“I’ll tell you one thing, Peter, if my grandmother catches Mr. DeMario in here with any woman who isn’t his wife; the man’s going to be in just as much trouble as if Eunice had caught him.”
“But your grandmother has no problem feeding a mobster,” he laughed.
“She has her limits, you know.” I smiled, turning back to see if the waiter assigned to Buddy’s table had seen him arrive, and he had. At that moment, he was filling Buddy’s water glass.
I understood Peter’s confusion over my grandmother’s contradictory ethics. Grandma knew that if they didn’t feed Buddy, another place would, and they’d make good money doing so. Besides, the man didn’t conduct his illegal business practices in her hotel.
Having said that, she couldn’t turn a blind eye when the man brought one of his “hussies” into her establishment, especially since she knew Eunice. When I questioned her about her convenient moral blindness, she replied that it was a “woman thing.” She explained that women needed to draw a line when it came to allowing men to walk all over them, as many were quick to do. As women, we had to watch each other’s backs. I remembered that credo when I heard Peter welcome Dr. Neil Aldrich and his wife, Laura, to the Hibiscus Room.
My heartbeat increased immediately, and I felt my face flush. Taking a deep breath to calm myself, I turned around and greeted the tall, auburn-haired doctor.
“Good mornin’, Dr. Aldrich,” I said, glancing up at him but not quite meeting his dark brown eyes. I quickly looked down to greet his tiny raven-haired wife. “Mornin’, Mrs. Aldrich.” The first time I saw the alabaster-skinned, dark-eyed beauty, I couldn’t help but think of the song, “My Irish Rose.”
“Morning, Lily,” Neil replied, and when I glanced back up at him, his eyes met mine.
“Lily?” Laura said, drawing my eyes back down to her. “Is there a table available out on the veranda? It’s such a lovely day, and I was hoping…”
“You can have your pick, Mrs. Aldrich. It’s early and there’s no one out there yet. Follow me, please.” Though I tried not to, I liked her. I didn’t know a soul in town who didn’t. Laura had come down from Ocala to join her husband two months after he arrived to help with the hundreds injured in the hurricane. She immediately rolled up her sleeves and got waist-deep in the misery without complaint. Though she was a music teacher by training, she unselfishly set aside her sheet music for bed sheets and bandages. There wasn’t a bad bone in her body. Unfortunately, I knew the same couldn’t be said about me.
Chapter 3
Balm to the Soul
“Are you here as a spy, Miss Strickland, or merely a guest?” inquired a voice from above my comfortable lounge chair.
My sister was sitting by me, but I guessed the question was posed to me. Pulling down the edge of my large-brimmed straw hat to shield my eyes from the sun, I caught sight of Anthony Perazzi. The slim man with the greased-back black hair wasn’t worth the risk of burning the corneas of my eyes, so I released the brim, closed my eyes and settled back comfortably in my lounge chair at Fisher’s Roman Pool and Casino.
“Now, Antony,” I emphasized dryly, leaving the h out of his name and pronouncing it in the affected way he preferred. “Do you think if I were spying I’d make it so obvious? Surely my hat isn’t enough to throw anyone off.”
“But the question is, why are you here?” he asked, narrowing his eyes and folding his arms across his chest.
“Because I enjoy the sun, and at the moment, the pool at the Spinnaker is being resurfaced. By the way, I hear birthday wishes are in order, so happy fortieth.” I smiled brightly, glancing up at him to gauge his reaction.
Much to my delight, the pool manager turned a deep shade of red under his olive-colored skin. I heard he’d turned thirty-nine the week before and was crying into his illegal beer at the speak-easy, Tobacco Road, about being on the verge of turning forty. I decided immediately that I’d poke at that tender spot whenever the opportunity arose.
“I beg your pardon, but I’m only thirty-nine!” he replied in an obvious huff.
“Close enough.” I grinned.
My comment had hit its mark. The flustered man started to say something in response, but quickly walked away instead, leaving Francine Hollister, who was sitting to my left, cackling with laughter.
“Lord, Lil, you’re gonna get us thrown out of here,” our small blond friend admonished.
Olivia, who was sitting to my right, looked more like Francine’s sister in size and hair color than I did, but, unlike Francine, she was trying to hold back her own laughter. “Sister, I’m comfortable and enjoying myself, so please don’t get us kicked out of the place. Besides, the band will be startin’ soon, and I’ve been dying to hear them. They’ve come all the way from Baltimore, and they’re all the rage there.”
“Oh, whoopsie do,” I said, rolling my eyes. “When they’ve come from New York, Chicago, or L.A., then I’ll mind my manners. In the meantime, when ol’ Antony annoys me, I’m gonna remind him he’s old Antony in return.” I changed the subject. “So, Francie, where’re we going to celebrate your birthday tonight?”
“I was hoping we could go to Joe’s Stone Crabs for supper,” she said, looking hopeful.
“That’d be lovely to start the evening, but what about afterward?” I figured our friend’s nineteenth birthday deserved more of a celebration than just some crab claws, even if they were divine.
“Hmmmm.” Her brows pinched together. “I hadn’t thought past dinner.”
“Let me think on it,” I said, removing my hat so my face could get just the right touch of color. “We’ll pick you up at five-ish for an early supper; then we’ll go someplace from there.”
“Look!” Olivia said excitedly. “There’s the band!”
I looked toward the other end of the pool and saw the musicians walk out onto the raised stage. A smattering of applause began as other sunbathers spotted them. After the band members sat, they warmed up their instruments for several minutes. Finally, the band’s leader bounded out from behind a curtain at the right side of the stage. More polite applause followed as he stood there encouraging it, dressed in a black tuxedo with his arms spread wide and baton in hand. After taking a slight bow, he turned to his band and counted aloud, setting the tempo for the wildly popular Louie Armstrong song, “Muskrat Ramble.” Immediately, couples moved out to the dance floor and fell into step, dancing the Lindy, or the Charleston.
“Ladies,” a voice said from behind us. Craning my neck around, I saw Randall “Rusty” Hollister, Francine’s older brother, walking toward us.
Rusty was a mechanic on some of my father’s speedboats, and in the last year had raced a couple of them. Though he and Francine looked a lot alike, Rusty had flaming red hair, thus the nickname. He looked like a mischievous little boy with his cocky grin and a smattering of freckles across his nose. In truth, Rusty was nothing short of a man’s man, and he could be as tough as nails if the situation called for it. I’d seen him take on a much bigger fellow than himself. The man accused Rusty of putting a crack in the propeller shaft while he worked on the man’s boat. Rusty claimed he hadn’t, and the situation almost came to blows until Daddy broke it up, telling the man to find another marina to work on his boat.
Rusty walked around to the front of Olivia’s chair, and after we all made small talk about the weather being so nice and the band sounding good, he asked her to dance.
“Oh, I…well…maybe in a little while.”