Haven Creek

by Rochelle Alers

  “How are you feeling?” Morgan asked Kara.

  “Other than having a rapidly expanding waistline and feeling hungry twenty-four seven, I’m okay. Jeff has threatened to handcuff me to the bed because I get up in the middle of the night to raid the refrigerator. One night he came home during his dinner break to find me sitting in front of the fridge with the doors open, eating leftovers.”

  Morgan laughed until she had to hold her ribs. “You’re worse than my sister Rachel. Her doctor told her to stop eating ice cream sundaes because there’s no more room for the baby to grow and that’s why she’s so uncomfortable.”

  “Some women crave pickles and ice cream, but I crave watermelon. If there’s no watermelon in the fridge, I literally have a meltdown.”

  “How is Jeff taking impending fatherhood?”

  “I believe he’s going to be certifiably crazy by the time I give birth. He went to the Parlor Bookstore and bought every book on pregnancy and babies Deborah Monroe had in stock. He rolled his eyes at me when I asked him if he planned to deliver his own son or daughter.”

  “What do you want? A girl or a boy?”

  Kara turned on the cold water faucet as she diced onions. “It doesn’t matter. Personally, I would love to have twins.”

  “Do twins run in your family?”

  “I don’t remember my mother talking about twins on her side of the family. I know you mentioned researching the shared histories of the black and white Pattons. Did you find any evidence of twins on either side?” she asked Morgan.

  “Not yet. I’m still collecting slave bills of sale, records of property ownership, and estate inventories. It will take a while before I get around to checking birth and census records.”

  Over a leisurely breakfast of spinach omelets, fresh melon, and corn muffins, Morgan and Kara chatted comfortably about Angels Landing. She told her Nate had agreed to re-create the slave village, including the winnowing barns and blacksmith workshop. She also gave her an update on the problem she’d had with the discontinued wallpaper patterns.

  “I’m going to stop by Angels Landing after I leave here to check with the project manager. He says it’s going to take time stripping the paper because he doesn’t want to damage the walls. Even though I’m looking to complete the restoration in three to five years, I still don’t want him to milk us with cost overruns.”

  Peering at Morgan over the rim of a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice, Kara took a deep swallow. “Didn’t you tell me he came highly recommended?”

  “Yes, I did. But when people see dollar signs, the greedy gene takes over. I’m glad David suggested you include the termination-at-will clause in his contract. If his workers are slacking off, then he’s at risk for losing his job.” Morgan dabbed the corners of her mouth with her napkin. “Maybe Bobby Nugent needs a little shake-up. I’m going to ask Nate if he would act as an inspector.”

  Kara’s fork was poised in midair. “Isn’t he a carpenter?”

  Morgan smiled. “He’s more than a carpenter.” She told Kara about the barn. “I’ll call and ask him if he’s willing to meet me at Angels Landing tomorrow morning.”

  “What are you going to do if Bobby’s been purposefully slowing down?”

  “I’ll fire him on the spot,” Morgan replied.

  Kara stared, wide-eyed, at the architect. “Who will you get to replace him?”

  “Me. That is, until I can find someone qualified to fill the position. I’ll be at Angels Landing every morning around seven thirty to monitor who’s on time and who’s late. The workers are paid to begin working at eight. They’re entitled to a lunch hour, two ten-minute breaks—one in the morning and another in the afternoon—and are scheduled to work until four. If I have to install a time clock for them to punch in and out, then I will.”

  “Come on, Morgan. It’s not that critical.”

  “Yes it is, Kara. My reputation is on the line here. You’re paying me to fulfill the conditions stated in your father’s will. Stripping wallpaper isn’t like restoring the ceiling and frescoes of the Sistine Chapel.”

  Kara held up both hands. “I’m out of this. Do whatever you have to do.”

  Morgan nodded. “Thank you.”

  Kara pushed back her chair, rising to her feet. “Do you want coffee or tea?”

  “Can you make iced coffee?”

