A Billion Times No, page 21
part #1 of Fake It Till You Make It Series
To make life more annoying, my phone rings as I’m folding up chairs from a wedding this morning, and when I answer, it’s Percy.
“Daisy?” he says, and I wait for that little zing that I always used to feel when I heard his voice. Nothing.
“Kind of busy, Percy.” I awkwardly carry three chairs toward the storage room in the back of the hotel, holding them under my arm so I can talk on the phone. “What do you want?”
“I was just checking up on you. You know we’re back. Savannah and me.”
Like I could forget who he was married to?
“Yeah, yeah, you got poison ivy on your butt while you were on your honeymoon. Everyone knows that,” I say impatiently. For a guy like Percy, image is everything. I can tell from his huffy silence that he’s annoyed with me. Well, boo-hoo. “I told you, I’m busy. Why are you calling me?”
“Daisy.” His voice sounds all pitying and worried. “I just wanted to make sure that you’re okay, but I can tell from the way you’re snapping at me that you still haven’t let go. I know that this has to be difficult for you …”
“I’m sorry, what has to be difficult for me? Hearing that your butt is one giant blistery rash? No, that was pretty entertaining for all of us, actually. Thanks for your concern though. Toodles.” I hang up.
I return to my task, but Chase’s face keeps swimming in front of me, no matter how hard I try to banish it.
To distract myself, I call a meeting of the Detective Club, minus Callie, of course, since she quit and she’s barely speaking to us. Gramma Mae and Naomi meet me in the barn, under the pretense of cleaning the chicken coop.
I want to look at the town records for our property, to see if there’s anything that I’ve missed. Like, at any point did Chase’s father own part of our property, too? Is there a freaking oil well out in the swamp?
“So, theoretically, how hard would it be to break into town hall?” I ask my grandmother.
“For me, or for you?” Gramma Mae asks. “I’ve got keys to most buildings in town. Don’t ask.”
“I promise I wasn’t going to.” I’m half appalled and half enthralled. And I’m also all about plausible deniability. Your honor, I swear I had no idea what she was up to!
“So what do you need?” she asks, patting her hair, which is set in rows of white curls today. “Petty cash? Blackmail material?”
Naomi looks at Gramma Mae with interest and admiration. “Wow,” she says.
“No!” I splutter. “Just property records.”
“Boo,” Gramma Mae says. “Boring. I mean, that’s totally legal.”
“Yes, but I want to keep it under our hat. I think we should look over our property records and see if there’s anything that we’ve missed. And I don’t want anyone in town to get wind of it yet. We need to know what we’re dealing with first.”
“I’m with you there,” Gramma Mae says. “These nosy parkers don’t need to be all up in our business.” Please. That woman spreads gossip like fleas spread bubonic plague. “All right, I’ll dig up our property records and we’ll meet up after the wedding.”
“What’s my mission?” Naomi asks.
“Hang around the hotel as if you’re helping with the wedding, but keep an eye on Callie and Mama. Keep me posted on their whereabouts.”
I spend the next couple of hours in a state of nervous anticipation, craning my ears for the sound of sirens heading toward the town hall. Finally, Gramma Mae calls me and says she has the records and I should meet her and Naomi near our blueberry patch. It’s a little spot deep in the woods that only the family knows about. My mother’s been buzzing in and out of the house today, so if we met up in there, there’s the chance that she’d walk in on us and demand to know what’s happening.
I sneak away from the afternoon wedding in the flower garden and make my way through the wooded area on the back of our property, pushing my way through the underbrush and swatting at mosquitos.
The hair on the back of my neck stands up, and I hear a faint rustling as I walk. I stand still, twisting around and looking intently at the thick stand of scrubby underbrush to my left.
“Chase?” I call out.
The rustling stops.
I pull out my cell phone and dial. Chase answers right away.
“Daisy!” he says, sounding thrilled to hear from me. Country music blares in the background. He’s definitely not the one following me.
