up two lines. “Go ahead. I gotta go talk to Billy about the tuna ceviche. Some customer called saying they got sick from it, that there must have been some shellfish in the marinade.”
“They probably just want a free dinner,” Beth said to Drew’s back as he walked away.
Drew stopped in his tracks and spun around to face Beth.
“I knew I liked you,” he said. “The world is filled with liars, you know.”
“Got it,” Beth said, and answered the phone. In her most adult voice she said, “Thank you for calling Atlanticville Restaurant. Please hold. Thank you.” She pressed the second line. “Thank you for calling Atlanticville. This is Beth speaking, how may I help you? For tonight? How many? And at what time?”
“She’s a natural,” Drew said to Robert, who nodded in agreement.
“A table for eight at six? Sure, we can do that. And the name please?”
As if she had been a hostess all of her life, Beth repeated those same words over and over until the tables for that night were completely committed not once but twice.
“We can offer you a table for four on the porch at around nine-thirty? No? Well, if you’d like to give me your number, I can call you if we have a cancellation?”
“How’s it going?” Robert said, passing her by with a tray of appetizers for a table of four.
“Is it always like this?”
“Pretty much. Well, especially on the weekends.”
Beth answered the ringing phone again and again, apologizing, disappointing people, declining large parties, politely suggesting other evenings, and taking reservations for Friday, Saturday, and the following week as well.
The way the restaurant worked reminded Beth of a synchronized drill team. Or perhaps a dance company. Everyone had a part and the execution of it was a panorama of beauty to watch. Trays floated by, lifted high over heads, people ducked or st
epped aside, candles were lit and relit, menus collected, distributed, re-collected, and stacked. Customers were greeted with grace and a smile and whisked to their table, seated, handed menus and wine lists, and on and on it went. Until that table of eight at six never materialized. And those other two tables of four lingered well past what would have been a reasonable time. They had been brought their checks, the bills had been paid, and their tables had been cleared down to the votive candles. They even declined the drinks at the bar that Drew offered hoping to pry them away from their tables. Three tables held hostage by customers in a restaurant of diminutive proportion made a difference.
“Where’s the table of eight for six o’clock?” Drew asked.
“I don’t know,” Beth said. “They never showed.”
“Didn’t you take a phone number?”
“Yeah, of course, but I must have written it down wrong.”
“Great,” Drew muttered under his breath.
“I’m so sorry, Drew!”
“It’s okay. And these other two tables have been here so long I could charge them rent.”
“For real,” Beth said.
The porch was packed, the dining rooms were packed, and the waiting area was bulging with bodies. It was clear, even to Beth, that they would never be able to serve them all. The kitchen closed at ten and all of those patrons, standing three deep around the bar, were waiting in vain.
Beth thought that Drew looked especially harried and said, “What can I do to help? I mean, I’m not taking any more reservations, that’s for sure. For tonight, anyway.”
“Did you say you could bartend?”
“Sort of.”
“Well, sort of is good enough for now. Get out there and give Lidia a hand, okay?”
“Yes sir!”
Beth’s exuberance was endless and just for a moment Drew remembered his own youth and the fires that had smoldered within him. Drew was barely thirty-five yet Beth suddenly made him feel every one of his years. What if his life was half over? Was he losing his edge? Did he seem that old to her? The thought of actual old age and the certainty of death made him shiver. But his dread was fleeting because as soon as someone nodded in his direction to gain his attention, he automatically resumed his professional posture and went back to work, forgetting about the Grim Reaper and all the geriatric insults that were sure to come.
“Need a hand?” Beth said to Lidia, who was filling drink orders as fast as humanly possible, plopping them on trays and shoving them toward the waitstaff. Despite the advancing hour and the whirl of the ceiling fans, the temperature on the porch had to have been over ninety degrees. Lidia’s upper lip and décolleté glistened with moisture.
“Yeah, thanks. Take this over to table sixteen in the corner. They’ve been waiting forever.”
“You got a corkscrew?”
“Don’t need it. It’s a New Zealand wine. A lot of the winemakers there quit using corks.”
“Oh! Boy, what I don’t know could fill a library!”
“You and me, honey!”
Beth picked up the tray with the wine bottle and two glasses and made her way slowly through the crowd. All at once, her heart lurched against her ribs. There at the table in the corner sat Max Mitchell and a startlingly attractive woman with blond hair, a narrow chin, too much lipstick, and an insignificant and bony cleavage. The woman, who appeared to be about ten years older than Max, was obviously dressed for a highly anticipated wardrobe malfunction. One tug on the breezy ribbons of her flowered camisole and all would be revealed. Her fluttering eyes were fixated on Max’s face. She smiled knowingly, nodding her head as he spoke, as though every word that spilled from his lips was ex cathedra. Beth noticed things that others did not, and while that simple act of practiced noticing had boosted the academic regard for her writing, it had not added one fig of value to her personal life.
“Great,” she whispered under her breath, assessing the scene before her. “Great.”