  “Sure, I’ll make you some. I’ve sworn off coffee, tea, pop, and of course anything alcoholic. It’s just fruit juice, water, and milk.”

  “Think of how healthy you and your baby will be,” Morgan said.

  “Now you sound like Jeff.”

  Morgan stood up and began clearing the table. “I brought my laptop with me so I can show you the wallpaper samples. I need you to tell me which ones you like so I can order the quantities I need for each room before they’re discontinued.”

  “We’ll look at them in the sunroom.”

  Morgan entered M. Dane Architecture and Interior Design through the rear door. The soft chiming of a bell alerted the receptionist that someone had come in. Seconds later, Samara Lambert appeared in the open doorway to Morgan’s private office. In deference to the heat, Samara had brushed her shoulder-length brown hair off her face, holding it in place with a red-and-white striped headband. With her freshly scrubbed face and white sundress, banded with candy-cane stripes at the hem, she looked as if she were in her early twenties rather than her midthirties. A pair of red ballet flats completed her look.

  Samara’s lips parted in a knowing smile. “I know I look like a little girl, but this is the coolest thing I could find in my closet. It’s one of my matching mother-daughter dresses.”

  Morgan placed her tote on a chair. “You look adorable, Sam.”

  “That’s exactly what Nelson said to me before he left for work this morning.” Pulling a crumpled tissue from her pocket, Samara dabbed the back of her neck. “And you look like the princess of cool.”

  “I had to search my closet to find this dress.”

  “I nearly melted before I got here. The air went out in my car last night and I had to drive from the Creek with all the windows rolled down.” There were red splotches on Samara’s pale cheeks.

  “You can’t drive around in this weather without air-conditioning,” Morgan said.

  “I know. I left the car at the service station, and one of the mechanics told me he’s going to try to get to it today. If not, then it won’t be until tomorrow.”

  Walking over to the thermostat, Morgan lowered the temperature so more cool air would flow through the vents. “Are we scheduled to see anyone today?”

  Samara shook her head. “No, but a messenger delivered an envelope before you walked in.”

  “Maybe we’ll—” The doorbell chimed, interrupting Morgan.

  Samara turned on her heels. “Let me see who that is.”

  Morgan sat down at her desk, picking up several letters. She noted the return address on the envelope that had been hand-delivered. It was from Sullivan, Webster, Matthews and Sullivan. She opened the envelope and read the cover letter, signed by David. He wanted Nate to go over the enclosed contract, sign it, and return it to him within ten days.

  Samara returned, handing Morgan a single sheet of paper. “Someone from the mayor’s office delivered this.”

  Morgan scanned it quickly. It was a power-outage alert, warning businesses to conserve energy until further notice. The power company planned to have rolling brownouts to prevent a potential island-wide blackout. There was also a recommendation that businesses extend their midday siestas by two additional hours until further notice.

  Her head popped up. “Instead of closing between twelve and two, we’ll have to remain closed from twelve until four.”

  An expression of panic crossed Samara’s face. “That means I’ll only get two work hours.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Sam,” Morgan said, in an attempt to put her at ease. “Your pay will remain the same, and you’ll get to spend more time with your children
.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Any calls that come into the office will be forwarded to my cell.”

  “How long do you think this is going to last?” Samara asked.

  Morgan remembered the last time the island lost electricity. It was during a thunderstorm earlier that spring. The power had gone out and wasn’t restored until late the following morning. She wasn’t affected because she’d had a backup generator. The year Cavanaugh Island was hit hard from a series of tropical storms, many of the island’s residents bought generators.

  “I don’t know, but I prefer brownouts to blackouts. Why don’t you pack up and go home? After I make a few calls, I’m also leaving.”

  Excitement shimmered in Samara’s brown eyes. “Are you sure?”

  “You can stay if you want, but after I finish what I have to do I’m going to the beach.”

  “I’m gone!” Samara shouted as she rushed to put her desk in order. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Don’t you need a ride?” Morgan called after her.

