“It helps to have a support system,” Stephanie said. “Lizzie and I started at Disney together and after a bad day we would go out for a drink to unwind.”
“That’s how our little group got started.” Patricia piped in. “One night I overhead Stephanie and Lizzie. The guest they were talking about sounded a lot like one we had banned from the Radisson. After ten or fifteen minutes of eavesdropping, I couldn’t take it anymore so I introduced myself. Turns out it was the same guest!”
“If we hadn’t met Patricia,” Lizzie continued the story, “we may never have known what a scammer this guy was. We never got him banned from Disney, but did amass quite a file on him. Has he been back recently, Mona?”
Mona looked up from the menu she had been studying. “Marvin? It’s been about six months since his last visit, guess we’re about due for another one.” With a groan, she dropped the menu on the table.
“Now look at us, twenty representatives from concierge, food and beverage, entertainment, and retail departments throughout Orlando,” James said. “This group is as much a networking tool as an outlet for frustration.”
The other members shared stories of their introductions to the Concierge Club. Lizzie was delighted to see each member welcoming Stephen and trying to make him comfortable. She made a mental note to work with him, give him opportunities to help with some of the more rewarding parts of being a concierge. As their meals arrived, the conversation shifted to current events.
“We have the sweetest little old couple staying with us right now,” Lizzie smiled as she thought of the Jamesons. “They came to see their grandkids, but the wife has cancer and has been getting chemotherapy at the M.D. Anderson Cancer Center. You can tell they are madly in love even after all these years. Mr. Jameson told me they’ve been married 45 years, but it feels like just yesterday that he first laid eyes on her.” The women let out a collective Aww.
“Speaking of love, how did your date go last week?” James asked, causing Lizzie’s face to flush a bright red.
“It was okay,” Lizzie mumbled, suddenly very interested in a crack on the table.
“Come on, you can do better than that. What did you do?” Stephanie gave her friend a playful poke.
“Nothing special, went to dinner and a movie at the Enzian.”
“So when are you seeing him again?” Patricia asked. Lizzie shrugged.
“Haven’t you talked to him?” Stephanie asked.
Lizzie shook her head. “I don’t have time for a boyfriend right now anyway. Convention season starts soon and Tammy has already asked me to help out more this year.”
James slipped an arm around her shoulders. “Well he doesn’t know what he’s missing.”
With dinner complete, empty plates and cups of coffee littered the table. One by one, the group dispersed until only James and Lizzie remained.
“So, how’s the house hunting going?” James asked.
“My realtor is pretty much useless; she hasn’t shown me any properties in two weeks. I’ve been driving around after work and writing down some of the places I’m interested in. Do you know any good realtors?”
“My sister just got her license a couple of months ago. I could have her give you a call.”
“That would be great.”
“When Melanie and I were looking for our first home I didn’t think we would ever find something we could agree on. Of course, I ended up making all the concessions. You’re lucky to be doing this on your own.”
Lizzie nodded, a half-hearted smile slipping across her face. “I don’t think I would mind a little compromise in my life these days.” A vision of her empty apartment flashed across her mind.
“You’ll be making compromises with someone soon enough, trust me. Enjoy the single life while you can.” James pushed back his chair. “I should get going. Melanie will be wondering where I am. Want a ride to your car?”
“Thanks.” Lizzie nodded and rose from her chair.
CHAPTER THREE
The back room of Will’s Pub was crowded with enthusiastic twenty-something’s dancing with abandon, intoxicated by the energetic music of local punk band My Hotel Year. Jeffrey Robbins bounced on the balls of his feet, head bobbing in time to the music. Clouds of cigarette smoke hung in the dark room and beer spilled from clear plastic cups made the gray concrete floor sticky, but Jeffrey didn’t notice either.
“These guys rock! I can’t believe I never heard of them,” Wally yelled in Jeffrey’s direction. Jeffrey smiled and raised his cup in a toast. He and Wally had met a little over a year ago. Jeffrey had been named project manager for The Plaza construction and Wally was interviewing for a job. Despite opposite backgrounds the men had hit it off.
