Read Gone With a Handsomer Man for Free Online Page A

the cobbled street where the old cotton warehouses used to be. I headed toward Folly Beach and stopped at one of Bing’s favorite restaurants, The Sailmaker.
    “Our pastry chef is from Le Cordon Bleu,” the manager said. “We’re not even hiring dishwashers.”
    I thanked him and drove to the next restaurant on my list. A café on West Hudson offered me a waitressing position, but I was still pumped with optimism and turned it down. By the time I’d worked my way across Charleston, I’d been rejected by eighteen restaurants. I drove to Sunset Smorgasbord on Washington Street. It was Bing’s favorite place in the world. We had eaten there every Friday night.
    I glanced at my watch. Three o’clock. Perfect. I’d arrived during the lull between lunch and supper. I gathered up my courage and went inside. The restaurant was empty except for two middle-aged women in the corner booth. I asked a waitress if the owner was available. She told me to wait by the nautical ropes. Smells drifted from the kitchen—garlic fried shrimp and Parmigiano-Reggiano. The food at Sunset Smorgasbord was fresh and memorable, but the décor was corny: red booths, mounted sailfish, nets filled with shells and plastic crabs.
    Mr. Fortino came out of the kitchen and smiled, as if he recognized me. He led me past the salad bar, which resembled a boat, to a booth in the back. He squeezed into the seat across from me, and the table pressed into the front of his Hawaiian shirt. This was a man who appreciated good food. I started in about how I was a self-taught country cook and really needed a job.
    Mr. Fortino held up his hand to shush me. “Miss, I thought you was engaged to that real estate tycoon who eats here. What’s his name, Bing something?”
    “Jackson,” I said. “We broke up. And I really need a job.”
    “Wish I could help, sweetie. But I don’t have no openings. I got a kitchen full of illegals. If a waitress spot comes open, I’ll keep you in mind.”
    “Thanks.” I started to scoot out of the booth, but he caught my arm.
    “Don’t worry. Cute as you are, you’ll find a job.” He pointed at me. “Be thankful you’re away from that man-whore.”
    I blinked. He hadn’t said a bad word, but it still hurt my ears.
    Mr. Fortino lowered his head, looking at me from under his eyebrows. He was mostly bald except for long black strands that he combed straight back. “I seen you and him coming to eat here week after week. You sitting prim and proper in your cotton dress, ordering manicotti, and him going to the men’s room to rub naughty parts with my wife’s baby sister. Didn’t you notice something was funny? The way he ran back and forth to the bathroom?”
    I’d never heard a man speak in such graphic terms, but Mr. Fortino wasn’t trying to shock me, he was telling the truth. I averted my gaze and said, “Bing told me he had a sick stomach.”
    “Right. ‘Sick stomach’ is man-whorese for ‘Don’t follow me, let me hump in peace.’ The man has no taste. If he ate out a wildebeest, I wouldn’t be surprised. He cheated on his first wife—I forget her name. But she wasn’t sweet like you. I couldn’t believe it when he was engaged to you and tapping that brunette chick.”
    I blinked and blinked. Finally I said, “Natalie Lockhart?”
    “No dick in Charleston is safe with her around,” he said. “Bing wasn’t the only one she snookered.”
    I rubbed my forehead. So this had been going on awhile.
    Mr. Fortino spread his stubby hands on the table. “I’m telling you this cause you’re a nice lady,” he said. “You tipped my waitresses extra when Bing threw down a few dollar bills. Do me a favor. If he asks you to take him back, do a ‘fuck you’ dance all over his face.”
    I thanked him and drove toward Rainbow Row. On impulse, I swung into the Harris Teeter on East Bay Street for baking supplies. I hit the half-price-candy rack in case I had a sugar attack. Bing thought I was a little too curvy. I