The look on his face tells me I’ve struck close to the truth. I feel sick. My family does have a deep, dark secret. What is it?
Trent lets out a long sigh. “It’s just…This really is for the best. That’s all I can tell you.” The phone rings, and he answers it, seeming to hope the interruption will drive me away. The caller has a million questions about Edisto beach rentals and activities on the island. Trent takes the time to talk about everything from fishing for black drum to finding mastodon fossils and arrowheads on the beach. He gives the caller a lovely history lesson about wealthy families who resided on Edisto before the War Between the States. He talks about fiddler crabs and pluff mud and harvesting oysters.
He pops fried shrimp into his mouth, savors them while he listens. Turning his back to me, he leans against the counter.
I return to my original seat by the door, perch on the edge, and stare at his back while he offers an endless litany about Botany Bay. He seems to describe the four-thousand-acre preserve inch by inch. I tap my foot and drum my fingers. He pretends not to notice, but I catch him peeking at me from the corner of his eye.
I pull out my phone and thumb through email. If worse comes to worst, I’ll scroll through Instagram or dawdle around with the wedding ideas my mom and Bitsy want me to look at on Pinterest.
Trent bends over a desktop computer, looks up information, talks about rentals and dates.
The customer finally settles on a time and place for the ideal vacation. Trent confesses that he’s not the one who handles logging the rental bookings. His secretary is home with a sick baby, but he’ll email her, and she’ll take care of the confirmations.
Finally, after what seems like at least thirty minutes of chatterboxing, he straightens to his full height and looks in my direction. A staredown ensues. This man is, quite possibly, as stubborn as I am. Unfortunately, he can probably hold out longer. He has food.
Hanging up the phone, he taps a knuckle to his lips, shakes his head, and sighs. “It won’t matter how long you’re here. It’s not going to change anything.” His frustration is starting to show. I’m getting somewhere. I’ve got him rattled now.
I proceed calmly to the popcorn machine and the watercooler and help myself.
Thusly equipped for the sit-in, I wander back to my seat.
He yanks an office chair into position behind the computer, sits down, and disappears behind a four-drawer file cabinet.
At the first taste of popcorn, my stomach lets out an indelicately loud roar.
The shrimp basket suddenly appears on the edge of the counter. Manly fingers shove it my way, but he doesn’t say a word. The kindness makes me feel guilty, even more so as, with a resolute thump, he adds an unopened soda. I’m undoubtedly ruining his perfectly good day.
I help myself to a little handful and return to my spot. Guilt and fried shrimp go quite nicely together, it turns out.
Computer keys click. Another sigh comes from behind the file cabinet. More time passes. The desk chair squeals in protest, as if he’s rocking back in it. “Don’t you Staffords have people to do this kind of thing for you?”
“Sometimes. But not in this case.”
“I’m sure you’re used to getting what you want.”
His insinuation burns. I’ve been fighting it all my life—the idea that my only qualifications are a cute blond head and the Stafford name. Now, with the speculation heating up about my political future, I’m incredibly sick of hearing it. The family name didn’t get me through Columbia Law School with honors.
“I work for what I get, thank you.”
“Ffff!”
“I don’t ask for any special favors, and I don’t expect any.”
“So I can call the police and have you removed from my waiting room, just like I would with anyone else who stakes out the place and won’t leave when they’re asked?”
Shrimp and popcorn merge to form a lump just below my breastbone. He wouldn’t…would he? I can just imagine the newspaper coverage. Leslie would string me up singlehandedly. “Does that happen often?”
“Not unless someone’s tipped back a few too many brewskies on the beach. And Edisto’s not really that kind of place. We don’t get much excitement here.”
“Yes, I know. And I have a feeling that’s one reason you won’t want the police involved in this.”
“One reason?”
“I doubt you’re unaware that there are people who wouldn’t have hesitated to threaten my family with information that could be damaging…if there were any such information. And that sort of behavior is illegal.”
Trent is out of his chair in a heartbeat, and I’m out of mine. We face each other like generals across a war room table. “You’re about a half inch from meeting the Edisto Beach police.”
“What did your grandfather want with my grandmother?”
“It wasn’t blackmail, if that’s what you’re getting at. My grandfather was an honest man.”
“Why did he leave an envelope for her?”
“They had business in common.”
“What business? Why didn’t she tell anyone about it?”
“Maybe she thought that was for the best.”
“Was she coming here to…meet someone? Did he find out about it?”
He draws back, his lip curling. “No!”
“Then tell me!” I’m in courtroom mode now, focused on one thing—getting to the truth. “Give me the envelope!”
He slams a hand on the counter, rattles everything there, then whips around the end. In a few strides, we’re face-to-face. I stand as tall as I can, and still he towers over me. I refuse to be intimidated. We’re settling this thing. Right here. Right now.
The bell on the door rings, and it barely registers at first. I’m focused on white-rimmed blue eyes and clenched teeth.
“Whew! It’s a hot one outside. Got any popcorn today?” When I glance over my shoulder, a man in an official-looking uniform—a Park Service employee or perhaps a game warden—is standing in the doorway, looking back and forth between Trent Turner and me. “Oh…didn’t know you had company.”
“Come on in and take a load off, Ed.” Trent beckons the incomer with friendly enthusiasm, which quickly wanes when he turns my way again and adds, “Avery here was just leaving.”
CHAPTER 12
Rill
It’s two weeks before I learn that the kids here are wards of the Tennessee Children’s Home Society. I don’t know what wards means when I first hear Mrs. Murphy say it on the telephone. I can’t ask either, since I’m not supposed to be listening in. I’ve figured out that if I shinny up under the azalea bushes alongside of the house, I can get close enough to hear through the screens on her office windows.
“Certainly, all of the children are wards of the Tennessee Children’s Home Society, Dortha. I do understand your daughter-in-law’s predicament. When unhappy, many men turn to liquoring and…dalliances. It is so difficult for a wife. Adding a child to the home at long last might well brighten up the atmosphere and solve the entire problem. Fatherhood has a way of changing a man. I’m certain it won’t be a problem, as you’ll have no trouble paying the fees. Yes…yes…quickly, of course. A surprise for their anniversary. How sweet. If I could just give you one of these, Dortha, I certainly would. I have some darling little cherubs just now. But Miss Tann controls all of the decisions. I’m only paid to board the children and…”