by that's me
No, don't go there, Mimi warns herself, turning into a fortuitously vacant spot beneath the parking lot's lone shade tree, a straggly-looking oak.
Don't think ahead. Don't even consider that. Daddy was a time bomb; he smoked three packs a day. Jed doesn't even-
"Stop! "Jed calls sharply.
She slams on the brakes and looks at him in hopelessness, wondering how on earth she's going to coax him into going in to face the prognosis. He didn't want to come, doesn't want to know.
When he's spoken at all in the hours since the doctor's nurse called to summon them here, it's to voice his intent to steal a boat and hurtle himself overboard far out in the Atlantic the next time a storm blows in.
I swear, Mimi, if that doctor tells me something's really wrong with me, I'm not going to sit here and the a slow death…
"Jed, I know this is hard," she says gently, her hands trembling on the steering wheel, foot frozen on the brake, "but we can get through it, whatever-"
"Broken glass," he interrupts.
She stares at him. Now he's incoherent How on earth is she going to get him to- "There." He points to the parking space she was about to take. Shards of a brown glass bottle are strewn with other litter between the parallel white lines. "Don't pull in. You'll slash the tires."
"Oh." She swallows hard, shifts into reverse.
Slashed tires can be patched, replaced. Slashed tires are so easy, really, in the grand scheme of things; ridiculously simple to remedy.
"I'll find another spot," she manages to say around the lump in her throat as she eases the car back into the midday sun's full glare on the asphalt.
"Or we could just leave. We could go pick up Cam from your mother's and get the hell out of here."
"And go where?"
"Who the hell cares? California. Hawaii. Europe. You've always wanted to go to Europe. You would have, I if it weren't for me."
"Don't say that!"
"Why not? It's true. If you hadn't stayed on the island and married me, you would have eventually found your way back to college and finished your degree."
"Stop it That's not true!"
Yes, it is. You know it is. But it doesn't even matter. You never second-guessed your choice.
The sunny parking lot disappears behind a watery haze of tears. 'Jed, we'll go to Europe. Maybe next spring. We'll plan a trip."
He's silent.
Next spring.
Please let us have next spring.
And the one after that…
Please let us have time.
Heart pounding in dread, she pulls blindly into a parking spot and turns off the engine.
"Ready?" she asks-and instantly regrets it. What a foolish thing to ask.
He merely shrugs.
Slowly, hand in hand, the way they used to toddle down Achoco Beach as children, they walk toward the clinic to hear the doctor's verdict.
'"Bye," Lianna calls over her shoulder, bolting from the car, her own guilt, and mainly, her mother.
She half-expects Mom to take off as well, tires shrieking. She wouldn't blame her.
But the car remains, engine idling, as Lianna scurries up the walk leading to Casey's family's red brick Colonial. Why? Is Mom going to come after her to apologize, or yell at her some more? Or, uh-oh, is she suspicious?
Liana forces herself to turn and give a quick wave to show that everything is all right Looking into the bright sunlight, she can't see into the car. Which is fine with her.
Go on, Mom. Leave, would you? Just get out of here.
It isn't until Lianna has disappeared through the wrought iron side gate that leads along a shade-dappled path, and slammed it firmly behind her, that she hears the Lexus pull away.
Good riddance. Geez.
Dry-eyed again, thank goodness, she makes her way beneath a canopy of centuries-old trees toward the back of Casey's house.
It's peaceful here in the old-fashioned garden; the grounds as deserted as the house itself.
Birds sing from overhead branches. Fat bumblebees hum lazily above magenta hibiscus blossoms. A steady trickle of water flows into the little lily pond Casey's father built for her mother last Christmas. Lianna's steady footsteps crunch on the white gravel path. Then she hears something else… The slightest rustling from behind a blooming shrub.
Her heartbeat quickening, Lianna breaks into a run-toward, not away from, the sound.
Rounding a bend in the gravel path, she smiles.
Kevin is waiting here for her.
Just as he promised.
