Choosing Charleston

by T. Lynn Ocean

  “It’s been so much fun being home and being pampered,” Jenny said. “I almost hate to leave.”

  The set of In Home Now was repaired and, according to my twin, was even bigger and better than before. It was time for her to get back to work, and time for the girls to get back in school. They’d be out for summer in a few weeks, but the homework they’d brought with them had already run out.

  “I know what you mean,” I agreed. “Mamma has a way of making you feel like you don’t have a care in the world and could stay here forever.”

  I dropped a fountain pen and it landed with a clatter. Precious contorted her body into a menacing arc to growl at it.

  “Good grief,” I said, retrieving the pen. “You really need to get that dog checked out.”

  “Checked out for what?”

  “I don’t know for what. But it’s obviously got some kind of a problem.”

  “She does not!” Jenny plopped into a chair across from me. She was drinking a frozen margarita through a straw and carrying a bag of low fat tortilla chips.

  “One of the exclusive products we sell on In Home Now is a well-being evaluation kit for your pet. It’s all the rage among upper class pet owners… you know, the ones who don’t have children in the home anymore and dote on their dog or cat? Buy health insurance for them and all that? Anyway, Precious passed with flying colors. There’s not a thing wrong with her.”

  We looked down at the quivering, growling, twenty-pound ball of fluffed up white fur. This visit, the dog sported a yellow bow on top of its head, and folds of the ribbon vibrated with irritation.

  “You know, Jenny, you ought to sell some gadgets from your Daddy’s store on that TV show of yours,” Granny said, stepping carefully over Precious. “Not some stupid poodle-dog evaluation kit… but something that’ll really help folks. Maybe tools or kitchen things.”

  Whenever Granny said something that made sense, it meant so much more than it had in the past. She’d always been a no-nonsense, down-to-earth, streetwise woman and people listened to her advice. In retrospect, I’d usually taken Granny’s offerings of wisdom for granted. Sometimes, I’d even shoot her an eye roll when she delivered a prophesy. But now, when a clear comment came through her muddled brain, I savored it.

  “It is a good idea,” Jenny said, “but we try to sell stuff you can’t get just anywhere. Unusual and upscale items. Exclusive products.”

  “Exclusive?” An idea danced in my head.

  “Right. In Home Now doesn’t just sell any-old-thing. We sell exclusive stuff.”

  My brain kicked into high gear. Handyman’s Depot had become known as the place to find exclusive home and garden products people couldn’t get anywhere else. They made deals with the manufacturers of newly patented tools and gadgets to obtain exclusive distribution rights in return for co-op advertising exposure. I’d learned that typically, their exclusive distribution agreement term was sixteen months, after which time the product would become widely available at a variety of stores. It was an ideal way for a new product to be consumer-tested on the open market while allowing the manufacturer to gear up for mass production.

  As we liked to say in the mediation and arbitration world, it was a genuine triple-win situation. Retail shelf space for the manufacturer, a successful marketing tool for Handyman’s Depot and an exclusive buy opportunity for the consumer.

  But even the best of situations allowed room for improvement. What if Handyman’s Depot could increase sales of their exclusive products without putting them on the shelves of competitors?

  “So how do you choose what goes on the show?” I asked my sister.

  Granny appropriated the bag of tortilla chips and crunched into one with raised eyebrows. She wanted to know, too.

  “We have a team of buyers for all that,” Jenny said.

  “What about the carpet cleaner machine that blew up?”

  Jenny aimed a short sigh at me and, taking the chip bag back from Granny, popped half a triangle into her mouth.

  “It didn’t blow up. It caught on fire,” she said, as if it was a huge difference.

  “Right. But wasn’t it you who got the show to carry the carpet cleaner?” I asked.

  “Well sure,” she said. “If I come across something I think would be a good seller, I’ll turn them on to it.”

  “I wouldn’t think the on-air talent had that much pull.”

  “Well, not normally. But in my case, I do,” she said. “I get ratings, so they want to keep me happy. Plus, my husband is the producer of the show!”

  I grinned. She was right. Stephen was indeed the producer of In Home Now. And she had him wrapped around her product-selling pinkie finger.

  “Why?” she said. “Do you know of something exclusive that people would buy?”

  “I just might.”

  “Well, let me know. You want something on the show, I’ll make it happen.”

  I suddenly had a newfound respect for her, and what she did. “You know, I poke fun at you sometimes, but I’m really proud of you. And it’s very cool that you could get something on the show just because I asked.”

  “Hey,” she replied with a nonchalant wave of her hand. “What’s family for?”

  I was invigorated and empowered. I still wasn’t sure how the whole puzzle fit together, but I knew I’d found another piece of it. A bargaining tool, at least, for when the time came.

  “You rock,” I said.

  “Rock!” Hunter said.

  Amused, we watched him play with Taffy on the floor.

  “Rock!” he tried again, since he hadn’t been hushed the first time.

  “Rock isn’t a bad word, little guy,” I told him. “Good try, though.”

