Maybe Marie’s extended visit was the source of her contentment. Her mother had visited before, but this was the first time she’d stayed more than twenty-four hours. And it was definitely the first time Brooke had revealed the truth about her son’s father to anybody. It was a huge relief to finally share all her bottled-up emotions. Talking openly about Pete had dredged up emotions she hadn’t allowed herself to feel since Henry’s birth.
But for now, Brooke needed to figure out Josephine Warrick’s dilemma. How could she hope to fight the state on this condemnation issue when much more experienced Atlanta lawyers who specialized in this issue hadn’t been able to fend off the taking of Josephine’s island?
Josephine didn’t have much time left, and the state’s lawyers were obviously aware of that. They could easily keep stonewalling until the old woman was dead. Brooke tapped her fingers on the steering wheel of the car, her mind ticking off all the nuances of this case. Josephine Warrick wasn’t the least bit loveable, but you had to admire her determination and her dogged, if late-breaking, sense of loyalty to her oldest friends.
The issue of the High Tide Club girls whom Josephine wanted to leave the island to was another matter. If Marie was going to be a beneficiary of Josephine’s estate, there was no way Brooke could have anything to do with it. Maybe Gabe Wynant would be willing to take on that piece of work.
Crossing the Torras Causeway to St. Simon’s Island, Brooke glanced over at the cell phone on the passenger seat. Marie hadn’t called. There were no emergencies. Life was okay.
Brooke easily navigated the road to Sea Island. She’d been coming here since childhood with her parents on mini-vacations to the Cloister, which was the island’s five-star resort, and with friends whose families owned homes here.
Brooke knew rich. Her parents were wealthy, in a modest, understated kind of way. But they weren’t Sea Island rich. Sea Island rich meant yachts and private jets. She’d been a little surprised that Gabe Wynant owned a home here.
She pulled the Volvo up to the guard shack and gave the uniformed officer her name. He smiled, handed her a large visitor’s pass with the date and time, and gave her directions to Gabe’s house, which was on Cottage Lane.
Sea Island was lush and green this time of year. The impeccably landscaped roadway was carpeted with thick fringes of ferns and colorful beds of blooming pink, white, and lavender impatiens. No weed would have dared poke its head here.
Four turns later, Brooke pulled into the driveway of the address Gabe had given her. The house was modest—by Sea Island standards—a U-shaped whitewashed stucco cottage with vaguely Mediterranean aspirations. A pair of wrought-iron gates led into a terra-cotta–tiled courtyard garden. A fountain in the center trickled water from an oversized cobalt pottery urn. The heavy-planked arched door was open, and Gabe Wynant was waving hello.
“Brooke!” His craggy face broke into a grin, and he gave her a bear hug. This was a Gabe Wynant she’d never seen before. He was barefoot, dressed in loud pink-and-turquoise madras Bermuda shorts and a pink collared golf shirt. She’d always seen her mentor and law partner dressed in either sweaty running gear or in a custom-tailored suit and tie.
“Hey, Gabe,” she said, feeling suddenly shy. “Thanks for letting me impose on your Sunday off.”
“Nonsense,” he said, waving her inside. “I was happy as hell to hear from you.”
She followed him into the living room. The whole back of the room was a wall of french doors that looked out over an overgrown yard shaded by live oak trees. With a whitewashed brick fireplace and shelves filled with thick coffee table books and pottery, the room looked comfortable and lived in. A life-size portrait hung over the mantel. The subject was a young girl of maybe seventeen or eighteen, dressed in a gauzy embroidered peasant-style blouse and faded jeans. The girl was posed in profile, with her shining mane of long blond hair falling nearly to her waist, like a sixties folk singer or maybe just an affluent hippie girl. Brooke didn’t know a lot about art, but this painting, she knew, was the work of an accomplished, confident artist.
“Your home is lovely,” Brooke said.
“Like it? It can be yours. I’m getting it ready to put on the market,” Gabe said.
“What a shame,” she said. “This place, it feels so homey. So charming.”
“This was really Sunny’s house more than mine. I’d come down occasionally to play golf or tennis or to entertain clients, but it was her getaway.”
Brooke touched his arm lightly. “My mom just told me about Sunny. I’m so sorry, Gabe. That must have been very hard, losing her.”
He closed his hand over hers briefly and then released it. “Truthfully? I didn’t suddenly lose her eighteen months ago. It was more like an incremental loss over the years. She climbed into a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black, and over time, the Sunny I knew just … dissolved.”
Brooke nodded at the painting. “I’m sorry we never met. Is that her?”
“Yeah,” he said, gazing up at it. “That was the girl I married. Or so I thought.”
“She was so beautiful. It’s a wonderful painting.”
“It’s a self-portrait,” Gabe said. “She was a really talented artist. That’s one of the only portraits she ever did. She painted it as an anniversary gift for her parents. This was their house. After we inherited it, she wanted to take it down, but I wouldn’t let her. I guess I hoped it would remind her of who and what she used to be, before things changed.” He shook his head. “Anyway. That’s enough of that. Come on in the kitchen. I hope you haven’t eaten lunch yet because I’m starved.”
“You cooked me lunch? I’m impressed.”
“Don’t be. I ordered barbecue from a joint on the island. You didn’t turn vegan after you moved down here, did you?”
“Not a chance,” Brooke said, following him into the kitchen. A grease-spattered brown paper bag and two jumbo Styrofoam cups sat on the kitchen table.
“Sit yourself down and eat,” Gabe said. He opened the paper sacks and dished out the food; big sloppy sandwiches of pulled pork with tangy orange barbecue sauce on oversized buns, vinegary coleslaw, and baked beans.
Brooke heaped some coleslaw on her sandwich and added a couple of pickle slices. She took a greedy bite and rolled her eyes in ecstasy. “Best ’cue on the coast,” she declared, washing it down with a sip of sweet tea.
Gabe followed suit. “Tell me about this case of yours,” he said between bites.
*
Brooke quickly recapped Josephine Warrick’s standoff with the State of Georgia.
“I had one of our law clerks pull all the recent filings,” Gabe told her, retrieving a file folder from the kitchen countertop.
“What do you think?” she asked eagerly.
He took a sip of iced tea. “You’ve got an uphill battle ahead of you. There are only two legal ways to challenge the state’s right to condemn land. One way is to challenge the procedures by which the condemnation is initiated. The state has to make good-faith efforts to negotiate a fair price prior to the actual condemnation.”
“Anyway,” Brooke said, “the main issue is, she doesn’t want to sell her land. Not at any price.”
“Why not? She’s what? Nearly a hundred years old? No heirs. Why not take the money, give it to her favorite charity, and get a life estate? She gets to live out her life there, and after that, it’ll be a nice state park. Maybe they’d even name it after her.”
“You don’t know Josephine. She claims to have seen some secret long-range development plan that would have the state razing Shellhaven and putting in a big marina to allow for larger boats to ferry campers and visitors over from the mainland.”
“Would that be such a bad thing? Just playing devil’s advocate here.”