“I regret now that I never met him. But Ruth said he was a good man, and I heard he was good to Millie.”
“Mama was only sixteen when he died, and she was devastated. I think he was much older than Granny,” Brooke said.
“I believe that’s what I heard.” Josephine nodded. “Thank goodness he left Millie well fixed. You know, Millie’s father—he’d be your great-grandfather—lost everything in the crash of ’29. If it hadn’t been for her grandparents, they would have been penniless.”
Brooke gazed at the pin fastened to Josephine’s chest. “I’m a little confused. Earlier, you said my grandmother had those pins made for her bridesmaids. But you just told me you never met my grandfather.”
Josephine ran a bony finger over the pin. “Millie was engaged to someone else. His name was Russell … something.” She looked up at Brooke. “Can you believe I’ve forgotten his last name? That’s the wedding I was to have been in. But it never came off. Later, Millie married your Henry. Ruth said he was very distinguished. Some type of educator, I believe?”
“He was an English professor at Kenyon College, in Ohio,” Brooke said. “His first wife died in one of the influenza epidemics, and Mama said he’d been a widower for years before he met Granny at a party in Boston. They got married a month later. Can you imagine doing that now?”
“Quite the whirlwind courtship,” Josephine said, her tone acerbic. “But dear Ruth said the wedding was a lovely, intimate affair.”
“You were going to tell me more about Ruth,” Brooke prompted.
“She had the loveliest red curls,” Josephine said. “And a temper to go along with them. A spitfire, we called her. But she had a tender heart. And she was such an animal lover. She’d find an abandoned kitten behind the dining hall at school and rescue it. Sneak it into our room, feed it milk with a medicine dropper. She hated any kind of injustice, hated cruelty. Ruth was a crusader.”
“Whatever happened to her?”
Josephine shrugged. “We … had a disagreement. I suppose it came to a head with the ’72 election. Ruth despised Nixon. She was what Preiss called a limousine liberal. Came by it honestly. Her mother was a suffragette.”
Brooke shrugged. “Was that so awful? She sounds pretty amazing to me.”
“You wouldn’t understand,” Josephine said. “It was a different time. Ruth was so … preachy. So damn certain about everything. Now? I see that our quarrel was silly. She and Millie were wonderful friends. We were like sisters. Closer than sisters.”
“I know what you mean about missing your oldest friends,” Brooke said wistfully. “My best friend, back in Savannah? Holly? She was Harris’s sister.”
“The man you jilted,” Josephine said.
“She was supposed to be my maid of honor. But I ran away the night of the bachelorette party,” Brooke confessed. “I was scared and confused. Afterward, I was too ashamed of the way I’d acted to reach out and apologize. It’s been nearly four years, and we still haven’t spoken.”
“Foolish pride,” Josephine said, shaking her head. “Foolish, foolish pride.”
7
“So, Ruth and Millie. They were your best friends from boarding school? What about Varina, the woman you mentioned yesterday?” Brooke asked.
“Ah, Varina. Of course she didn’t go to school with us. She was black! And much younger than we were. Only fourteen. Her father was Geechee, and her family worked for my father here on the island. Do you know about the Geechees?”
“They’re the descendants of slaves, right? From the Gullah tribe in West Africa? Who stayed here on the coast of Georgia after the Civil War and emancipation?”
“That’s right. Harley—he was Varina’s father—was a Shaddix. The little church graveyard at Oyster Bluff is full of Shaddix headstones. Harley’s people were slaves who worked at the plantation that once stood right where Shellhaven now stands. Harley and his wife, Sally, came to work for my papa before he’d even finished building this house. Poor Sally, she was from the mainland, and I don’t think she ever got used to living over here. Sally died, leaving Harley to raise their four children. Varina was still a baby, and the only girl.”
Josephine fiddled with the trim on the afghan draped loosely around her shoulders. “I’m afraid the Shaddix boys took after their daddy. They were hard workers, and capable enough, but I don’t think any of them ever went to school beyond sixth grade.”
“But Varina was different?”
“Oh yes. She was the prettiest little thing, and bright as a new penny. After Sally died, Harley’s sister, Margie, came to work here, and she’d bring Varina up here to Shellhaven with her most days. She was reading before first grade and had such a thirst for learning. She knew every inch of this island and loved to show us all her secret places.”
The old lady’s face shone as she spoke of Varina’s accomplishments. “At first, Papa didn’t think it was right—her spending so much time here. He was a free thinker for that day and time, but even he worried that people would wonder about a little colored girl getting big ideas.”
Brooke winced at the term colored girl. She’d lived in the South her whole life but had never gotten used to the lingering vestiges of racism.
“But Varina became a friend?” Brooke asked.
“We all doted on her. We gave her clothes and shoes, treated her to gifts—candy, new books, things like that. Harley had diabetes, and the doctor had to amputate his right foot, and then he really couldn’t work anymore, so he took up preaching, and the boys all quit school to help out. The Shaddixes never had enough to go around. Varina was like our little sister.”
“If your little sister happened to be a colored girl,” Brooke said.
The old lady’s eyes flared. “You’re very rude, you know that? I never called Varina a colored girl. That was Papa. And he didn’t mean it in a derogatory way. He never, ever used the N-word, which most people did back then. It was a different time.”
“You said Varina is still alive?” Brooke asked, interrupting. “And you’ve kept in touch all these years?”
“Of course. After the war, Varina worked in Jacksonville. For the railroad. But she missed Talisa and her family. Her brothers were all married, with a dozen children between them, and eventually she moved back here.”
“Here? To Shellhaven?”
“Part of the time. She worked here for me after Preiss’s death. It was lonely, you know? I never imagined he would die first. He was six years younger than I was. I still can’t get over it. I’ll never get over his death.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Brooke said. She’d noticed that Josephine’s breathing was growing labored, her narrow shoulders hunched, and her voice raspy.
She leaned forward and touched the old lady’s hand gently. “Are you feeling all right? Is there anything I can get you? Some water?”
Josephine’s cough rattled, and she abruptly yanked her hand back, as though she’d been burned. “I’ve taken my pills, and there’s nothing more to be done.”
“I can leave and come back later, maybe when you’re feeling better?” Brooke offered.
“I’m not going to feel better,” Josephine snapped. “My time is short, so I’d really prefer it if we could get down to business.”
“All right. Tell me more about Varina. Does she still live on the island?”
“No. One of her great-nieces—Felicia, I believe is the girl’s name—took it upon herself to move Varina to Jacksonville, supposedly to take care of her. Felicia is Homer’s granddaughter, or maybe great-granddaughter. He died back in February. Varina has been living with Felicia three or four years now. They tell me the girl is some kind of professor at a college down there, but I don’t know where or what she teaches.”
“And you’ve had no contact with Varina since then?”
“I didn’t say that,” Josephine retorted. “Varina came back here for Homer’s funeral, and that girl brought her here to see me then.”