“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Hugh said, glancing at the screened door to find out if Josephine was listening.
“It didn’t come up in the sale probably because Malcolm didn’t hire a lawyer. Things get missed, especially if an ownership structure is rare, like this one. Just yesterday I found out about a case in Manhattan where this exact thing happened. The current owner of a bar called Bluebird did a bunch of really nice renovations when he bought the place, and everything was great. But then one night he kicked out some jerk who was acting up, and that guy was embarrassed and furious. Turns out the jerk was a property lawyer—that was the owner’s bad luck—so he decided to dig into the old city records to mess with the owner. And jackpot! The owner didn’t own the land under his building and he had no idea. It never came up when he bought the place. The land had been sold off back in the 1980s and had its own deed. So the new owner panicked, hired a lawyer. He was furious and felt he’d been swindled, which he sort of had been. He had his lawyer track down the owner of the land to make it square. Problem was the man he bought the building from was dead and the owner of the land was dead by the time it all got figured out.”
“Bluebird,” Malcolm said. “I’ve been there.”
“You want to know who owned the land?” Jess asked. Hugh stared at her. “Darren Gephardt.”
“Wait,” Malcolm said. “I remember going there with him.”
“Right,” Jess said, turning to Hugh again. “Darren gave the owner of Bluebird the same deal he gave you in the seventies. He couldn’t let you welch because everyone knew about it, so he took something that wouldn’t ruin or humiliate you. Gail only found out about Bluebird recently. The new owner’s lawyer got in touch with her when they were tracing Darren’s next of kin. I think Gail felt sorry for the guy, so she settled easily. I wish she’d told us it was happening, but she said she didn’t like discussing certain aspects of your dad’s businesses. Talking with Malcolm yesterday got her thinking, so she suggested I look into it.”
Jess turned to Malcolm. “She didn’t want to get your hopes up.”
To Hugh she said, “You legally separated the land from the building in 1975.”
“So what?” Hugh said. He tried on his normal bravado, but Malcolm could see he didn’t quite fit.
“So here’s what we’re going to do,” Jess said, looking back and forth between the two men. “Malcolm is going to sign that land over to you, and you’re going to take the whole thing back. Land, building, business. It’s all yours. But we’re clear. That land is worth at least as much as what Malcolm owes you.”
“Hang on, Jess,” Malcolm said, pulling on his shoulder. Didn’t this mean he could keep the Half Moon somehow? But the look she gave him told him to think, to unspool it all the way out.
“You’re joking,” Hugh said.
“You’ll get your bar back without that caveat you’ve been hiding all these years. If you’d sold to anyone else, they probably would have discovered it. It’s a good deal. You can keep it or resell it, whatever you want.”
Malcolm felt he was taking everything in on a delay, two beats behind the action. Just hand over the Half Moon? Hugh appeared to be thinking about it.
“You’re saying I clear your debt and take title of the land.”
“Correct.”
“My lawyer draws everything up.”
“Sure,” Jess said. She’d be ready for any funny business. “Malcolm?”
He’d walk away with nothing. Not the Half Moon, not the time and energy he’d already invested in it. Just before the first storm he’d taken a photo of his TV screen at home as he was watching a movie. The premise of the movie was dumb but the scene showed the characters seated at a rooftop just like the one he imagined. He needed a few days to think. He wanted to talk to his mother about what else she remembered about his dad and the deal he’d made with Hugh. But Jess’s expression when she turned to look at him read like a plea.
“Malcolm,” she said, not a question this time.
“Let me think for a second.”
“Mal, please.”
“Yeah okay,” Malcolm agreed.
* * *
Hugh said the paperwork would be waiting for them by the time they got back to New York. The taxes would get complicated, but Jess could figure that out. They approached the exit for downtown Charleston, and Malcolm reminded her it was Saturday, they couldn’t make it all the way home anyway without getting some sleep, why not make this the place they stayed? As they were driving, Malcolm asked how in the world she’d figured it out, but she gave all the credit to Gail. She’d researched, yes, she’d used her contacts, but it was Gail who had a hunch.
And the crazy part, she said, was that she hadn’t been sure. Her contact in the county records office hadn’t found the document she needed by the time they walked into Hugh’s house. Records from the 1970s were in off-site storage and predated the electronic files. All her friend could see was a note that read “1975” and a code that indicated what box the records could be found in. So Jess just assumed that meant there was a transaction of some kind in 1975.
“You were bluffing,” he said, amazed.
“But I was right.” She grinned.
“Jessica Ryan!” he said, grabbing her hand as he merged onto the highway. He kissed her knuckles. He’d lost the Half Moon, but he’d regained Jess, and all of that had happened in a matter of days. It was almost too much, how quickly things could change. He wanted one day out of his own life to process everything, one day of wandering around a place where he didn’t know the streets or anyone’s name. Jess didn’t have to be at work until Monday, and Malcolm didn’t have to be anywhere, apparently. He tried to let that fact sink in, but it was impossible. They went to breakfast while they waited for their room to become available—it was only eleven in the morning after all—and could barely keep their eyes open. When they were finally allowed to check in, they immediately went to sleep.
Jess woke first, confused about where she was since it was still daylight out, and then she turned to find Malcolm sleeping on his side, facing her, his jaw slack, his hands tucked under his cheek like a little kid. She studied the graying hair at his temples, the breadth of his rib cage as it expanded and contracted with his snores. She tried to decide whether she’d ever really stopped loving him or if she’d just convinced herself that she had. She believed her love had run out because that was how it felt—a petering out over a long, long time, an exhaustion settling in the space that used to be taken up with joy, and then one day finding a thought of him stirred nothing in her, not even fury, and who was it who said the opposite of love was not hate but apathy?
But yet here she was, beside him again. She thought of what Cobie said about there being a third choice, which was being alone for a little while. That there were more choices than the ones she’d set before herself. A mere week ago she had no expectation of when she’d next see him, and here she was watching him sleep, in a hotel room eight hundred miles from home.