“Of course,” she says, not hiding her disappointment. “Send me what you have when you have it. I’m looking forward to working with you.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She winks at me, then gets in her car—an Aston Martin.
I feel like I’ve entered a different world. I can’t believe this is my life.
* * *
At the courthouse, I’m thrilled the city has copies of all of the original paperwork on the hotel, down to the blueprints and original permits. I make copies of everything.
“Is it true some rich lady from Mobile bought the hotel?” the girl at the desk asks me.
“Fairhope, actually. And yes. I’m the architect she hired.”
She smiles. “You’re not from here.” She says it as a statement more than a question.
“No, ma’am. I’m from Birmingham.”
“You know,” she says, “the Finnegan House is a museum now. It’s in the historic district. They have a whole mess of old photos you can look at. I bet there’s some of the hotel.”
“That’d be great! Are they open?”
“They’re probably closed for the day, but if you’re still here tomorrow, you should swing by. My aunt runs it.”
“I’ll do that,” I say. “Thank you!”
I take my copies and go back to my hotel after picking up some barbeque take-out for dinner. And a t-shirt. I can’t go to Big Ol’ Butts BBQ and not get a t-shirt.
I spend the rest of the night going through my pictures. I have so many ideas my head is spinning, and I have the perfect contractor to help me with the project. I work until almost three in the morning, and when my head hits the pillow, I dream about the Florablanca Inn.
* * *
The next morning, I go to Finnegan House as soon as it opens. It’s a massive white Greek revival with Corinthian columns in the heart of Magnolia Row.
I’m greeted by an older lady wearing flowing dark pink pants with a matching cardigan over a black shirt. She’s wearing gaudy costume jewelry, rings on every finger, and so many necklaces she jingles when she walks. Her hair is short, straight, and gray, and she carries herself like a queen.
This place is spectacular. It has floor-length windows and a porch that wraps around the entire house. It’s decorated immaculately in rich greens, blues, and yellows. I can only imagine what kind of decadent parties were once held here.
“Ruth Cottar,” the lady says, holding out her hand when I walk in. “I don’t know you.”
“No, I’m not from here,” I say, shaking her hand. She looks me over, never cracking a smile. “I’m the architect overseeing the restoration of the Florablanca Inn.”
“Ah,” she says, softening a bit. “Well, I’m glad something is being done about it. It’s been a blight on this town. All these beautiful houses, yet that old dump was left to rot.”
I’m surprised to hear it referred to as a dump, as I see nothing but potential. But to each their own, I guess.
“I was told you have some old photos of the building.”
“Yes, we do.” She stands there for a beat and doesn’t move.
“May I see them?” I ask.
“Of course.” She leads me up the stairs. “Did you want the formal tour of the house or just the photos?”
“Just the photos for now, but I’ll probably come back for the tour on another visit. This house is beautiful.”
“Yes, it is.”
