Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 123435 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 617(@200wpm)___ 494(@250wpm)___ 411(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123435 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 617(@200wpm)___ 494(@250wpm)___ 411(@300wpm)
Mackenzie radiates pride as she takes us around, pointing out various upgrades. They redid the electrical. All new plumbing. Installed two elevators. Constructed an addition in the back, moving the restaurant so that half of it is now an outdoor patio that overlooks the sprawling pool grounds. We visit the spa, which is no longer housed on the third floor, but in a newly built adjoining building connected to the hotel via winding palm-lined paths, with a gorgeous white stone fountain in the center of the main path.
Whoa. This chick has sunk a lot of money into this. And she’s so young. Mackenzie can’t be older than twenty-two or twenty-three, yet somehow she owns a beachfront hotel in South Carolina. I think I know who I want to be when I grow up.
“You did a stunning job,” Grandma Lydia tells the young woman. “Simply exquisite.” My grandmother can be hard to read when she’s in public, but right now there’s no mistaking her pleasure, the deep glow of approval in her eyes.
Mackenzie releases a breath heavy with relief. “You have no idea how happy I am to hear that. I swear, every design change I made, I was so conscious of trying to stay true to your original vision.”
“You did, dear. This is …” Grandma looks around. We’ve ended our tour in the small café off the lobby. It used to be the gift shop, but Mackenzie moved that to another wing. “It’s perfect.”
A broad smile fills Mackenzie’s face. “Thank you. I’m so thrilled you like it.” She gestures behind us. “Can I get you two a coffee or anything?” she offers. Technically, the hotel isn’t open yet, but she told us the café has been up and running the past few weeks to accommodate the workers who are still making finishing touches on the place.
“A tea would be wonderful,” Grandma tells her.
“I’ll take a coffee,” I say. “Cream, no sugar. Thanks.”
Mackenzie nods and goes to the counter, where she exchanges words with the barista, a man in a navy-blue polo with THE BEACON stitched in gold thread over the left breast.
“This is amazing,” I whisper to Grandma as I lead her to a table outside.
The café offers a small patio with a smattering of tables. To our right is a white-painted staircase that leads down to a wide veranda with handmade rocking chairs, a cozy spot to sit and watch the waves.
Grandma adjusts her sunhat to better secure it to her head. She’s always been incredibly protective of her skin. Sun damage is no joke, Cassandra, I grew up hearing. It’s the one thing she and my mom agree on; Mom’s always harping about sunscreen and hats too. Although in my mother’s case, it’s less about getting cancer and more about maintaining youthful-looking skin. Appearance trumps everything in my mother’s world.
“Mackenzie is cool,” I admit, sitting down. “Oh, and I met her boyfriend on the boardwalk this weekend.”
“Is that so?”
“Yeah. Joy and I ran into Tate. The guy who’s housesitting next door. He was with some of his friends, and one of them was Mackenzie’s boyfriend, Cooper.”
Grandma looks pleased. “That’s wonderful you’re making friends.”
“I mean, I wouldn’t say I’m making friends. I spoke to our neighbor on the boardwalk and consequently met his friends. That’s about it.” I chuckle at her. “Stop trying to force friendships on me. I’m good. I have Joy.”
“I know, but it would be nice if you could find yourself a nice big group to spend time with this summer.” She takes on a faraway tone. “When I was younger, all the young people in the Bay socialized together. There were about fifteen, twenty of us. We would take the boats out and spend hours on the water, or the girls would lie on the beach watching all the oiled-up boys play sports.” She chuckles. “There might have been plenty of alcohol involved too.”
I snicker, trying to picture my grandmother in a tiny bikini and oversized hat, cruising the Bay with a bunch of rowdy teenagers. But it’s impossible. Whenever I try to imagine Grandma at my age, my brain can’t compute. Same goes for my mother. It’s even harder to imagine her as young and carefree. I refuse to believe Mom was ever anything other than a haughty, designer-clad woman in her midforties.
As if on cue, my phone buzzes. Mom has the unsettling habit of always calling just as I’m thinking about her.
“Ugh. It’s Mom. I have to take this.” I glimpse Mackenzie heading toward us with a tray of beverages, so I stand up. “I’ll be right back.”
Grandma nods. “Tell her I said hello. Take your time.”
In the quiet lobby, I answer the call. “Hey, Mom,” I say, and then I brace myself. You never know which side of my mother’s personality you’re going to get on any given day. But I’m an old pro at dealing with her now, always prepared for whatever attack she throws my way. Sometimes, it’s instant criticism, or a huffy demand to explain why I committed one perceived crime or another. Other times she starts off sweet, complimentary even, encouraging you to lower your guard, and then bang! Goes in for the kill.