Chapter 11

eleven

I sabelle searched high and low for a quiet spot to collect her thoughts. The tiny cottage was cluttered with the clothes she'd yet to put away, and the sweltering Lowcountry heat was too much for the antiquated air conditioner. The main house was an ant hill, with little people crawling in and out of every crevice. Every chaise lounge by the pool was occupied. There was even a guest in her hammock— her Pawleys Island Hammock, which Edward had given her one year for Christmas.

Isabelle grabbed a towel and made her way down to the beach. She sat with her knees tucked under her chin, drawing a family of stick figures in the sand: Isabelle, Edward, Pritchard, and Kate—her family during the good old days, back when she was still a happy person.

She was so lost in thoughts of the past that she didn't hear Pritchard approach. "There you are. I've been looking everywhere for you. What are you doing down here?"

"Hiding. In case you haven't noticed, our home is a beehive. And I'm allergic to bees."

Pritchard chuckled. "Since when?"

"Since Friday." Isabelle wiped the edge of her hand over her stick figures, erasing her sand family.

He helped her to her feet. "I have exciting news. Harper and Cody got engaged last night."

"How wonderful," Isabelle said in an unenthusiastic tone. They would expect her to get all gussied up and pretend she was happy about the wedding of a granddaughter who despised her.

"We need to talk about this," Pritchard said, handing her a yellow sheet of paper from a legal pad.

Isabelle read the list of guest complaints about her cooking and rude behavior. She thrust the paper back at him. "So? What do you expect me to do with this?"

"I expect you to be nice. You can't treat people this way, Mother. You told one woman she was gaunt."

"Because she insulted me for being too old to understand the concept of dairy-free milk."

Pritchard folded the paper into a square. "These people are guests in your home. You need to treat them as such."

"They are here against my will. Which makes me the hostage and them my captives."

Pritchard threw up his hands. "I give up. What is wrong with you? Why do you have such a chip on your shoulder?"

Isabelle's skin prickled. Kate had said something similar. "What's so wrong with having high expectations?"

"Because you crucify those who don't meet those expectations."

"That is not true, Pritchard."

"Yes, it is." He raked his fingers through his salt-and-pepper hair. "Becoming an Eagle Scout is the only thing I've ever done that you approved of. Why do you think Kate moved to Texas? To get away from your constant criticism."

"That's a boldfaced lie. You're the one who is constantly criticizing me. I'm done with this conversation." Isabelle scrambled to her feet and took off down the beach.

Pritchard caught up with her. "Can you please try to be more agreeable?" He flagged the folded paper at her. "A bad review on social media will ruin our reputation before we ever get started."

Isabelle's face fell. "Oh. I didn't think about that."

She considered telling Pritchard what she'd learned from his father's journal. She sensed her son was considering an early retirement from his job as a country music talent manager. Isabelle would be off the hook if he willingly took over running the bed and breakfast. And the sooner this new building was completed, the sooner Isabelle could return to her home.

Isabelle broached the subject as they headed back toward the house. "A guest discovered one of your father's journals hidden in a book safe. I read it from cover-to-cover last night. His vision for this place was more elaborate than he ever let on. He even named the property Magnolia Shores."

A thoughtful frown creased Pritchard's forehead. "I like the name. Tell me more."

Yes! He's taking the bait, Isabelle thought, and outlined Edward's vision for the new building, including the various amenities.

When they reached the pathway to the house, Pritchard stopped walking and stared over the dunes. "What you describe is way more than a bed and breakfast. We're talking about a full-on resort. I wonder why he never mentioned this expansion to you."

"Because he knew such a project would scare me off. You realize I'm incapable of designing and overseeing the construction of a building of this magnitude."

"Dad would never have expected that of you. At least not alone. But we have plenty of space to expand. I need to give this some more thought. Do you mind if I read the journal?"

"Not at all. It's in the cottage. If you can wait, I'll get it for you now."

"I have plenty of time. I'll walk with you," Pritchard said, motioning for her to go ahead of him up the pathway.

Isabelle trudged through the thick sand, stopping short at the sight of Blossom treading water in the center of the pool while her little dog paddled in circles around her. "What is that dag-blasted dog doing in my pool?" she hollered, not thinking about the other guests lounging around the pool.

Pritchard whispered to her, "Let it go, Mother. Don't you dare cause a scene in front of all these people."

Ignoring her son, Isabelle marched over to the edge of the pool. "No dogs are allowed in this pool. Get it out now!" she said, gesturing wildly at the steps.

"Geez, Izzy! Hold on to your granny panties. I'm getting out as fast as I can," Blossom said, tucking the dog under her arm as she waded toward the steps.

