The doors at Beaulieu were supposed to open at 8 A.M. Saturday.
At 6 P.M. Friday, I loaded my equipment in the truck. The cooler, with sandwiches, diet Cokes, and a thermos of coffee, went first. Next came my sleeping bag, pillow, bug spray, a flashlight, my two biggest canvas L.L. Bean tote bags and my Kovels’ price guides. Jethro hopped in the front seat as soon as he saw the cooler. He loves to play camp-out the night before the sale.
One good thing about being divorced was that Tal wasn’t around to ridicule me for taking the hunt so seriously.
When we were married and I’d get up at dawn to stand in line for a sale that didn’t start until 9 A.M., Tal told me I was crazy. And he hated the idea of my going from dealer to dealer “peddling my wares” as he called it.
Now, it was nobody’s business but my own. I was throwing a lawn chair into the back of the truck when BeBe zoomed up. She got out of her red Miata with a sleeping bag in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other.
“What’s up?” I asked warily.
“I’m going with you,” she announced. “I can help you at the sale. We’ll make it a party. You know I’ve never been inside Beaulieu either.”
She locked the Miata, tossed her stuff in the bed of the truck, and opened the passenger-side door. But Jethro wouldn’t budge.
“Sorry, pal,” I told him, giving him a gentle shove. “The banker gets to ride up front.”
“Turn here,” BeBe said when we got to the corner of Charlton and Habersham.
“Why?”
“I need to run by the restaurant for a minute.”
“Guale? What for?”
“The new chef’s upset about the shrimp that was delivered this morning. He says they’re too small. Now he’s threatening to take the shrimp-and-grits cake off the menu tonight.”
“So let him,” I said. “What’s the big deal?”
“It’s our signature dish,” BeBe said. “People drive down from Atlanta and Hilton Head for our grits and shrimp. It would be a disaster.”
I shook my head, exasperated. “Can’t you just call him? I wanted to get out to Beaulieu to claim a prime camping spot close to the house.”
“We’ll get there,” BeBe said airily. She leaned over and gave me a critical look. “Don’t you ever wear lipstick?”
“To camp out in ninety-eight-degree heat and a hundred percent humidity? No. Why should I?”
Instead of answering, she dug in her purse and brought out a lipstick, which she aimed toward my face.
I rounded the street onto Lafayette Square and pulled up to the curb in front of the cathedral.
BeBe frowned. “Now what?”
People were hurrying into the magnificent French Gothic Cathedral of St. John the Baptist for 6 P.M. Mass. I saw a couple of my mother’s friends and waved. When Sister Perpetua, my eighth-grade homeroom teacher, scuttled past, I sank down in the truck’s seat so she couldn’t spot me and give me the nun evil eye.
“What’s going on here?” I asked. “Why are you insisting we stop at the restaurant? And why is it so important that I wear lipstick? What are you up to, Babe?”
“Nothing,” she protested. “Really, Weezie.” She reached over and fluffed the top of my hair with her fingertips. “Much better.” She handed me the lipstick. “Keep it. I can’t wear that shade. Makes me look like Joan Crawford.”
I peeked in the mirror on the back of my sun visor. Maybe she was right. A little color couldn’t hurt. I slicked on the lipstick and tried to flatten the hair she’d pouffed up, but BeBe slapped my hand away. “Leave it alone,” she protested. “Big hair is back this year. Don’t you read?”
I shook my head and started the truck. We drove over to Guale without incident, and I was amazed to find a parking spot on the other side of Johnson Square from the restaurant. Normally, on Friday nights, you can’t get within three blocks of Guale.
“My luck is changing,” I said. “Either that or word got out about the shrimp-and-grits fiasco and nobody’s coming tonight.”
BeBe glared at me. “We don’t open for dinner until seven. Come on.”
“I’ll wait here,” I said. “Can’t leave Jethro alone.”
“He can come too,” BeBe said. She snapped her fingers. “Here, Ro-Ro.”
Jethro bounded out of the back of the truck and followed BeBe across the square.
For lack of anything better to do, I locked the truck and went after them. The square was quiet that time of day. Pigeons fluttered around the statue of Revolutionary War hero Nathaniel Greene, and a handful of Japanese tourists stood a few paces away, snapping photographs. A tour bus lumbered around the square, belching black smoke from its muffler.
“Damned tour buses,” BeBe muttered. “The pollution is peeling the paint on the restaurant. It’s outrageous.”
I sniffed the air appreciatively. “Doesn’t smell like pollution to me. Smells like money.”
She grimaced. It was an old Savannah joke. Here we were, living in one of the most beautiful and historic cities in the country, and for as long as anybody could remember, we’d been fouling the air and water around us—first with the pulp and paper plants, and now with all the tourists who’d been drawn to Savannah by an outrageous tattletale true-crime book. Everybody complained that the buses were blocking traffic, creating noise and health hazards, but nobody minded the millions of dollars those tourists were dumping into the local economy.
Guale was on the corner of St. Julian Street. We skirted the front door and went around to the kitchen entrance in the lane. From a hundred yards away we could hear angry voices.
“Uh-oh,” BeBe said. “Wait here. Daniel’s on the warpath again.”
A big black Dodge Ram truck was parked illegally in the lane. I propped myself on the bumper, crossed my arms over my chest, and closed my eyes. My stomach growled. Something wonderful was cooking in that kitchen. It smelled like garlic and rosemary and roasting meat. Maybe BeBe would bring me a doggie bag.
As I was standing there, sniffing and drooling, the kitchen door flew open. A man in black-and-white checked pants and a white chef’s smock strode furiously into the alley carrying a huge stainless-steel vat in one hand. He flung the vat’s contents against the brick wall of the restaurant, sloshing a river of steaming soup into the pavement.
