Harley Shaddix’s crutch thumped against the wooden floor with each step. He appeared in the doorway behind his daughter. “I’m fine, Miss Josephine. Hope you are too. I saw Mr. Gardiner over on the mainland this morning. He told me where he’s going. Mighty proud of him.”
“I’m proud too, but so sad to see him go. Harley, would it be all right if Varina took a ride with us in the car? We’re going to take a picnic down to the beach.”
Harley looked down at his daughter. Varina was dressed in a pair of her brother’s outgrown, cast-off denim overalls and a long-sleeved blouse that had been her mother’s. The pant legs and shirtsleeves were rolled up to size. She looked so tiny against her father’s powerful mass. “You done your chores? Washed up in the kitchen? Memorized your scripture verses for tomorrow?”
“Yes, sir.”
He smiled and patted her shoulder. “You been mopin’ around this house all day. Time to get out and have a little fun. Go ahead on with Miss Josephine, then. And you mind your manners, you hear?”
He looked past Josephine at the car parked at the edge of the yard. “Just the ladies tonight? You know there’s all kinds of critters skulking around this island at night. What happened to all the menfolk?”
“Most of them left this morning,” Josephine said. “But don’t worry about us.” She patted the pocket of her skirt. “I’ve got Papa’s .45, and I know how to use it.”
“Maybe I oughta stay home,” Varina said. “I got a headache.”
Josephine took the girl’s hand. “Come on, Varina. It’ll be fun.”
“Get out on the beach and get you a lungful of that good salt air, you’ll be right as rain,” Harley said firmly.
* * *
Josephine parked the roadster under a cluster of trees at the end of the crushed-shell path that ended at the point they’d dubbed Mermaid Beach.
A wide sand beach flattened out before them, and the full moon’s reflection shone on the surface of the water. Waves lapped gently at the shore.
“Isn’t it beautiful, girls?” Josephine asked, turning to her friends, who were seated in the car’s rumble seat. “Have you ever seen so many stars in your life?”
“The best,” Ruth declared. “And the ocean’s so much warmer down here! I swear, my lips were blue for a week after we skinny-dipped last year at Nantucket.”
“Brrrr.” Josephine laughed. She hopped out of the car, went around to the rear luggage rack, and unstrapped the wicker hamper.
“I’ll bring the towels,” Ruth said. She looked over her shoulder at Millie and Varina, who hadn’t moved from the backseat. “Come on, you two.”
Millie climbed out of the car, followed by the younger girl, and they trailed after Josephine to the spot on the beach where she unfolded a large woolen blanket.
Josephine sat down on the blanket, promptly removed her shoes, and dug her toes into the soft sand. “Ahhh.”
The other girls followed suit, except for Varina, who was uncharacteristically quiet.
“Look here,” Josephine announced, opening the picnic basket. “Champagne!” She produced the bottle and popped the cork, sending a plume of champagne into the warm night air.
“Not for me,” Millie said. “I had more than enough last night.”
“I’ve got whiskey too,” Josephine said, displaying a pint bottle of Jim Beam. “Gardiner gave it to me this morning, as a goodbye gift.”
“No, thanks,” Millie repeated, shuddering.
“Don’t be such a party pooper, Millie,” Ruth said. She found a tin cup in the basket and held it out to Josephine. “Guess I’ll just have to drink her share.”
Josephine tipped the bottle and filled her friend’s cup, then gestured toward the youngest member of the group.
“Varina? Have you ever had champagne?”
The girl shook her head vigorously. “No, ma’am. You know my daddy is a Church of God preacher. He doesn’t hold with drinking spirits.”
“But your brothers drink,” Josephine said, taking a sip from the bottle. “Papa always gives them beer after they’ve been working at Shellhaven.”
“It’s different for girls,” Varina replied. “Everything’s different when you’re a girl.”
“Just take a sip,” Josephine insisted. She poured some into a cup and held it out.
“Leave her be, Jo,” Millie said sharply.
“Spoilsport,” Josephine said. She crossed her eyes and stuck out her tongue at her best friend, then emptied the cup of champagne in one long swallow, with Ruth following suit.
“What else have you got in that basket?” Ruth asked. “Lunch was hours and hours ago, and I’m famished.”