Wally was forty-two, from a blue-collar family in Pittsburgh. At eighteen, he married his high school sweetheart and moved to Florida where construction was booming. His wife died of cancer five years after the birth of their son, Tim. Wally had worked two jobs since his wife’s death to make sure Tim had everything he wanted.
Jeffrey was thirty-four and single. His family moved to Florida in 1925 and made its fortune in cattle and real estate. Jeffrey went to school at the University of Florida where he received his master’s degree in structural engineering.
The concert wrapped after a double encore. The crowd dispersed, moving into the front rooms of the pub toward pool tables and dartboards. Jeffrey and Wally loitered in the back room as the band packed up their equipment.
“Great show,” Jeffrey called to the bass guitarist. The young man grinned in response as he coiled a wire around his arm.
“Thanks for inviting me, I’ve had a good time, but I gotta run. I don’t want to leave Tim alone for too long.” Wally started toward the door.
“Ah, come on, man. Stay a little longer, the night’s young. The kid can take care of himself.”
“I know, but he’s been hanging out with some older kids from the skate park and I’m not sure they are the best influence. I caught him sneaking out last weekend.”
“Just stay a little longer, we can shoot some pool.”
“Really man, I gotta go.” Wally dropped his empty cup on the bar.
“I guess I might as well head out too,” Jeffrey said.
“You don’t have to leave.” Wally scanned the room. “Why don’t you go talk to those girls?” He pointed to the far corner where five women stood, most wearing skirts well above their knees and skin-tight shirts. Jeffrey’s eyes took them in and remained too long on the curves of a brunette whose back was to him. One of the other girls caught his glance, smiled, and waved him over.
“Go on big boy, have some fun.” Wally shoved his friend forward.
“All right,” Jeffrey drawled. “I’ll see you Monday.”
He swaggered toward the women offering a brash crooked smile. “So, ladies, how do you know each other?”
The blonde who waved him over smiled again. “I’m Amanda, these are my friends Tiffani, Michelle, Lucy, and Wendy.” She pointed at each woman as she spoke. Jeffrey took note that the brunette he had admired was Michelle. “We all work together.” Amanda batted her eyes at him and Jeffrey knew she was into him.
“Let me guess,” he paused a moment. “You’re cheerleaders for the Orlando Magic.” The women laughed. Amanda’s hand cupped Jeffrey’s elbow.
“We’re investment bankers for Charles Schwab,” Michelle said.
“Come on, you’re too beautiful to be number crunchers.” Jeffrey locked eyes with Michelle as he spoke then broke the connection to take in the whole group. “Those types all wear stiff suits and glasses.”
“The suits are for the office; underneath we are all pent up energy.” Amanda gave him a slight squeeze. He slipped from her grasp and took a step back from the group.
“Did you come out to see My Hotel Year?” He directed the question to the whole group, but again his eyes locked with Michelle.
“Those guys are so hot,” Lucy gushed. Her valley girl voice didn’t surprise Jeffrey
. She wore the shortest skirt of them all, a tank top cut low in the front, and heavy makeup. Her platinum-blond hair fell in a cascade of thin locks to the middle of her back.
“Their music is pretty good too,” Michelle spoke in a soft voice. She stood in the middle of the group directly across from Jeffrey yet he had to lean in to hear her.
“Michelle’s our resident artist. She’s the one who drug us to the concert. Personally I like music that’s a little more danceable,” Amanda said in a loud voice as if trying to draw Jeffrey’s attention back to herself.
“What are you ladies drinking? Let me get us another round.” They gave him a list of girlie drinks and he turned to the bar.
“Why don’t I help?” Michelle offered. She broke away from the group and followed Jeffrey. She stood next to him as he gave the order to the bartender.
“An artist and a number cruncher? Those two just don’t seem to go together.” Jeffrey reclined against the bar. He stood so close he could smell her shampoo, something fruity.
