Chapter 8
chapter eight
Wendy
My morning routine is changing, and I’m pretending it’s not. Each day now includes Carter.
I knock at seven on the dot and let myself in with his tray. He’s on the balcony with his feet propped up.
Without turning around, he offers me a, “Good morning,” and I say it back while I strip the bed.
It’s been a week of this, and I’m somewhat starting to look forward to it.
“The headboard,” he eventually says through the open doors, the same way he’s been asking about different pieces of furniture all week. “What kind of wood is that?”
“Cypress. My grandfather pulled it from the ocean after a hurricane when my mom was little.” I tuck the fitted sheet and move to the other side.
“He built most of the furniture in the rooms himself. The dresser in here, the nightstands in the Pelican, the bookshelves in the Driftwood. He couldn’t sit still either. ”
Carter turns in his chair. “Did he build this place?”
“Nope. He and Gran spent years renovating before they opened it back up to the public in 1975. There are photos downstairs in one of the albums. It was a wreck when they got it.” I place the flat sheet across the mattress and smooth it down.
“The house was built in 1952 and was an elite bed-and-breakfast before the Grand Palm existed. When Gran was a little girl, she’d always dreamed of owning it.
The moment it went for sale, my grandfather purchased it for her.
It was in bad shape, but he could see the beauty that she saw and supported her.
I’m convinced love like that doesn’t exist anymore. ”
“No?”
“Nah. My grandfather would’ve given her the world if she’d asked for it. Most men are too selfish.”
He doesn’t argue, just watches me while I finish making the bed. The silence isn’t awkward, and I appreciate that he doesn’t give me a response to every little thing I say. It gives me time to think about words, to process my feelings.
I move into his bathroom and pick up the two dirty towels.
“Your bed is done, the comforter is fresh, and I replaced your towels. Anything else?”
“I’m great. Thank you.” He opens his mouth like he’s going to say something, then decides against it.
I leave before the conversation can go anywhere else because mornings in the Captain’s Room are getting too comfortable.
“Have a great day,” I offer.
“You too.”
A stack of mail sits on the counter. Gran usually gets to it first, but she’s still in the bungalow this morning.
I flip through the envelopes while I finish my coffee.
There are a few coupons for the deli, a flyer for the Fourth of July festival, a notice from the electric company that says our bill is up-to-date, and a heavy cream envelope with an embossed return address in the corner.
The logo is a gold palm tree inside a circle with the name underneath in thin capital letters.
COASTAL HERITAGE HOLDINGS, LLC.
Miami, Florida
I tear it open.
Dear Mrs. Winslow,
Coastal Heritage Holdings is pleased to present an exclusive acquisition offer for the property located on Seaside Drive, Coconut Beach, FL.
After a comprehensive market evaluation, we believe your property represents a unique opportunity for development, and we are prepared to offer a competitive purchase price of $1.
2 million for the land and existing structures.
We understand that selling a family property is a major decision. Our team specializes in working with legacy property owners to ensure a smooth and respectful transition. We would welcome the opportunity to discuss this offer at your earliest convenience.
Please contact our acquisitions team at the number below.
Warm regards,
Darren Calder
Director of Acquisitions, Coastal Heritage Holdings, LLC
I read it twice.
One-point-two million for ten acres of beachfront property on Coconut Beach Island is a joke.
That doesn’t even account for the value of the three-story building with eight rooms, a storage shed, and bungalow.
The offer is a slap in the face, one that is less than what the lot alone would appraise for in the current market.
The letter is designed to seem generous to someone who’s desperate, and the fact that they sent it means they’ve done their homework.
The tax records would show we’re behind.
Anyone in the industry would know that we’re bleeding out right now.
Legacy property owners. The phrase makes me want to act irrational. That’s corporate speak for old people they think they can push around.
The worst part is, I can’t let Gran see this letter.
She doesn’t understand real estate valuations.
She’d see 1.2 million dollars and think we won the lottery.
She’d call Birdie and Lucille, and they’d pop champagne and tell her she’s set for the rest of her life.
By the time I explained that the number was a fraction of what this property was actually worth, she’d have already called the number at the bottom of the page.
This makes me sick.
Gran loves this place, but she’s seventy-two, and the bills scare her even if she pretends they don’t.
A check with that many zeros would feel like relief, and I can’t blame anyone for that.
But this building is our family’s legacy, the last place we were all a family together, and once it’s gone, it’s gone.
They’ll bulldoze it in a blink and build something to compete with the Grand Palm, but smaller and more exclusive.
I grab the letter and am tempted to rip it into a million shreds. This place isn’t for sale. Not for 1.2 million, not for a billion.
The stairs creak, and Carter walks down in neon-green running shorts and a T-shirt with the sleeves cut off. He slows at the counter and reads me like a book. “Everything okay?”
“Perfect.” I fold the letter in half, then shove it in a drawer. “Going for another run?”
“Yeah. It’s too nice of a day to waste. Have a lot on my mind.” He gives me a look, like he can tell I’m lying, but doesn’t push it.
I keep my expression neutral until the door closes behind him.
The second he’s gone, I pull the letter out and read it a third time.
They included a direct phone number and an email, which means they’ll probably start calling.
Eventually, a person in a nice suit shows up at your door with a revised offer and a smile that says, We can do this the easy way or the hard way.
For a second, I wonder if Carter is that person, sent here to spy on me.
He does give off those corporate vibes. However, he said he was from New York, not Miami.
I rip the letter into shreds and throw it in the trash. Going forward, I need to go through the mail before Gran does. No matter what.
I pass Carter throughout the day, but we barely speak to one another. He’s respecting my job, which I appreciate more than he realizes.