“Are you at Thirsty’s?” I ask in astonishment. Thirsty’s is out in the county area, about forty-five minutes from Bitter End. It’s the only bar in the county.
“Well, you weren’t answering my calls, and Lance and Pamela invited me out. How are you? What’s up? Come meet us here.” He sounds slightly drunk. “They’ve got a special on gator tail. Also, I’ve got some great ideas for rebranding this place, and I wanted to bounce them off you.”
“Bounce them off Lance and Pamela. I just called to say I’m still not talking to you,” I say, and I hang up. Real mature, Daisy.
He calls me back immediately.
“I’m not talking to you either,” he says. “However, I’m available for sex. I know how much you’re missing it because I’m missing it ten times more.”
“Do not say things like that in front of Lance and Pamela!” I yell.
“They’re in the restroom. I think they’re having marital relations there, and probably catching tetanus while they’re at it. And I thought you weren’t talking to me?”
I hang up again.
Okay, so whoever’s following me isn’t Chase. It’s my actual stalker. Good. Because in the mood I’m in, I am ready to throw down.
I wonder, with a sudden rush of nausea, if it’s Percy. Because if it is, I will punch his lights out, the little creep. I am completely and finally over him.
Of course, the horrible truth is that I’m over him because of Chase. I’m totally hung up on Chase, and I am more and more sure that I’m going to be pushed into choosing him or the family business, and that’s not even a contest.
I break into a jog, bursting into the clearing where Naomi and Gramma Mae are waiting for me. Naomi’s carrying the files for Gramma Mae, a big fat stack of them.
“Whoever’s following me is right there!” I gasp, pointing at the underbrush. The branches were rustling, but they stop instantly.
My grandmother runs faster than any eighty-year-old woman with two artificial knees and a hip replacement has any right to, and she jabs her cane through the bush. A scream rings out. A woman’s scream.
“Savannah?” I yell.
Silence.
“I know it’s you!”
“You do not!” she cries out.
My grandmother jabs with her cane again.
Savannah storms out, followed by Mimi. They’re both wearing high heels, wobbling over the mossy ground, and they’re flushed and sweaty and glaring at us.
“Well, well, if it isn’t Tweedle-dum and Tweedle-dumber,” my grandmother says.
“You’re the one who’s been following me? What the hell, Savannah?” I demand.
“I know what you’ve been up to!” Savannah snarls.
“Yeah, we know what you’ve been up to!” Mimi echoes loyally.
“Dear God, Mimi,” I marvel. “If you ever had an original thought, it would die of loneliness.”
“What does that mean?” she looks at Savannah anxiously. “Is she insulting me? Should I hit her?”
“Didn’t go that well for you the last time, did it?” I say nastily. “How much did your new hair extensions cost you?”
“Your grandmother broke into the town hall and stole files, and I’m going to tell everyone,” Savannah says, pulling a leaf from her shiny blond hair.
Naomi glowers at her and hugs the files to her chest. “Quit being such a bitch, Savannah. This isn’t about you. If Chase’s family buys the hotel, it doesn’t just hurt Daisy. It’s going to hurt the whole town.”
“The hotel is for sale? Why?” Savannah squawks.
“Wait. What did you think we were up to?” I demand. “And no, it’s not for sale.”
Savannah hesitates for a split second. “That’s exactly what I thought you were up to. And I’m going to tell Sheriff Buckley about Gramma Mae breaking and entering, and she’ll go to jail!”
“Go ahead. I’ll tell Willadeene you’ve been following me.” I shrug. “And then I’ll take out a restraining order and it will be in the Bitter End Bulletin.”
Savannah goes pale. “Don’t you dare!”
“Yeah, don’t you dare!” Mimi says quickly.
“So. It seems like we’re at an impasse. And why are you following me?” I ask.