“I wanted to be a musician, but my parents are both CPAs. They never supported my interest in music and convinced me I couldn’t make a living with it. By the time I went to college I was so afraid of failure I took the safe bet and studied accounting.” She smiled shyly. “I never lost my love of music though and I try to keep up to date on local bands.”
“What do you play?”
“Guitar, mostly, but I can also play piano and saxophone.” The bartender lined up the drinks and Jeffrey paid the tab. Michelle grabbed three of the glasses, Jeffrey the remaining three and led the way back to the group. A high top table had become available and the women had taken positions around it.
“Would anyone like to shoot some darts?” Jeffrey queried.
“I’ll play,” Amanda volunteered. Despite his efforts to put the table between them, she appeared at his side.
“What are the stakes?” she cooed, her lips close to his ear, the rum on her breath stinging his nostrils.
“No wagers, just a friendly game.” His eyes searched the women hoping the rest would agree to play as well but they remained silent. It was obvious Amanda was the dominant female of the group.
“How about you give me your number if I win and if you win you can take me home.” Her hand inched down his back toward his butt as she spoke; he stepped away before she grabbed him.
“No, that’s not what I’m looking for.” He made another search of the group and found no reinforcement. “Maybe I should go. It was nice meeting you all.”
He backed away from the table. Amanda grabbed for his arm, grasping only empty air. Jeffrey turned and ducked out the front door. He stood for a moment sucking in the clean, humid air, lungs burning from the cigarette smoke. He dug in his pocket and fished out his car keys. His beat up Toyota Tacoma truck was parked on the far side of the lot, a circle of yellow light spilling on the scratched green paint. He pushed the key into the lock and opened the door.
“Wait!” a female voice called. He looked up and saw Michelle coming around the side of the building. She approached and extended her hand. “I wanted to give you my number. Maybe we can go out sometime,” she paused and smiled, “without the cheerleaders.” She cocked her head toward the bar. Jeffrey reached out and took her business card.
“I would like that. By the way, my name is Jeffrey. Your friends didn’t seem to care.”
Michelle laughed, a laugh that shook her shoulders and made her eyes crinkle. “Yeah, sorry. I doubt they will even remember you tomorrow.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“It’s nothing personal, they are pretty wasted, and Amanda will have some other guy falling all over her by the time I get back.” Michelle glanced at the door as it opened and a group of guys came out. “Speaking of which, I better go. I told them I was going to the bathroom.”
Fifteen minutes later Jeffrey pulled into the driveway of a rented bungalow behind a larger home in Winter Park. His landlords in the main house were active in the community, supported a list of charities he could never remember, and hosted parties nearly every month. He quietly locked up the car and slipped into the bungalow.
A dim light burned over the stove and he didn’t bother turning on any others as he moved to the bedroom. He peeled his shirt off and threw it toward the hamper; it missed, falling into a pile of other failed attempts. He emptied his pockets, dropping his wallet and keys on the bedside table. He picked up Michelle’s crumpled business card and ran his thumb over the raised letters. Setting the card down, Jeffrey picked up a photo in a silver frame.
He gazed with longing at the picture of an athletic woman; blonde hair, cut in a short bob that framed her heart-shaped face, blue eyes bright, radiating her smile and warmth. His look moved from the woman to the man behind her, himself, a man he barely recognized now, green eyes soft and happy, brown hair falling over his ears. In the dim light he couldn’t read the date on the photo but he knew it by heart.
CHAPTER FOUR
Lizzie shook open the classified section of the newspaper, thumbing through the pages until she reached real estate listings. Half-heartedly she skimmed the columns searching for homes available in downtown. For six months, she’d been trying to buy or rent a place closer to work. She knew her limited budget would be a challenge, but never anticipated it being this hard.
Her hand slid across the table to clasp a coffee mug. She lifted the steaming liquid to her mouth and drew in a tentative sip. Searing heat ran down her tongue accompanied with a painful grimace. Returning the cup to the table, she ran a finger down the list of ads ignoring everything except price. She had learned not to get excited by a description before knowing the cost. She expelled a loud breath, blowing her bangs out of her eyes as she reached the bottom of the column. Her eyes did one last flick across the page and then she saw it: 3/2, Thornton Park, 1500 sqf, $800 p/m
Lizzie smoothed the paper and focused on the minute ad. Too excited to search for scissors, she folded and creased the ad edges until it separated from the paper, freeing this gem. Her heart pounded as she scrambled across the kitchen and picked up the phone, fingers shaking as she dialed the number.
