Page 15 of The Homewreckers
“Okay, yeah. You did sorta say that. For now, let’s try this. I want you to look right at me. Smile. And say something like this: ‘I’m Hattie Kavanaugh. And I’m saving Savannah. One old house at a time.’”
She shook her head. “That’s dumb. I’m just one girl. How am I going to save Savannah?”
“Do you have to question everything I say? Just do it, okay? It’s like, a metaphor. What we call a tag line. These network execs are looking for personality more than anything. You might feel like it’s over the top, but the viewer needs to sense your energy. Your enthusiasm. You gotta sell it, lady.”
Hattie gave a long, belabored sigh. She posed herself in front of the fireplace, fluffed her hair, and wet her lips. “Go,” she told him.
He clicked the remote, then counted down with his fingers.Three. Two. One.
“I’m Hattie Kavanaugh. And I’m helping to save my hometown of Savannah. One old house at a time.”
“Perfect!” Mo said. “See, you’re really good at this when you want to be.”
Hattie collapsed onto the nearest chair. “I need a cold beer.”
7Tybee Time
“It can’t be done,” Hattie told Cass, closing the lid of her laptop computer. “There’s absolutely nothing on the market in this town in our price range. Nothing that qualifies as even remotely historic with a price under our budget.”
Cass sat at the desk facing Hattie’s in the cluttered, no-nonsense offices of Kavanaugh & Son. It was a small, crowded space, less than a thousand square feet, with a glass storefront facing Bull Street. There were three battered army surplus metal tanker desks in the main office, one each for Cass, Hattie, and the office manager, Zenobia, who also happened to be Cass’s mom. Tug had his own tiny space.
“Where are you looking?” Cass asked.
“The usual places, Zillow and all the local real estate companies’ websites.”
Zenobia Pelletier looked up from her own computer. “Did you check the list of foreclosures on the county website? Maybe we could find a cute little fixer in Parkside or maybe Live Oak.”
“Yes’m,” Hattie said. “I checked. It’s slim pickings. The only thing that fits our budget are some sixties split-levels on the south side, and some seventies ranch houses way out in the county. Nothing Mo Lopez would consider even remotely historic, or—what’s that word?”
“Telegenic,” Cass said helpfully. “What about Thunderbolt?”
“Are you kidding? My little shrimping village is all of a suddentrendy. As soon as something comes on the market, it gets snatched up. One of my neighbors has this dumpy little circa-1930s cottage—completely unrestored, no central air. He planted a for-sale-by-owner sign in his yard last week and before the end of the day he had six buyers in a bidding war.”
Zenobia removed her red-framed reading glasses and pinched the bridge of her nose. She was in her early fifties, with short, carefully coifed streaky blond hair, a sprinkling of freckles across her light brown cheeks, and long, perfectly polished acrylic nails.
“What about Tybee?”
“What about it?” her daughter asked. “If we can’t afford something in town, we sure as hell can’t afford a house out at the beach.”
“You know, as I was leaving church Sunday, I heard old Mavis Creedmore ask Father Mike to pray for her, because she and her cousins are fixing to lose their beach house on Chatham Avenue.”
Hattie stopped scrolling through the real estate listings and perked up. “Is that Katie Creedmore’s grandma? She graduated from St. Mary’s a year behind us. And Holland Creedmore played on the Cardinal Mooney football team, a couple of years ahead of us. He was quite the stud, as I remember.”
Cass rolled her eyes but said nothing.
“Mavis never married. I think those must be her brother’s grandkids,” Zenobia said. “There was a whole slew of Creedmores running around town when I was a girl. Anyway, Mavis is the oldest, and I’mma tell you, she rules the roost. Two of her brothers died young, some kind of cancer. She outlived everyone, so now she’s, like, the matriarch.”
“But Chatham Avenue?” Hattie scoffed. “Come on, Zen. Those houses are all on the Back River, with docks and boathouses. Even a shack would be way out of our price range.”
“Maybe not,” Zenobia said. “Hang on. Let me look it up in the county records.” Her long acrylic nails flew across her laptop keyboard, clicking with each keystroke.
“Mhmm. Here it is. Fifteen twenty-three Chatham Avenue.Owners are listed as Mavis Creedmore, Reeves Creedmore, and Holland Farrell Creedmore. This isn’t one of those big ol’ beach houses you’re thinking about, Hattie. Built in 1922. Only eighteen hundred square feet. Okay, two stories, wood frame. Four bedrooms. One bath.”
“Must be some hobbit-sized bedrooms,” Cass observed. “And only one bathroom for four bedrooms?”
“It’s a beach house, baby,” Zenobia said. “Back in my day, when you went to stay at the beach, youstayedon the beach. All you needed in your room was a bed, maybe a nightstand, and some hooks to hang up your clothes.”
“What else does it say about the Creedmores’ house, Zen?” Hattie asked.