Savannah looks at me suspiciously. “You first. Why did Naomi say Chase’s family is going to buy the hotel? That doesn’t sound like it would be good for Swampy Bottom.”
“Dear God. Did you just express concern for something or someone other than yourself?” I say with mock astonishment.
“You and your family may be a bunch of poor relations who’ve mortified us with your behavior for the last two hundred years, but the hotel is the biggest employer and the biggest draw of visitors to our county.” She looks indignant. “And if anything bad happens to our county, it also happens to me.”
Naomi and I exchange knowing glances. “That’s more believable,” I say. “And Chase’s company might be interested in buying the hotel. We don’t know yet, so we’re doing some research, including looking over the property records to see why they’re even interested in such a small-town operation. And we don’t want to make it public yet.”
“Why can’t you just ask him?”
“Because I suspect that he would feel obligated to put the interests of his firm first.”
I absolutely hate having to say that. I hate having to reveal that things aren’t perfect with me and Chase after all.
Surprisingly, she doesn’t gloat. She chews her lower lip, scowling in thought.
“Are we fighting them, or not?” Mimi asks.
“Zip it, Mimi. So what are we going to do about this?” Savannah asks.
“Where did this ‘we’ nonsense come from?” Gramma Mae demands. “We trust you about as much as we trust your mother’s natural blonde hair color.”
“It has nothing to do with trust,” Savannah says haughtily. “We temporarily have a common goal, which is figuring out what Daisy’s shady boyfriend is up to. Whatever you’re doing to investigate, I want in.”
I don’t want to say yes, but if I don’t, I’m afraid she might tattle on us.
“We’re trying to figure out why Chase’s family would even be interested in the hotel. That’s why we’re looking over the property records.”
“All right. What other information do you have?”
“Chase’s father seems to be behind the whole thing. He’s the one who got me the job at Lancaster in the first place.” I shake my head in disappointment. “I used to think he was a really nice guy. He was always asking about my family, and the hotel, and … now I’m starting to wonder why he was so interested.
Savannah purses her lips in thought.
“When did he get you the job again?”
“Right after grad school, a little less than three years ago.”
“Why is he suddenly so interested in the hotel? What’s new?”
Much as I hate to give Savannah any credit for anything, that is a very good question. It should have occurred to me earlier.
“That’s hard to say. I don’t know of anything major that’s changed. Well, there’s one thing. A couple of weeks ago, I told Mr. Lancaster that we had a new airboat business and the tours were turning out to be popular. He seemed interested; said he’d love to go on one himself sometime. I thought he was just being polite. His idea of the great outdoors is the nearest golf course.” I chew my bottom lip. “Hmm. He wanted to know how far out the swamp tours went.”
“So. He’s concerned about something in the swamp.” Savannah frowned. “I’ve got connections. I can ask around. Don’t worry, I’ll be discreet.”
She glances at me, narrow-eyed. “And that’s more than I can say for you,” she says huffily. “Come on, Mimi, let’s go.” And the two of them stalk off, their heels wobbling in the grass.
“We were very discreet,” I say indignantly. “It’s not my fault she was following me.” Wait, why was she following me? She still never said.
Then my shoulders slump. “Who am I kidding? Everybody might as well just go back to calling me Dais-aster.”
“No, we will not,” Gramma Mae says. “You are our very own Daisy Abernathy.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Daisy
The search of our property records is disappointing. I went through hundreds of years of history and came up with zilch. We own twenty acres of dry land and a few hundred acres of swamp. The swamp is actually classified as protected wetlands and no building or development could take place anywhere in or on it. We had to get special permits to be able to go on tours.
The only monetary value it has is the eco-tours, and although that’s lucrative for us, it’s a tiny little drop in the bucket for a multi-national corporation like Lancaster Hotels and Resorts.
It’s Wednesday morning, I’m due to go home on Friday, and I’ve made it my full-time job to avoid Chase Lancaster. He keeps calling and texting, I keep ignoring it.