  “Rock?”

  “Rock,” I smiled. “Rock on.”

  He frowned, trying to dig a word out of his memory that would get a better reaction. Before he could manage to draw one out, his attention was diverted by the squeaky toy that Taffy pushed into his little hands. She wanted him to throw it so, as her genetic makeup dictated, she could retrieve it.

  I thought about my genetic makeup and decided I was retrieving something, too. My dignity.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  “What do you want this time, Carly?” Trent said and it was not the greeting I’d anticipated.

  I’d caught up with him at the project site but instead of a friendly smile, or even a neutral stance, he faced me with folded arms. His biceps, accentuated by the pose, caught my attention. They pushed out from beneath a short sleeved shirt, sculpted and solid.

  “I just thought I’d stop by to say hello…see how things are progressing,” I said sweetly, but he didn’t buy it and apparently wasn’t in the mood to humor me.

  “Look, you’ve made your position very clear. If you think I’m going to help you gather a case against me to prove I set fire to my own land, you’re crazy.”

  I shook my head. That wasn’t why I was there.

  “Well then, you must be here to take another look around. See if you can find anything else to stop construction for a few more days.”

  He removed his sunglasses, hung them over the collar of his shirt and squinted at me. “But the problem is, if you try that again, security will ask you to leave. We’ve got a man on duty twenty-four seven now.”

  I took a step closer and touched his arm in a move of sincerity that I usually reserved for female clients involved in dispute. Trent didn’t move. His demeanor didn’t soften.

  “Trent, I’m sorry.”

  A short laugh escaped him. “You’re sorry?”

  “Yes,” I said, dropping my hand.

  “For which offense? The legal problems you’ve caused me? The money you’ve cost me? The accusation of arson and murder? Or just the verbal attack?”

  “For all of it,” I said and paused to think. “Well, no I take that back. For most all of it. Everything except the legal problems. I can’t apologize for trying to save Mamma and Daddy’s business.”

  “O
h. Well then. I feel much better,” he said. “Thanks for dropping by.”

  The words were sharp with sarcasm, but I detected a hint of a smile. Just a flicker of upturned skin at the edges of a wide, full mouth. Lips that my eyes locked onto, like a radar-guided missile, despite my command for them to look elsewhere.

  With some effort, I managed to blink. “Honestly. I am sorry for the things I’ve said to you. A lot of it was uncalled for.”

  “A lot of it?”

  “C’mon,” I pleaded. “I’m trying to apologize here. This kind of thing is new to me.”

  A darting squirrel caught my attention and finally, I was able to look at something other than Trent’s mouth. The animal scurried across the ground and disappeared up a nearby tree.

  “How so?”

  “Well… in the past, I’ve never behaved in a way that left me needing to apologize to someone.”

  He raised one dark eyebrow, barely. It contrasted nicely with the lighter color of his hair. “Never? You’re kidding.”

  At some point during the conversation, we’d started walking, side by side, and I was unsure where we were headed. It was late morning and the playful spring air carried a musky-sweet scent of wild wisteria blooms tousled with damp earth. As it did every year between late spring and summer, a super thin layer of pine pollen dusted the surface of everything, like pale yellow powdered sugar sprinkled through a sifter from above.

  “I’ve always been the one to get other people to apologize to each other,” I told him. “Or if not apologize, at least come to an agreement. First as a kid. Then as a volunteer counselor in college. And then as a career.”

  I explained to him how I’ve always been the mediator, moderator and sometimes cheerleader. How I’ve always avoided conflict in my personal life. How people would inevitably describe me as laid-back or easygoing, right after they’d declared I was pretty and smart. How people would sometimes take advantage of me because I’d never say ‘no’. And how I’d exchanged my hometown, the city I loved, for unfamiliar territory in New York. Just because Robert had asked. Because I didn’t want to be disagreeable.

  “I guess I’ve always wanted to please everyone else,” I confessed, “without ever focusing on what would please me. I mean, I’m very good at what I do, so I don’t mean to sound like a martyr. But trying to keep everyone happy doesn’t make me a saint, either. In fact, the way things have gone for me lately, I’d probably classify my affinity for peacekeeping as being a complete pushover.”

  “Carly,” Trent said, pausing until I looked at him. “I can personally attest to the fact that you are not, by any means, a pushover!”

  I laughed. From his point of view, I was anything but.

  We arrived at the piece of historic city wall whose discovery had altered the original shopping center blueprints. A temporary chain link fence encircled it and two specialists of some sort busily worked.

  Following Trent’s lead, I sat on a makeshift bench that consisted of two-by-fours and concrete blocks. He explained that the chain link would become white picket vinyl fencing and the blocks and boards would become cast iron benches when the shopping facility opened. Everyone at Protter Construction and Development agreed the wall area would make a wonderful gathering place for customers. In a roundabout way that was almost gratitude, Trent admitted he was proud of the artifact.

  And then he asked what had changed in my life. Why I had taken a hundred and eighty degree turn. Started seeking out conflict instead of avoiding it.