"It's good to see you again, Phyllida. You're looking lovely as always." 'Thank you." As Tyler Hawthorne ushers her into the conference room with a hale handshake, she can't help but think that her grandfather's attorney would be a casting agent's dream should a role call for a stately I Southern businessman. The elderly attorney comes complete with three-piece suit, well-tended thatch of white hair, and a booming accent thicker than peanut soup.
She hasn't seen him since her wedding day. He invited her to waltz, chatted charmingly and flirted harmlessly, then handed over an envelope that contained a card, with a sentimental, cliché-ridden rhyme, and a thousand-dollar check.
"I hear you and your husband have a little boy now. How are they?"
"Fine-they're at the beach today." She can't help but notice that Tyler seems oddly reluctant to look her in the eye.
Is it because this is official business, and not a social event?
Or because he's torn up over Grandaddy's death?
She doesn't even want to consider what other factor might have rendered him uncharacteristically reticent Not now. Not when financial salvation is as much within her grasp as Tyler Hawthorne's cold hand.
"Have a seat, won't you?" He releases his grip abruptly and turns to her brother, who's wearing, as usual, a custom-made suit, custom-made dress shirt with French cuffs, silk tie-and, today, the greenish pallor of I one who has had a few too many bourbons the night before.
"Gib, my boy, I see life is treating you well."
Is it Phyllida's imagination, or is there a hollow ring to Tyler's jovial words?
"Settled somewhere up North now, are you?"
"Boston. I passed the bar a while back."
"Congratulations. Which firm are you with?" An invisible crank tightens Gib's polite smile just a notch. "I haven't joined one yet. I'm still, uh, entertaining some offers."
"All in good time," is Tyler's response, after an awkward silence.
Maybe, Phyllida thinks, as she settles into one of the leather chairs at the conference table, he thinks we're under-achievers. Maybe he was expecting me to be a big movie star by now, and Gib to be a partner in some fancy firm.
Well, it doesn't matter what Tyler Hawthorne thinks of them. His role here isn't to judge Grandaddy's heirs, but to present them with Grandaddy's money.
She notices a limp in Tyler's gait as he walks to
his own seat, and he winces visibly as he sits down.
He looks up and sees that she's watching him, so she politely asks, "Are you all right?"
"I will be. I was hurt in an accident a while ago." "What kind of accident?"
"I was in the crosswalk right out here on Drayton, in front of the building. It was raining, and a car came flying around the corner at top speed…" "Was it a young kid? They're the worst." "I have no idea. Whoever it was kept right on going. Either they didn't see me, or didn't care." "Probably a kid."
"Probably. Anyway, I broke my leg and a couple of ribs, but the doctor said I'm lucky it wasn't worse. At my age, you don't bounce back as quickly as you'd like."
Phyllida murmurs an appropriate comment, and sneaks a glance at her watch.
"I trust your cousin Charlotte is on her way?" Tyler asks, somewhat anxiously.
As if on cue, the door to the conference room opens. The receptionist announces, "Mrs. Maitland is here."
"Wonderful." Tyler's tone is hearty. "We can get started."
But Phyllida can't help but notice that he looks far more apprehensive than he does relieved.
Dr. Maurice Redmond has garlic breath and a splash of something tomato-orange on his white shirt, just below his collar.
But that isn't why Mimi dislikes him even more intensely today than she did when they first met in Jed's hospital room.
The man has zero bedside manner. He greets them with all the warmth of the security guard who validated their parking ticket downstairs.
Now, after brusquely ordering them to take two hardback chairs pulled up to his battered metal desk in an office with all the ambiance of a public restroom, he reaches unceremoniously for a manilla folder.
Watching him scan the report inside, Mimi fantasizes about bolting from the clinic with Jed in tow. Europe… They really should go to Europe, like Jed suggested. Right this second. They should grab Cam and get on the first plane the hell out of here.
Never mind that there are no direct overseas flights from Savannah, that they don't have passports, that they can't afford a pack of gum, let alone airline fares. None of that matters. All that matters is escaping.
Before it's too late.
Before this unpleasant man tells them his horrible news.
And Mimi has no doubt that it will be horrible.
Nothing positive can possibly transpire in a place like this: scarred linoleum and fluorescent lights. Concrete-block interior walls painted mustard yellow. The pervasive scent of Pine-Sol that doesn't quite mask the underlying odor of vomit.
