“Maybe, but what’s the big rush?”
“Mrs. Warrick’s most recent scans show several new tumors,” Brooke said. “You might have all the time in the world, but I assure you, she does not.”
“Okay, I’ll come. But she pays all my travel, right? Room and board, everything.”
“That’s correct. I’ll book your flights today. Could you be here by Thursday?”
“This is already Tuesday. Are you crazy? I’ll have to find a cat sitter, finish my magazine article…”
“Friday, then,” Brooke relented. “I’m afraid there aren’t a ton of hotel options here in town. Just chains.”
“I’ll leave it up to you. Just something clean and near a liquor store,” Lizzie said. “And I need to be home no later than Monday. Understood?”
“Perfectly,” Brooke said. “I’ll text you the flight details. See you then.”
*
Felicia Shaddix wasn’t as easily persuaded.
“Friday? I teach a class on Friday. And even if I didn’t, my aunt has a standing hair appointment on Friday. I promise you, she won’t go anywhere without that hair fixed just right. Not even if it was lunch with Barack Obama himself.”
“Isn’t your class an online one? Could it be taped? I’ve got one of the other beneficiaries flying in from LA on Friday morning, and it’s going to be tricky to reschedule her.”
“I don’t know,” Felicia grumbled. “The dean likes the classes to be live, with student interaction. She’s pretty strict about that.”
“Look,” Brooke said, lowering her voice. “I don’t want to upset your aunt, but Josephine really doesn’t have a lot of time left. I was with her yesterday, and she said the latest scans showed that the cancer has metastasized. I’m sure you know the implications of that. I really need to get all of you together with her so we can move forward with the arrangements.”
“Fine. I’ll tell the dean it’s an emergency, and I’ll tell my aunt’s hairdresser it’s an emergency too, see if she’ll fit her in on Thursday afternoon instead.”
“Thanks so much,” Brooke said.
*
Her own mother was the last piece of the puzzle, and a surprisingly hard sell.
“Friday? Oh no. That’s out of the question,” Marie said. “I have a committee meeting on Friday morning. I was going to tell you tonight. I’ll have to head home to Savannah on Thursday.”
“Mom, I really, really need you to meet with Josephine and those other women Friday on the island. I’ve been through hell getting everybody’s schedules lined up. I didn’t expect it would be a problem with you.”
“Sweetie, I’m sorry, but this is my Fresh Air Home board meeting. We’re going through the applications for the children for summer camp. I really can’t miss it.”
“Mommmm.” Brooke knew she sounded like a petulant teenager, but she couldn’t help herself. “You’re the chairman of the committee, so can’t you just make an executive decision and reschedule? Those women don’t have jobs or day care to figure out.”
“Are you saying my friends and I are just idle, rich ladies who lunch?” Marie asked.
Damn it, Brooke thought. She’d bungled that one badly.
“No, not at all. I know how much good work you and your friends do and how hard you work at it,” Brooke said hastily. “But couldn’t you let your cochair run the meeting? Please, Mom? For me?”
“Well, if it really means that much, I’ll do it for you, but not for her. This seems like a lot of fuss,” Marie complained. “I don’t mean to second-guess you, Brooke, but how do you even know Josephine really and truly means to leave the island to a bunch of strangers? It’s just so unbelievably odd. Are you sure this isn’t some ploy, just to get attention or sympathy?”
“It had better not be,” Brooke said.
23
Gabe Wynant was dressed for his Wednesday morning meeting with Josephine Warrick in what was apparently his idea of island casual—white button-down oxford cloth shirt (sans necktie), pressed khakis, and navy-blue blazer, accessorized by Topsiders (sans socks) and a briefcase. Brooke didn’t have the heart to tell him that Shellhaven didn’t have air-conditioning.
“Who’s this?” C. D. asked Brooke as the two boarded the boat.
“Gabe Wynant,” the visitor said, extending a hand in greeting.
C. D. reluctantly shook hands. “C. D. Anthony. You got a business card?”
Being the Southern gentleman he was, Gabe produced a thick velum card and handed it to the boatman.
“Another lawyer?” He raised one bushy eyebrow.
“How are you today, C. D.?” Brooke asked.
“Same as ever. Bursitis, arthritis, and gastritis. Them VA doctors are all a bunch of quacks, if you ask me.”
Gabe started to offer his condolences, but Brooke gave him a warning shake of her head to telegraph Do not engage.
*
“I haven’t been over to Talisa probably since the eighties, when it was included on one of the Georgia Trust for Historic Preservation’s rambles,” Gabe said as they puttered slowly through the marina’s no-wake zone. “At the time, the house wasn’t open for tours. I’ve always been fascinated with the place.”
“It’s pretty much a living time capsule,” Brooke said. “Josephine has tried to keep everything the same as it was at the time of her husband’s death.”
“When did he die?”
“Sometime in the sixties, I think.” She glanced at C. D., whose back was turned to them. “The house and grounds are in pretty sad shape. Unfortunately, she doesn’t have the manpower to keep up with all the needed maintenance. Even in its current condition, you can tell it was once pretty magnificent.”
“I’m looking forward to seeing it. And, of course, to working with the lady of the house,” Gabe said.
“You might change your mind about that once you actually meet her,” C. D. said. He’d turned around and was facing them now, ready to insert himself into their conversation.
Brooke frowned and shot her colleague the Do not engage look again, which Gabe cheerfully ignored.
“Why’s that?”
“Just sayin’. She’s a tough old bird. Stingy as hell.”
“Why do you stay?” Gabe asked. “I mean, if she’s as bad as you say.”
“I’m seventy-six years old. I got a bad leg and some might say a bad attitude. I ask you, who else is gonna hire me and give me a place to live, sorry as it is?”
“Exactly,” Brooke said. She pointedly turned toward the bow of the boat, leaving her back to the boat’s captain and effectively ending the conversation.
*
When C. D. pulled the boat alongside the dock at Shellhaven, the same little boy was stationed at the end of the dock, waiting. “Hey, C. D.,” the boy called.
“Gimme a hand with the bowline, will ya, Lionel?” C. D. tossed him the bowline, and the kid knotted it around a cleat.
“You take me for a motorcycle ride?” Lionel asked eagerly.
“Maybe later,” C. D. said, nodding at his departing passengers.
It was Louette, and not her husband, who was waiting for them at the dock this time. She was driving a vehicle Brooke hadn’t seen before, a gleaming aqua-and-white four-door Chrysler with the exaggerated tailfins of a fifties muscle car.
Brooke gamely climbed into the backseat of the car and introduced Gabe Wynant. “Where’s Shug today?” she asked.
“He’s up on the roof, trying to patch another hole,” Louette said. “Silly me, I never did learn how to drive a stick shift, which is why I had to come fetch you in Nellybelle.” She gave the turquoise vinyl dashboard a fond pat.
“My dad had a Chrysler like this, only his was brown and cream,” Gabe said. “I can’t believe this thing still runs.”
“Shug likes to tinker with Miss Josephine’s cars when he has the time,” Louette explained. “This is one of his favorites.”