didn’t show her deference. Employing the royal “we,” she
also issued proclamations about proper club attire. I suspected Bea engineered
the club’s ouster of Dr. Bride. Of course, if she’d actually written the
letter, it wouldn’t have been so lucid. Her verbs and nouns fought like cats
and dogs. Remedial English would have been a better investment than her boob
job.
As we pulled our chairs into the table, Janie introduced me
to the only stranger, Woodrow—Woody—Nickel, the company’s new real estate sales
manager.
“Nice to meet you.” His killer smile sported enough white
enamel to coat a soup kettle. Yet there was no warmth in his dental grimace.
Janie said he was a fraternity brother of Gator’s brought on
board to prepare for the Beach West sales push. My friend already despised him.
She’d called secretaries at his former workplace to check him out. They
described Woody as a macho cad who believed all women had pea brains. Janie
figured it would be interesting to watch Sally demolish him.
In fairness, Woody was handsome in a male-model, gel-haired
vein. But even without prior coaching, his name-dropping chatter would have left
me cold. It was “I-this” and “I-that.” His buttering of Gator made me want to
toss my cookies. However, since Nickel didn’t bother to converse with me, there
was no need to make nice.
Throughout dinner, the agents talked ad nauseam about real
estate. They were giddy at the thought of pent-up demand for Beach West
lots—sorry, homesites . Janie reminded me regularly that “homesites” sold
for double the money of “lots.”
A map of the new development, displayed by the podium,
showed 160 parcels in Beach West’s Phase One. The new homesites were about
one-third the size of lots on the “mature” side of the island where my house
sat. Yet asking prices were double those for resale lots. Go figure.
Across the table, Bea recounted her victory of the day.
She’d ordered the starter at the golf course to eject the Cuthbert twins for
wearing T-shirts. Horror of horrors.
“Everyone knows we require collared shirts,” she sniffed.
Gator squirmed. It’s seldom politic to enforce dress codes
for kids when you depend on their heiress mom to write million-dollar checks.
The developer deliberately snubbed his wife and turned the
conversational tide back to Stew. The agents sang the victim’s praises. “Nice
guy.” “Honest.” “Easy to work with.”
Gradually, the tributes meandered into a discussion of the
“accident’s” potential sales impact. “It was so unseemly,” Bea piped up.
“Stewart being disrobed. That’s not the upscale image we want. We’re just
starting to attract class peoples.”
Janie nudged my elbow and whispered, “Wonder if Bea thinks
we’re ‘class peoples’?”
For an instant, I pitied Bea. I could imagine her as a
flat-chested, gum-smacking teen. A poor Alabama cracker who longed for a prom
invite from the bank president’s son and instead sulked on a date with a
gas-station greaser.
My sympathy evaporated when she launched into a diatribe
about her maid’s incompetence. From Janie, I knew the Dear Company’s resort
wing constantly rotated housekeepers through the Caldwell household. Any sane
maid would quit if forced to endure the assignment longer than a week.
Given that most Dear maids were black, being tagged to work
in the Caldwell household meant a double whammy. Bea and Gator were low-rent
rednecks who had no compunction about telling racist jokes within earshot of
black employees.
By the time our crème brûlée arrived, table conversation had
boomeranged to the group’s hope for strong spring sales. Bea, who knew zilch
about the market, lifted a spoon and twirled it backward to check her
reflection in the makeshift convex mirror.
“I can’t look forward to spring,” she sniffed. “Though
flowers inspire my profession.”
Bea pulled down fifty thou a year as the resort’s “stylist.”
To earn
also issued proclamations about proper club attire. I suspected Bea engineered
the club’s ouster of Dr. Bride. Of course, if she’d actually written the
letter, it wouldn’t have been so lucid. Her verbs and nouns fought like cats
and dogs. Remedial English would have been a better investment than her boob
job.
As we pulled our chairs into the table, Janie introduced me
to the only stranger, Woodrow—Woody—Nickel, the company’s new real estate sales
manager.
“Nice to meet you.” His killer smile sported enough white
enamel to coat a soup kettle. Yet there was no warmth in his dental grimace.
Janie said he was a fraternity brother of Gator’s brought on
board to prepare for the Beach West sales push. My friend already despised him.
She’d called secretaries at his former workplace to check him out. They
described Woody as a macho cad who believed all women had pea brains. Janie
figured it would be interesting to watch Sally demolish him.
In fairness, Woody was handsome in a male-model, gel-haired
vein. But even without prior coaching, his name-dropping chatter would have left
me cold. It was “I-this” and “I-that.” His buttering of Gator made me want to
toss my cookies. However, since Nickel didn’t bother to converse with me, there
was no need to make nice.
Throughout dinner, the agents talked ad nauseam about real
estate. They were giddy at the thought of pent-up demand for Beach West
lots—sorry, homesites . Janie reminded me regularly that “homesites” sold
for double the money of “lots.”
A map of the new development, displayed by the podium,
showed 160 parcels in Beach West’s Phase One. The new homesites were about
one-third the size of lots on the “mature” side of the island where my house
sat. Yet asking prices were double those for resale lots. Go figure.
Across the table, Bea recounted her victory of the day.
She’d ordered the starter at the golf course to eject the Cuthbert twins for
wearing T-shirts. Horror of horrors.
“Everyone knows we require collared shirts,” she sniffed.
Gator squirmed. It’s seldom politic to enforce dress codes
for kids when you depend on their heiress mom to write million-dollar checks.
The developer deliberately snubbed his wife and turned the
conversational tide back to Stew. The agents sang the victim’s praises. “Nice
guy.” “Honest.” “Easy to work with.”
Gradually, the tributes meandered into a discussion of the
“accident’s” potential sales impact. “It was so unseemly,” Bea piped up.
“Stewart being disrobed. That’s not the upscale image we want. We’re just
starting to attract class peoples.”
Janie nudged my elbow and whispered, “Wonder if Bea thinks
we’re ‘class peoples’?”
For an instant, I pitied Bea. I could imagine her as a
flat-chested, gum-smacking teen. A poor Alabama cracker who longed for a prom
invite from the bank president’s son and instead sulked on a date with a
gas-station greaser.
My sympathy evaporated when she launched into a diatribe
about her maid’s incompetence. From Janie, I knew the Dear Company’s resort
wing constantly rotated housekeepers through the Caldwell household. Any sane
maid would quit if forced to endure the assignment longer than a week.
Given that most Dear maids were black, being tagged to work
in the Caldwell household meant a double whammy. Bea and Gator were low-rent
rednecks who had no compunction about telling racist jokes within earshot of
black employees.
By the time our crème brûlée arrived, table conversation had
boomeranged to the group’s hope for strong spring sales. Bea, who knew zilch
about the market, lifted a spoon and twirled it backward to check her
reflection in the makeshift convex mirror.
“I can’t look forward to spring,” she sniffed. “Though
flowers inspire my profession.”
Bea pulled down fifty thou a year as the resort’s “stylist.”
To earn
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