  “I’m going to call Nelson and have him pick me up.”

  Morgan waited for Samara to leave, locked the front door, and then turned its sign around so that the CLOSED side faced the street. She reprogrammed the telephones to go to her cell. Slipping the contract into her tote bag, she adjusted the air-conditioning, turned off all the lights, and locked the rear door.

  Outside, the heat hit her as though she had opened the door to a blast furnace, and the humidity wrapped around her like a weighted blanket. Although Morgan was used to the Lowcountry’s subtropical climate, temperatures between ninety-five and one hundred degrees in June were not the norm.

  She got into her vehicle, started the engine, and rolled down the windows, waiting for the interior to cool enough to drive off. Reaching for her phone, she punched the speed dial for Nate’s cell. It rang four times.

  “Hey, baby.”

  Morgan smiled. “Hello, Nate.”

  “What’s up?”

  “I’m calling to let you know I’m going to drop off your contract. David says he has to have it back within ten days.”

  “I won’t be there.”

  Her smile faded. Was Nate about to renege on their agreement? “Why not?”

  “Right now I’m sitting in the airport. I’m on standby, waiting for a flight to L.A. My former business partner’s sister called to tell me he was shot when someone jacked him for his bike.”

  Morgan bit her lip. “Is he all right?”

  “All I know is he’s in the ICU.”

  “Oh, no.”

  “I’m not certain how long I’m going to be away. As soon as I find out where I’ll be staying, I’ll text you the address. Overnight the contract to me. I’ll sign it and overnight it back to you.”

  “Thank you, Nate.”

  His chuckle caressed her ear. “There’s no need to thank me, Mo. I gave you my word.”

  “I suppose I needed to hear it again.”

  “Why? Don’t you trust me?”

  “Of course I trust you.” Her voice had gone up an octave.

  “Hold on, Mo. They just called my name. I think I have a seat. Gotta go.”

  “Okay. Have a safe flight.”

  “Thanks. Bye, baby.”

  “Bye,” she whispered.

  Shifting into gear, Morgan maneuvered out of the parking lot. Mixed feelings surged through her. She felt a sense of loss at knowing Nate was leaving. When had she begun to lean on him? He’d questioned whether she trusted him, and somehow, despite being away from each other’s lives for more than two decades, she did.

  Chapter Twelve

  Nate walked into the hospital room, stopping abruptly when he saw Dwight Wickham sitting up in bed. The machines monitoring his vitals were gone, leaving only the IV taped to the back of his hand.

  “Well, look at you.”

  Dwight extended a fist, smiling when Nate gave it a bump. “I’m baaack.”

  His friend had spent the past eleven days in a medically induced coma to bring down the swelling where a small-caliber bullet had lodged in his brain. Nate had promised Dwight’s sister he would stay in L.A. until the neurosurgeon deemed it time to reverse the coma.

  Jacqueline had called him, hysterical, when she’d discovered Dwight lying unconscious in his driveway, his top-of-the-line BMW motorcycle missing. She’d apologized, saying she’d called Nate because Dwight had listed him as a secondary contact in the event of a medical emergency.

  Sitting on the chair at the foot of the bed, Nate stared at Dwight. Not only were they friends and former business partners, they were also kindred spirits, sharing the same birth date. His friend always joked about being born in the wrong decade, because he would’ve loved living as a hippie. But that didn’t stop him from looking like one: full salt-and-pepper beard, waist-length ponytail, tie-dyed shirts, and bell-bottoms.

  “How are you feeling?”

  Dwight’s left hand trembled slightly when he reached up to touch his bandaged head. “Except for a bitch of a headache, I’m good. You know the SOBs cut my hair and beard? It took me more than twenty years to get it that long.”

  Crossing one leg over the opposite knee, Nate leaned back in the uncomfortable chair, where he’d spent hours watching Dwight hooked up to beeping machines. He’d told Jacqueline he wanted to be there when her brother woke up.