I jumped out of the way and narrowly missed being scalded.
“That’s what I think of your fish stock!” he called angrily over his shoulder toward the kitchen. “Who told you to use dried parsley in a stock? Who told you to use black pepper? Who? Did I tell you to use crap like that? Did I?”
“Hey!” I shouted at him. “Watch what you’re doing.”
He whirled around to face me. His white smock was spattered with grease and broth stains. His hair needed cutting. Brown waves of it fell into his eyes and he flicked it back impatiently with one hand.
“What? What do you want? We’re not hiring and we don’t open until seven.” The way he said open, I knew he was a Southerner. And not just a Southerner. He was a Savannahian. You can tell. The accent’s peculiar, almost like a Richmond accent, but quite different from, say, Atlanta or New Orleans.
“You nearly burned me with that soup,” I snapped. “You ought to be more careful what you’re doing before you start slinging boiling food around.”
His face flushed. It was deeply tanned and the bright blue eyes were set beneath heavy eyebrows. He was tall, maybe six three. Embroidered over the left side of the chef’s smock were the words “Guale” and “Chef Daniel.”
BeBe poked her head out the kitchen door. “Daniel?” Her voice was meek. “Everything all right?”
I was astonished. I’d never heard BeBe talk that way before. Not to a man, not to anybody.
“Daniel?” she continued, inching slowly toward him. “Pete’s sorry. He really is. He didn’t see the carton of fresh herbs in the cooler, and he didn’t realize you use white peppercorns in your fish stock. He was anxious to get it started before you came in this afternoon. He thought he was being helpful.”
Daniel blinked. Long thin fingers pushed a strand of hair off his forehead. “He should try reading the recipe card. It’s taped right by the prep sink.”
BeBe stepped outside and patted Daniel’s arm soothingly. “He knows that now. He’s inside, chopping fresh parsley like mad. He’ll get the new stock going right away. Okay?”
“It needs at least four hours of simmering.”
“There’s plenty of frozen stock in the freezer,” BeBe said. “A whole gallon. That’ll be more than enough for tonight, won’t it?”
She smiled brightly and batted her eyelashes for extra effect.
“I suppose.”
“Great.” She turned to me. “Did you two meet?”
He had the grace to look embarrassed. “No. I’m afraid I was too busy trying to scald her with bad fish stock.”
He extended his hand, thought better of it, wiped it on his smock, then held it out again. I shook.
“Sorry,” he said. “I’m Daniel. Daniel Stipanek. I don’t usually make such a bad impression.”
My automatic smile froze. I felt my ears burn, and improbably, my hand felt icy in his. Stipanek? Danny Stipanek?
No. It couldn’t be. The Danny Stipanek I’d rolled around with in the shadows of Beaulieu’s live oaks was only a little taller than me. His ears stuck out from his head. He was a graceless goofball. The man clutching my hand in his right at this moment bore no resemblance to that Danny Stipanek. This Daniel person towered over me, the grin creasing fine lines around a square jaw, the blue eyes bright in his brown face. BeBe’s description of him had been more than accurate. He was indeed gorgeous.
I tried to say something, but it came out as a choke. I took a deep breath and tried to recover from my shock, pulling my hand away. “Actually, this isn’t really a first impression. We’ve met, you know. I’m Eloise Foley.”
He took a step backward. “No way.” The lazy eyes swept me up and down, but the slow grin came back.
“Weezie? Really? Well, I’ll be damned.”
I certainly hoped so.
BeBe looked from me to Daniel. “You two know each other? How?”
I watched him nervously. What did he remember? And how much was he willing to reveal to his new boss?
“We went to different high schools together,” Daniel said.
“That’s right,” I said, relieved. “Years ago. I’m surprised Daniel remembered my name even.”
That damned grin again. “How could I forget?” he drawled.
I had to get out of here. My heart was racing a mile a minute. The smell of garlic and fish stock was making me nauseous. Danny Stipanek! Of all the men to run into in all the alleys in Savannah. I groaned inwardly. Of course, he had to look great. And I? I had to look like I usually did. The baggy, wrinkled jeans. Faded T-shirt. I hadn’t even bothered to put on a bra. Good God. I didn’t dare look down. At least, I thought, I’d put on the Joan Crawford lipstick. So I wasn’t a total hag.
“Uh, BeBe,” I said, glancing meaningfully at my watch. “We really need to get going now if we’re going to get a good spot close to the house.”
“Just another minute,” BeBe promised. “I was going to pack us a little dinner. Some cold roast chicken, a couple of biscuits.”
“House? What house?” Daniel asked.
“It’s a plantation house. Out on the river. We’re going to an estate sale there in the morning. Weezie is an antique dealer, you know.”
“No, I didn’t know,” Daniel said, raising one of those dark eyebrows. “We’ve sort of lost touch over the years.”
I remembered his touch. It made me shudder.
“Oh yes,” BeBe said airily, laying it on thick now. “Weezie is opening a shop in the fall. In the old Lamplighter Lounge space. She’s buying stock for the shop now. This sale is really supposed to have fabulous stuff.”
“Really?” he said. “Where’s the sale? Maybe I’ll drop by there myself. I’m looking for a few things for my place.”
“It’s at Beaulieu,” BeBe said. “I can draw you a map if you like.”
I wanted to die. Right there. Or I could step inside the kitchen and stick my head into one of the big commercial gas ovens.
Daniel was grinning again. His blue eyes danced.
“Beaulieu? I’ve been there.”
“And you remember the way?” BeBe asked helpfully.
“Oh yeah,” Daniel said lazily. “I remember everything about Beaulieu.”