“First, let me buy your lunch. Agreed?”
“Agreed.”
“Second, you follow me to Georgetown. Who knows, you may have another flat. Agreed?”
She smiled slightly. “Agreed.”
“Third, you have supper with me tonight at the nicest seafood restaurant we can find in Georgetown. Agreed?”
“Agreed, if we go Dutch treat.”
“We’ll negotiate that last stipulation later.” Then, mustering every ounce of earnestness he possessed, he said, “Fourth, I want to help you through this situation. Agreed?”
Jo considered Renny’s offer for a moment. “I’m not sure. We don’t know what’s involved, and we just met an hour ago.”
“Well, we’re together so far, and you said I was divinely sent to you.”
“Are you serious?”
“Very serious.”
“Agreed,” she said, the hint of a smile returning.
“Let’s shake on it.” Renny extended his right hand across the table.
Jo placed her left hand in his and squeezed lightly. Renny was unprepared for what he felt—a brief, intense tingle, almost as strong as a low-voltage shock, swept up his arm, down his back, and vanished. Startled, he looked at Jo. Her eyes met his, but her face revealed nothing.
“Good,” he said, not at all sure what he meant or what had happened.
They walked to the cash register where five bottles of Moncks Corner Barbecue Sauce stood at attention. Fred came out of the kitchen. Renny handed him a twenty. “The food was good, especially the stew. My compliments to the chef.”
“Yeah.” Fred’s eyes narrowed as he handed Renny his change.
6
The eye is the window of the soul.
ANONYMOUS
Jo’s truck was ready when they returned from lunch. After she paid for the tire, Renny walked her to the truck.
“I’ll take you through the Francis Marion National Forest,” he said. “It’s the more scenic route to Georgetown from here.”
“Who was Francis Marion?”
“A Revolutionary War hero known as the Swamp Fox.”
“Fine. Just keep me away from any alligators.”
Traveling seldom-used two-lane roads, Renny set a leisurely pace. It was a little less than an hour’s drive from Moncks Corner to Georgetown, and Renny spent most of the time replaying his lunch with Jo, occasionally casting covert glances toward her in the rearview mirror. Between his thoughts and glances, it seemed only a few minutes until they passed the city limits sign.
Georgetown was almost as old as Charleston, but much smaller, nestled beside the Winyah Bay near the confluence of the Black and Pee Dee Rivers. Because innumerable rivers, streams, and inlets intersected the rainy Low Country coast, some of the earliest settlers found the area suitable for growing rice. Within a generation, thousands and thousands of slaves toiled in rice paddies dispersed along the lowlying coastal area. Georgetown became the point of arrival for the slave ships and the point of shipment for the bags of rice produced by the slaves’ backbreaking labor.
Only a handful of antebellum homes and other pre–Civil War structures dotted the modern Georgetown waterfront. The largest of these relics, the Rice Planter’s Inn, faced Front Street, one block from the bay. A large rectangular structure, the three-story inn was the oldest continuously operating hotel in South Carolina. Built by a sea captain from slave trading profits, the dark green structure had survived storm, war, and the pressures of twentieth-century economics.
They parked in back of the inn. “Welcome to Georgetown,” Renny said when they got out of their vehicles.
“Whew, it’s muggy.”
“That’s why things slow down the closer you get to the coast. People can’t get in a big hurry—it just makes them and their cars overheat faster.”
They climbed the steps to the front porch, a wide expanse that circled the building. Several ceiling fans vainly stirred the soupy air. No one sat in the row of white rattan chairs lined up behind the porch rail.
Inside, they entered a dark, cool foyer. “The air conditioning works,” Renny said. “That’s a good sign.”
To the left of the entrance was the front desk, and a clerk who looked nearly as ancient as the inn gave them a raspy greeting, “Welcome to the Rice Planter’s Inn. May I help you?”
“Hello, I’m J. F. Jacobson. I should have a room reserved for the weekend.”