“Let’s see what old Dorris gave us,” Josephine said, inspecting items as she lifted them from the basket. “Fried chicken. Ham biscuits. Some kind of little sandwiches left over from the party. Oooh. Chocolate cake!”
“Yum.” Ruth found tin plates in the basket and helped herself to a ham biscuit and a slice of cake.
“Come on, you two,” Josephine said, handing plates to Millie and Varina. “This is a party, not a funeral.”
When they’d eaten their fill, Josephine sprawled out on the blanket and stared up at the sky. “Just think,” she said. “Pretty soon, Gardiner will be up there, maybe flying across the Atlantic, to drop a big bomb on those dirty Nazis.”
Millie set aside the plate with her half-eaten sandwich. “Aren’t you afraid for your brother? What if something happens to him?”
“Nothing’s going to happen to Gardiner,” Josephine declared. “He’s too good a pilot for that. You wait, he’ll be one of those flying aces in no time.” She downed another cup of champagne. “Okay. Let’s go swimming!”
She stood up and slipped out of her dress, kicking it aside, and stripped down to her satin-and-lace-embellished panties and bra. Ruth followed suit, leaving Millie and Varina huddled together on the blanket, still fully clothed.
“Well?” Josephine said impatiently.
“Somebody might see us,” Varina said, turning and surveying the deserted beach. “If my daddy found out I was swimming naked, he’d skin me alive.”
“Nobody’s going to see us,” Ruth retorted. “And your daddy doesn’t have to find out. We’ll never tell.”
“You two go ahead,” Millie said. “I’ll stay here with Varina.”
Josephine shrugged, then stripped off her undergarments. She stretched her arms overhead. She unpinned her long hair and shook it out so that it fell down her back and across her bare chest. A moment later, she ran toward the ocean and plunged into the waves.
“Wait for me,” Ruth called. She gulped the rest of her champagne and peeled out of her panties and bra, then raced toward the waves, screaming at the top of her lungs.
For the next ten minutes the two women laughed and splashed, wading out of the water, then running back and diving into the waves, letting the current pull them out before paddling back toward the beach.
Finally, Josephine and Ruth headed back to their friends, who sat watching from the blanket.
“You’ve got to come in the water,” Josephine insisted. “It’s wonderful!” She shook her head like a dog, spraying salt water over Millie and Varina.
“I’ll take your word for it,” Millie said, drying her face with one of the towels. “I’m fine right where I am, thank you very much.”
“Oh no you don’t,” Josephine said. She pulled Millie to her feet. “Why are you suddenly being so bashful? You didn’t mind skinny-dipping at Nantucket, or Palm Beach, or here last year.”
“That’s right, Millie,” Ruth chimed in. She tugged at the cuff of her friend’s gauzy long-sleeved jacket. “Come on. You’ve got to be suffocating in this thing.”
Josephine caught the end of the silk scarf wound around Millie’s neck and began to unwind it, and in the meantime, Ruth had managed to strip away Millie’s jacket and was pulling at the waistband of her skirt.
“Don’t!” Millie said, swatting at her friends’ hands,
which made them more determined to help her disrobe. “I don’t feel like swimming. Why can’t you just leave me alone?”
“You know the rules. One swims, we all swim. Naked as the day we were born,” Josephine said, giggling. “You too, Varina. It’s your initiation into the High Tide Club.”
The fourteen-year-old hugged her skinny legs tightly to her chest, her arms wound around them. “No, ma’am,” she said firmly. “I changed my mind. I don’t wanna be in your club.”
Josephine managed to pull the scarf free but froze when the moonlight revealed the ring of ugly blue-black bruises encircling Millie’s neck, and the corresponding bands of bruises on Millie’s now-exposed upper arms and wrists.
“Oh my God,” she whispered.
Millie’s lightweight skirt fell away from her waist just at that moment. Ruth gasped and pointed. “Jo, look.”
Fingerprints, in the form of bruises, marred the creamy skin of their friend’s upper thighs.
Weeping softly, Millie sank down onto the blanket, clutching her clothes to her body.
“Russell! He did this, didn’t he?” Josephine wrapped her arms around her friend. “Oh, Millie. Why didn’t you tell us?”
