Page 103 of Summers at the Saint
“That must have been traumatic.”
“It was peaceful, but sad. He got what he wanted. Died at home, no heroic rescue attempts.”
Charlie sat back in the armchair opposite her desk. “It’s the end of an era.”
“How so?” Traci asked, annoyed. “Fred hadn’t really been actively involved in managing the company for several years, but I’m still running the hotel and Ric is running the real estate side. It’s still very much a family business.”
“Sorry, that isn’t what I meant. It’s just, the old man was such a presence. He’s always been synonymous with the Saint.”
“I understand. You worked side by side with him for decades. By the way, sorry I didn’t call you back earlier. I was sort of holding vigil at Fred’s bedside.”
“Ric wasn’t there?”
“No. Alberta tried to call to let him know things had taken a turn for the worse, but his assistant said he was at a meeting up in Savannah.”
“Probably for the best,” Charlie said. “Poor guy. Lost his daughter and now his dad, all in a week.”
“Uh-huh. So, about your call? What’s up?”
Charlie frowned. “It’s about that chef of yours, at the Verandah. I’ve been getting a lot of calls from our restaurant purveyors. She’s burning down some longtime relationships.”
“Like who?”
“Like Tommy Betz.”
“The shrimper?”
“Seafood vendor. Like his dad before him. Tommy’s been our seafood wholesaler for years and years. But this week, she up and fired him. Told him the Saint would take its business elsewhere.”
“Did you speak to Felice? Ask her why?”
“I know why. It’s this goddamn Gen Z. They think they know everything. She got a shipment of fish she deemed ‘notexcellent’—that’s what she called it, and because maybe one fillet was off, she dumped the whole order and demanded that Tommy make good on it.”
“What about the shrimp for the Beach Bash? You smelled it, Charlie. It was rank.”
“It was one stinky piece of fish and she blew it all out of proportion, according to Tommy. And it’s not just that. This girl…” Charlie fumed.
“Okay, boomer,” Traci said, laughing. “She’s a young woman, not a girl.”
“Whatever. Now she’s squawking about the rest of our purveyors. Doesn’t like the quality of the beef, not happy with our produce wholesaler. Wants to use ‘organic’ veggies.” Charlie used finger quotes to emphasize the word “organic.” “Next thing you know, she’ll demand we grow all our own vegetables.”
“Lots of great restaurants already do that.”
“Not on the scale we’d need to do it. We do grow a few things. Anyway, we’re hoteliers, not goddamn dirt farmers. Buying produce the way we’ve always done it is much cheaper.”
“Charlie, cheaper isn’t always better. We didn’t get to be a five-star resort by cutting corners.”
He sat back in his chair and crossed and recrossed his legs again.
“It’s called cost containment, Traci. You’ve been worrying about all the red ink we’ve bled since Covid and the remodel. This is what I do. I keep my eye on the bottom line.”
Traci picked up her pen and scribbled notes in the margin of a printout she’d been reading.
“What’s that?” He craned his neck to get a look.
“Nothing.” She flipped the paper over. “Doodles. Charlie, do me a favor. Give Felice the benefit of the doubt. I know you want to do things the way we’ve always done them in the past…”
“It’s called tradition,” he said stiffly. “The Saint is about traditions. It’s about relationships.”