The man squinted at a large date book a moment, then, as if he had made a surprising discovery, said, “Yes, here it is, Josiah Fletchall Jacobson. You have room 6. It is located at the east end of the second floor. May I help you and Mrs. Jacobson with your luggage?”
It was Renny’s turn to look surprised. “This is not Mrs. Jacobson.”
“I see.” The clerk’s squint narrowed further.
“This is Jo Taylor Johnston. She should have a reservation of her own.”
“It may be under Mr. Jo Taylor Johnston,” Jo added.
The clerk examined Jo and, satisfied that she was female, ran his finger down the right side of his reservation book. “Here it is. You are correct. It is in the name of Mr. Johnston. Is Mr. Johnston coming?”
Renny interjected, “She is Mr. Johnston. I mean the reservation is for her because her name is Jo Taylor Johnston.”
The clerk put both hands on the ledge that separated him from Renny and Jo, paused, thought for several seconds, and as if reaching a momentous decision, handed Jo a key and said, “You can have room 12 at the west end of the third floor. If Mr. Johnston should arrive, I will notify you and you will have to find another place to stay.”
Jo chuckled as they climbed the stairs to the second floor. “I felt like I was on To Tell the Truth. Will the real Jo Taylor Johnston please stand up?”
The second floor had six rooms, three overlooking the street in front of the house, three facing the bay. Renny opened the door to a modest-sized room, simply furnished with a large four-poster bed, a beautiful armoire that took the place of a closet, and a couple of chairs. The wall on the left opened to a small bath.
Jo’s room upstairs was the same size, but had a smaller bed, a tiny closet, and a finely crafted vanity sink. “I can wash my face like my great-great-grandmother did on the plantation. By tonight I’ll be a Southern belle.”
“Your Michigan accent will need some work before you take your Southern belle test,” Renny responded.
“I could take lessons.”
“You wait here. I’ll get your luggage,” Renny said. “Southern belles don’t carry anything heavier than a parasol.”
“Right, but as you said, I’ve not passed my test yet.”
They carried the luggage without the desk clerk’s help. Renny was concerned the old man wouldn’t survive a trip up to the third floor. Besides, Renny wanted to handle the old trunk himself. As he lifted it out of the back of the Porsche, Jo asked, “What’s that?”
“We’ll talk about it at supper,” Renny said quickly. “Is seven-thirty OK? You’ll have time for a nap, if you like.”
“Yes, that will be great.”
Once in his room, Renny lay down on the bed, stared at the ceiling, and replayed the afternoon’s events. He lingered at the moment he held Jo’s hand in the restaurant. A strange but pleasant experience, he had never felt anything quite like the sensation that came over him from such a simple touch. An attractive woman, Jo exuded life, and Renny wanted to get to know her better. Also, they had an involuntary link because of the List. She was the only woman on earth with whom he could discuss it. A shared secret, a joint adventure, a common challenge inexorably draws people together.
Closing his eyes, he began to unwind. Tomorrow would be soon enough to meet a room full of old men. Tonight, he wanted to eat some seafood, have a good time with Jo, and maybe do a little more than touch her hand. He dozed off with pleasant thoughts.
Jo poured some cool water into the metal basin nestled in the washstand, splashed her face, and dried it with a soft g
reen hand towel. Because her room faced the rear of the house, she pulled up a chair to the window so she could look out over the bay. Directly in front of her, two shrimp boats gently swayed at anchor, their nets draped over their sides like old-fashioned petticoats drying on a clothesline. Farther out, a small sloop, hoping to find a breeze in the bay, motored slowly away from shore. She watched the peaceful scene for several minutes. She, too, wondered about the effect of Renny’s touch at the restaurant.
