“Just relax, baby,” Russell said, chuckling. “Let me just—”
“No! Stop it!”
“Millie?” A man’s voice.
She heard the rapid clatter of hard-soled shoes on the cobblestones.
He stopped, a few feet away. It was Gardiner Bettendorf. “Millie? Are you all right?”
Russell kept her pinned, right where she was. “Get lost,” he said calmly, not even bothering to turn around. “The lady and I were just admiring the moonlight.”
“That’s not what it sounded like to me,” Gardiner said. “Millie, would you like to go back to the house?” He stepped closer, peering at them.
She squirmed under the weight of Russell’s body, mortified at her appearance, desperately trying to cover herself. She took a deep breath, willing herself to sound normal.
“Um, yes. We were just about to come back to the party. But you go on ahead and we’ll catch up.”
“I think I’ll just walk back with you, if you don’t mind,” Gardiner said. His tone was light, affable.
“I said get lost!” Russell yelled. He whirled around and without warning threw a punch at Gardiner’s nose, just barely grazing it. He swung again and connected solidly this time.
“Stop it!” Millie screamed.
Russell was bigger, but Gardiner was faster, and now he swung hard, landing a solid blow to Russell’s jaw and then to his gut.
The big man staggered two steps backward, a look of astonishment on his face. “I’ll kill you.”
A thin stream of blood trickled from Gardiner’s nose and onto the spotless starched collar of his white dress shirt. “Enough, all right?” He nodded at Millie. “Why don’t you go on back to the party now?”
12
Brooke’s cell phone rang at precisely 8:01 A.M. She grabbed the phone, hoping the loud ring wouldn’t awaken her son.
“Hello? Is this Brooke Trappnell? This is Lizzie Quinlan.”
“Oh, hi.”
Brooke glanced over at the crib mattress on the floor by her bed, momentarily reassured that Henry was still asleep, his favorite blue-and-white quilt wrapped around him, burrito-style. She took the phone and walked into the kitchen.
“Who’s your client?” Lizzie asked.
“Excuse me?”
“His name. You said your client was a dear friend of my late grandmother’s. So I’d like to know his name, since you know mine.”
Brooke hesitated. Josephine hadn’t told her not to reveal her identity, and she couldn’t really think of a legitimate reason not to disclose it.
“Her name is Josephine Bettendorf Warrick. Does that name ring a bell at all?”
“Never heard of her,” Lizzie said. “Spell it for me, okay? So I can Google it?”
Brooke spelled out her client’s name. “While you’re at it, you might want to do a search for Talisa; that’s the island Josephine owns, and it’s off the Georgia coast.”
“Got it,” Lizzie said. “My Wi-Fi is slow as hell, so if you would, fill me in on the details while I wait. Like, what’s the deal with this Josephine? And what does she want with me?”
“It’s complicated.” Brooke took a deep breath.
“You’d be surprised at the depth of my ability to handle complicated issues, Mrs. Trappnell.”
“It’s Ms. Trappnell, but call me Brooke.”
“Okay, Brooke. I’m listening.”
*
“I know there are gaping holes in this story, but what you have to realize is that Josephine is ninety-nine and critically ill. I met her just a few days ago, so she’s been feeding me the details in tiny little spoonfuls,” Brooke said. “Your grandmother Ruth and Josephine were lifelong friends. They were roommates in boarding school and made their debuts together.”
“I never knew Granny was a debutante,” Lizzie said, chuckling. “That’s just crazy! She was a card-carrying liberal.”
“Which Josephine decidedly is not,” Brooke volunteered. “Anyway, Josephine and Ruth were also best friends with Mildred Updegraff, who, by the way, was my grandmother. They had another friend, who was much younger, named Varina. The four girls had a little club, sort of a secret society, which they called the High Tide Club.”
“Cute, but what’s the point?” Lizzie said.
“Sometime after the war—World War II, that is—Josephine had a falling-out with my grandmother Millie and later, your grandmother Ruth. Over the years, she lost contact with everyone except for Varina. Josephine is hazy on the details, but that’s it in a nutshell. Now she’s got terminal cancer. She wants to reconnect with her old friends’ heirs and ‘make amends’ as she says. I should add that Josephine has been a widow for many years and never had children.”
Brooke heard the tapping of keys from the other end of the line.
“Holy shit,” Lizzie said. “I’m just reading an article about Josephine Warrick. This says that Talisa is twelve thousand acres. Is that true?”
“Yes. A small portion of the island was owned by distant cousins, who sold it to the State of Georgia for a park in 1978, but Josephine retains ownership of the rest of Talisa, and she’s determined not to let the state take her land. That’s how I got involved.”
“I’m looking at a photo of some gorgeous pink mansion. It looks like a frickin’ castle!” Lizzie exclaimed.
“That’s Shellhaven. It was built in the twenties by Josephine’s father, who was a shipping magnate. It’s in pretty bad shape these days, but Josephine is also adamant that the house should be preserved. She wants her land and house transferred intact to her beneficiaries,” Brooke said.
“Are you telling me a woman I never met, never even heard of until today, wants me to inherit a twelve thousand–acre island in Georgia?”
“Not exactly,” Brooke said. “I mean, maybe. It’s not really clear. And yes, I understand how insane this all sounds to you, because it sounds insane to me too, and unlike you, I’ve met her, and I’ve been to Talisa.”
“This is totally, totally nuts,” Lizzie said.
“Agreed. So here’s the thing. Josephine wants to meet you. You and your brother. I’ve been trying to find a way to contact him too, but I’m sort of at a dead end.”
There was a long pause on the other end of the line.
“Bobby’s dead,” Lizzie said.
“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that,” Brooke said.
“Don’t be. My brother had what we journalists like me call ‘a checkered criminal career.’ We hadn’t talked in years. I only found out Bobby was dead when his landlord called me up to ask for his last three months of back rent. Turns out he’d listed me as next of kin on his apartment application.”
Brooke was at a loss for words.
“So you were saying?” Lizzie prompted.
“Josephine would like to meet you. In person. On Talisa. To be honest, I don’t know what happens after that. She’s old and ornery, and she’s dying.”
“Is she rich?” Lizzie asked bluntly. “Because if she’s not, I have no interest in flying out to Georgia to meet some eccentric old crackpot. I’m on deadline for a crappy magazine story right now, and I can’t really afford to take time away from that, not to mention the cost of a plane ticket. So you tell her that. Tell her I’ll come if she’ll pay my way. All expenses, including airfare, meals, and hotel.”
“I’ll tell her, but there’s no hotel on Talisa. There’s hardly even cell phone service,” Brooke warned.
“Sounds dreamy,” Lizzie said.
*
Henry pounded on the plastic tray of the high chair with his sippy cup. “Milk! Milk! Milk!”
“Milk, please,” Brooke said.
“Milk, please, milk, please, milk, please,” he chanted.
She refilled the cup and called her mother.
Marie answered on the second ring. “Hi, sweetie. Is everything okay?”
“Of course. Why wouldn’t it be?” Brooke asked.
“Don’t be so sensitive,” Marie said. “You usually don’t call on weekdays while you’re working.”
“Actually, I am calling you about work. I need to ask you something about my new client.”
“Is it somebody I know?”
“Well, she seems to think she knows you. It’s Josephine Bettendorf Warrick.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I’m not. Do you know her?”
“In a roundabout way. She was your granny’s oldest friend. Does she still live down there in that creepy old mansion on that island?”