Epilogue
One Year Later
“Almost ready?” Traci glanced over at her unlikely business partner, who’d dashed into the Saint lobby with only minutes to spare.
The sun was low on the horizon and the drinks had been flowing since the hotel doors were thrown open an hour earlier.
Livvy took a deep breath and nervously adjusted the wide silk sash of her deep-rose-pink ankle-length gown. A wildly expensive selection from the hotel’s new designer boutique, the silk dress and even the sandals, metallic bronze with a wedge heel, had been a “coming out gift,” from Traci, who’d insisted that Olivia had to look the part if she was going to play the part.
“I don’t know if I can do this,” Livvy whispered. At least a couple hundred people, members and hotel guests, were gathered on the Riverside patio outside, waiting expectantly.
“Nobody knows if they can do something until they do it,” Traci said, her face glowing with a newfound serenity. Her hands rested protectively on her abdomen, at the barely discernible bump beneath her own flowing pink caftan.
“Ain’t that the truth,” Whelan quipped as he reached out for her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze.
“No, seriously, I feel like I might barf,” Livvy said. “There were six television vans with their crews set up outside the front gates when I drove down from Savannah just now, including one from CNN. There was a story in this week’s People magazine.” Livvy shuddered as she repeated the headline. “‘Sins of the Fathers: Money, Murder and Mayhem Among the Magnolias.’ A producer from Dateline has been texting and calling me. They want to interview me for the story they’re doing on Madelyn. They’ve already done a jailhouse interview with that scumbag Garrett.”
“What does Andy say? About the Dateline story?”
“Mr. Plankenhorn thinks I should wait, at least until the trial is over. And I agree. This whole thing is majorly cringe.”
Livvy wasn’t exaggerating. Madelyn Eddings’s arrest for the murder of Parrish, combined with the attempted murder of Livvy and Felice, had touched off a national media melee. The press couldn’t get enough of the salacious details—how Ric Eddings’s wife seduced a waiter fifteen years her junior to enlist him in a plan to eliminate a newly found rival for the Eddings family fortune, and how the plan had backfired when a stoned musician named Cedric had bungled the delivery of the fentanyl-spiked joint, serving it instead to Madelyn’s stepdaughter Parrish with lethal consequences.
The tangled web of extortion, blackmail, arson, and theft that Madelyn and her partners in crime spun was still generating ripples of scandal, even a year later. KJ Parkhurst had cut a deal to testify against his co-defendants, and was serving a five-year prison term, but Charlie Burroughs hadn’t survived the injuries he’d sustained while fleeing from the state patrol.
“I feel like everyone is looking at me. Just waiting for Fred Eddings’s bastard kid to screw up,” Livvy said.
Traci tucked her arm through Livvy’s. “Get used to it, kiddo. They used to look at me the same way, after I married Hoke. Everyone, including his family, wondered how an Ain’t like me managed to snag a prize like Hoke. After he died, when I had to step in to run the hotel on my own, people, especially Fred and Ric, were always watching, waiting for me to screw up. Spoiler alert, Liv. You’re gonna screw up. Hopefully your screwups won’t be as massive as mine were, but it’s gonna happen. The difference is, I’ll be here to help you when it does.”
“I’ll be here too,” Whelan reminded her. It had taken both women months to convince him, but Whelan had finally, reluctantly agreed to take on the role of the Saint’s general manager.
“I don’t know a damn thing about running a hotel,” he’d protested when Livvy broached the subject.
“Neither do I. But you know how to run a business, and Traci knows hotels, and I’m learning. So we’ll learn together.”
“At the very least you won’t try to steal us blind, right?” Livvy joked.
A server in a white jacket paused in front of them with a silver tray laden with flutes of prosecco. Livvy took a glass and sipped while the waiter looked expectantly at Whelan. “Sir? Bourbon rocks?”
“And a club soda for Mrs. Whelan, when you get a minute.”
“Is your mom coming tonight?” Traci asked Livvy. “I left a pass at the gate for her.”
“We called when the plane landed in Savannah, and she said she wasn’t sure. You know how she is about this place. Still thinks there’s a bogeyman hiding behind every oak tree.”
The waiter was back with their drinks. Whelan handed the club soda to Traci and took a sip of his bourbon. “We?” he said, quirking an eyebrow. “Who’s ‘we’?”
“Whelan!” Livvy and Traci groaned in unison.
“She’s told you all about Nick,” Traci said. “Multiple times.”
“You actually met him when we were here over Christmas,” Livvy added. “You took him out fishing on the Little Miss Magic.”
“Oh yeah. Now I remember. He’s the character who can’t tell a flounder from a redfish.”
“Stop,” Traci said, elbowing him. “You told me you liked Nick a lot.”
“I believe what I said was that he’s okay. For a Yankee.”
“He is not a Yankee. He’s from Baltimore,” Livvy said.
“An Orioles fan? Surely you can do better than that,” Whelan said.
“Could you just be nice to him? Please? I really like him, and I think he likes me. His family is great. I invited them down for Beach Bash next weekend, but they already had plans. They want me to come stay at their cabin in Maine later this summer.”
“Sounds like it’s getting kind of serious,” Traci said. “What’s Shannon say about that?”
“Weirdly, I think she’s okay with it. Anyway, she’s much too busy having her own little fling to worry about my love life. I call him Dr. BoyToy just to mess with her,” Livvy confessed. “But I think it’s awesome that she’s finally allowing herself to cut loose and have some fun. I was kind of worried she’d be all weird and lonely with me away at school at Georgetown.”
