Читать книгу Sailing In Style - Dana Mentink - Страница 15

CHAPTER SIX

CY WALKED INTO TOWN at such a rapid pace, he had to carry the short-legged Baggy along.

“Listen to me, Bags. This whole bird infatuation? It’s not going to work out. Examine the facts. She’s a bird. You’re a mammal. She won’t touch meatballs, and not to shock you, but birds lay eggs, buddy boy. Also, they don’t curl up on blankets. Were you aware that they molt? You’re from two different biological universes.”

Baggy licked Cy’s chin, and Cy imagined he saw an inner conviction dawning in those vague canine eyes. “So we’re straight on this? It hurts, I know, but some things can’t be overcome.”

Truth was, he was lying to Baggy. Deep down, he still wanted to believe the human spirit was strong enough to get through any difficulty. Not conquer it, necessarily. His father’s love of an incurable alcoholic was proof of that. You just loved on through the mess. He still believed it, fool that he was. Piper’s face swam up into his mind before he shoved it firmly back down.

Nester Lodge waved at him from the doorway of his Brew Unto Others coffee shop and bakery.

Cy stopped in and declined a cup of coffee, enjoying the aroma of Nester’s freshly baked blueberry scones. Several older women in matching yellow hats chatted noisily over their breakfasts. “Any news yet?”

“Nah,” Nester said. “Sharma’s two days overdue and she’s climbing the walls.” He lowered his voice. “She’s getting testy.”

Cy nodded sympathetically.

“The pregnancy books say aromatherapy is helpful, so we’ve found some lavender essential oils, and she carries a peppermint tea bag in her pocket to sniff. Peppermint is calming, you know.” Nester fingered his long beard, twirling it into an anxious point.

“Is that working?”

He shook his head. “Hasn’t kicked in yet. That’s why I come in early to the shop every day. Say, I hear you’ve got a renter.”

Cy goggled at the speed of the Tumbledown gossip mill. “Yeah? What do you know about him?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“What should I know about him?” Nester asked.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?” Nester raised an eyebrow.

“Right. I’ve got to go to Julio’s and the hardware store.”

“Cuz you’re gonna renovate the River King?”

Nester heard a lot for a guy who was hiding from his pregnant wife and running a hole-in-the-wall bakery. “Something like that. See you later, Nester.”

On his way out, he held the door for two more ladies sporting yellow straw hats. He figured it was some sort of convention.

His next stop was the bookstore, and Julio Mendez greeted him with his usual effusive welcome, extra chins wobbling.

“Hello, my friend. Welcome to the shop. It’s been a good long while since I’ve had the pleasure.”

Cy felt the minutes on his three-week deadline ticking by. “Julio, I’m in a rush and I need your help, seeing as you’re the president of the historical society.”

Julio straightened to his full five foot three and smoothed his bulging shirt front. “Copresident, to be precise. Mrs. Mendez is the president on paper.” He delivered the last bit in hushed tones. “How may I be of assistance?”

“I need to know everything there is to know about the River King.”

“The paddle wheel steamboat currently docked in our fair cove?”

“The same.”

Julio closed his eyes. “Maiden voyage in...?”

“1927.”

“Four decks, steel rudders, two boilers and a twenty-six-foot stern wheel?”

“Yes. Used for many different purposes over the years.”

“Indeed,” Julio said, speeding off down the aisle. Cy scrambled to catch up. “As soon as the River King came to dock in our waters three months ago, I began collecting volumes about the rich history of paddle wheel steamboats. Monarchs of the river, you see.”

“I figured you’d be up to speed.” Cy trotted along behind, accepting dusty books. Baggy followed his own trail through the labyrinth of shelves. Since the books were alphabetized by authors’ first names, Cy had no earthly idea where to help look on the shelves. Julio did not need help anyway, and Cy had a half dozen volumes in hand when the bell on the door chimed, then chimed a second and third time.

“Excuse me, won’t you?” Julio said. He returned to the cash register.

Cy figured he had enough to get started. Hefting the load to the front of the shop, he found a dozen or so yellow-hatted ladies milling around. One squatted down, her hand extended.

“I think it’s a dog,” she was saying.

Baggy was at his perky best, skinny tail whipping back and forth. He beamed his one steady eye at the crouching woman.

“Yep, he’s a dog,” Cy confirmed.

The lady gave Baggy a scratch behind the ears. “Knew it. Is he yours?”

“I think it’s more like I’m his. He was abandoned.”

Her brown eyes grew troubled, deep frown lines forming on her face. “Unforgivable. People can be animals.”

“Agreed. I’m Cy Franco, by the way.” He gave her a hand up, and they shook.

“Florence Jenkins, but everyone calls me Flo.” Her straw hat slipped, and she crammed it back over her waves of silver hair. “Nice to meet you and your unusual dog.”

Cy took in the ladies, who seemed to be mostly in the fifty-and-up crowd. “Are you all staying in Tumbledown?”

