Brooke stepped forward. “Lizzie?”
“That’s me,” the woman said. “You must be Brooke. Here,” she said, thrusting the carrier at her. She gestured toward the Volvo parked at the curb. “I hope that’s yours. We’ve got to get Dweezil into some air-conditioning. She’s not used to this crazy humidity.”
As if on cue, the animal inside the crate yowled loudly, reached a paw through the crate’s metal bars, and raked Brooke’s arm with her claws.
“Dweezil! That wasn’t very nice,” Lizzie said, taking the crate back. She looked up at Brooke. “Let’s go. We’ve been up since midnight. I need a drink, and she needs a litter box.”
Brooke looked down at the bleeding claw marks on her forearm. “Uh, sure.”
*
Marie turned around from the front seat and extended her hand toward their passenger. “Hi. I’m Marie. Brooke’s mom.”
“I figured,” Lizzie said, taking her hand and shaking it briefly. “Same nose and all.”
She opened the carrier, and an enormous fluffy gray cat exploded onto her lap, yowling indignantly. “And this is Dweezil.”
“My goodness,” Marie said. “I’ve never seen a cat that large. She’s beautiful. And so unusual looking. What kind of cat is she?”
“Maine coon cat,” Lizzie said, burying her nose in the cat’s fur. The cat purred happily and licked Lizzie’s face. “Three-time, All-West best-in-breed.” She looked out the window at the passing traffic. “About that drink?”
Brooke followed the airport signs toward the interstate. “We’re about an hour or so away from St. Ann’s. Can you wait until we get to your hotel? I think there’s a bar in the lobby.”
“They don’t have liquor stores in Florida?” Lizzie said pointedly.
“Riiiight,” Brooke said. She flipped her turn signal and maneuvered the Volvo into the far-right lane. “I think there might be one at this next exit.”
*
They waited in the car while Lizzie went into the liquor store. Dweezil was perched on the backseat, her face turned expectantly toward the window. A moment later, her owner was back, clutching a large brown sack under one arm and holding a smaller package with a straw poking out the top. Lizzie opened the back door and set the large sack on the floor, then clipped a leash to the cat’s collar and tucked her under her arm.
“This could take a while,” she warned. “Dweez doesn’t like to poop in new territory.”
“You walk your cat?” Brooke asked.
“Unless you want her to poop in your backseat, I do,” Lizzie said. She slammed the door and walked around to the side of the liquor store, where she gently set the cat down on the concrete.
“Interesting woman,” Marie said, raising one eyebrow.
*
Lizzie settled herself into the backseat with her cat on her lap. She reached into the paper sack and brought out a six-pack with one can missing. “Anybody want a mojito?” she asked. She took a sip from her own can. “No clue what’s in this, but it’s not half-bad.”
“I’m good,” Brooke said.
“No, thank you,” Marie added hastily.
“So,” Lizzie said, after they were back on the road. “Tell me about this island we’re about to inherit. Got any idea what it’s worth?”
“Um, well, the State of Georgia previously offered her $6 million,” Brooke said. “But Josephine doesn’t want to sell her portion of Talisa. Not under any condition. She’s going to fight the condemnation.”
“But we could sell it after she’s dead, right?” Lizzie asked. “That is, I could sell my portion, right? I mean, no offense to you girls, but I live in California. What do I need with an island in Georgia?”
“Actually, Josephine is adamant that the island shouldn’t ever be sold,” Brooke said. “That’s why she hired me. She wants to establish a trust to ensure that it’s left just as it is.”
“In perpetuity,” Marie added.
Lizzie took a long pull on her canned mojito. “Shit. But you’re a lawyer, right?”
“Yes.”
“If the state does force her to sell the island, who gets that money? When she’s gone? I mean, you told me she’s pushing the century mark and she doesn’t have any family. That just leaves us, right?”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Brooke cautioned. “At this point, Josephine wants to meet with you, Marie, and Varina. After that, I can’t predict what will happen. She’s, um, eccentric, to say the least.”
“Are you trying to say that if she doesn’t like me, she might write me out of her will?” Lizzie asked. She scratched the cat’s ears. “That won’t happen, will it, Dweez? Everybody loves your mommy. Right?”
Brooke and Marie exchanged amused glances.
“You’d asked about Talisa,” Brooke said. “It’s an amazing place. Mostly wild. There’s a state park on the north end of the island, but otherwise, Shellhaven, the home Josephine’s father built, and a small community called Oyster Bluff are the only houses on the island. The scenery is spectacular—and the beach, well, when you see it, I think you’ll begin to understand Josephine’s determination to keep things untouched. You really have to see the island before you can begin to appreciate its beauty.”
“Doubtful,” Lizzie said. “I’m a city girl. Dweezil and I don’t really do nature. Do we, Dweez?”
The cat yowled loudly as if in agreement.
“According to my research, there used to be a plantation on the island. Is anything left of it?” Lizzie asked.
“No. Union troops burned it during the Civil War,” Brooke said. “I think there are some tabby ruins, but they’re on a part of the midsection of the island that’s largely gone wild.”
“And the only way to get to the island is by boat? Is there, like, a ferry?”
“There’s a small state-operated ferry that goes to the park on the north end, but Josephine keeps a boat at the dock on her end of the island, and that’s how we’ll get over there today,” Brooke said. “It’s only about a half-hour ride.”
Lizzie glanced down at the cat stretched across her lap and frowned. “Dweez doesn’t really like water. Or boats.”
“Maybe you can leave her in your room at the hotel,” Marie suggested.
“No way,” Lizzie said flatly. “She goes where I go. But it’s not that big a problem. I brought some chill pills. She can have some of mine.”
Marie smiled weakly. “Lizzie, tell me about your grandmother Ruth. I think it’s so interesting that she and Josephine and my mother were best friends.”
Lizzie yawned. “Grandma was definitely a pistol. She dyed her hair flame red right up until her hairdresser died, and then I did it for her. She had great legs, and she loved to show them off every chance she got. And she was a real original thinker. My dad always said I was more like Grandma than him or my mom, which was true. Grandma was the one who turned me on to books and writing. My dad said Grandma was living her life through me. She never worked after she married my granddad, because, let’s face it, he was rich as sin, and women in her circle didn’t really have careers back then. If she’d been born in my mother’s generation, she probably would have been in Congress or maybe even president. Instead, she marched and protested and raised funds and raised hell for the liberal causes she cared about.”
“Brooke tells me Ruth was your paternal grandmother?” Marie asked.
Lizzie shrugged. “She pretty much raised me, off and on. My mom split when I was just a kid, and my dad, well, he wasn’t really what you’d call dad material. They weren’t even technically married, it turns out. Grandma said my dad was super smart in school, but then he got drafted and went to Vietnam, and he was pretty messed up when he got back. He drifts around, always has some crazy scheme he’s working on. Grandma left him some money in her will, so I guess that’s what he lives on.”