The Homewreckers(133)

“We have grits in California,” he said. “But they don’t taste the same.” He gave her a sidelong glance. “Want to tell me about last night?”

In between sips of coffee, she gave him a recap of the night’s events.

“What happens now?”

“According to Makarowicz, Davis will be charged with murder, arson, and attempted kidnapping. And whatever else the district attorney can come up with.”

“I was on the phone with Rebecca while you were in the shower,” Mo said. “Makarowicz held a press conference this morning to announce Davis Hoffman’s arrest. Of course Becca’s already finagling how to turn this thing into ratings gold. She wants us to shoot an extra episode, sort of like an epilogue, with a true-crime kind of twist to it.”

Carefully, Hattie put her coffee mug down on the countertop. “Okay, but I want script approval. We do this my way, or not at all.”

“Seriously?”

“Very seriously. I’ve been through some drama in my own life. I don’t want this story to be sensationalized any more than it already has been. And I’ll only do it if Emma Ragan gives it her blessing. I won’t exploit her misery.”

The food arrived and Mo attacked his breakfast with a vengeance. Hattie picked at her omelet and nibbled at a piece of toast. “Well?”

“Okay,” Mo said. “Seems fair.”





71

Show Time




Hattie stood in the front yard at the Creedmore house and beamed. “It’s not even the same house. I don’t have words.”

Looking at it in the light of day, the transformation was startling. The formerly sagging, rotting porch stood proud, with a row of fluffy green fern baskets hanging between the columns, and huge iron urns filled with red geraniums and trailing ivy flanking the newly painted front door. The brass lanterns had been polished and gleamed in the sunlight.

She turned and looked at the camera. “The first time I saw this place it was boarded up with plywood. The city had condemned it. The house is a hundred years old and was showing its age.”

Cass joined her on the front porch and Hattie turned to her. “Cass, you had a pretty dramatic reaction to the house, didn’t you?”

“At first, I wouldn’t even get out of the truck, the place was that bad. It was so overgrown, you couldn’t even tell there was a house back there. I told her, no way we can save this place.”

“It was gruesome,” Trae said with an exaggerated shudder.

“The second floor was sort of tilted,” Hattie said, as they climbed the porch steps together. “It looked like an old lady who had put her hat on crooked.”

“Look at this,” Trae said, pushing the door open. “Remember that nasty wall-to-wall carpet? I really didn’t think there could be anything worth saving here.”

“But I knew there would be hardwood floors. Most of these old Tybee raised cottages were built from heart pine. Sanding and refinishing these floors took a lot of sweat equity, but look how it paid off,” Hattie said, gesturing at the living and dining rooms. “And look how great the fireplace turned out.”

“I love the whitewash paint finish we used to mellow it out and make it look like local Savannah gray bricks,” Trae said. “And that huge oak beam you had milled from a fallen tree really works well for the mantel.”

The cameras trailed them as they moved from room to room, explaining the process of rehabbing the old beach house. Finally, Hattie and Trae stood in the kitchen.

“This room looked like something out of a crack house,” Trae said.

“I’d hoped we could salvage some of the original cabinetry, but in the end, the only original element in here are these wood floors,” Hattie said.

“Which I sanded, taped off, and painted with this checkerboard design,” Trae said, rubbing at his back. “It was literally a pain in my butt. Of course, the floors are my favorite thing in the kitchen. Hattie, I think I already know what you’re proudest of.”

Hattie pointed to the island, which was styled with a primitive wooden dough bowl filled with Meyer lemons from a tree she’d discovered in the backyard, and a cut-glass pitcher of lemonade. “My favorite is this work island. For years, I’d been hoarding this antique display cabinet that came out of an old haberdashery on Broughton Street, in downtown Savannah. We put a new marble top on it, and then, continuing the vintage Savannah theme, we hung these old brass ship’s lanterns as pendants. You know, Trae, Carolyn Meyers, our real estate agent, says this kitchen is the sizzle that’s going to sell this steak.”

Carolyn walked into the kitchen on cue, holding a leather folder. “I can’t wait to get this listing online, you two. The house is going to show beautifully, and I truly believe we’ll have no problem getting our list price. In fact, I predict a bidding war.”

Trae held the back door open, and the threesome walked out onto the back porch.

Hattie pointed at the view through the trees. The new sod was a bright green, and in the distance, sunlight sparkled on the water and pelicans glided by in formation.

“That’s the real star, right there,” she said. “This view of the Back River and Little Tybee. That’s what beach-house living is about. Can’t you just picture yourself kayaking out there on a spring day? Or dropping a fishing line or a crab trap off the end of the dock?”