“As a matter of fact—” she started.

One of the taller women called out. “Girls, we’ve got to go. Bus for the pumpkin patch tour leaves in five minutes.”

Cy was impressed that Sid Crawford, who owned some hundred acres on the outskirts of Tumbledown, had managed to put together a tour that would interest the assembled ladies. Sid wasn’t exactly a people person, but perhaps his son had realized that harvesting tourist dollars took even less effort than growing pumpkins.

Flo waved goodbye, and the ladies departed in a yellow storm.

Julio wiped sweat from his brow. “Good to have tourists.”

And it was. Tumbledown was an easily overlooked spot south of Half Moon Bay. Even folks lured in by the newly docked River King probably headed straight for the bigger towns to spend their souvenir money. In a matter of months, the hordes would descend on the annual Half Moon Bay Pumpkin Festival, for which Sid would provide his best specimens. Tumbledown might see a few adventurous visitors, but not usually in such organized groups as the yellow-hatters seemed to be.

Julio drifted to the window. “What in tarnation will they do in Tumbledown to amuse themselves? We don’t even have a hotel here now that the Pelican’s not an inn anymore.”

Cy felt a pinch of discomfort. What could be entertaining enough for the ladies? His gaze drifted toward the ocean. Though he couldn’t see the pier where the River King was docked, he could imagine her there, reception room in disarray, flooded staterooms awaiting repair.

Surely Irene had not booked such a large group now, when he desperately needed every minute of uninterrupted time to meet his insane deadline? She would have said something while she was blackmailing him.

“Can you pack up these books for me, Julio, and take them over to the Pelican later today?”

“Of course. We pride ourselves on excellent customer service here. As a matter of fact—”

“Thanks, Julio,” he called, scooping up Baggy and rushing out the door.

* * *

PIPER MEANT TO lock herself in her minuscule stateroom, which doubled as a cleaning supply closet, but Irene Hershey intercepted her. She clutched two fistfuls of yellow helium balloons.

“These need to go in the reception room, pronto.”

Though she did odd jobs around the boat in exchange for her room, Piper had already put in her time helping Hollister clean the lobby. “I’m not on the clock yet.”

Irene’s eyes narrowed. “You are now. Kitty needs help in the kitchen, and Hollister is up to his ponytail in unfolded towels.”

Piper noted the web of wrinkles that Irene’s powder was not able to hide. Her mouth drooped with fatigue or possibly worry. Running a small business was a killer.

Irene thrust the balloons at Piper. “I can pay you minimum wage for the extra hours. Take it or leave it.”

Piper took it, and the balloons. Giving in stung her pride, but once again, she was not in a position to worry about that. She didn’t see the logic in decorating a room that Cy was about to tear apart, but she didn’t want to spend too much time thinking about him. Her primary concern had to be finding another place for her uncle to live. It was mortifying that Cy had allowed her uncle to stay, even though he clearly despised Boris. She would find something else. Any other residence besides Cy Franco’s beloved old inn. She’d have to earn enough extra money for a security deposit, at least.

In the reception room, someone had rolled out the long banquet table and several large rounds, which were now covered with straw-colored linens. They had definitely not been set up when she’d left the night before, after the Spooley overboard debacle.

Hope and disappointment lapped together in her stomach. If the room was being set up for a party, Cy clearly wasn’t remodeling it after all. Perhaps the plans had changed and he had declined the job. But who else could invent a room worthy of Dizz in three weeks? No one. Her chance at a big break would disappear.

And so would Cy.

She thrust the thoughts aside and tied one bunch of balloons around the nearest chair. Hollister entered, whistling, dropping precisely folded napkins on the banquet table.

“Has Irene expanded your job description, too, Hollister?”

He nodded. “I need more to do, anyway.”

“What’s going on?”

“Captain Hershey said she’d explain later.”

The door was flung open and Cy strode in, blue eyes wide. “What...?”

As he scanned the room, Piper was struck again that the man was quite simply luscious. Tall, blond curly hair, eyes of sapphire and a full mouth.

She realized he was staring at her, hands fisted on his hips. Cheeks burning, she held fast to the remaining balloons.

“Why are you putting up tables and balloons in here?” he demanded. “I’m going to start taking up flooring and installing crown molding. All this has got to go.”

“It’s not our idea,” Piper said. “We’re doing what we were told.”

Irene appeared, forehead shining with sweat.

“Hollister, can you help with check-in?” she panted. “There’s a line twenty ladies deep. I don’t know why people can’t come in small batches. Must they all arrive in droves?”

“Aye, aye, Captain Hershey.” Hollister snapped off a salute and trotted out.

“I wish I could convince that dolt not to call me captain. I can’t decide if he’s making fun of me or trying to be clever.”

Cy rounded on her. “What’s going on? I’m supposed to decorate in here. I see balloons and tables when I should be seeing drop cloths and putty knives.”

