The Will of Wisteria

by Denise Hildreth Jones

  “I’m sorry, Ainsley. I had no idea.”

  “I didn’t tell you that for your pity, Elizabeth. I told you for your healing. A healing you had better find before the man you love gets away.”

  Elizabeth stood up and headed for the door. “I may be angry, but I’m not in love with Aaron.”

  “Right. And you’ve got a boatload of friends too, don’t you?” Ainsley sighed. “And I thought we were getting somewhere.”

  Mary Catherine pulled her coat tighter around her neck. The wind off the sea could be brutal in winter. She walked around the familiar church. It was the only place she could think of to come.

  She had gone home to let Coco out, but she couldn’t bring herself to stay there. It got dark so early; the last thing she wanted to do was to sit in the dark for five hours hoping to fall asleep. Despite what people thought about Nate, she loved him, and she thought she had finally found a man who loved her in return. They had traveled together, laughed together, made plans together. Maybe she should have been able to see through him. But she was so busy falling into him, that she didn’t see the gaping chasm that awaited her.

  She walked toward her mother’s and father’s grave.

  “Are you lost?” A voice came from the darkness.

  Mary Catherine jumped. “Oh my heavens, you scared me nearly half to death.”

  “Well, unfortunately, we only house the fully dead here,” the man said as he stepped in closer. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

  “Oh, no, I just came to check on my parent’s grave site.”

  “And your parents are?”

  “Rena and Clayton Wilcott. They’re buried right over here.”

  He followed. “Clayton Wilcott was your father?”

  “Yeah, that’s my dad.”

  “He was a wonderful man.”

  “You knew my father?”

  “Yes, he came here every Sunday for five years.”

  She laughed. “You’ve got the wrong man, mister. My dad didn’t go to church. He wouldn’t be caught dead—” She stopped and gave a nervous laugh. “I better not say that in a graveyard, huh?”

  The man gave a little chuckle. “There are, in fact, some living people here, about to have a covered-dish dinner. I’m sure they would love to get acquainted with you, if you’re hungry. We could talk a little more about your father.”

  Mary Catherine did want to know more, but she didn’t want company. Especially strangers. “Oh, well, no. I . . . I really need to get home.”

  He trailed her back toward her car. “These folks fix every imaginable kind of Jell-O salad.”

  She turned back to eye him. “How do you know my father? Really?”

  “I’m Mitch Young, the pastor here. I met your father five years ago, right over there in that little prayer chapel. He came in late one night, and as I was locking up the church, I heard someone weeping.”

  Mary Catherine studied his face in the dim light. “You don’t know my father,” she said. “He doesn’t weep.”

  “Your father, Elijah Clayton Wilcott II, lived up the road at Wisteria Plantation. He had four children: Jeffrey, Elizabeth, Mary Catherine—you, I presume—and his baby boy, Will, who caused him the most concern and heartache. Esau was his right-hand man, and one fabulous cook, I might add. And your father did weep. He wept over the time he never had with his children.”

  Mary Catherine found herself surprisingly speechless.

  He laughed. “Now, we’d really love to have you join us for dinner. They make enough food for the whole island. And I’ll answer any more questions you have.”

  She puckered her nose. “But I hate Jell-O salad.”

  “Me too,” he whispered. “But they make some mean fried chicken too.”

  “Ooh, now you’re talking.”

  Mary Catherine was fawned over and given extra helpings of rice and gravy and Jell-O salads in every color. She met people who knew her father and shared stories about her dad that she never knew. And they made her laugh, made her forget for a moment or two the heart-break that would be waiting at the door when she got home.

  As they were clearing the dishes, she sneaked off into the quiet sanctuary. She went to the second pew on the left, where Mitch Young said her father sat every Sunday. She rubbed her hands across the rich wood, wishing his warmth remained. Slowly she laid her head down in the pew, as she had when she was a little girl. Her tears began to fall and puddle on the wood beneath her cheek.

