Chapter Three #2
“She knows you, Lo,” August says, his knee bumping mine—accidentally?—under the table. “Remember, she knew your mom. Sorry, your ‘mama.’”
“That’s not what I’m talking about, and she knows it,” Lo replies, pointing a finger at me. Her nails are short, clean of polish. “I’m asking her if she knows why I left. Landon and all that.”
Again, I see that box hidden at the back of Mom’s closet, picture after picture of a handsome man with thick dark hair and an honest-to-God dimple in his chin.
“I do,” I tell her. “Or I guess, the tabloid version of it?” I pause, because it all seems so improbable and silly now.
“You were accused of killing the governor’s son? ”
“Mm-hmm.” Lo nods, smiling like I’ve aced my first test. “Apparently, he was going to dump me, and I decided the appropriate reaction was smashing his head in and hoping everyone blamed it on the storm? Honestly, it sounds like something I might’ve done if Landon had been about to dump me—which, trust me, baby, he was not. ”
She says it so lightly, with a little gleam in her eye, like she’s trying to shock me with her nonchalance.
Again, I’m struck by the idea that we’ve time-traveled somehow, that the Lo Bailey in front of me isn’t from 2025 at all, but frozen in amber from 1984.
Still young, still beautiful, still full of more sass than her mama knew what to do with.
The band has shifted into a new song, something fast, and I can feel the bass line in my chest, in the soles of my feet. I have to raise my voice louder than I’d like as I say, “August said his body was found at the Rosalie. But the papers never mentioned that, and my mom never—”
“Let’s maybe save any talk about all that for when we’re back at the inn,” August cuts in, glancing around us. He’s smiling, but his lips are tight, his shoulders tense, and Lo waves a careless hand, the bangle on her wrist sliding down her forearm.
“Auggie has so many weird rules about this book, Geneva. Doesn’t like to talk about its specifics in public, wants as few people as possible to know that we’re even writing the damn thing, so that when he talks to them, he’ll get their … what was it? Oh, right. ‘Their authentic selves.’”
Lo makes air quotes around that, and August’s smile tightens. “Just trying to keep things unbiased.”
She gives another one of those big laughs, and I see several heads turn in her direction. I wonder if anyone recognizes the former mistress to Alabama’s Golden Son. Then again, even if she weren’t an infamous figure in these parts, it’s hard not to look at her.
“Baby, this is the South. No one is unbiased about anything. They make up their minds lickety-split, and the better the story seems, the more inclined they are to believe it. Tell him, Geneva. Tell him what it’s like around here.”
“Well,” I start slowly, “I guess I’m actually a good example of that myself.”
The beer is sweaty in my hands, and I absently pick at the label with my thumbnail. “I mean, I grew up here, obviously, graduated high school in 2003, then immediately struck out for college in Savannah with these big dreams of being an interior decorator.”
“I can see that,” Lo says, tilting her head. “Everything in the inn is so pretty. So fresh, and … unique. In a good way.”
The compliment warms me, and I nod in acknowledgment. “I mean, I’d like to do a lot more, but the environment is already so hard on everything. Any beachside place, you end up replacing stuff every five to seven years, so I can’t really justify—”
Stopping myself, I shake my head and laugh. “Sorry. Not the point of the story. I just can’t turn Innkeeper Brain off lately.”
“Sounds like you might need another drink,” August replies, signaling a passing waitress, and once August and I have our beers and Lo has her Bushwacker, I continue.
“Anyway, after school, I stayed in Savannah, got a job with a local firm. I came back to St. Medard’s Bay to visit my parents but had zero plans of ever moving back here.”
I’ve had just enough to drink that I almost tell them how lonely I always felt growing up at the inn, how weird it was to feel like everything that was nice in your house wasn’t even for you, but for strangers.
How I wished I had siblings because at least then there would’ve been other people to share that weirdness with.
Mom and Dad didn’t seem to feel the same way I did.
Instead, I just say, “Then a bunch of things happened.” I count them off on my fingers. “One, I met a guy. Chris. He was…”
Trailing off, I try to remember the good things about Chris, but every memory still stings, so I push them away and shrug. “He was a guy. Doesn’t matter.”
“Oooh, He Was a Guy, Doesn’t Matter might make a good title if you ever write your memoir, Auggie,” Lo interjects, and August shoots her a look.