Instead of answering, Millie reached for the whiskey bottle. She uncapped it and gulped down three fingers of the amber liquid, then handed it to Varina. The girl considered the bottle, shrugged, and took a swig.
“I’ll kill the bastard,” Ruth whispered. “I will. I swear it.”
19
Brooke felt guilty. It was Sunday afternoon. She was making the forty-five-minute drive north to Sea Island, and she was almost delirious with the sense of freedom. She had the Volvo’s radio cranked to the max, and she was singing along to Journey. Or maybe it was the Eagles. She didn’t know and didn’t care.
The weather had cooled a little overnight, but the sun was high, and the sky was a brilliant blue. She rolled the car window down and inhaled the scent of marsh mud and diesel fuel from passing trucks as she drove north on U.S. Route 17.
She couldn’t really say why she felt so happy this morning.
Maybe Marie’s extended visit was the source of her contentment. Her mother had visited before, but this was the first time she’d stayed more than twenty-four hours. And it was definitely the first time Brooke had revealed the truth about her son’s father to anybody. It was a huge relief to finally share all her bottled-up emotions. Talking openly about Pete had dredged up emotions she hadn’t allowed herself to feel since Henry’s birth.
But for now, Brooke needed to figure out Josephine Warrick’s dilemma. How could she hope to fight the state on this condemnation issue when much more experienced Atlanta lawyers who specialized in this issue hadn’t been able to fend off the taking of Josephine’s island?
Josephine didn’t have much time left, and the state’s lawyers were obviously aware of that. They could easily keep stonewalling until the old woman was dead. Brooke tapped her fingers on the steering wheel of the car, her mind ticking off all the nuances of this case. Josephine Warrick wasn’t the least bit loveable, but you had to admire her determination and her dogged, if late-breaking, sense of loyalty to her oldest friends.
The issue of the High Tide Club girls whom Josephine wanted to leave the island to was another matter. If Marie was going to be a beneficiary of Josephine’s estate, there was no way Brooke could have anything to do with it. Maybe Gabe Wynant would be willing to take on that piece of work.
Crossing the Torras Causeway to St. Simon’s Island, Brooke glanced over at the cell phone on the passenger seat. Marie hadn’t called. There were no emergencies. Life was okay.
Brooke easily navigated the road to Sea Island. She’d been coming here since childhood with her parents on mini-vacations to the Cloister, which was the island’s five-star resort, and with friends whose families owned homes here.
Brooke knew rich. Her parents were wealthy, in a modest, understated kind of way. But they weren’t Sea Island rich. Sea Island rich meant yachts and private jets. She’d been a little surprised that Gabe Wynant owned a home here.
She pulled the Volvo up to the guard shack and gave the uniformed officer her name. He smiled, handed her a large visitor’s pass with the date and time, and gave her directions to Gabe’s house, which was on Cottage Lane.
Sea Island was lush and green this time of year. The impeccably landscaped roadway was carpeted with thick fringes of ferns and colorful beds of blooming pink, white, and lavender impatiens. No weed would have dared poke its head here.
Four turns later, Brooke pulled into the driveway of the address Gabe had given her. The house was modest—by Sea Island standards—a U-shaped whitewashed stucco cottage with vaguely Mediterranean aspirations. A pair of wrought-iron gates led into a terra-cotta–tiled courtyard garden. A fountain in the center trickled water from an oversized cobalt pottery urn. The heavy-planked arched door was open, and Gabe Wynant was waving hello.
“Brooke!” His craggy face broke into a grin, and he gave her a bear hug. This was a Gabe Wynant she’d never seen before. He was barefoot, dressed in loud pink-and-turquoise madras Bermuda shorts and a pink collared golf shirt. She’d always seen her mentor and law partner dressed in either sweaty running gear or in a custom-tailored suit and tie.
“Hey, Gabe,” she said, feeling suddenly shy. “Thanks for letting me impose on your Sunday off.”
“Nonsense,” he said, waving her inside. “I was happy as hell to hear from you.”