  I answered without hesitation. “Because my husband is a piece of shit. I couldn’t keep letting him walk all over me, so I left him and moved back. And because your development, with its Handyman’s Depot, will destroy everything Mamma and Daddy have worked to build up over the last thirty years. We’re talking a store that’s been in my family, in the same location, for almost one hundred years! I couldn’t watch it happen without trying to do something.”

  We sat close to each other and real or imagined, I could feel the energy radiating from his body. I looked into his eyes, focused on me, and took a deep breath. “I guess it was just time. To start fighting back.”

  Trent nodded his understanding and looked away, toward the sky, at a group of doves flying above us. Out of his usual uniform of jeans and work boots, he wore a sage green golf shirt, light tan cotton slacks and leather loafers without socks. He looked clean and fresh and ready to spend a casual afternoon doing something other than working at the construction site where I’d found him.

  “And?” he said, somehow knowing there was more. His gaze still followed the erratic flight path of the birds. His short sideburns emphasized an angular jaw. I could see the muscle in it working, flexing. I didn’t know if the movement was a result of anger, or contemplation.

  “And it feels good,” I answered.

  Trent nodded again and I decided that I saw contemplation, after all. He was focused on listening to me and was thinking about what I said.

  In my experience working mediation cases, few people genuinely listen when other people talk about themselves. But seeing that Trent cared enough to really listen, I had an odd rush of admiration for his character. It stirred me in much the same way catching a whiff of his scent did. Or sneaking a glance at his wide shoulders. Or feeling his body against mine during a slow dance.

  Looking again at the casual clothes he sported, a sinking feeling moved through my stomach as I wondered if he was meeting his girlfriend for lunch. Or something more. I sighed, knowing there wasn’t a chance of anything happening between us anyway, regardless of whether he was available or not.

  We sat quietly, appreciating the day, and the meticulous work being done on the wall. And perhaps, each other.

  “What you can see is only a portion of what’s there,” Trent said after a while. “They tell me there is a lot more underground. And it probably was connected to a bastion because they found some cannonballs.”

  “Really? Wow. Are they going to dig out around the buried part?”

  “No. But the informational plaque will tell our shoppers it’s there. It will even have an artist’s rendering of what the original wall might have looked like.”

  With one graceful move, he turned sideways and straddled our makeshift bench to face me. I tried not to stare at him.

  “This entire area will be covered by an open air shelter,” he continued, not seeming to notice my roaming eyes.

  One of his knees brushed the side of mine. My nerve endings at the contact point jumped to attention and eagerly waited for more stimuli. When none came, they calmed but I couldn’t shake the tingling sensation that settled in every sensitive part of my body.

  I angled myself to face Trent and tried to remember what I wanted to say to him. The conversation I’d rehearsed in my car on the way over was evading me and, sitting so close to the man that wouldn’t stay out of my thoughts, I nearly forgot what I was doing there.

  “I need your help,” is what came out.

  A gust of wind blew my hair into swirls around my face, like a veil to hide my emotions. I pushed it back and tucked one side behind an ear.

  “Help with what?”

  “I need to see a copy of the original purchase agreement on this land. A copy of the contract. The closing papers. A copy of the most recent survey and plat map. And I’d like to know as much as you can tell me about the man you bought the property from.”

  “Anything else, Carly?” Trent said, amused by my audacity.

  I shook my head. “That’ll do to start with.”

  “Why should I help you? And why are you so interested in the seller?”

  “To answer both questions, because I believe the seller was – still is, actually – my husband.”

  There was a stunned pause while Trent considered what I’d just told him.

  “The same husband who tried to punch me out at your folks’ house?” Trent asked, one eyebrow skeptically arched higher than the other.

  “Believe me,” I said,
“I was as surprised to learn about it as you are. He may have sold you the property under the name of some bogus company, but he’s the man behind it.”

  Trent gave me a look, very much like one of Mamma’s powerful looks that demanded elaboration.

  I explained the entire situation. I told Trent about how Robert’s parents died in a car accident when he was young, and how Minnie Beth and Patrick raised him. How he’d never respected, much less loved them. How he’d gotten out of Charleston as quickly as he could after graduating high school. And how he’d deeded the property into his name, Ellis, under the pretense of helping the Carpenters by doling out a meager ten thousand dollars. And then turned around and sold it to Protter Construction and Development for an outrageous profit, the amount of which I did not yet know.

  I finished by adding that Daddy wanted to buy the land twenty years ago and that Patrick, with a handshake, had promised to give him the first option to buy if they ever decided to sell. But Robert had lied to his ailing uncle, insisting that Daddy had passed on the offer he never made to begin with.

  Like me, Trent was a born and bred Charlestonian and understood the honor behind a handshake agreement, not to mention the legality of it.

  He muttered a curse and stood up.

  I followed his lead. We started walking.

  “I never actually met the seller in person,” he said. “His attorney handled the closing.”

  “That’s why you didn’t recognize him when he tried to punch you out,” I mused.