Gabe nodded. “I appreciate that, Brooke. And you’re not a coward, so please stop saying that. A coward would have gone through with the wedding, despite the misgivings. The way I did, twenty-five years ago.”
It was an open secret around the office that Gabe Wynant’s marriage was over. He and his wife, Sunny, still lived under the same roof, but Sunny was an alcoholic who’d been in and out of rehab three times just in the time Brooke had worked at Farrell, Wynant.
Brooke didn’t know what to say to that. “I’ve gotta go,” she said, standing. She stuck out her hand, and Gabe took it and clamped it in both of his.
“Good luck, then,” he said.
She’d walked all the way back to her car before she realized she still had the firm’s bath towel wrapped around her shoulders.
Brooke still had that towel. And she still had Gabe Wynant’s direct number in her cell phone.
*
“Brooke? Is that really you?”
“Hi, Gabe,” she said. “Yes, it’s really me.”
“My gosh, it’s good to hear from you. How the hell are you? Are you still living down, where was it, Brunswick?”
“I’m fine, thanks. I’m living in St. Ann’s. I even hung out my shingle here.”
“Did you go with an established firm?”
“No, I’m solo,” Brooke said. “My practice isn’t anything like it was in Savannah. I do a little of this, a little of that, whatever the other guys in town don’t want to take on.”
“That’s great. I’m so glad to hear you didn’t quit law. You’re not, by any chance, calling to tell me you want to come back to us at Farrell, Wynant, are you? Because my offer still stands. The firm would welcome you back with open arms.”
Brooke’s face flushed with pleasure. It was nice to be wanted.
“That’s so kind of you, Gabe. I can’t tell you what it means to have you say that. But no, I’m not calling about a job. What I could use is your advice. I’ve actually got a new client, and although I’ve tried to persuade her I don’t have any expertise at what she needs, she’s insistent that I’m the only lawyer she wants.”
“Happy to help out if I can,” Gabe said.
“Do you have a few minutes to chat? It’s kind of a long story.”
“I’ve got a meeting in ten minutes. Can you give me the condensed version?”
“I’ll try,” Brooke said. “Have you ever heard of Josephine Bettendorf Warrick?”
“Of course,” Gabe said promptly. “The queen of Talisa. My dad was a friend of her late husband, Preiss. I met her a couple of times, years ago, when she and Preiss came up here for parties and such. Is she your new client?”
“Yes.”
He whistled softly. “Did she dump her Atlanta law firm? Schaefer-Moody?”
“I wouldn’t say she dumped them. But if you know Josephine, you know she’s, um, fairly headstrong. And eccentric.”
“What’s she want from you?” Gabe asked.
“She wants me to keep the State of Georgia from condemning her house and the rest of the island. They want to annex her land into the existing state park on the other end of the island. They’ve made her an offer, and they’re pressing hard.”
“How much?”
“Six million.”
“For the house and how much land?”
“Twelve thousand acres, give or take.”
“I’ve never set foot on that island and I can tell you right now that’s a bullshit offer,” Gabe said.
“I agree. She’s got the only deepwater dock on that end of the island, all the beachfront, and the only freshwater supply on the island. And get this—the state paid her cousins three million for their little bit of the island back in the seventies. That’s where the existing state park is located now.”
“So, obviously, you need to fight the condemnation,” Gabe said. “Look, Brooke. I need to get to my appointment. Here’s an idea. I’ll be down at my place on Sea Island over the weekend. You’re not that far from there, right? Why don’t you come up and have dinner with me, and then you can give me more details and we can throw around some ideas.”
“This weekend?”
“Yeah. I’ve got something Friday night, but I could do Saturday, or even Sunday night if I don’t head home until Monday morning. What do you say?”
Brooke sighed. “I don’t know, Gabe. That’s so generous of you, but the thing is, it’s tough getting a babysitter on weekends.”
“You’ve got a kid?” He sounded shocked.
“Henry. He’s almost three. That’s another long story. Look. My mom is coming down to stay with us, and I guess maybe I could get away for a couple of hours. Is there any way I can let you know over the weekend?”
“Why not? I’m going to be on Sea Island anyway. You’ve got my number, so just call or text me. I won’t make dinner reservations at the club until I hear from you.”
Brooke grinned. “Thanks so much, Gabe. Really.”
17
“Where’s my little fella? Where’s my sweet Henry?”
Marie Trappnell arrived at Brooke’s house shortly after 6:00 P.M. on Thursday night with a rolling suitcase and a gigantic tote bag overflowing with groceries and wrapped gifts. She swept past her bemused daughter and into the house.
Hearing her voice, Henry sped across the living room and flung himself at her knees, repeating his name for his grandmother over and over again. “Ree! Ree!”
Marie plopped herself down on the floor and gently pulled him onto her lap.
“Oh, my sweet boy! My poor angel.” Marie kissed his face and the top of his head. She looked over at Brooke. “He’s breaking my heart. I’m not hurting him, am I?”
“He’s not made of glass, Mom,” Brooke said. “It’s been six weeks and he’s fine. Just don’t fling him around the room.”
Henry held his arm up awkwardly for his grandmother’s inspection. “Look, Ree. I got boo-boo.”
“I see,” Marie said. She kissed his arm. “Better?”
He beamed. “Better.” But the colorfully wrapped gifts had already drawn his attention. He pointed. “What’s that, Ree?”
Marie pulled the tote toward them and spilled the contents onto the floor. “Well, let’s see.”
Henry picked up a stuffed dog. “Puppy!” He waved it at Brooke. “I got puppy!”
*
After they’d eaten dinner and put Henry to bed on the mattress in Brooke’s room, Marie took a good look around her daughter’s living room.
“This is really nice,” she said, taking another sip of her wine. “You’ve done a lot since the last time I was down.”
“It’s not Ardsley Park,” Brooke said wryly.
She actually had taken pains to fix up her modest cottage. Marie had donated the furniture from her garage apartment in Savannah after the departure of her last tenant. The sofa and matching ottoman were comfortable but with ugly, eighties brown-plaid upholstery, which Brooke had covered with sets of washed and bleached canvas drop cloths.
She’d splurged on an indoor-outdoor rug from a big-box store at the mall in Brunswick and had assembled a gallery wall of inexpensive thrift store paintings along with Henry’s framed crayon drawings.
Marie yawned and stretched her legs. Brooke thought she looked distinctly out of place in this room of castoffs. Her mother had an innate elegance and sense of style that Brooke had always envied.
After the divorce, Marie had stopped coloring her dark hair, and her now silver hair was cut in a sleek bob, just below her chin. Unlike Brooke, she never left the house without eyeliner, blush, and lipstick. Her clothes weren’t showy, just classics, like the well-fitting jeans and oversized Eileen Fisher white linen blouse she wore tonight. Her hands were long and slender, with nails painted a neutral color. She wore no rings.
“I’m so glad Henry is okay,” Marie said. “I was terrified when I heard about the surgery.”
“If it makes you feel any better, even though Henry is fine and the arm has totally healed, I’m still a little freaked out about the whole thing.”
“You don’t show it,” Marie said. “You never have. I think you’re like your father that way.”
Brooke held up her hand, traffic cop–style. “Don’t. Please don’t compare me to Dad.”
“I didn’t mean it as a dig, honey. Just a mother’s observation.”