Once I’m off the clock, I stare at the seashell wallpaper in the second-floor hallway that’s mocked me since I returned.
It’s peeling at every corner, yellowed from decades of humidity.
It’s dated, and I’ve been meaning to strip it for two weeks, but there’s always something else that takes precedence.
Tonight, my brain won’t quiet down, so I eat a microwave meal, then grab the steamer from the supply closet. I haul it upstairs with a scraper and a trash bag.
The hallway has four doors on one side and three on the other. At the end, there is a shared balcony with loungers.
I plug the steamer into the wall and wait for it to heat while I test a corner with the scraper.
The wallpaper is stubborn and comes off in small strips that curl and tear.
Glue residue stays on the plaster, which is more than what I bargained for.
I push the steamer against the wall until the adhesive softens, then scrape downward in long strokes.
The paste coats my forearms and gets under my nails.
I’m two panels in and sweating when footsteps come down from the third floor. Carter rounds the landing in a T-shirt and shorts, barefoot, and stops when he sees me surrounded by strips of wallpaper and a trash bag half full of scraps.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
“What does it look like?”
“Like you’re renovating at ten o’clock at night.”
“Bravo.” I push the steamer against the next section.
He stands there for a second, then grabs the second scraper that’s off to the side. It’s not as wide, so it takes twice as long.
“I’ve got this,” I say without looking at him.
He doesn’t answer. He picks a panel on the opposite wall and gets to work. The first strip tears like confetti because he’s pulling instead of pushing with the tool.
“Hold the steamer flat for thirty seconds, then push the scraper at an angle. Not straight on.” I demonstrate on my side, and a long strip peels away clean. “Like this.”
He adjusts and tries again. The next strip comes off in one piece, and he holds it up like he just caught a large bass.
“Don’t look at me for approval. Put it in the bag and do it again.”
Carter laughs. “You’re so bossy.”
“You don’t mind it,” I say.
“I don’t.”
We work together as the steamer hisses between us.
“Thanks for helping. I told myself I wasn’t going to sleep until this was done. I might get more than four hours tonight.”
He grins over his shoulder. “You’re welcome.”
We fall back into a rhythm. He figures out the angle and pressure on his own. His side is rougher than mine, but the wallpaper is coming off, and that’s all that matters. I can clean it up before painting.
“Can I ask you something?” I pull a long strip from the wall.
“Sure.”
“Do you work for Coastal Heritage Holdings?” I keep my eyes on the plaster.
“No.”
“That’s the answer someone who’s spying for them would say.”
He laughs. “I promise.”
“Okay? Are you here to buy the B&B from Gale?”
Carter tilts his head at me. “Why would you think that?”
“Well, you randomly showed up in Coconut Beach, and you’re staying two months, which is a very long time.
You never talk about your job even though you’re a self-diagnosed workaholic.
And a week later, I conveniently receive a letter from a development company to purchase this place. It seems like a lot of coincidences.”
“Granted, it does. But I’ll give you my word that I do not work for that company.” He turns to face me, and his voice is steady. “I’m genuinely on vacation. That’s not a lie.”
I search his face for the tells I’ve trained myself to read. Years of managing high-end guests will do that.
“I believe you,” I admit.
“You should.” He goes back to working on his wall. “What did they send you?”
“A shitty offer to purchase the land at a quarter of the value.”
“That’s predatory.” He drops a long strip of wallpaper in the bag.
“These companies try to take advantage of the elderly. It enrages me,” I admit. “It should be illegal.”
“I agree,” he says.
I exhale slowly, trying not to get worked up about this again. It took hours for me to calm down earlier. “I can’t let my grandmother know. She’d take the money, and I’d lose this place.”
“You would?”
“Yes. This is my inheritance. It was my dream to one day own and run the B&B with Josie.” I grow sad, thinking about that. “If Gran sells it, the new owners will knock this building down before the ink dries and replace it with businesses.”
“I’m not convinced she would sell it for less than it’s worth,” he says. “She’s too stubborn and in tune. Trust me, your grandma is a haggler.”
This makes me grin.
I pull the last strip from my area, and underneath it is bare. He does the same. We laugh, and I hold up my hand for a high five. The plaster is a patchwork of old adhesive and rough patches, which looks worse than the wallpaper did, but the walls are solid.
The trash bag is overflowing. I have paste up to my elbows with a smear on my forehead from pushing my hair back. Carter has wallpaper stuck to his shorts that he hasn’t noticed.
I step back and look at the bare walls. They’re ugly but somehow better than what was there before.
“I’m painting tomorrow,” I tell him.
“What time?”
“You’re not invited.”
“Ten?” he asks, like I didn’t even speak.
A smile comes.
“I should clean up,” I say, dodging the question, knowing he’ll be here.
Neither of us moves. He straightens and looks at me like he knows my heart.
“For what it’s worth,” he says, “they picked the wrong person to push around.”
“You’re right about that. I will be their worst nightmare.”
“I don’t doubt that.”
His mouth curves, and I’m standing close enough to see the flecks of gray in his blue eyes. My pulse is racing, and I swear he can hear it. His fingers brush down my forearm and slide until they find my hand. I don’t pull away.
Then I close the gap. His mouth is warm and soft, and he tastes like toothpaste. My free hand rests on his chest, and his fingers tighten around my other one. The kiss lasts three seconds before we pull apart.
His eyes search my face, and I don’t give him time to say anything.
“Um …”
“Yeah,” he whispers.
I pull away and grab the trash bag to take downstairs, pretending like that didn’t happen.
“Good night, Carter,” I say, not waiting for him to respond.
As I move down the stairs to the lobby, I can’t ignore the taste of him on my lips. The kiss plays on repeat, and I let it, even though that can never happen again.