Inside of just a few seconds, Beth was suddenly and unfortunately overwhelmed with massive feelings of inadequacy. She blushed, broke a mortifying sweat on the back of her neck, and feared that if she said even one word, just one word, she would stammer like an idiot. Beth’s immediate thought was to slip the bottle into the cooler next to them without Max realizing it was her and then to scurry away to the ladies’ room to adjust her breathing and to press a cold towel to her temples and neck, call Cecily, rant, and beg for advice. Not possible. She had to go through the wine delivery ritual.
“Thanks,” Max said, and then looked up to see her. “Beth? Is that you?”
“Yep. Hi, Max. Are y’all waiting for a table?” She twisted off the cap of the bottle. “Gotta love those New Zealand wines. No cork!”
She poured a measure in a glass and put it in front of him.
“I didn’t know you worked here! What happened to your hair?”
Somehow, by the grace of all the gods in the Lowcountry air, Beth found the presence of mind to turn the awkward moment into something humorous. She turned her face to Max’s dinner companion.
“Men,” she said in the most nonchalant manner she possessed in her Never-Let-Them-See-You-Sweat bag of tricks. Then she turned back to Max. “Really, Max. It’s just hair.”
Max, feeling slightly cornered and off his game, made another sensitive remark. “But I thought you were a journalist!”
“I am a journalist, Max. I’m just doing this gig for the fun of it. Can I get y’all anything else?” Beth’s mouth went dry and she could hear her tongue clacking against the roof of her mouth.
By then, Max’s dinner companion was showing signs of annoyance, rapping her fingernails on the table.
“A table might be good. We did come here to eat, after all,” she said, and not very politely.
Beth noticed the absence of a wedding band on her hand, but an expensive wristwatch and, lo, a veritable minefield of sun damage and wrinkles around her eyes. She decided the old dame was well north of forty. She could have been fifty! Why was Max entertaining someone so old? It made no sense to Beth, whose heart still pounded despite her every attempt to calm herself.
“I’ll check on that right away.”
Instead of returning to the bar to help Lidia, Beth rushed inside to Drew, reprimanding herself every step of the way. Why should she help Max get a table? Max had not introduced her to his date. Max had not stood up like a gentleman would when he realized it was her. In fact, Max had been a jerk. Still, she was going to use her influence on his behalf, if possible. She wanted him to think she could make things happen.
Drew was flipping through the reservation book, brows knitted, completely focused. The dining room was so noisy she didn’t have to whisper.
“Um, I’ve got a situation, boss.”
“Oh? What’s up? I finally got those two tables to move.”
“Well, that’s good. Um, there’s this guy outside? Um, with a woman?”
“Someone you know?”
“Uh, yeah. Sorta.”
Drew looked at Beth directly in her face and saw her panic, or if not panic, he could see that she was very flustered.
“Does he have a reservation?”
“I don’t think so.”
“So…what do you want me to do?”
“Oh, hell…”
“Where is he?”
“Oh, crap. Corner of the porch. Sixteen.”
“Go wash your face. It’s all like blotchy or something. I’ll take care of him. By the way, I need you for Sunday brunch.”
“No problem.”
In that moment, as he swooped into action to heal and vanquish Beth’s embarrassment, Beth adored Drew. Work on Sunday? She would scrub the floors if he wanted her to. Without knowing any of the details, he had understood. And later that night when she tried to sleep, every bone in her body exhausted from work and stress, all she could see were the faces of Max Mitchell and that old woman, grinning at each other. She felt like a complete and utter fool.
/> 8
New Shoes
[email protected] Susan, not to panic, but there are two girls and two boys in our house this weekend. Should I ask Cecily to object on our behalf?
[email protected] As you wish, but remember they are all over twenty-one and you’ll sound like an old woman, old woman! Didn’t you ever have a sex life? Love ya! xx
[email protected] Ladies do not discuss. xx
IT WAS FRIDAY morning. The first sliver of daylight had barely appeared on the horizon. Before Beth opened her eyes, she knew instinctively it was just sunrise. She was damp with perspiration, tangled in her sheets, wide awake, and thoroughly annoyed. Her legs throbbed from standing on the hard floors all night at Atlanticville. Her feet ached and her heels were rubbed raw from wearing real shoes. Beth had so much anxiety she thought her head might literally explode. Her cousin was arriving that afternoon with his entourage and there was not one crumb of food in the house. Max had not called in the middle of the night to apologize for his frosty behavior. He had not called at all, just for the record, and now it was almost a week since their dinner quasi date. Well, she said to herself, Max was an ass and that was that.
“I’m totally over him,” she said to the darkness, feeling sick inside.
She was not over him. Not one bit.
Who had her cousin Mike said he was bringing with him? What time was he rolling into town? Who cared? She had her own agenda. And not one but two jobs for Pete’s sake, whoever Pete was. She needed to polish her article and turn it in to the Island Eye News. In addition, she had to work again at the restaurant that night. And Saturday night and now Sunday for the brunch shift. And another thing, if he had any pride at all, Max should regret having been seen with that old hot mess of his, she thought. The question was how in the world would she make him realize that he should regret it? It was too early to call Cecily or anyone except her mother in France, where it was noon. But she would not call her mother to discuss Max because she felt her mother would never understand the depth of her feelings or even the reason for her discontent. Her mother would tell her to snap out of it.