“Shannon is doing just fine. We saw her out with the doctor last month, at the Community Chest fundraiser. She looked fabulous…”
“Heyyyyy, y’all.” Felice approached with an enormous silver platter of appetizers. She slung an arm around Livvy’s shoulder. “When did you get in? I didn’t see your car over at Gardenia.”
“Felice!” Livvy hugged her former roommate, who was dressed in head-to-toe pink, from her pink-and-white houndstooth-check pants to her monogrammed chef’s coat to the towering pink toque. Livvy looked her up and down. “Gurl! Where’s the rest of you?”
“I’m thirty pounds lighter,” Felice said, beaming. “I took up running.”
“And Pilates,” Traci added. “She’s a beast.”
Livvy helped herself to a tiny canapé. “Ohmygawd! It’s divine. What is this?”
“Shrimp Louis bites in puff pastry. I just added them to the summer menu. You like?”
“Looovve,” Livvy said. “How’s the new apartment?”
“Haven’t moved in yet,” Felice said. “The kitchen countertops are back-ordered.”
“She’s still camping out in Whelan’s old place in the village,” Traci said. “But Javi swears the first six staff housing units will be done by Memorial Day.”
“Sweetheart?” Whelan said, nudging her. “Hate to interrupt, but I think it’s almost go time.” He pointed out at the lowering sky, which had turned a deep purple, shot through with streaks of gold and orange.
“I better get back to my kitchen,” Felice said. “Training a new sous-chef.”
“You’re coming by the cottage later, right?” Livvy asked.
Felice ducked her head. “I would, but I’ve kinda got a date.”
“Bring him over tonight,” Livvy begged. “Nick and I want to meet him.”
“You already did. Remember Dave? The EMT from that night at the dorm?”
“Fortunately, I still have large memory gaps from that night,” Livvy said ruefully. “But a hot EMT is always a good idea, right?”
“He’s not usually a late-night guy, but maybe he’ll make an exception for you. And me.”
“Would you look at that sunset?” Traci asked. She took Livvy’s hand in hers as Leo opened the double doors to the patio. The two of them strolled out onto the flagstones, while Whelan lingered a few steps behind, content to sip his bourbon and watch the two women step into the spotlight.
“Don’t be nervous,” Traci murmured, smiling and nodding her head at familiar faces in the crowd. But she was surprised to feel the butterflies in her own stomach: the uncertainty, the self-doubt, the vulnerability, the fear. But then she remembered a piece of advice Hoke had given her so many years ago. “If what you’re doing doesn’t terrify you, you’re not doing it right.”
The Saint’s members, the old-guard regulars, and some of the repeat hotel guests greeted the resort’s new co-owner with enthusiastic applause, and some whistles from a sandy-haired young man near the bar whom Traci assumed was Livvy’s beau Nick.
A trumpeter stepped down to the water’s edge, and as the sun melted into the river’s mirror-like gray-green surface he played the opening notes of “Retreat,” startling a lone egret who squawked indignantly before taking flight, silhouetted against the final blaze of sunlight.
Livvy raised her glass and turned to face the assembled members. “Here’s to another beautiful summer at the Saint,” she called, in a clear, loud voice. Glasses were clinked and prosecco was drunk. A jazz quartet, Livvy’s idea, struck up “Summertime,” and servers circulated with trays of appetizers.
Livvy was quickly surrounded by well-wishers, congratulating her on her new role at the hotel. She circulated among her guests, laughing and chatting like the seasoned hospitality professional she was—baptized, as Traci reflected, by fire.
After an hour or so, Traci leaned her head on her husband’s shoulder. “Take me home?”
“Always,” Whelan said, the smile lines at the corners of his eyes crinkling as he kissed the top of her head.
He helped her into the front seat of the golf cart and they set off on their now routine circuit of the property, down the winding cart paths cut through deep green swaths of grass. Twilight had descended, and with it, the thrum of cicadas, which Traci thought of as summer’s perpetual soundtrack.
The path wound past Gardenia Cottage, which had been deeded over to Livvy following the bruising court fight with Ric Eddings, who’d filed for divorce from Madelyn within hours of her arrest for the murder of her stepdaughter.
Fred Eddings’s wheelchair ramp had been removed. Livvy had slowly begun decorating the place to her own taste, and Traci had spent hours over the previous weeks making sure the cottage would be ready when its new owner returned home for summer break.
“Let’s go past the villas,” she said, trying to suppress a yawn. “I want to see how much progress the guys made today.”
“You’re driving poor Javi crazy, you know,” Whelan said, veering off the path and onto the road that would take them to the site of the former dorm.
“I just need them to feel more of a sense of urgency to finish the units,” Traci said as they approached the site.
Whelan braked the cart to a stop. “Look!” he whispered, pointing to the right side of the road. A doe nibbled at something in the grass, while two wobbly legged fawns stayed close by.
“Ohhh,” Traci breathed. “So beautiful.” Just then, the doe looked up, twitched her tail, and bounded away into the woods, followed by her babies.
He started the cart again and soon they’d arrived at the cluster of cottages Traci had christened the Little Saint. Built in the same Spanish revival style as the hotel, with exteriors of pale pink stucco, the villas were arranged in a horseshoe shape around a central green-space courtyard that would provide a place for residents to gather for barbecuing, games, socializing, and relaxing.
“It’s going to be nice, right?” Traci asked, snuggling up next to her husband on the bench seat.
“Very nice,” Whelan agreed. “Let’s go home now, okay, boss-lady?”
Traci sighed contentedly. “Home sounds perfect. I was thinking you could start assembling the baby’s crib tonight.”
He pulled her closer. “Maybe later.” He whispered his plans for the evening in her ear and she blushed.
“Home it is.”