It hasn’t escaped the notice of the Bitter End gossip squad. I’m getting advice from all quarters. Apparently, everyone was super-invested in the whole Chase-Daisy thing.
In order to avoid persistent questions from everyone and their grandmother’s cousin’s hound dog, I’m spending every waking moment working at the hotel. I’m serving guests, helping clean rooms, or out in our gardens weeding, trimming, and fertilizing.
The detective club is on hiatus. I’ve run out of ideas as to what Chase, and his father, are after. Whatever’s going to happen, will happen.
For some reason, Savannah’s taken a real interest in the whole affair, and she keeps showing up at the hotel and asking me for updates and hanging around a lot longer than necessary. She doesn’t have a paying job, just volunteers at the Chamber of Commerce, and she obviously has way too much time on her hands.
The only information she’s dug up is that Chase has been going up north to pull some records on the old paper mill. The people who bought it from Jefferson sold it ten years ago, and now it’s shut down, so there’s nothing useful there.
Of course, every time she stops by, she has to mention how incredibly happy she and Percy are, usually wrapped in syrupy concern for my emotional state now that Chase and I aren’t speaking.
I’m going to miss a lot of things about Bitter End when I go back to New York. Frequent visits from my least relative will not be one of those things.
So far this morning, I’ve ignored six phone calls from Chase. I’m behind the desk in the hotel lobby when a man in a suit walks up holding a monogrammed envelope.
I open it, and it says:
“Chase Lancaster requests the pleasure of your company in the garden area at 29 Peach Blossom Lane Wednesday morning at 9 a.m. Light refreshments will be served. Dress style: Bitter End casual.”
That’s Aunt Tabitha’s address. What is he even doing there? And he actually hired someone to come all the way to Bitter End, deliver a personal message, and a cute, charming message at that.
Asshole.
On the one hand, Aunt Tabitha’s house is dangerously close to the carriage house, where my willpower has historically been known to desert me. On the other hand, my curiosity’s killing me. The curiosity hand winds. It’s 8:45 a.m. If I leave the hotel right now, I’ll be there on time. I find Junebug in the office, ask her to take over for me, and head over to Aunt Tabitha’s house.
When I get there, I swear I see Lance disappear around the corner. It looks like him, anyway, but I only see the back of him. Chase’s rental car is parked out front.
And as I walk toward the house, I barely recognize the place.
The front door has a fresh coat of paint. The stone urns on either side of the door, empty before, now have flower arrangements. I walk through the house and the musty smell is gone. Everything’s been dusted, the wood floors are gleaming, and someone’s plugged in air fresheners.
It’s the garden that’s truly breathtaking, though. The jungle in the back yard has been whipped into shape, and someone did a masterful job. Weeds have been pulled, fresh flowers have been planted in the beds, vines have been hacked away. The stone bird bath fountain is working again, water tinkling from the vase of a cement nymph into the bowl below. A half-dozen bird feeders filled with seed hang from the trees.
It looks exactly like I remember from my childhood. I half expect to see Aunt Tabitha emerge from behind a hedge with her canvas bag of garden tools.
What I see instead is Chase, standing by a hedge with a pair of clippers. He’s wearing a t-shirt and chino shorts, and his hair is plastered to his head with sweat. He’s never looked sexier.
He sets down his clippers in a canvas bag of garden tools when he sees me.
Tears fill my eyes and spill onto my cheeks.
“Are those good tears or bad tears?” he asks, walking toward me with a quizzical expression.
“Good tears.” I sniff hard. “This is amazing.”
“I had help. Lance and Sheriff Buckley. I’ve never actually gardened before, so I didn’t have a clue what I was doing. I’ve got new respect for landscapers now.” He wipes his sweaty brow with the back of his hand. God, does he look sexy doing that. His t-shirt lifts a little and shows a flash of a perfectly flat stomach and a dark treasure trail. It’s just not even fair.