“The putty knives will have to wait until after an impromptu cookies-and-punch reception.” She clapped a hand to her forehead. “Oh, man. Kitty can’t get cookies made by two o’clock. I’d better ask that weird scone guy in town...”

“Nester?” Piper supplied.

“Yeah. I’ll ask him if he’s got scones left. Five dozen ought to do it. Maybe six.”

Piper blinked. “But I thought we only had a few guests.”

“It’s the yellow hat ladies.” Irene spoke with reverence.

“I saw them earlier,” Piper said. “Are they a club or something?”

“A local chapter of a national group that calls themselves the River Belles. Their mission is to travel on every paddle wheel riverboat in the US.”

“But this boat doesn’t go anywhere. It stays in the harbor,” Piper pointed out.

“I’m aware,” Irene sniped. “But that doesn’t seem to matter to the ladies.”

Cy shifted impatiently. “We’re getting off topic. Putty knives, remember? I’m redecorating and I’ve got a tight deadline.”

“The head Belle, Miss Maude something or other, booked the River King for a week in November, only she wrote it down as October, so I’ve got thirty-five women in matching hats marching up the gangplanks as we speak.”

“Can’t you tell them they made a mistake?” Cy asked.

“That would be inconvenient for them,” Irene said. “And we would lose the booking. Piper, I’m going to need to talk to you about some sort of nightly entertainment.”

“I can’t just come up with something at the drop of a hat.”

“You’d better,” Irene said.

Entertainment? What could Piper offer in the way of entertainment? What did tourists like to do? “I’m an actress, not an event planner.”

“You can add the job title to your resume. Now get cracking.”

Piper’s stomach began to sink, but suddenly a perfect idea electrified her. “How about some vaudeville theater classes? Each day we’ll practice a little variety skit, and we can perform it at the dinner hour. Oh! And the ladies can be the opening act for our dress rehearsal on Tuesday night. They’ll experience performing on a real historic stage.”

“Fine, fine. Just don’t spend any money.” Irene turned to Cy. “The scones-and-punch thing is only for today. We’ll have to provide them breakfast in here each morning, and dinner at six sharp. The rest of the time, they’ll be out and about. We’ll curtain off an area so they don’t see the mess you’re making. As soon as the breakfast dishes are cleared, you can hack away until it’s time to set for dinner, and then you disappear.”

He blinked. “Are you crazy? I can’t renovate in here in between breakfast and dinner. Painting, sanding, hammering...”

Irene’s face grew stony. “We’ll bring in fans to air out the paint smell. Feel free to work all night, if you must. You can bunk with Hollister.”

“You don’t understand,” Cy said. “I can’t do the job under these conditions.”

“No, you don’t understand,” she growled, cheeks flaming red. “We haven’t had a large group since I bought this tub. Now we’ve got a celebrity concierge waiting to see how this room turns out and a gaggle of ladies hungry for scones, and I’m not turning away a chance to get the River King on her feet. You make it work or you give me the sixteen thousand dollars right now and I hire someone else.”

He glowered. “Fine. I’ll write you a check.”

Piper’s stomach plummeted.

“You do that.” Irene’s tone became threatening. “And I will tell everyone I meet that Dollars and Sense Design walked out on the job.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I’ll post on Yelp.”

“You’re joking.”

“Not likely. I don’t have a sense of humor.”

Piper silently agreed. She held her breath.

“You’re asking me to do the impossible,” Cy said.

He spoke quietly, but something in his tone thrilled Piper. She saw a spark in his eyes, a determined uplift to his chin as he mulled it over. Doing the impossible. It appealed to him even though he could not currently see any light at the end.

What would it be like to believe everything would work out all right? That a person could prevail over any circumstance? The optimism tantalized her. It was silly, of course, a childish view that would only get him hurt.

Irene fixed Cy with a stare that could have blistered paint off the walls. “If it’s impossible, Mr. Franco, then you’d better get busy.”

After the door closed behind her, Cy stood still, staring at nothing.

Piper meant to tie the balloons and tiptoe away, ignoring the tug that seemed to suggest she should help. Help the guy who’d wanted to toss her uncle out? No way. She had things to do. Shows to organize.

Her sandal caught on a chair leg and she stumbled, letting go of the balloons. They drifted lazily up to the ceiling, well out of reach. She strained to catch them.

Cy didn’t hesitate. He put his hands around her waist and lifted.

She felt the press of his cheek into her back, the strong arms spanning her middle as he raised her up. Her heart began to jackhammer. His embrace rocketed her back in time, and she was lost in memories of laughter and love and joy, when she’d briefly believed in the impossible, too.

There was nothing to be done but snatch the ribbons as quickly as she could. She forced her shaking hands upward, gathering the fluttering strings in her cold fingers. He lowered her slowly to the ground.

She turned to face him, positive that her face was crimson.

He was close, so close. Something in his expression made her think the touch had upended emotions inside him, too.

He opened his mouth to speak, lips sweet and sensual.

“Here,” she said, thrusting the balloons at him and fleeing from the room.