  She squeezed her eyes shut to stop the tears, only to find her mother waiting in her memory. “Just tell him, sweetheart. Tell Jesus how you feel. What you need.”

  Mary Catherine opened her eyes. “I’ve been so selfish,” she whispered into the darkened sanctuary. “I’ve forgotten how to love, how to give. I’ve forgotten so much.”

  She gripped the back of the first pew and laid her head against her hands. “The stuff took over. My wants. My things. My life. It didn’t leave any room for anything else, anyone else. Not even you. And now look at the mess I’ve made.”

  Something began to happen, although Mary Catherine couldn’t really explain what it was. A warmth, a presence, something living and real and loving and vaguely familiar.

  Nothing had changed, not really. Nate had still betrayed her; the pain was still there. But something had happened. And tonight that was enough.

  chapter thirty-three

  Elizabeth had been dreading this day for weeks. It was the day of Hazel’s deposition, and it was being held in the offices of a prestigious Charleston attorney who had been trying to steal development contracts from her for years. He would only be too glad to see her.

  She pulled the car up in front of an impressive stone house on Church Street—one of the many old residences that now housed law practices—and turned to look at Hazel. Wrapped in a soft brown coat that matched her eyes, the woman looked peaceful, composed.

  “You okay?”

  Hazel’s mouth turned up in a sweet smile. “I’m perfect. It’s going to be a good day, Elizabeth. I can feel it in my bones. It’s going to be a really good day.”

  Elizabeth didn’t want to break it to her that the men inside that imposing stone house were determined to take her down. They would fight this as far as they needed to. And they could afford it.

  Wade gave a slight snorting noise from the backseat. Elizabeth had almost forgotten she had brought him along.

  She was glad no one asked her if she were okay, but at this point it didn’t matter. She had no other choice but to follow this through, and she had too much pride to do a bad job, even if she did want to lose.

  But did she? She wasn’t even sure of that anymore.

  They climbed from the car, with Wade trailing behind, lugging a large brown file box—all the depositions she had taken over the last few months. Elizabeth paused on the front porch and smoothed her hair, straightened her coat, whatever she could find to do that would let her stall for a minute. Wade steadied the box against the stone and rang the buzzer. The secretary pushed a button of her own, allowing them to enter.

  The old house smelled of stale cigars, expensive cologne, and old money. As they entered the foyer, Roy Townsend came through the pocket doors into the front room “Elizabeth! So good to see you!”

  She extended her hand to him as he barreled toward her. His hair was pure white, but the skin of his face was stretched taut and his blue eyes were enhanced by brilliant contacts. He was probably one of Jeffrey’s pincushions.

  He shook her hand furiously. “Come, come. We’re in the board-room waiting on you. All of you.”

  “Roy, I’d like you to meet my client, Hazel Moses.”

  Southern charm oozed from him suddenly, as if somebody had turned on a tap. “What a pleasure to meet you, ma’am.” He engulfed her small hand in his big paw and leaned over her graciously. “Come inside here and let’s sit down and get comfortable.”

  “Thank the Lord,” Wade mumbled. He lumbered past them, bent beneath the weight of the
box, and set it heavily on the table. Elizabeth glared at him. They would have a discussion about office etiquette when this was over.

  “Shelby, could you bring our visitors something to drink, please?” Roy said as they followed Wade into the boardroom.

  Elizabeth entered the dark paneled room with its coffered ceiling and found herself slightly overwhelmed at the large gathering of suits around the table. But she knew from years of experience how to enter a room. She assumed the appropriate facial expression. Confident. Completely confident.

  Mr. Everett rose from his chair on the other side of the table. “Elizabeth. Good to see you.”

  “Would you like something to drink, ma’am?” the secretary interrupted.

  Elizabeth turned her head sharply. “Coffee. Black.” She returned her attention to Mr. Everett. “Good to see you too, sir.” She offered her hand and realized it was damp with sweat.