  “It’ll grow back, DW.” He didn’t want to tell the eccentric self-made millionaire that he’d looked like a homeless person with his long hair and unkempt beard.

  “I’ll have to see what I look like with a shaved head before I decide whether to grow it back. Women claim men with bald heads are sexy.” He flopped back against the pillows cradling his shoulders. “I don’t know why, but I feel as if I’ve lost twelve years of my life rather than twelve days.”

  “You’re alive, DW. That’s all that matters.”

  “If they’d wanted the damn bike I would’ve given it to them. In fact, I would’ve taken them to the dealer and bought both of the bastards a new one. The young one with the gun threatened to shoot me before I handed over the keys.”

  “Would you recognize them if you saw them again?”

  Dwight’s eyelids fluttered. “No. I installed closed-circuit cameras around the house a couple of months ago. There’s no doubt the police will be interested in seeing the footage.” Dwight’s large gray eyes stared at the ceiling. “When I looked down the bore of that gun, it was as if I saw my life flash before my eyes, Nate. I tried remembering the names of the women I’d slept with and realized there were too many to count. There were a few I loved enough to marry, but I didn’t want to change or stop what I was doing.” His gaze swung back to Nate. “I envied you when you married Kim, because you seemed so happy. That’s when I proposed to Nicole.”

  “You never told me that.”

  A wry smile twisted Dwight’s mouth. “That’s because she said she couldn’t introduce me to her conservative right-wing parents with me looking like a blast from the seventies. All she did was ask me to cut my hair and beard, and I refused.”

  “Do you keep in touch with her?” Nate asked.

  “We still exchange Christmas and birthday cards.”

  “Is she married?”

  “No.”

  “Are you still in love with her?” Nate asked.

  A beat passed. “Yeah. I always think of her as the one who got away.”

  Nate pointed to the telephone on the bedside table. “Call her, DW. Call her and let her know you’re ready to meet her folks.”

  “I don’t want her to come back to me just because I’m lying in this bed.”

  “It shouldn’t matter where you are. If she loves you then she’ll take you lying down or standing up.”

  “I’ll think about it,” Dwight promised. “If I do call her, it’ll be after I’m discharged.”

  Nate uncrossed his legs, planting both feet on the floor. “I’m going to make one request.”

>   “What’s that?”

  “I want to be your best man.”

  Dwight laughed. “Not only will you be best man, you’ll be the godfather to my firstborn.” He sobered quickly. “What about you, man? Are you seeing anyone?”

  Nate thought about Morgan. He hadn’t spoken to her since the day he left. He’d kept his promise to text her the address of the hotel where he’d been staying. Two days later he received the envelope with the contract. He’d wanted his lawyer to look it over before he signed it, but three thousand miles and the ten-day turnaround time made that impossible. He’d scrawled his signature across all three copies, and, using the hotel’s concierge, mailed them back to Morgan.

  He’d lost count of the number of times he’d stopped himself from picking up his cell phone to call her just to hear her sultry voice. “Yes and no.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Yes, I’m seeing a woman. But it’s not serious.”

  “You’re friends?” Nate nodded. “That’s a good sign. Nicole and I dated for almost a year before we slept together.”

  Nate pushed to his feet. “It’s time I leave so you can get some rest. Now that you’re okay, I’m going to head back home.” He walked to the side of the hospital bed. “I’ll probably see you once more before I leave.” Resting a hand on Dwight’s arm, Nate gave it a gentle squeeze. “When you’re back on your feet I want you to come to Cavanaugh Island for a little R-and-R. The invitation extends to Nicole. I just built a place with an extra bedroom, so you have no excuse.”

  Dwight covered the hand on his arm with his. “I promise I’ll come, with or without Nicole.”

  “I’ll haunt the hell out of you if you don’t keep your promise.”

  Waiting until he was seated in his rental car, Nate took out his cell and tapped the keys for Morgan’s number. It was a little after eleven on the East Coast. He sat up straight when his call was connected.

  “M. Dane Architecture and Interior Design. This is Samara. How may I help you?”