“It’s what I was trying to tune out,” he says finally. “With the loud music.”
“Why would you do that?” Normally I wouldn’t ask something like this. There’s something about this guy that intrigues me. Why would he come to an expensive resort, and try to tune out the sounds of the ocean?
“You wouldn’t understand,” he says, and there’s a finality to the statement. He isn’t teasing now, doesn’t want to explain. Something about the beach causes him pain, I can see it in his blue eyes. “So, are we on for tomorrow?”
If I say no, he will probably blast his music again. If I say no, I lose this chance to learn a little more about him. I should say no anyway, but I want to say yes because he can quote Webster’s Dictionary, because I want to know what his tattoos mean, if they have meaning. Is he the kind of guy who has a story behind his tattoos? Because this might be my only chance to I sit at a table across from a completely gorgeous guy and have his undivided attention.
“Fine. I don’t like clams, though.”
“You’ll like these. Mary Beth has run the Clam Shack for decades. Her clams are excellent, fresh from the bay.”
I shake my head. “Do they have a hamburger or something? A fish sandwich?”
“All clams all the time,” he says. “You’re going to love it. Meet me here at noon, tomorrow. And wear something a little less ‘resort manager’.”
He slams the door, cutting off my indignant reply. I’m wearing a sundress and sandals. There is nothing resort manager-like about this outfit. He was just trying to get under my skin. As I re-enter the lobby, I find myself pausing to consider my reflection. Absolutely nothing wrong with my outfit. I hope he doesn't expect me to dress like one of the girls who were in his room the other night. Is that the uniform for dating—I correct myself quickly—for going to lunch with someone like Cruise? I don’t have any cut off jean shorts, and I wouldn't even know where to buy a mini-skirt.
Chapter 3
“The hotel has been in the Bancroft family since the 1920s,” Sheila, the head housekeeper, informs me later that afternoon as we walk the hall together. She’s a nice woman in her late fifties or early sixties, with an inviting smile and salt and pepper hair. “The original building had a large indoor swimming pool, but Mr. Bancroft’s father, Thomas Bancroft, felt it was too expensive to maintain with the beach just outside. He had it filled in to create the ballroom.”
She throws open the door to the ballroom, and I catch my breath. This room is the antithesis of the Seascape Villa hotel. It’s opulent and dilapidated at the same time.
“We keep it locked,” Sheila assures me as I examine the crumbling rails on the balcony overlooking the mosaic dance floor.
“What is it?” I ask, trying to see what pictures the tiles form.
“A mermaid. If the bulbs were replaced you could see her. She’s quite beautiful.”
“This room is amazing,” I say. How incredible would it be to have it all restored?
“I have pictures,” Sheila tells me. “My father took them, of the hotel, when he first started working here. I’ll ask him if I can bring the album to show them to you. My granddaughter loves to look at them.”
“I’d love that.”
Sheila locks the ballroom, and we re-enter the twenty-first century.
“So your father worked here?”
“He ran the kitchens for forty years. Still comes in for special occasions.”
“And what about your kids?” If she has grandchildren, she obviously must have kids.
“My oldest is principle of Seascape Village High School. My daughter is a lawyer, and my youngest owns a restaurant.”
“Sounds wonderful, except the lawyer part—my dad is a lawyer, and he worked constantly.”
“Lilian also works long hours,” Sheila admits. “Which is why I guard my free time, so I can help out with her daughters. Much as I love this old place, there’s only so much a person can do…”
“I’d like to find the right thing to make a difference…” I say, more to myself than to Sheila. We’re approaching the dining room.
“Miss Bennett? Miss Bennett?” A high-pitched voice calls my name, distracting me from a moment of contemplating how beautiful the hotel could be, with a little love and a lot of hard work.
“Can I help you?” I put on my best smile and turn to the woman. If she knows my name, she almost definitely has a complaint. The front desk has been quite generous in giving out my information to people who want to complain about the quality of the sheets, the flow-rate of the showerhead, the lack of beach chairs available for sunbathing and various other complaints that they could probably handle themselves.