  “I’m looking forward to seeing how today will transpire.”

  The secretary handed Elizabeth her coffee. She resisted the urge to chug it down in one gulp and instead held it in her hands and offered Mr. Everett a smile. A confident one, she was certain.

  Roy Townsend helped Hazel off with her coat and seated her in a large burgundy leather armchair. Elizabeth sat down beside her, opening her briefcase and removing the files necessary for this morning’s deposition. Wade took a seat behind them.

  Elizabeth studied the opulent boardroom, and a momentary anger flared up in her. It was the old pressure ploy, the psychology of intimidation. She had played that card herself a thousand times. Bring clients to an environment that makes them uncomfortable and see what kind of leverage can be gained in a battle of wills. Seeing it from this side of the boardroom table, however, made her realize how crass and vulgar the whole thing was.

  Of course they wanted this deposition on their own turf. Bullies always did.

  But then, they’d never met Hazel.

  The court reporter at the end of the table signaled that she was ready to begin. Elizabeth opened the large file in front of her and pulled out the yellow legal pad with her questions.

  Roy Townsend wasted no time. Once Hazel was sworn in, he shucked off the Southern gentleman persona like a dirty shirt and launched into an immediate barrage of questions.

  Elizabeth’s training and experience kicked in, and everything else faded into the background. She was Hazel’s attorney. The niceties were history.

  “Do you at this moment possess the deed to your home?”

  Hazel straightened her tiny frame in her chair and placed her hands on the table in front of her. “Well, no, but I—”

  Roy cut her off curtly. “Yes or no is all we’re asking for here.” Elizabeth eyed him.

  “Do you at this moment have any legal rights to the property on Smith Street where you currently reside?”

  “It depends what you consider rights.”

  Elizabeth wanted to smile at Hazel and slap Roy.

  But he kept on, battering her with questions, his arrogant superiority obvious in every move, in the tone of his voice, in his facial expressions, in his body language. Question after question. Elizabeth raised objections multiple times, but still Hazel was required to answer each one.

  Then, in the middle of the barrage, Hazel raised a small brown hand. “Could you give me just one moment, Mr. Townsend?” Hazel asked, shushing him like a schoolchild. “Just one moment, sir.”

  Roy started to cut her off, but Mr. Everett touched his arm to silence him. “Yes, ma’am,” Everett said. “We’ll give you a moment.”

  Roy spoke to the reporter. “Note my objection for the record.”

  “It’s your client giving permission,” Elizabeth reminded him.

  “Note my objection anyway.”

  Hazel waited. When she had their attention, she began to speak. “This home has been occupied by members of my family since the Emancipation. I grew up in this home. My children grew up in this home. I’ve lived my entire life contributing to my community. Not taking one thing, but giving. I probably taught some of your children, if they went to public school. I taught my own children. Out of five children, three of them own their own businesses, and two are teachers now themselves. My husband worked his fingers to the bone until the day he died. We’ve never asked anybody for anything. And yet today, because your company wants to make a tiny profit, a little drop in your great big bucket, you want to uproot the seeds of my heritage, and you expect me to just answer yes or no, say thank you and take the money.”

  The court reporter sniffed. Roy glared at her.

  “Well, I’m sorry,” Hazel continued, “but some things aren’t about money. Some things are about what you remember. Every memory my family and I have lies within those walls and on that little patch of land. So, if all the other developments you own don’t turn enough profit for you, I’m certain that the piddling amount you make on destroying my home won’t matter either. So now I’m going to ask a question, Mr. Townsend.”

  Roy Townsend’s face went red—as red as the tall amaryllis that stood in a terracotta pot on the table behind him.

  Elizabeth glanced at Mr. Everett. His eyes were fixed on Hazel.

  “Is this about having it all?” Hazel asked. “Or about having what you need?” She gazed at Townsend with an open, guileless expression. “Don’t get me wrong. I believe in progress. I believe in growth. I believe in giving families a place for new memories. But you don’t give one family new memories by taking away those of another.” She turned her attention to Elizabeth and nodded. “Sorry, Elizabeth, but I just needed to speak my piece.”