“Sandy Point Property Management, this is Christy, how can I help you?” a cheery voice answered on the third ring.
“Hi, I saw an ad in the Orlando Sentinel about a property in Thornton Park for $800 per month. Can you tell me more about it?”
“We just listed the property and I don’t know much about it. I do know it’s located on Washington Avenue. We could have a representative show it to you this afternoon if you like.”
“Would two o’clock work?” There was a moment of silence on the other end of the line.
“That would be fine. You will be meeting with David Rosenbloom. The address is 1108 Washington Avenue, east of Lake Eola. Do you need directions?”
“No, thanks. I know the area.”
“Then David will see you at two.”
“Thanks so much.” Lizzie danced across the kitchen.
At two, Lizzie arrived at the address provided, but her excitement melted away as she approached. Thick weeds and grass stood three feet tall obscuring the steps to the dilapidated front porch. The windows were gaping holes of broken glass. She checked the address again dismayed to find she indeed had the right location.
“Good afternoon, you must be Lizzie.” She turned and faced a thin young man a few inches taller than herself with cropped brown hair and pale grey eyes. “I’m David,” he continued as he stretched out his hand.
Lizzie shook his hand and shuffled her feet. “I think there must be a mistake.”
“Not exactly what you were expecting?” David chuckled.
“I knew it had to be too good to be true.” Lizzie kicked the ground with her toe. “Sorry to have made you come out here. I guess the girl in the office didn’t know it was in this condition.”
“No, Christy didn’t know, so please don’t be upset with her, but it isn’t as bad as it seems. Why don’t we
go inside?”
“What’s the point? I’m not paying to live here.” Lizzie was appalled by the thought.
“Just give me ten minutes.” David extended his arm in a gesture for her to proceed. Lizzie shook her head but didn’t turn away.
David took a step forward, stomping the grass down as he walked. After a moment’s hesitation Lizzie followed, testing each step, afraid her feet would fall through the rotted wood. David jiggled a key in the lock and pressed his shoulder to the door. Curling paint fell to the ground with each brush of his shirt.
The hinges groaned as he pushed the door open and stepped inside. Lizzie entered, her nostrils assailed by the smell of mildew and decay. Dusty sunlight filtered into the living room. Hardwood floors stretched out before her, warped in places where the rain had blown through the open windows; food wrappers, newspapers, and unrecognizable refuse lay scattered throughout the room. The walls were a dingy white, discolored by dust, and what appeared to be soot.
“Was there a fire in here?” Lizzie inquired.
“More likely the fire pit of a homeless person squatting here; had to have the police come by a few days ago and clear the place out. Overall though, things aren’t that bad. As you can see the wood is warped in a few spots, but its true hardwood and those spots could be repaired.”
Lizzie’s eyes scanned the open space and rested on the kitchen area. Cabinet doors and drawers stood open or were missing all together. There was no refrigerator or range.
“The owner lives in Massachusetts and inherited the property a couple years ago and it was vacant for several years before that. I doubt he even knows what it looks like.” David drifted around the open space, pushed in some of the kitchen drawers and used his foot as a broom to clear a path for her.
Lizzie took a few tentative steps forward. “The work it would take to get this place habitable will cost a fortune. Maybe you should send the owner some pictures, or better yet tell him to come down here so he can be more realistic. No one is going to pay rent on top of the renovation costs.”
Lizzie moved through the space and popped her head into a small bathroom. The toilet was black with mold, dirt caked the sink, and one of the knobs was missing from the faucet. She recoiled and moved toward the back of the house. A dim hallway led off the main living area; she shuffled her feet to clear away trash, felt something on her foot and a strangled scream escaped her clenched jaw.