Page 20 of Summers at the Saint
Nothing, it seemed, was too small a detail for Hoke to notice, and address. The soap in the men’s grill restroom (hand-milled in England), the thickness of the beach towels at the beach club (sourced in Italy, monogrammed locally), the slightly faded armchair fabric in the lobby of the hotel, all of it was important to him. And gradually, over the years, it became important to her too.
She drove slowly, with the Mercedes’ windows rolled down, inhaling the intoxicating scent of night-blooming jasmine. A possum skittered across the road in front of her, its eyes glowing red. She reached for her phone and dictated a note to ask the landscapers to make sure the creature hadn’t dug up any flowerbeds in the area.
As she rounded a bend in the road she noticed some roof tiles missing from Plumbago Cottage, and added that to the note. A few cottages away, lights burned at the largest of the two dozenbungalows scattered around the property. She pulled into the short driveway of the Gardenia. A Kia with faded blue paint was parked under the carport.
Traci knocked lightly on the door and a petite older woman answered.
“Hi, Alberta. I was just passing by and thought I’d drop in. Is he awake?”
“Hi, Traci. Come on in. This is good timing. He’s just had his bath and his meds.”
She opened the door wider and Traci stepped inside. The television was on, and there was a tray with a sandwich and a glass of iced tea on the coffee table.
“I’m sorry to interrupt dinner,” Traci apologized. “I won’t stay long. How’s he doing?”
The caretaker shrugged. “About the same. Honestly, I don’t think the new meds are making a difference. In fact, I think maybe they make him feel more drowsy.”
“Okay. I’ll speak to the doc. If they’re not helping, what’s the point?” She touched Alberta’s shoulder. “Go back to what you were doing. I’ll say hi, then I’ll get out of your hair.”
Traci glanced around the living/dining area. All the original furnishings had been moved out once her father-in-law finally accepted the fact that he could no longer live independently in the grand Spanish Colonial revival mansion his own father had designed and built on the ocean side of the resort. The winding stairway that led to the villa’s massive carved wooden front doors was one of the many features that made the house inaccessible, once the diagnosis of Parkinson’s disease was pronounced, and confirmed by two more doctors.
Fred fought the move for months, but after he’d fallen and spent a brutal night alone, sprawled out on the floor of his bathroom, only to be found naked in a pool of his own urine the next day by his housekeeper, he’d had no choice.
Within two weeks, the Gardenia had been retrofitted with wider doorways, a wheelchair-accessible bathroom complete with showerlift, and private living quarters for the old man’s favorite housekeeper, Alberta, who’d tended to him with quiet devotion since his wife’s death eight years earlier. Madelyn had planned and engineered the lightning-fast remodel, and Traci had grudgingly admired her ruthless efficiency.
Traci stepped into the bedroom, which was illuminated by the soft light of a bedside lamp. The head of the hospital bed was raised.
Parkinson’s had diminished Fred in so many cruel ways. Though he was once a vigorous athlete who’d played A-level team tennis and scratch golf well into his eighties, the man she saw before her now was nearly unrecognizable.
His skin, pale and liver-spotted, was stretched tautly over his skull, where only thinning tufts of white hair remained of his once glossy mane. Bony collarbones were visible beneath his cotton pajama top, and his skeletal arms were arranged stiffly on top of the sheet.
Hooded eyes flickered when he saw her. Colorless lips moved, but no words emerged.
She sat in the chair beside his bed. “Alberta tells me the new meds aren’t helping much. Maybe I’ll ask the doctor to take you off them?”
He blinked once, which she took to mean yes.
“Sorry I haven’t been by this week. I’ve been super busy because we’re ramping up for opening weekend. Trying to hire enough staff. Mehdi, do you remember her? Our head chef? She and her husband, Sam, who was head of guest relations in the hotel, left to take jobs up the coast at that new resort.”
His expression was unchanging.
“I sweet-talked Parrish into postponing her Europe semester. She’s agreed to take over Sammy’s job. Ric is furious with me, but wouldn’t you think he’d be pleased to have the next generation of the family in such a front-facing position at the Saint? I think it’s a control issue.”
The old man’s lips turned up slightly. Was it a smile, or merely a cruel symptom of the Parkinson’s?
Fred was intimately familiar with control issues. For sixty years he’d ruled the family business and his sons with an iron hand.Somehow, Hoke had avoided turning into a carbon copy of his father. He was decent, caring, and warm, like his mother.
Fred snorted.
“Has Ric been by to see you lately?” she asked, her tone innocent.
She doubted he had. Ever since the Parkinson’s diagnosis, her brother-in-law avoided seeing his father, claiming it was too depressing. Ric had begun researching nursing homes after Fred’s fall, but Traci and Parrish had put a stop to that plan, instead insisting on moving Fred into Gardenia, where he had round-the-clock care.
Two years ago the doctors said Fred probably had less than six months to live. Yet here he was.
The old man’s head slowly swiveled back in her direction, his eyes blazing.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I know he’s been… busy.”