Staring out the window, she remembered an incident at the hospital in April. She was working in the OR during a five-level bypass procedure for a forty-five-year-old man. Dr. Leonard Starks, the cardiologist, had harvested veins from the patient’s leg and had completed the last of the five bypasses. When he ordered the patient brought off the heart-lung machine, the patient’s vital signs began to drop. Jo had her hand in the man’s chest holding a clamp and silently began praying for her patient. At the moment the man’s heart should have resumed beating, nothing happened, and the operating room erupted in activity. Jo intensified her silent petition. An inner voice whispered, Touch him, and as soon as she briefly laid her free hand on his arm, a warm tingle flowed from her. The man’s heart fluttered slightly, then started beating. “It’s beating!” one of the OR techs yelled in her ear. Dr. Starks completed the final portion of the surgery, and the man had a full recovery without any residual damage to the heart muscle. Jo was ecstatic.
The sensation in the restaurant had been the same.
Dressed in light khaki slacks and a white shirt with the sleeves partly rolled up, Renny knocked on Jo’s door at 7:25.
“Come in. I’m almost ready.” She was wearing a yellow-and-white sundress. Barefoot, she sat in the small chair near the window and strapped on some white sandals. For an instant, Renny wished he was a shoe salesman and could help her put them on. Looking up, she smiled. “That’s it. Let’s go.”
Neither spoke as they descended the stairs. Holding the front door open, Renny followed Jo onto the porch.
“Let’s walk” Renny said. “The desk clerk told me about a restaurant two blocks down the street.”
The restaurant, a rectangular building not much bigger than a train car, nestled beside the bay and a small grassy area next to the wharf. Renny and Jo sat at a table for two beside a window overlooking a restored frigate resting at anchor.
“Tea with lime please,” Renny told a young waiter. Jo ordered the same.
They sat in silence for a few moments.
Jo spoke first. “Let’s relax.”
“That’s easy to do over a plate of barbecue,” Renny said.
“Then, let’s consider today’s lunch as our first date,” Jo suggested.
“Sounds good to me.”
The waiter took their order. Jo selected the blackened salmon; Renny opted for broiled scallops. After the waiter left, Jo said, “Tell me about the trunk. It looked pretty old.”
“It was my father’s, or at least he had possession of it for a number of years. He held an official position with the List, something called Custodian.”
“What kind of custodian?”
“He kept possession of the original List agreement, an old ledger book that contains the covenant signed during the Civil War and a record of all the members down through the years. Our ancestors all signed it. A cassette tape from my father and a letter from Desmond LaRochette ordered me to bring it to the meeting tomorrow.”
“Cassette tape?”
“I’d better start at the beginning. You had a letter from your father; I had a cassette message from mine.” Renny told Jo about the safe deposit box and the cassette tape from his father.
“Did he say anything personal to you?”
“Not unless ‘carpe diem’ counts as personal. It was very businesslike, typical of my father. It didn’t surprise me that he didn’t say anything personal, and I didn’t really think about it. I was so stunned by the existence of the List.”
“Don’t you think it strange that he didn’t say he loved you or would miss you?”
“Not really. I can’t ever remember him saying he loved me.”
“He sounds cold-hearted.”
Renny bristled. Jo was right, and it stung. “I guess he thought he showed it in other ways. He would, uh—” Renny stumbled, unable to think of an example.
Jo softened. “I know there are different ways of demonstrating love, but it’s still important to say the words. You read my father’s letter to me. He never showed his love, and although I don’t mean to be disrespectful to your father, it sounds like he never let you know how he felt either.”
“I don’t disagree with you,” Renny admitted. “Except for my aunt, my father came from a reserved family, and ‘I love you’ was not part of their family vocabulary.”
“Then someone needs to break the cycle.”
Hearing Jo talk gave Renny a tightness in his chest, a sense that there was something inside that could not get out.
Jo continued, “Several years ago, a major magazine did a survey of the three phrases people most want to hear. Number one was ‘I love you.’ Guess number two.”
Feeling the constriction in his chest loosen, Renny ventured, “The check is in the mail.”
Jo smiled. “Good answer for a lawyer. Actually, number two was ‘I forgive you.’ Unforgiveness and broken relationships go hand in hand.”