Pritchard rushed to Blossom's aid, holding on to her elbow while she climbed out of the pool. "I'm so sorry, ma'am."

"Don't worry, son. I live to irritate your mama," Blossom said, flashing Isabelle a mischievous grin.

"What a cute dog. What's her name?" Pritchard asked.

Blossom held the little dog up for him to see her face. "Jolene."

Pritchard scratched behind the dog's ears. "I love it. Believe it or not, I'm close friends with Dolly Parton."

Blossom winked at him. "So am I."

Isabelle grabbed Pritchard by the arm. "Let's go, son," she said, dragging him away from Blossom.

"Slow down, Mother." Pritchard wrenched his arm free of her grasp. "What is wrong with you? If any of our guests videoed your little scene back there, they could post it on social media."

Isabelle increased her pace as they crossed the courtyard. "I'm sorry. But that woman is driving me crazy. I told her to be mindful of her dog, and she let the nasty little creature swim in my pool."

Pritchard hurried along beside her. "Since when are you a dog hater?"

"Not all dogs. Just hers," Isabelle said with a thumb over her shoulder.

"Who is she anyway? How did she know I'm your son? And how does she know Dolly Parton?"

They stopped in front of the cottage. "Her name is Blossom. I have no clue how she knows Dolly Parton, but she somehow knows everything about our family."

Pritchard glanced back toward the pool. "So that's Blossom? Blossom with no last name who's booked a room for the entire summer?"

"Yep." Isabelle lowered her voice and leaned in close to her son. "I think she's a spy."

Pritchard peered at her over the top of his sunglasses. "A spy? Like for the CIA?"

"More like an angel spy your father sent down from heaven to keep tabs on me."

Pritchard's brow hit his hairline. "How long were you out on the beach, Mother? I think you may have suffered a heat stroke."

"I'm perfectly healthy, thank you very much." With Pritchard on her heels, Isabelle entered the cottage and retrieved Edward's journal from her bedroom. "Yesterday, I visited your father's grave, asking him to share his vision for the bed and breakfast. And voila, Blossom magically appeared with this journal full of his ideas. You have to admit it's quite the coincidence."

"That's exactly what it is, Mother. A coincidence."

Isabelle unlocked the journal and handed it to him. "Here. Your father wasn't concerned about protecting his private thoughts from prying eyes. He used our Magnolia Shores' address as the code."

Pritchard thumbed through the pages. "Whoa. This is a lot to absorb. He went into full detail about this building he envisioned. Can I take this home? I want to read through it more carefully."

"Sure." She flicked her wrist, gesturing for him to get the journal out of her sight. "Do with it what you will. I have no use for it since I obviously can't make that dream a reality."

Pritchard fanned himself with the journal. "Why is it so hot in here? No wonder you're having a heat stroke."

"Hush!" Isabelle smacked his belly with the back of her hand. "I'm not having a heat stroke. The air conditioner isn't working properly."

Tucking the journal under his arm, Pritchard crossed the room to the thermostat. "Geez. It's eighty-four degrees in here." He fiddled with the controls. "Your air-conditioning isn't working at all." He pulled out his phone, clicked on a contact number, and reported the outage to his HVAC company's after-hours service hotline. "I realize it's a holiday weekend, but this heat isn't good for my elderly mother," he told the woman on the phone.

Isabelle fixed her gaze on him while she waited for him to finish his call. "Who are you calling elderly?" she asked when he hung up.

"No offense, Mother. I was trying to get a technician out here today."

"And? Are they sending someone?"

"She said they'd try. We need to get some air in here." Pritchard checked all the windows, but they were painted shut. "You should hang out in the main house today. If they haven't fixed it by tonight, you can stay with Savannah and me."

Isabelle turned up her nose. "No thanks. I'd rather have a heatstroke."

Pritchard shrugged. "Suit yourself." He headed toward the door. "I'll check in with you later."

After he left, Isabelle propped the door open to let in fresh air. Grabbing a kitchen knife, she pried open a window in her bedroom and one in the living room. With the ceiling fan on in both rooms, the temperature inside the cottage soon dropped to seventy-six.

With nothing else to occupy her time, Isabelle set about organizing her clothes in the closet. She was folding her nightgowns into the chest of drawers when, through the open window, she heard the rumble of an outboard boat engine. Through the palmetto tree fronds, she could make out her granddaughter talking to a young man in a center-console boat. So that's where Shelby was last night. She hadn't been here a week, and her granddaughter had found a local boy to sleep with. Where Isabelle came from, they called such loose women hussies.