She followed him into the living room. The whole back of the room was a wall of french doors that looked out over an overgrown yard shaded by live oak trees. With a whitewashed brick fireplace and shelves filled with thick coffee table books and pottery, the room looked comfortable and lived in. A life-size portrait hung over the mantel. The subject was a young girl of maybe seventeen or eighteen, dressed in a gauzy embroidered peasant-style blouse and faded jeans. The girl was posed in profile, with her shining mane of long blond hair falling nearly to her waist, like a sixties folk singer or maybe just an affluent hippie girl. Brooke didn’t know a lot about art, but this painting, she knew, was the work of an accomplished, confident artist.
“Your home is lovely,” Brooke said.
“Like it? It can be yours. I’m getting it ready to put on the market,” Gabe said.
“What a shame,” she said. “This place, it feels so homey. So charming.”
“This was really Sunny’s house more than mine. I’d come down occasionally to play golf or tennis or to entertain clients, but it was her getaway.”
Brooke touched his arm lightly. “My mom just told me about Sunny. I’m so sorry, Gabe. That must have been very hard, losing her.”
He closed his hand over hers briefly and then released it. “Truthfully? I didn’t suddenly lose her eighteen months ago. It was more like an incremental loss over the years. She climbed into a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black, and over time, the Sunny I knew just … dissolved.”
Brooke nodded at the painting. “I’m sorry we never met. Is that her?”
“Yeah,” he said, gazing up at it. “That was the girl I married. Or so I thought.”
“She was so beautiful. It’s a wonderful painting.”
“It’s a self-portrait,” Gabe said. “She was a really talented artist. That’s one of the only portraits she ever did. She painted it as an anniversary gift for her parents. This was their house. After we inherited it, she wanted to take it down, but I wouldn’t let her. I guess I hoped it would remind her of who and what she used to be, before things changed.” He shook his head. “Anyway. That’s enough of that. Come on in the kitchen. I hope you haven’t eaten lunch yet because I’m starved.”
“You cooked me lunch? I’m impressed.”
“Don’t be. I ordered barbecue from a joint on the island. You didn’t turn vegan after you moved down here, did you?”
“Not a chance,” Brooke said, following him into the kitchen. A grease-spattered brown paper bag and two jumbo Styrofoam cups sa
t on the kitchen table.
“Sit yourself down and eat,” Gabe said. He opened the paper sacks and dished out the food; big sloppy sandwiches of pulled pork with tangy orange barbecue sauce on oversized buns, vinegary coleslaw, and baked beans.
Brooke heaped some coleslaw on her sandwich and added a couple of pickle slices. She took a greedy bite and rolled her eyes in ecstasy. “Best ’cue on the coast,” she declared, washing it down with a sip of sweet tea.
Gabe followed suit. “Tell me about this case of yours,” he said between bites.
* * *
Brooke quickly recapped Josephine Warrick’s standoff with the State of Georgia.
“I had one of our law clerks pull all the recent filings,” Gabe told her, retrieving a file folder from the kitchen countertop.
“What do you think?” she asked eagerly.
He took a sip of iced tea. “You’ve got an uphill battle ahead of you. There are only two legal ways to challenge the state’s right to condemn land. One way is to challenge the procedures by which the condemnation is initiated. The state has to make good-faith efforts to negotiate a fair price prior to the actual condemnation.”
“Anyway,” Brooke said, “the main issue is, she doesn’t want to sell her land. Not at any price.”
“Why not? She’s what? Nearly a hundred years old? No heirs. Why not take the money, give it to her favorite charity, and get a life estate? She gets to live out her life there, and after that, it’ll be a nice state park. Maybe they’d even name it after her.”
“You don’t know Josephine. She claims to have seen some secret long-range development plan that would have the state razing Shellhaven and putting in a big marina to allow for larger boats to ferry campers and visitors over from the mainland.”
“Would that be such a bad thing? Just playing devil’s advocate here.”
“Her father, Samuel Bettendorf, whom she worshiped, hired Addison Mizner to design and build that mansion for her mother. So it’s basically a shrine to her parents. Virtually nothing in the house has changed in decades. Bettendorf was an amateur naturalist, and Josephine and her late husband also made it their life’s work, studying and preserving the land and the wildlife. As far as Josephine is concerned, Talisa and Shellhaven are her legacy, and she wants them preserved. And I can’t say that I blame her.”
The High Tide Club Page 12
