“Or maybe he just wore a funny cap one time back in 1973, and that’s why it stuck,” Edie had once suggested over a couple of beers in the inn’s courtyard. “This is the South, after all. I once knew a sixty-four-year-old man who went by ‘Scoop,’ because he was on a newspaper staff.In middle school.”
In any case, Cap is a frequent visitor to this beach even though I’ve never actually seen him catch anything. He’s a reminder of what I love about this place and that, like it or not, it’s always been home.
You didn’t just do this for Chris, remember? You grew up on this beach, you’ve got roots here, you know the people, the places, the weird little bits of lore that make up every small town. This was your dream, too.
And when I turn and step onto the low wooden boardwalk that leads to the inn, my sandals gritting over the sand that always dusts the boards, I think the Rosalie Inndoeslook like a dream.
If I were anybody else, I could stop and admire it, the charmof its color—somewhere between coral and Pepto-Bismol—and how the white gingerbread trim glows against it. I could smile at the rocking chairs on the front porch, the big baskets of begonias waving gently in the sea air, the morning sun sparkling on all the wide windows facing the Gulf. I could think what a miracle it is that this building has stood here for almost a hundred years despite storms that flattened other, newer dwellings.
But I’m not anybody. I’m her current steward and the woman who signs all the checks, which means that, rather than stand here on this gorgeous June morning, drinking in the sight of my family’s legacy, I’m noticing that the third step leading up to the porch is loose, and that the paint is already flaking off the shutters nearest the door even though we just painted those last winter. I’m thinking that we should probably replace said door after this summer, and wondering if there’s room in the budget for another housekeeper.
“Girl, if that frown gets much frownier, there will not be enough Botox in all of Alabama to help you.”
I’d been so focused on the never-ending tally of things that make up running a place like this that I hadn’t even noticed Edie on the front porch, one hip cocked against the railing, a thermal mug in hand.
I hurry up the steps, and she hands me a second mug of coffee that was sitting on the railing before saying, “No need to rush. Whatshisface finally picked up his phone and should be over here in ten minutes or so, and I had a few of those certificates for a free dinner at Shrimp ’N’ Shells still hidden in the front desk, so our overheated guests have chilled out in spirit if not in body.”
“They’re still going to want a refund, watch,” I say with a sigh as the shell wind chimes just overhead smack together, their delicate strings tangling.
“If they do, send them my way,” she tells me, lifting a pierced eyebrow.
Edie is what people down here would call “a character.” She turned up in St. Medard’s Bay about three years ago, originally from Natchez, Mississippi, one of those women who could’ve been thirty-five or sixty-five, it was nearly impossible to tell. And even in a town as quirky as St. Medard’s Bay, she stood out with her brightly colored hair—purple at the moment, after a turquoise phase back in the winter—that eyebrow ring, and her tendency to wear flannel shirts and jeans even when it’s hotter than hell outside.
I’d met Edie when she was working at Grindz, the subpar coffee shop on St. Medard’s main drag, and liked her immediately. So much so that I’d found myself hanging out an extra ten, fifteen minutes every time I got coffee there, and when she’d told me she was hoping to find something a little more challenging than making eight thousand iced lattes for people in Salt Life T-shirts, I’d offered her a job at the inn.
Her official title is “assistant manager,” but like everyone who worked here, she did a little bit of everything. She’d work the front desk, handle bookings, pick up the coffee and pastries we put out every morning for the guests. She’s even scrubbed a toilet or twelve, and honestly, I don’t know what I’d do without her.
“Any other fires need putting out?” I ask her. “Was Carla able to get that red wine stain out in Room 121? Oh, and did the Bakers ever email back? I know we always hold 211 for them for the Fourth of July, but I’d really love to go ahead and get that on the books officially.”
“They did,” Edie tells me, and something in her voice makes the sip of coffee I just took—delicious and rich mere seconds ago—go bitter in my mouth.
“And?”
“Andthey regret to tell us their daughter booked the whole family an Airbnb in Orange Beach for the Fourth this year, but they’re going to try and swing by to say hello.”
My stomach drops, my skin turning cold despite the balmy morning. The Bakers always booked the whole week of the Fourth. Even with the loyalty discount I gave them, that was nearly two thousand dollars that I’d been counting on this summer. Two thousand dollars I’ve already spent, if I’m being honest.
“Fuck,” I mutter, and Edie leans over, clinking her mug against mine.
“Before you get too down about that, another email came in last night, too. Check it out.”
She reaches for the iPad that’s sitting in a nearby rocking chair, its cheap plastic case cracking, thePROPERTY OF THE ROSALIE INNlabel peeling off the back.
I open the email app, my eyes briefly snagging on the Bakers’ reply—Hi, Geneva! So sorry not to have replied earlier—before seeing another message with the subjectLong-term stay, July–?
I scan the email quickly, almost afraid to hope.
August Fletcher, a writer from California; interested in an open-ended stay starting the first of July; not sure how long, definitely a month, but possibly until September.
September.
Even with a long-term stay discount—my dad had been big on discounts, I’m sadly learning—that would be a significant bit of money. Enough to pay down at least one of the credit cards, secure a couple more months for Mom at Hope House, get a little breathing room.
My mind is still running numbers as I half read the rest of the message.
This guy, August, is working on a book; would love to learn more about local history while here; wants to talk about the inn, and the hurricanes—specifically, Hurricane Marie in 1984.
That part pulls me out of my “once again having a credit score over 500” fantasies.
