The Homewreckers(52)

“Okay, I’m sold,” Trae said, laughing. “Where do you live? Here on Tybee?”

“No. I’ve got a little bungalow in Thunderbolt.”

“Thunderbolt? That’s a real place?”

“Very real. It used to be a fishing village, with all the shrimp boats tied up along the Wilmington River. We bought it before we got married, and I’ve been fixing it up ever since.”

Trae looked surprised. “I didn’t know you were married. So, what, you’re divorced?”

“No. I’m a … God, I hate this word. Widow. Married young, widowed young.”

His face colored. “I’m sorry. For assuming, and for your loss. I know it’s none of my business, but what happened?”

“Hit-and-run by a drunk teenaged driver on the Lazaretto Creek Bridge,” Hattie said. “Hank was on his motorcycle.”

“Jesus,” Trae whispered. “I’m sorry, Hattie. Tell me they caught the little shit and threw his ass in prison.”

“I wish,” Hattie said. “It’s been seven years now. The officer who worked the case still calls to check in with me. And every time I get that call, it feels like a fresh stab in the heart.”

Trae reached over and squeezed Hattie’s hand. He let his hand linger there, for just a second longer than necessary. His hand was warm, and she realized she felt comforted.

“Hey,” he said, breaking the awkward silence. “I’m starved. And I am not eating any more craft service food today. How about dinner? Is there a place on this island where I could get a decent martini?”

“Sundae Café,” Hattie said promptly.

“What do you say we both clean this pancake makeup off our faces and head over there?”

“Okay,” she said, surprising herself. “Let me see if Cass wants to come too.”

“Swell,” he said, but his tone gave him away.

“Never mind,” Hattie said, laughing. “Give me ten minutes and I’ll be good to go.”





27

What’s for Dessert?




Trae rolled his eyes in disbelief when he saw where the restaurant was located—in a small strip shopping center, wedged between Chu’s convenience store and XYZ Liquors. “Really? Are we having barbeque, or pizza, or barbecued pizza?”

“Don’t be such a snob,” Hattie said. “The food here is as good as anything you’d find in downtown Savannah, or Charleston.”

They found a table in the small front room, ordered drinks—a dirty martini for Trae, a glass of chardonnay for Hattie—and were about to order dinner when a woman, middle-aged, sunburnt and excited, edged toward them.

“I told my friends,” she pointed at a table of five women, “I know that’s him. That’s gotta be him. You’re Trae Bartholomew, right? From Design Minds?”

Trae flashed a blinding smile. “That’s me.”

She clapped her hands. “Yay! I knew it. We all thought you should have won. That girl that did win, Jovannah? Her room was the tackiest thing I’ve ever seen. I mean, who glues aluminum foil to a wall? Ugh! Anyway, your room was the best. And we’re all big fans, we follow you on Instagram, and we’re dying to know about your new show!”

The women at the table all waved in unison and lifted their wineglasses in a toast.

“Well, thanks,” Trae said, trying and failing to appear humble. “Design Minds was a fun show, and I got a lot of business out of it, so I guess, in the end, I really did win.”

“We saw the photos of the new project you’re working on,” she said. “That kitchen is the worst!” She glanced meaningfully at Hattie. “Is the project in Savannah? Is this your, like, assistant?”

“My costar!” he said hastily. “Hattie Kavanaugh.” He lowered his voice. “We’re shooting a new show for HPTV. But keep that on the down-low, okay?”

“Really!” she shrieked. “Right here on tacky old Tybee?”

“Tybee’s not tacky,” he said. “It’s charming. Quaint. Unassuming. And wait until you see the transformation. It’ll be the most gorgeous beach cottage you’ve ever seen.”

“Where is the house? When will the show air?”

Trae held up his hands in surrender. “I can’t give you the address, but I can tell you it’s a historic waterfront house, and the show will air on Wednesday nights starting this fall.”

“I can’t wait!” the woman said. She produced a menu and a pen. “Would it be rude of me to ask for an autograph?”

“I’d consider it rude if you didn’t ask,” he said, scrawling his name across the menu. “Now, how about a photo?”

“Oh my God!” she trilled, and nodded at Hattie. “Would you?”

“Of course,” Hattie said, but when she stood up, instead of inviting her to pose, the fan handed her the phone.

Trae got up from the table and draped his arm across the woman’s shoulders. “Say ‘Homewreckers’!” he prompted, beaming down at the stranger.

Hattie clicked off three or four frames and handed the phone back.

“That was awkward,” Trae said, when the woman returned to her friends. “Sorry. Sometimes these hard-core fans can be pretty insensitive.”