"Mr. Johnston, I have your test results here."
Dr. Redmond has begun.
God help us.
Jed squeezes Mimi's hand.
Not reassuringly.
No, it's as though he's holding on for dear life, terrified that whatever the doctor is about to tell them is going to change their lives forever.
"I'm afraid…" The doctor pauses, takes a deep breath and seems to hold it indefinitely.
He's afraid? Mimi thinks incredulously. He's afraid?
"I'm afraid," Dr. Redmond repeats, "the tests indicate a rare malignancy."
"I direct that all my debts and funeral expenses be paid as soon after my death as may be practicable. I further direct…"
The document trembles in Tyler's hands as he pauses in the reading, just for a moment. Just to gather his nerve for the gathering storm.
The only sound in the conference room is the distant wail of a siren somewhere up by the river. The three heirs of Gilbert Xavier Remington II are focused on him, their collective silence and unwavering stares almost as unnerving as the prospect of what comes next.
He continues to read the standard language involving estate and inheritance taxes, conscious that nobody in the room has moved a muscle, or made a sound.
Is it because they sense what's about to happen?
No.
It's because they continue to erroneously anticipate what is not.
Tyler can stall no longer. "I give, devise, and bequeath all of my estate of whatever kind and wheresoever situated…"
Tyler clears his throat and adjusts his reading glasses one last time. He knows they're expecting him to continue with the phrase "in equal shares."
But that was in the old will.
Tyler's voice somehow holds steady as he delivers the explosive language of this one-"to my granddaughter, Charlotte Remington Maitland, provided she survives me."
Royce welcomes the blast of dim, cool air as he steps into the small cafe a stone's throw from the loft space he rents for his computer-consulting business.
Beyond the plate glass windows, Broughton Street is awash in relentless noonday sun and teeming with hot, sticky pedestrians.
Ella Fitzgerald croons a bluesy ballad on the cafe's retro soundtrack as he waits his turn behind a middle-aged couple. If their Yankee accents didn't give them away as tourists, their order would: two large "iced" teas, unsweetened.
Here in the South, it's sweet tea, sugary as gum-drops. Even his wife, who always drinks diet soda and sweetens her coffee with Splenda, enjoys her daily glass of sweet tea before dinner.
Royce orders his from Sheryl-or is it Sherri?-the multipierced, college-aged Goth Girl he finds behind the register every weekday about this time.
Her black-polished fingernails clack on the keys as she rings it up. "We have your favorite eggplant sandwich on whole grain bread as a special today, Mr. Maitland."
"That sounds tempting, but I can't have lunch today.
I've got a meeting to get to down the street in fifteen minutes." He checks the Breguet watch Charlotte gave him on their wedding day, and amends, 'Ten minutes."
"Maybe tomorrow."
"Maybe," he agrees, opening his wallet to remove two dollar bills, fully aware that Sheryl or Sherri is checking him out, as usual.
He probably should be flattered that a girl more than half his age finds him attractive-and some days, he is. Especially with his fiftieth birthday looming in just a few months.
Fifty? How can it be? Royce doesn't feel that old, nor, he's certain, does he look it. Those who don't know his true age-and very few in this world do-would most likely think he's in his mid-thirties.
Nevertheless, the milestone birthday sits squarely on the horizon like an oppressive charcoal storm cloud over the sea.
But Royce doesn't want to think about that at the moment. Nor is he in the mood for casual banter with the counter girl, who fills a clear plastic cup with ice, then pours the tea from a tall metal dispenser.
Moments later, he's back out in the steamy Southern sun, gulping the translucent brown beverage he tends to find far too syrupy to effectively quench his thirst. Regardless, he drains his cup quick
ly and deposits it in a trash can as he strides toward the intersection of Broughton and Bull.
He checks his watch again as he waits to cross. When Charlotte gave it to him, he protested that it was far too extravagant a gift.
"Oh, come on," she said, laughing, "you deserve a little bling bling."
"Bling bling?" he echoed with a grin. "Have you been hanging around with Jenny from the block again?"
