Page 29 of Summers at the Saint
Other nights, he sat at the tiny table in his crummy apartment and went through the papers he’d found in his mother’s condo.There hadn’t been a lot. She wasn’t the sentimental kind. Or maybe she was, but just not about him.
He’d been going through Kasey’s clothes, tossing things into a box to donate to charity, when he came across an old Christmas card box. Now that was a surprise. She wasn’t a Christmas card kind of person. Never once had she sent one to him. In fact, he couldn’t ever remember her sending him a birthday card. He’d been about to throw the box in the trash, but something made him stop. He could feel things inside, sliding around.
What he found inside the box—those little scraps of paper, a few baby pictures, and a notebook written in girlish handwriting, a kind of journal, he supposed you’d call it—that was the real reason he’d come to Saint Cecelia. It was time he found some answers.
CHAPTER 18
Parrish was still getting set up at the guest relations desk in the lobby on Wednesday when the mom arrived—with three towheaded children surrounding her. Technically one child, who looked like a four-year-old boy, was attached to the hip of her lime-green-and-pink Lilly Pulitzer shift, and sucking on the edge of a disgusting-looking gray blanket. The other two, twin girls, maybe six years old, were circling the woman’s legs, slapping at each other and whining. They were dressed in miniature versions of their mother’s dress.
“Hi!” Parrish chirped, trying to sound cheerier than she felt. “How can I help you?”
“Day camp,” the woman said. She had an enviable super-toned body, with shiny dark hair falling below her shoulders. “I called the desk last night to sign them up, but the guy who answered the phone, who, by the way, was very rude, said there weren’t any more openings. We chose this resort because my friends all said the kids’ day camp was excellent.”
“Hmmm,” Parrish said, trying to sound concerned. “Let me just check.” She tapped some keys, found the page for the Saint’s Little Minnows Day Camp, and looked up. “I’m so sorry, but that’s correct. The day camps fill up super early in the summertime, which is why when you booked your stay, you should have been sent a link to preregister online.”
The woman shifted the blanket-sucking kid to her other hip, and let out a long, beleaguered sigh. “Well, my idiot husband booked our cottage, so that explains a lot. The only thing he’s interested in signing up for are blowjobs and tee times.” She waved her hand at the computer. “Can’t you, like, squeeze them in anyway?”
“I wish I could,” Parrish said. “But there’s already a waiting list for this session.”
“What am I supposed to do with these three now?” The mom gestured at the girls, who had somehow managed to steal the blanket from their brother and were using it for a game of tug-of-war, while the little boy was sobbing, “Banky. I need my banky.” The woman reached down and swatted both girls’ butts. “Sidney! Sloaney! Stop it!” she hissed. “Give Sutton his blanket back. Right now, or you’re not getting any ice cream.”
Parrish craned her neck to look out the French doors that led to the veranda. “Looks like a beautiful day for the beach. And of course, the pool is open, and the playground. Also, if I hurry, I can sign you all up for the nine-o’clock nature walk with Miss Anne, our in-house naturalist. You’ll see the roseate spoonbill rookery…”
“Birds?” The woman’s shrill voice echoed in the high-ceilinged lobby. She leaned into the desk until her face was only inches from Parrish’s. “It’s already eighty-five degrees outside. Do I look like someone who wants to drag these three on a walk to see some fucking birds?”
“To be honest, you don’t.”
“Babysitters? Surely you people have a babysitting service.”
Maybe just drop them off at the nearest fire station,Parrish thought.Wonder if there’s, like, a Tinder, but for childcare?
“I’m afraid not,” Parrish said finally, trying to sound sympathetic. “But I can add your name to the Little Minnows waiting list, and if something comes up…”
“Hrrumppph.” A man with graying hair stood a few feet behind the mom and her kids.
“I’ll be with you in a moment,” Parrish said, hoping this would signal the woman that her time was up.
“Mommmmmmy,” the little boy wailed. “I tee-teed!” Sure enough, there was a suspicious, spreading wet spot on the front of the mom’s dress.
“Perfect!” the woman said. “Just perfect.” She grabbed both her daughters’ hands. “Come on. We’re gonna go find Daddy on the golf course.”
Felice picked up the sea bass fillet and sniffed. It wasn’t off—yet—but it definitely wasn’t fresh, and had, in fact, probably been sitting on ice for at least a couple of days.
“Eighty-six the sea bass,” she called to Rocky, her sous-chef.
“What? Why? It’s the lunch special.” He pointed to the wall-mounted computer screen. “Look. We’ve got six orders already.”
“It’s gone bad,” Felice said. “When was this mess delivered?”
“This morning. First thing. From our regular fishmonger.”
“What’s his name?”
“Tommy Betz. We buy all our fish from him. He’s been around forever.”
Felice picked up the tray of sea bass and tipped the whole thing into the trash. “Thisfishhas been around forever. We’re not sending this out ofmykitchen. No, sir.”
“What do we tell the servers?” Rocky asked, desperation in his voice and on his face.
