Southern Comforts

“I feel guilty.” Abby leaned her head on Marion’s shoulder. “Both Dolley and Bess work so hard.”

“And so do you.” Marion gave her a quick, tight hug. “But there’s more to life than Fitzgerald House. If your mamma wasn’t taking care of your aunt in Atlanta, she’d say the same thing. Live a little.”

Abby didn’t think so. When Papa had died, Mamma had worked 24/7 to make their home into a B and B. Enjoying life would come after Abby had opened her restaurant. “I’ll think about it.”

She had goals to achieve. She didn’t have time for fun.

Marion gathered up her notebook. “By the way, I hired Cheryl, trial run.”

“Good.”

“Her boy is here with her. I said it would be okay until she got her feet under her. Don’t be surprised if he’s in the garden or near his mom.”

“Of course.” Marion had a big heart. “Do you think they want some sandwiches?”

Marion grinned and then piled the uneaten sandwiches on a plate. “I’ll check how she’s doing. I’m thinking these will be appreciated. She ’bout fainted at the sight of your banana bread.”

* * *

GRAY WALKED INTO the sunroom, and Abby almost dropped the food and tea description cards she’d been setting out for teatime. No man should look that good in jeans and a chambray shirt.

Her face warmed. At dinner last night, he’d encouraged her to tell him about Fitzgerald House. He’d been easy to talk to. Had she talked too much?

No. If she had, he wouldn’t have insisted on eating in the kitchen from now on. Right?

Mamma always advised her daughters not to get involved with guests. So Abby would stay professional if it killed her.

“Hi,” she said. “Are you done working for the day?”

“I just met with a contractor,” he said. “Now I need other options. I hope you can help or point me in the right direction.”

“I’ll try.” Why was Gray in Savannah for six months? She should have asked when he’d registered, but yesterday had been...awkward.

She set the cards by the teapots and straightened the napkins. Still not quite looking at him, she asked, “What are you doing in Savannah?”

“Rehabbing a warehouse on River Street.”

“The one that the work started and stopped on last year? I remember the man who owned it, but he hasn’t been around for a while.” He’d stayed at Fitzgerald House several times.

“That’s the one. Derrick ran out of money and needed to liquidate fast.” Gray had a gleam in his blue eyes. “I helped him out.”

It sounded more as if Gray had gotten a great bargain. “Will you still develop it as condominiums?”

He nodded. “Great location. Very marketable.”

Abby’s shoulders tightened. How many times had her daddy used the same phrase about the Tybee Island condos he’d started to develop? Great location. Those condos had sat for years half built, looking sad and lonely. Actually, the previous owner of Gray’s River Street warehouse reminded her of her father. Smiling, charming and unable to finish what he started.

Because of her father, her mother’s family mansion was now a B and B. Because of her father, she and her sisters’ college funds had disappeared. Instead of going to football or basketball games, they’d learned how to make beds and clean rooms.

Marion came in, wheeling the loaded tea trolley and distracting Abby from her thoughts.

“Marion, this is Mr. Smythe,” Abby said.

“We met this morning.” Marion maneuvered the trolley across the room. “How was your warehouse?”

“A mess.” Gray eyed the food on the trolley as though he hadn’t eaten in months.

“You’ll soon set it to rights.” Marion moved to the fireplace and turned on the gas flames. “There. That’ll take the chill off the room.”

“Thanks, Marion,” Abby said, amused by the way Gray gaped at the food.

“My mother would kill for that trolley.”

Abby could believe it. The silver four-tiered trolley was an heirloom that her own mother had always loved. She set the description cards next to each platter.

“It’s been in the family for generations. Did you have enough to eat for lunch?” Abby had made two sandwiches, but she didn’t know how big an appetite her guest had.

“Lunch was great.” Gray headed over to the trolley. “But I’ve got room for one of those bars.”

If the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach, all she had to do to win Gray’s was make him her brandy-pecan bars.

“Coffee or tea?” she asked.

“Coffee.” He demolished one bar. “I’ll have to run to Atlanta and back each day if I keep eating this way,” he mumbled around a second bar.

She poured his coffee and set the cup and saucer next to his chair.

As she left, she whispered to Marion, “Let me know if I need to bring up more bars.”

She was almost out the door when he called, “Wait, Abby, I have a question.”

She paused. He waved her over to a chair, before taking another bar.

“Can you recommend any contractors?” he asked. “I’m putting the work out for bids.”

Settling into the chair, she tried to remember who’d worked on the warehouse before Gray took over. “Did you talk to Jeb Haskins?”

“Just met with him.” He frowned. “Not letting that guy back on the project. I have a couple of other names, but I like the work you’ve done on your B and B. I wondered who you’d used.”

“I can give you the names, but our focus has always been on restoration. I’m not sure this would be the same kind of job.”

“You’re right—I’m not looking for restoration, but I need a contractor who’s experienced with old buildings.”

Abby’s heart warmed at his respectful tone. “I use Sam Forester. He’s done all the work here since we started. He and his son, Daniel, run a local construction company. I’ll call and see who he’d recommend.”

“Thanks. Add this Forester to the list, too, would you? They’ve done a nice job here.”

She froze. Gray wanted to talk to the Foresters? Samuel fit their work in between his other projects to help keep her costs low. Gray’s work might slow down her own restoration.