Nan Dixon - Southern Comforts

The boy held up his arms. “Yes, please.”

Abby’s eyebrows popped up as Mr. Smythe held him in the air. Joshua’s hands waved, trying to grab hold of the colors.

“Hold still and the rainbow will shine on your fingers,” Mr. Smythe said.

“I’m sorry.” The woman leaned a hand against the desk, catching her breath. “He’s so fast.”

“Are you looking for a room?” Abby shouldn’t judge the woman, but her clothes were...worn.

“Oh, no.” Color washed over the woman’s pale face. “I’m here about the help-wanted ad.”

Abby nodded. “The housekeeping position?”

Both the man and the boy had rainbows coloring their palms. Mr. Smythe whispered to the little boy and Joshua giggled.

Joshua’s mother straightened. “I know the ad is a couple of weeks old, but is the position still open?”

“It is.” Abby smiled, trying to put the woman at ease. “Marion, our head of housekeeping, has left for the day, but if you come back tomorrow morning around ten, I’ll make sure she knows you’re coming in.”

“ Thank you, thank you.” The young woman’s smile erased the furrows in her forehead. She turned.

“Oh, what’s your name?” Abby asked.

“Cheryl.”

“Nice to meet you, Cheryl. I’m Abby.” She hoped Marion would hire the young mother.

Mr. Smythe set the boy down.

“Mommy, I held a rainbow.” Joshua threw his arms around her legs. “But I let it go so other kids can see it.”

Cheryl took her son’s hand. Staring at Mr. Smythe, she whispered, “Thank you.”

“No reason to thank me.” He grinned, flashing a dimple. “I held a rainbow, too.”

A flutter filled Abby’s chest. She loved dimples. And her guest had been kind to the child.

Cheryl gave him a nervous smile. Joshua took a little bit of the sun with him as the two of them headed down the porch steps.

“That was nice,” Abby said, starting to type again. Where was Mr. Grayson Smythe’s registration information?

“I like kids. The world hasn’t screwed them up yet.” His shoulders rose and fell. “Are we done?” The don’t-screw-with-me tone was back in his voice.

Sometimes Marion or her sisters left her notes about reservations, so she searched the desk. A piece of paper peeked out from underneath the keyboard. The breath she’d been holding whispered out.

Abs—The Kennedy Suite is booked for six months starting Feb 1! Guy named G Smythe booked it. Marion’s aware—you were in wine tasting when I finished the deal. Until I move other reservations around, I can’t get his info in the system. 10% discount for the long-term stay and charge by the week. Two-week trial. We have to replace the reservation system!!! This year—not next. It’s...

Abby refolded the paper without finishing Dolley’s message. Her techy sister always ranted about their software. The replacement reservation system had to wait at least one more year, possibly two. Dolley knew that.

“I’m sorry that took so long.” She wanted this stern man to know the Fitzgerald House team weren’t incompetents. “I’ve found your information.”

Her professional smile was fixed in place, but her heart rate revved into overdrive. She wanted to twirl and hoot. A six-month booking in their biggest suite meant cash. It wouldn’t refill the gap left by last year’s emergency purchases, but even at a discount, this was fantastic. “You’re staying with us for six months?”

“That’s correct.” The man’s bourbon-infused voice came with a crisp Yankee accent. “I’ve agreed to a two-week trial.”

Abby quickly made his key cards. They would show Mr. Smythe Southern hospitality—Fitzgerald style. After two weeks, he’d be begging to stay.

As his credit card processed, she gave him her spiel on breakfast, tea and appetizers. “And since we’re Irish, there’s always Jameson whiskey in the library.”

The man took it all in without reaction. Usually a guest nodded or smiled.

“Your room is on the second floor and to the left. There’s an elevator down this hall.” She pointed. “If you have any other questions, please ask our staff. We at Fitzgerald House want you to have a pleasant stay.”

“Thank you.” He slung his briefcase over one shoulder. “I’d like dinner brought up at seven o’clock tonight.”

“I’m sorry.” Abby shook her head. “We don’t offer dinner—just breakfast, tea and appetizers.”

He raised an eyebrow. “My assistant negotiated dinner with my extended stay. Your chef’s reputation is the reason I chose this establishment.” He did a little finger wave. “Perhaps you should call someone.”

She reopened Dolley’s note.

We have to replace the reservation system!!! This year—not next. It’s archaic. One more unusual request on this res—twenty-five dollars extra per day for providing box lunch and dinner. Agreement’s in the mail.

Her stomach churned. Dolley hadn’t just been ranting about the software glitches.

She blinked, hoping the message would change.

No luck.

She’d already seen how Mr. Smythe reacted when people didn’t live up to their commitments. As upsetting as it was to be blindsided like this, she couldn’t violate Dolley’s agreement.

She dug deep for the graciousness Mamma had drummed into her daughters. “You’re correct. However, we don’t have room service. May I invite you to eat in the kitchen?”

“I’d prefer eating in my room.”

Panic bubbled up in her chest. His room wasn’t an option, since there wasn’t enough space. And the dining room was already set for breakfast. Swallowing, she said, “I know you’ll be more comfortable in the kitchen.”

His eyes narrowed. “How much will it cost me for room service?”

The B and B wasn’t set up for room service. Mr. Smythe would end up hunched over his coffee table. “I’m afraid it’s not a matter of money.”

“It’s always about money.” He raised an eyebrow. “Why don’t you get your manager?”

Didn’t anyone ever say no to him? She stood a little taller. “I’m Abigail Fitzgerald, owner, manager and your chef. This is an unusual request, and I apologize that Fitzgerald House can’t accommodate room service. I would be pleased to serve your dinner in the kitchen at seven o’clock. Your dining experience will be more pleasant there.”

He took a long, slow scan from her head down to her sneakers. She refused to squirm under his scrutiny.

“Fine.”

He turned toward the stairway, his long legs taking the steps two at a time.

She headed down the hall. What was she going to cook? Catching a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror, she saw a streak of dirt on her face and dust all over her shirt.

What must he have thought? Now his dinner would have to be even more amazing.

* * *

THE ROOM WAS SPOTLESS. Gray wondered what the “owner, manager and chef” had been doing to get so dirty. Well, he had two weeks to decide if this arrangement would work.

Two people had recommended staying at Fitzgerald House. Derrick, the man who’d needed to liquidate his Savannah warehouse, had raved about the food, and his attorney. Gray hadn’t planned to acquire property in Savannah, but his frat brother, Derrick, had been desperate.

And Gray had needed a break from Boston. Drawing in a deep breath, he pressed the aching sinuses between his eyes. God, he’d had this headache for what seemed like months.

Maybe Savannah would bring him peace. Maybe his mother and sister would leave him alone. Maybe he’d figure out what was wrong with his life. He rolled his shoulders. Right now, all he wanted was to get settled in his room.

While he unpacked, he listened to the CNBC newscasters dissecting the financial markets. He rolled his shoulders. The past two weeks in Boston had been a work marathon. Standing in the entry while trying to register, all he’d wanted to do was get into his room.