This place is still so much like I remember it. It has a peaceful, gracious, untraveled feel. There’s a reason the locals have nicknamed the island Edi-slow. The ancient oaks bow low over the road, as if seeking to shield it from the outside world. Moss-laden trees paint deep shade over the small SUV I’ve spirited away from the barn at Drayden Hill for the trip. The back roads on Edisto can be a little rugged, and beyond that, showing up in a BMW didn’t seem like a good idea considering that I’m wondering if the contents of the envelope have anything to do with blackmail.
The Turner Real Estate building is easy to find. It’s quaint but not necessarily impressive—the sort of place that’s happy to be just what it is, a seawater-blue vintage cottage on Jungle Road, just a couple blocks from water. Now that I’m here, it does look vaguely familiar, but as a kid, of course, I never had any reason to go inside.
As I park and cross the sand-sprinkled lot, I’m momentarily jealous of the man I’ve come here to find. I could work in a place like this. I could live here even. Just another day in paradise, every single morning. From not far away, laughter and beach sounds drift over. Colorful kites fly above the treetops, kept in the air by a steady sea breeze.
Two little girls run down the street, trailing long red ribbons on sticks. Three women pedal by on bicycles, laughing. Once again, I’m envious, and then I think, Why don’t I come here more often? Why don’t I ever call my sisters or my mother and say, “Hey, let’s just take off and go sit in the sun awhile. We could use some girl time, right?”
Why haven’t Elliot and I ever come here?
The answer tastes bitter, so I don’t chew on it very long. Our schedules are always filled with other things. That’s why.
Who chooses the schedules we keep? We do, I guess.
Although, so often it seems as if there isn’t any choice. If we aren’t constantly slapping new paint on all the ramparts, the wind and the weather will sneak in and erode the accomplishments of a dozen previous generations of the family. The good life demands a lot of maintenance.
Walking up the porch steps to Turner Real Estate, I grab a fortifying breath. The sign says COME ON IN. WE’RE OPEN….So I do. A jingling bell announces my entry, but there’s no one behind the counter.
The front room is a lobby area with colorful vinyl chairs lining its edges. A watercooler waits with paper cups. Racks display endless brochures. A popcorn machine reminds me that I’ve missed lunch. Beautiful photographs of the island line the walls. The base of the counter across the room is decorated with children’s artwork and photos of happy families posing in front of their new beach homes. The display randomly mixes past and present. Some of the black-and-whites appear to be from all the way back in the fifties. I stand and I scan them, looking for my grandmother. There’s no sign of her.
“Hello?” I venture, since nobody seems to be materializing from the rooms down the hall. “Hello?”
Maybe they’ve stepped out for a minute? The place is dead quiet.
My stomach growls, crying out for popcorn.
I’m about to raid the machine when the back door opens. I slap the popcorn bag down and turn around.
“Hey! I didn’t know anyone was in here.” I recognize Trent Turner III from the photo online, but that picture was taken from a distance, a full-body shot in front of the building. He was wearing a ball cap and had a beard. It didn’t do him justice. Now he’s clean-shaven. Dressed in khakis, well-worn loafers with no socks, and a nicely fitted polo shirt, he looks like he belongs under an umbrella table somewhere…or in an ad for casual living. He’s sandy blond and blue-eyed, the hair just shaggy enough to backhandedly say, I live on beach time.
He moves up the hall, juggling a couple to-go bags and a drink. I catch myself ogling the haul. I think I smell shrimp and chips. My stomach offers another audible protest.
“Sorry, I…there was no one here.” I thumb over my shoulder toward the door.
“Ran out for some lunch.” Placing the food on the counter, he looks around for a napkin, then settles for swiping up stray cocktail sauce with a piece of printer paper. Our handshake is sticky but friendly. “Trent Turner,” he says with casual ease. “What can I do for you?” His smile makes me want to like him. It’s the kind of smile that assumes people do like him. He seems…honest, I guess.
“I called you a couple weeks ago.” No sense starting right off with names.
“Rental or buy-and-sell?”
“What?”
“A place. Were we talking about a rental or a property listing?” He’s searching his memory banks, clearly. But there’s also more than casual interest coming my way. I feel a spark of…something.
I catch myself smiling back.
Guilt niggles at me instantly. Should an engaged woman—even a lonely one—be reacting this way? Maybe it’s just because Elliot and I have barely talked in almost two weeks. He’s been in Milan. The time difference is difficult. He’s focused on the job. I’m focused on family issues.
“Neither one.” I guess there’s no sense postponing this any longer. The fact that this guy is good-looking and likeable doesn’t change reality. “I called you about something I found at my grandmother’s house.” My fledgling friendship with Trent Turner is, no doubt, doomed to be short-lived. “I’m Avery Stafford. You said you had an envelope addressed to my grandmother, Judy Stafford? I’m here to pick it up.”
His demeanor changes instantly. Muscular forearms cross over a ripped chest, and the counter quickly becomes a negotiation table. A hostile one.
He looks displeased. Very. “I’m sorry you wasted the trip. I told you, I can’t give those documents to anyone but the people they’re addressed to. Not even family members.”
“I have her power of attorney.” I’m already pulling it from my oversized purse. Being the lawyer in the family, and with my mother and father preoccupied by the health issue, I am the one designated on Grandma Judy’s documents. I unfold them and turn the pages toward him as he’s lifting his hand to protest. “She’s in no shape to handle her own affairs. I’m authorized to—”
He rejects the offering without even looking at the papers. “It’s not a legal matter.”
“It is if it’s her mail.”
“It’s not mail. It’s more like…cleaning up some loose ends from my grandfather’s files.” His eyes duck away, take in the swaying palms outside the window, evading my probing.
“It’s about the cottage here on Edisto then?” This is a real estate office, after all, but why maintain such secrecy over real estate documents?
“No.”
His answer is disappointingly brief. Usually, when you throw a wrong assumption at a witness, the witness responds by inadvertently giving you at least a piece of the right one.
It’s obvious that Trent Turner has been through many a negotiation before. In fact, I sense that he’s been through this very negotiation before. He did say those documents and people, as in multiple. Are other families being held hostage as well?
“I’m not leaving until I find out the truth.”
“There’s popcorn.” His attempt at humor only serves to stoke the fire in my belly.
“This isn’t a joke.”
“I realize that.” For the first time, he seems slightly sympathetic to my plight. His arms uncross. A hand runs roughly through his hair. Thick brown lashes close over his eyes. Stress lines form around the edges, hinting at a life that was once considerably more high-pressure than this one. “Look, I promised my grandfather…on his deathbed. And trust me—it’s better this way.”
I don’t trust him. That’s the point. “I’ll go after them legally if I have to.”
“My grandfather’s files?” A sardonic laugh indicates that he doesn’t take to threats very well. “Good luck with that. They were his property. They’re my property now. You’ll have to be satisfied with that.”
“Not if this could damage my family.”