“Maybe he thinks you should put on a little lipstick and a shirt that doesn’t have a band logo on it to make it seem like you give an actual fuck before you go out in public?”
That makes me smile. “Inside thought, Suzanne.”
“Hmm. And you’re positive he doesn’t have the hots for you?”
“Oh yeah, I’m sure he gets an expression like he just took a dump in his pants every time he sees me because he’s so attracted to me. It’s definitely true love.”
She laughs. “Okay, I’m fresh out of smart ideas, then. Chalk it up to one of those things and stay out of his way while he works on the Buttercup. Maybe he’ll warm up to you after a while.”
“Or maybe he’ll leave random tools on the floor for me to trip over and break my face on.”
“Don’t be silly, he’ll do no such thing. If you don’t like Theo, just deal directly with Coop. From the sound of things, that would suit both of you. I’m telling you, he’s the best there is. I’ve got a list a mile long of people you could call for a reference if you don’t want to take my word for it. And why flush money down the toilet if you don’t have to? Just my two cents, but I think it’s worth it to put up with him in the short run for what you’ll get out of it in the long run.”
I mull it over because she makes some good points. I got a big chunk of change in the settlement from Cass’s accident, but I know how these kind of large renovation projects can go way over budget. And there’s no guarantee the B&B will be a success after I open. I could be filing for bankruptcy in a few years if the economy tanks. I need to be practical about this. Practical, frugal, and emotionless.
Except for my intense curiosity and my sore ego, I’d be all set.
“Maybe if you told me more about him, it would make me more comfortable.”
“What do you want to know?”
“About his accident,” I say without thinking. “I want to know what happened to make Mr. Popularity turn into the Grinch.”
On the other end of the line, there’s a long sigh. “Sweetie, that story needs to be told over drinks. What’re you doing tonight?”
I look around the kitchen, at the scorched floor, the boarded-up windows, the empty takeout containers crowding the counter. “Not a thing.”
“Be ready at six. I’m driving. And wear a skirt, for God’s sake. I have a reputation to uphold in this town, and your homeless stoner look isn’t cutting it.”
She hangs up without waiting to hear the argument she already knows is coming.
* * *
At precisely six o’clock that night, Suzanne arrives looking like she has an appointment to meet Hugh Hefner. I’ve never seen so much cleavage in my life.
“Hi, Suzanne.” I warily eye her hairdo, which is teased and sprayed to ’80s hair band proportions, her stilettos, which are sky-high, and her skirt, which is so tight I suspect her circulation is being compromised. “Please tell me we’re not going clubbing.”
She looks at me as if I’ve been smoking crack. “There aren’t any clubs within an eighty-mile radius. We’re going to Booger’s.”
Booger’s? This is why I never go out.
“Don’t give me that look!” Suzanne scolds when she sees my expression. “It’s a very nice, upscale restaurant.”
“I think our definitions of ‘upscale’ might be different.”
“Jeez, what’re you, ninety, Grandma?”
“Thirty-two, actually.”
Suzanne grimaces. “You’re younger than me too? How did I not notice that on your escrow docs? It’s a pity I already decided not to hate you. Nice dress, by the way.”
“Thanks. I had to go out and buy it today because I didn’t own one. I didn’t want to get clobbered by my real estate agent.”
She narrows her eyes at my waistline. “Are you wearing a waist trainer under that?”
Perplexed, I look down at myself. “What the hell is a waist trainer?”
She groans, throwing her hands in the air. “I changed my mind. I do hate you. Let’s go, you’re making me thirsty.”
I lock the front door, she grabs me by the arm, and we’re off to Booger’s, which I suspect will be about as pleasant as a visit to the gynecologist.
When we arrive, I’m surprised to find I was wrong. Whoever named the place was off his rocker, but the location is spectacular. Booger’s sits at the end of the beach promenade, overlooking the ocean. It has a kitschy seafaring theme that manages to be ironically sentimental instead of just plain tacky.
Fishnet is strung from the ceiling and hung with starfish and Christmas lights. Brick walls are covered in framed black-and-white pictures of old movie stars and dotted with big portholes for windows. Candles glow atop polished wood tables, and an enormous captain’s wheel garnishes the hostess stand where Suzanne gives our name to a hostess who looks fifteen years old.