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Charlotte wasn’t home from work yet, so Zoey sat on Charlotte’s patio to wait for her. Her eyes kept going to Lucy’s condo, wondering if she liked the photos Zoey had left for her. She hoped that Lucy had actually gotten them, and not the dellawisps, who were at that moment working together to drag what appeared to be a tourist’s lost pink fanny pack across the garden toward one of the brugmansia trees.
“Hey, you look nice,” Charlotte said as she stepped onto her patio and took her keys out of her jeans pocket. “I’ll take a quick shower and then we can get an Uber.”
“We’re not going to take your scooter?” Zoey asked as she followed Charlotte inside, where the dusty and dinged scooter was parked by the couch. Zoey walked to it and patted it like a good dog.
“You want to?”
Zoey looked sheepish. She’d spent way too much time thinking about it. “I was kind of looking forward to it.”
“Okay,” Charlotte said with a shrug. “But it’s not as fun as you think it is. It might be a glamorous way to get around Rome, but not an American highway. The truth is, I don’t even like it that much.”
“Then why do you drive it instead of a car?”
“Dreams from when I was a teenager. And it’s easier to leave and take only what I need on a scooter,” she said as she headed to her bedroom.
That explained a lot of things. Charlotte’s place was almost aggressively anti-clutter. There wasn’t a single thing here except the witch balls in her bedroom that gave Zoey the impression that it was important to Charlotte, or that it had been carried here from someplace else. Her home didn’t tell many stories, much like Charlotte herself.
When Charlotte emerged about twenty minutes later, she was wearing a short madras dress and denim sneakers, and her hair was in a long, skinny braid. She handed Zoey a helmet and said, “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
But aside from the heat of the helmet and having to hold her dress down, obviously the reason Charlotte favored bicycle shorts under her skirts, Zoey loved the ride. The young man at the valet stand obviously shared Zoey’s enthusiasm. When Charlotte pulledin front of the hotel and Zoey got off, her body still humming from the motor and her hair plastered to her head, he said, “Cool,” and gave her a fist bump.
It had a grand front garden and imposing Greek Revival architecture, so Zoey was surprised when the outside of the Mallow Island Resort Hotel gave way to a relaxed atmosphere inside. The large staircase in the lobby probably led to some guest rooms, but the bulk of the accommodations appeared to be colorful bungalows in the smaller back garden, which could be seen dotting the landscape all the way to the water.
She wanted to look around, but the AC felt glorious when they walked in. They just stood there for a moment, reveling in it. Then Charlotte nudged her and indicated that she’d found Popcorn’s entrance, to the left of the doors.
There was a party of six already waiting, so Charlotte took a seat on a leather banquette by the hostess stand and began to rebraid her hair, which had become loose in the wind.
“There’s Mac,” Zoey said, pointing to a framed magazine article on the wall behind the banquette. Charlotte craned her head to look.
Zoey stepped closer. In the photo Mac was standing in his kitchen wearing his chef’s whites and a tall white hat that looked like a stovepipe. His burly arms were crossed confidently over his chest, and around his neck was a large medal. The headline read:LOCAL CHEF WINS PRESTIGIOUS JAMES BEARD AWARD.
“Charlotte, listen to this. ‘Chef Mac Garrett was born on Mallow Island. He credits his love of food and the inspiration for Popcorn to Camille Hyatt, the woman who raised him and taught him to cook. Mrs. Hyatt worked for fifty years at the beloved Mallow Island seafood shack, the New Sea Food Paradise, once said to have been a favorite of Roscoe Avanger’s.’”
“Roscoe Avanger again,” Charlotte said. “He’s everywhere and nowhere.”
Zoey continued to read. Soon she said, “And listen to this. ‘There are several ghosts said to haunt the property of the Mallow Island Resort Hotel, some from its tragic plantation days before the original house burned. People claim to hear voices near the adjoining nature preserve, speaking in Gullah. And in the newer, post–Civil War house built by the Englishman, Popcorn’s kitchen is supposedly haunted by Benedict, a candymaker brought over from England, said to have been in love with the Englishman’s wife.’”
“Ghosts, too. I should have known.”
After the party of six was seated, Charlotte gave their names and they were led to a round table near the windows overlooking the front of the hotel. Zoey tried to take everything in at once. The bar was made with reclaimed wood and pressed tin. The walls were covered with framed photos of old Southern grain mills. And several antique cornmeal grinders were on display.
“Chef Garrett has chosen your menu tonight,” the hostess said, once they were seated. She handed Charlotte and Zoey small single-page menus, different from the heavier-stock menus others were holding.
Printed on the page in elegant script was:
Dinner for Charlotte and Zoey
FIRST COURSE
Sweet potato soup, sorghum marshmallow
SECOND COURSE
Chilled cornmeal crab cake, mustard cream, curly endive
MAIN COURSE
Crispy pork belly, Coca-Cola glaze, polenta