“Noted.”
Then August nudges me with his beer, folding his arms on the table and leaning in closer because the band has just launched into “Have You Ever Seen the Rain?”
“Okay, so you were never coming back to St. Medard’s Bay, and Chris was Just a Guy. Then what?”
“Then,” I say with a sigh, “well, then my dad died. Aneurysm in his sleep. And a couple of years after that…”
A couple of years after that, my mom was diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer’s. She’d called me, her voice oddly calm as she’d told me the news. She’d been researching the disease, she had a specialist in Mobile, and she was already working on granting me power of attorney over everything.
And, of course, I’ll need to put the inn up for sale.
It was the one time in that conversation that her voice had broken, and that in turn had broken me.
I’d cried in Chris’s arms that night, in the apartment we were sharing in Atlanta at the time. That’s when he’d said that we should take on the inn ourselves.
Keep it in the family, he’d said.
Magic words.
My dad was gone, my mom was going, and I didn’t have siblings. My dad’s sister moved to England back in the ’80s, my mom’s brother, Adam, died in a car accident the year I graduated high school, my grandparents were long gone, and here Chris was, offering to be my family.
Or at least, that’s what I thought he was offering.
After all, we’d been dating ten years at that point.
A whole decade. My friends, both in Atlanta and in Savannah, had thought it was insane that we weren’t talking marriage, but I always said that we just weren’t ready yet, never admitting that there was no we in that.
Chris wasn’t ready, but I’d convinced myself he would be. One day.
I don’t tell Lo and August any of that, though. I don’t need anyone feeling sorry for me.
Instead, I say, “My mom decided she wasn’t really up to running the inn anymore, so me and Chris came down here to take it on.
It was Chris’s idea, actually. He worked at this digital marketing firm, absolutely hated it.
I think he thought living in St. Medard’s Bay would be an escape from the rat race or something, this quaint small-town life as the local innkeeper.
Instead, it’s people calling at 2 AM because the Wi-Fi is down, or a toilet is clogged, and oh yeah, we need to replace every lamp in the place, and do you know how much lamps cost these days? ”
I laugh, but it sounds more bitter than I intended.
“So he lasted just over a year here before he fucked off. Dumped me and the inn in one fell swoop.”
August sucks in a breath, leaning back. “Ouch.”
“Asshole,” Lo offers, suddenly fierce, and it feels good, telling this story and not seeing pity in their eyes, just empathy and righteous anger.
My second beer is now empty, and I’m a little buzzed.
I hardly ever have time for a drink, much less two, and the only thing I managed to eat today was a banana and some peanut butter crackers.
But it feels nice, the warm, loopy sensation spreading through me, and the heat and the crowd and the noise don’t seem so bad now.
“Allllllllll of that to say that at the end of the day, mine is the most basic, boring, and sadly fucking typical story in the world. Aging parents, a boyfriend who couldn’t commit, the hell that is being a small-business owner. Nothing juicy, nothing even interesting. But!”
I sit up straighter, pointing one finger in the air, and okay, I might be a little past buzzed, but Lo is watching me with avid eyes, and I’m very aware of August’s hot, dark gaze on the side of my face, and for the first time in years, I feel … lighter.
“To this day, there are still about twelve people in this town who would swear up and down that Chris bolted because he caught me in bed with Edie.”
“The aging punk behind the desk?” August asks, his mouth curving into a grin.
“Mm-hmm,” I hum, nodding. “No idea how that rumor got started, but Edie thinks it might have been one of the girls who cleans the rooms. Not long before Chris left, he and I got into an argument over replacing one of the beds on the second floor. I was in favor, so was Edie, Chris was not, and best I can figure, they heard Chris raising his voice about a bed and Edie and just went with the most salacious version they could dream up.”
Lo gives another one of those pealing laughs, her hand slapping the tabletop.
“See?” she all but crows to August. “I’m telling you, everybody you’re gonna talk to is gonna tell you I murdered Landon Fitzroy and took advantage of the hurricane to cover it up.
Some of the details might be different—some might say I killed him because he wouldn’t leave his wife for me, or they might say that no, it’s because I found out about some other girlfriend, or even that he wouldn’t buy me some piece of jewelry I wanted.