  Elizabeth bit her bottom lip but couldn’t completely stifle the smile. “It’s okay, Hazel.” She turned her attention back to Roy. “Any more questions, Mr. Townsend, before I begin to ask a few?”

  “Well, yes. That was a shameless—”

  Mr. Everett reached over and placed a tanned hand across the arm of Roy Townsend’s thousand-dollar pinstriped suit. “There will be no more questions needed by anyone.”

  Roy gaped at him. “But, Mr. —”

  “I said, no more questions.”

  Had Elizabeth not known Everett so well, she would have protested about not being able to have her questions answered. But she knew what he meant.

  The court reporter pulled out a tissue and blew her nose.

  “Thank you for your time.” Elizabeth stood up. Wade followed.

  Hazel looked up at Elizabeth. “That’s all?”

  Elizabeth offered a hand and helped her out of her chair. “That’s all.”

  In silence the three of them walked out the leaded glass door to the car.

  “I hope I didn’t mess anything up in there,” Hazel said.

  “You were perfect,” Elizabeth said. “You can’t mess up what’s in your heart.”

  “Elizabeth!” She turned. Mr. Everett was coming down the steps toward her. She met him at the bottom step, out of earshot of the car.

  “Why are you doing this? Working for the Benefactor’s Group? I mean, really working there?”

  “It’s a long story, Mr. Everett. But I can tell you that my expectation of what this experience would afford me and my clients isn’t . . .”

  “You don’t even have to say it. It’s obvious.” He placed a hand under Elizabeth’s elbow and leaned in close. “You know, we really do have all the property we need.”

  She sighed. “Thank you, Mr. Everett.”

  He gave her a wink. “You’re still the best attorney I’ve ever met. If I’m going to lose to anybody, I’d want it to be you.”

  She winked back. “I’d want it to be to Hazel.”

  chapter thirty-four

  Are you all right? You’ve been fidgeting all day.” Dr. Nadu’s eyes darted from his charts to Jeffrey’s face. “I’m glad we didn’t have surgery scheduled. I would have had to put you up in the observation booth.”

  “I’m fine. Just have a big formal dinner shindig tonight.”

  “I c
an’t imagine you being nervous about something like that. I would expect you to be quite at home at a—what was your word? — shindig.”

  “It’s not the shindig; it’s the company.”

  Dr. Nadu raised his eyebrows. “Ah, a new woman. I see.” He closed the file and tapped it on the palm of his hand. “Rather soon, isn’t it? Not that I wish to pry.”

  “You’re not prying. And actually, it’s not a new woman. Well, she’s not an old woman, but she’s old to me.”

  “You might not want to tell her that.” Dr. Nadu chuckled.

  “It’s my ex-wife, Claire. She’s going out with me tonight.”

  Dr. Nadu removed his glasses. “Jacob’s mother? Is that a good idea, do you think? Is she ready to date so soon after such a loss?”

  “No, honestly I’m not sure it’s a good idea at all,” Jeffrey said. “But it’s not a date.”

  “Ball gowns, tuxedos, fine wine, dinner, and dancing,” Nadu mused. “No, of course not. That does not sound like a date at all.”

  Jeffrey stood up and walked to the window, placed his fingers between the slats, and looked out at the last remnants of daylight. “Oh my word, I’m going on a date.”

  “A word of warning, Jeffrey, if I may. A woman who has lost her son in such a terrible way can be very fragile.” Dr. Nadu patted Jeffrey on the shoulder. “And so can a father.”

  If he hadn’t been a doctor, Jeffrey would have been certain he was having a heart attack. He sat in the car in Claire’s driveway, breathing deeply, trying to regain control of his racing pulse. Finally he calmed himself and took the bouquet of cream-colored roses from the passenger’s seat and forced himself up the walk to the front door.