She wrote for obscure trade journals like American Hardware Retailer and The Journal of Lawn Care Professionals. She’d penned a handful of travel stories for regional airline magazines, and her most prestigious byline, as far as Brooke could tell, was for a series of stories about midlife dating for the online version of Glamour magazine.
Brooke bookmarked the articles to read later. Right now, what she really needed was to locate Ruth Elizabeth Quinlan. She couldn’t find a telephone listing for the woman, but after clicking around, she did find a website for R. Elizabeth Quinlan, freelance journalist. Which led her to R. Elizabeth’s private Facebook page.
Brooke clicked on the private message button and typed in a missive to Ruth Elizabeth Quinlan, one she hoped would be intriguing enough to elicit a reply.
Hi. I’m an attorney in Georgia, and my client was a lifelong friend of Ruth Mattingly Quinlan, whom I believe was your grandmother. If that is the case, my client would very much like to contact you. Please call or reply to this message at your earliest convenience.
Almost immediately after she’d sent the message, she received a reply.
This is Lizzie Quinlan. My grandmother has been dead nearly ten years. I don’t know anybody in Georgia. What does your client want? If this is some kind of a scam and you’re looking for money, you’re out of luck, because I don’t have any.
That made Brooke laugh out loud, and she quickly typed a reply.
Welcome to my world. I’m broke too. I can assure you that this is not a scam. My client was an old classmate of your grandmother’s. She is a widow and never had children. She lives alone on a barrier island off the coast of Georgia, and I’m sorry to say that she is terminally ill. She lost contact with your grandmother some years ago, and now she would like to meet and make amends to Mrs. Quinlan’s heirs.
Lizzie Quinlan’s reply took less than a minute.
Yeah, sure. And I’m the crown princess of Istanbul. Who is this really?
Brooke sighed. It was late, and she was exhausted and in no mood to play games.
My name is Brooke Trappnell. I’m a member in good standing of the Georgia bar. Feel free to check me out. In the meantime, I’m going to bed. If you want to talk further, contact me tomorrow, after 8:00 Eastern time.
Brooke closed her laptop and looked at her phone again. Too late now to call her mother and ask for a loan. Maybe tomorrow she’d call. Maybe tomorrow things would look better.
11
October 1941
Millie’s head spun. She’d had three glasses of champagne, which was two too many. She was dizzy but strangely happy. She knew Gardiner Bettendorf had asked her to dance out of pity—he felt sorry for her because her oafish fiancé had been ignoring her all evening. But she didn’t care.
She let her chin rest on his shoulder and relaxed as Gardiner guided her around the polished dance floor, his hand resting lightly at the waist of her new gown.
In the next instant, Russell was there, wrenching her away from Gardiner. His fingers dug into the flesh of her bare upper arm, and his breath stank of cigars and whiskey as he confronted her dance partner.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing with my girl, Bettendorf?”
“Hey, fella,” Gardiner said, taking a step backward. “Take it easy. We were just dancing.”
“Fuck off,” Russell said. “I’ll deal with you later.”
Without another word, he dragged Millie through the crowded room and out the french doors and onto the veranda.
“Russell,” Millie said breathlessly. “Russell, stop. Let go. You’re hurting me.”
He released his hold on her arm. “But it’s okay when that clown Bettendorf grabs you, right?”
“Gardiner didn’t grab me,” Millie said, trying to keep her tone light. It was always best to keep things light when Russell was drinking. “He didn’t even really want to dance. He only asked me because Josephine asked him to.”
“And why would she ask her brother to dance with you? What business is it of hers?”
“She’s our hostess,” Millie said. “You weren’t around, and I guess she felt sorry for me because I was sort of a wallflower. She was just being polite.”
Russell edged her into the shade of a huge magnolia tree that towered over the slate-floored veranda. The full moon spilled light onto the other end, where a group of young men laughed and joked, passing a silver flask among themselves. Fireflies flitted in the treetops, and Millie could see the glowing tips of the men’s lit cigars.
It was like a scene from a movie, Millie thought. Or a book. The creamy magnolia blossoms were the size of dinner plates, and they contrasted brilliantly against the glossy dark leaves. Their perfume filled the night air.
Russell’s dinner jacket was white too, although his tie was slightly askew, and his face had a fine sheen of perspiration.
“You weren’t a wallflower. You’re the prettiest girl here. I was just out here having a smoke with some of the fellas.” He looped his arm around her shoulders and pulled her closer. His mustache tickled her ear, and he flicked his tongue just behind her earlobe. “Don’t tell me you missed me.” His words were only slightly slurred.
Millie shivered, despite the warmth of the evening. “Just a little,” she said. “You haven’t danced with me all night. And it’s our engagement party.”
“Too many people around,” Russell groused. “You know how I hate crowds and big parties. Too much small talk. Small drinks, small food, small people.” He nuzzled her neck and slid his hands around beneath her breasts, pushing them upward until they spilled from the neckline of her dress.
“Russell, please behave,” Millie whispered, blushing in the dark. “Somebody will see us.”
“Aw, who cares? We’re engaged, aren’t we?” He pulled her closer.
“I care,” Millie said indignantly. “My mother is here. And my grandmother. What if they stepped out here and saw us like this?”
“Your mother is inside, flirting with old man Bettendorf. And your grandmother is blind as a bat. She just asked a hat rack in the foyer if he’d get her a cup of punch. Anyway, if she did see us, that could be good. Maybe your grandmother would have a heart attack and leave all her money to us.”
Millie giggled despite herself. She really should not have had that third glass of champagne. Unlike Josephine and Ruth, she wasn’t much of a drinker. “That’s a terrible thing to say. You’re terrible.”
“I’ll show you just how terrible I am.”
Russell’s teeth shone white in the darkness. “Come on. Let’s get out of here. They’ve got me staying in the guesthouse, out by the pool. It’s way more private there.” He tugged her by the hand, but Millie stood her ground.
“But these are our friends. Josephine and her family have been so wonderfully generous to throw us this party, Russell. It would be rude to leave now.”
“Who cares? They won’t even notice.”
“You know I can’t go to your room alone. What if somebody saw me? What would they say?”
“I said, let’s go,” Russell said hoarsely. He grabbed her arm and started towing her toward the walkway that led around the edge of the house, through the gardens to the pool. The walk was narrow and closed in on either side by tall boxwood hedges.
“Russell, no,” Millie said, her voice rising. She stumbled along behind him, catching her heel on one of the cobblestones and nearly tripping before he roughly pulled her upright.
“What is wrong with you tonight?” he snarled. He shoved her up against the trunk of another magnolia tree and pressed himself into her until she felt the rough bark scraping against the flesh of her bare shoulders. He forced a knee between her legs and pushed her dress up until it was nearly at her waist. “That’s better,” he breathed in her ear. “No more games.”
She flailed helplessly against his hands, but they were everywhere, tearing at the neckline of her gown, fumbling with the snaps of her garter belt. He thrust his tongue into her mouth, and a moment later, he was unbuckling his belt and unzipping the fly of his pants.
“Stop it!” Millie cried. She pushed against his chest with both hands, but he was stronger, a head taller, and she was pinned there, half-naked, exposed to the world. She felt panicky. She was no virgin—Russell had seen to that—but this …