But whatever story they come up with is gonna tell you a lot more about them than it will about what really happened that night. ”
August doesn’t answer her but instead pulls his phone out of his pocket and starts tapping away.
Lo rolls her eyes. “He does this all the time,” she tells me. “Writes down some silly bullshit I say, acts like it’s profound.”
It kind of was, though—the fact that the gossip people are willing to believe is more about them than anything else.
The thing is, I get why people wanted to think Lo had killed Landon Fitzroy because otherwise, he was just a tragic victim of a natural disaster, and that wasn’t supposed to happen to men like him.
A potential future president wasn’t supposed to be dead due to high winds and seas while this beautiful but far too brash girl from some Podunk town somehow managed to survive.
A lurid story of murder was so much more fun, so much more satisfying.
But as I watch Lo Bailey sway to the music across from me, even as I see her smile brightly, I find myself surprised to realize I could believe in that story, too.
It’s something about the way she’d looked at me when I talked about Chris, the quickness and the intensity with which she’d declared him an asshole. She might be sunshine at first glance, but she’s tougher than she lets on, Lo Bailey.
She’s already slipped back into happy-go-lucky mode, singing along with the band as they play “Fins,” her long-fingered hands drumming along with the beat, her blond hair a reddish pink in the lights.
I’m surprised to realize that I’m having fun—a thing as foreign to me lately as hope had been—and I’m considering getting another beer when a man approaches our table.
He’s in his seventies, I’d guess, thick white hair swept back from his face, a bright orange Hawaiian shirt straining slightly over his beer belly.
A chunky gold Rolex circles his wrist, and a diamond pinky ring winks in the dim light as he bestows a brilliant smile on our table, his catcher’s mitt hands spread wide.
“Hey, folks!” he says, all Good Ol’ Boy Charm, and I catch myself waving in response. He looks familiar, but he’s also definitely a type we see a lot of down here, so I can’t say if I know him or not.
August clearly doesn’t, but Lo is squinting at the man like she might be trying to place him.
“Hey!” she answers back. “Do I know you?”
“Oh, probably not,” the man says, still grinning as he puts his hands in his pockets. “Don’t think you and me would’ve ever run in the same circles. But I know who you are. Took me a few minutes, but I figured it out.”
He shakes his finger at her like she’s a naughty child, and something about that makes the beer in my stomach go sour. That fun, tipsy feeling is rapidly fading, and the room is once again too hot, too crowded, this man’s presence at our table making me feel trapped.
“You still look mighty good, Miss Bailey, but even The Line has to have … well.” He chuckles.
“Well, it has to have a line, doesn’t it?
” His smile falls abruptly. “And since I own a ten percent stake in this bar, I’m gonna say the line is trampy little trash like you ordering herself a Bushwacker and having a fine ol’ Thursday night in my goddamn bar. ”
“Ten percent your goddamn bar,” August says, his voice mild but his eyes hard. I watch as the hand he has lying on the table opens and closes, opens and closes.
Lo isn’t smiling anymore, and she looks pale all of a sudden, but she holds the man’s eyes as she picks up her Bushwacker and slowly, thoroughly drains the glass.
My stomach once again threatens to rebel—Bushwackers are basically just alcoholic milkshakes, and I’m pretty sure chugging one would kill me—but Lo just sits the glass down on the table with a delicate tink.
“Let me guess,” she says, raising her voice over the music. “You’re one of his fishing buddies. Or maybe you tried a case in front of his daddy back when he was a judge. Or are you a fraternity brother?”
Lo looks him up and down, then shakes her head. “No, Landon always said you could tell a Sigma Chi man with one glance, and I don’t think you measure up.”
No hint of a smile now, all that false charm slipping off him like oil. “Alison Fitzroy is my cousin, slut,” he says, the word somehow sounding worse in that honeyed old-money voice.
August is suddenly on his feet, and I am fully sober now, blinking as I stand up, more than a little unsteady.
But Lo only smiles up at the man and reaches over to lay a hand on August’s arm.
“Don’t worry about it, Auggie,” she says, then turns those big green eyes on him, winking dramatically. “It’ll be a great scene for the book.”
With that, she gracefully scoops up her purse from the bench beside her and, head held high, walks out of the bar.