“Grudges can be a problem,” Renny said, remembering one he carried like a sharp nail in his pocket involving a former girlfriend who had lied to him.
“Number three is appropriate for us tonight.”
Renny erased the picture of his old girlfriend from his mind. “Let’s see—” He glanced out the window at the water. “How about ‘Surf’s up’?”
Jo laughed. “We’re at the beach, but too narrow.” The waiter set their food on the table. “Good timing,” Jo said. “The third thing people most want to hear is ‘Dinner’s ready.’”
The food was good, but Jo’s presence made the meal superlative. Renny had never met anyone quite like her. With most people the eyes are the windows of the soul, and Jo was no exception. Her eyes could shift quickly from challenging to quizzical to compassionate. She was open, her openness flowing out of honesty and an “I’ve got nothing to hide” attitude that was like unclouded sunshine. There was something indefinable about her. She was attractive, but there was something more. She had a delightful personality, but there was something more. She was intelligent, but there was something more. He could not put his finger on it, but whatever it was, he liked it.
When Renny described some of his experiences growing up, she leaned forward as if she were listening with her whole body, not just her ears. She was undeniably, completely, alive.
Renny ordered dessert to fill his spot for sweets and prolong their time at the table. “Key lime pie with two forks, please.”
While they waited, Jo said, “I’d like to see the trunk sometime.”
“You will. Since I may not have it after tomorrow, you can have a look when we go back to the inn.”
They finished the pie, Renny paid without protest from Jo, and they stepped out into the fading light of the August evening. Walking slowly over to the restored frigate as a steady ocean breeze cooled their faces, they stood silently while three fishing boats chugged out of the harbor to begin their night’s work.
Renny wanted to reach out and take Jo’s hand in his, but something restrained him. In usual circumstances holding a date’s hand in a peaceful moment would have been a natural, casual response to a pleasant evening, but this was different. He cast a furtive glance in Jo’s direction. She was facing the bay, watching the fishing boats, her silhouette etched against a pinkish-red sunset. Renny felt the tightness in his chest return, but he felt no pain. Taking a deep breath, he slowly exhaled.
At the sound, Jo turned her head toward him. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is.” Renny took another deep breath. “Let’s walk back along the wha
rf.”
They strolled toward the inn, taking a short detour onto the weathered black boards of the dock to inspect a sleek overnighter rocking to sleep in its slip.
The desk clerk was on the phone when they came through the door.
“Come up to my room, mademoiselle,” Renny said with an exaggerated French accent as they started up the stairs. “I would like to show you my rare stamp collection.”
“Is that a Charleston French accent?”
“Mais oui, and that exhausts my repertoire of the French language.” Renny unlocked the door and switched on the light. Jo sat in a small wooden chair as Renny put the old chest on the bed. “There’s no pirate gold in here.” He quickly dialed the combination, opened the trunk, and took out the List. Renny handed her the old book. “Here’s the ledger with the original agreement. There is some other stuff you may want to look at after you read the book.”
Jo rubbed her hand across the cover, opened it, and began reading. At one point she stopped, closed her eyes for a moment, then continued. Renny watched her face as her eyes went back and forth over the lines, but he did not interrupt her. She flipped through the pages, looking for her ancestors, pausing at each one. Closing the book, she looked up at Renny. “It’s real, isn’t it?”
“Yes, I know what you mean.”
“What was your reaction the first time you read it?”
Renny thought back to the morning on the Isle of Palms. “I thought about the effect of compound interest—$110,000 expanding and multiplying since 1863. How much money is involved today? Then I wondered about practical matters: the subsequent history of the agreement, the decisions made about investments, the frequency and amount of distribution, you know, what a banker or accountant would like to know. Later, I started wondering more about the people—my ancestors, what they were like, how they lived, how they died. I even called my father’s older sister and went to see her so I could learn more about the men who signed that book.”
“What did you find out?”
“Stories of prosperity mixed with personal tragedy. The cycle of life, I guess.”
“Life without God,” Jo murmured.
The List Page 8
