“Nope. Not interested. Nice try. Bye, Dad.”
Brooke disconnected, still fuming. She stared at the assortment of framed photos on her old white-painted dresser, Brooke laughing into the camera with her best friend, Holly, on the beach at Tybee Island. There was Brooke in her cap and gown after her graduation from Savannah Country Day. She picked up the oldest photo, a three-generation snapshot of her grandmother Millie seated on the sofa next to an impossibly young-looking Marie, who held an eighteen-month-old Brooke in a frilly white Easter dress.
Millie was gazing adoringly at the baby, and Marie was beaming proudly.
Brooke’s memories of Millie, her granny, were hazy now. She remembered a crystal lidded dish, always placed on the coffee table and filled with pink jelly beans for her visiting granddaughter. She remembered stacks of library books and record albums, mostly classical music, that Granny played on a bulky turntable in what she called her “hi-fi cabinet.”
She took the photograph, left the bedroom, and walked slowly downstairs, where her mother was still seated in the sunroom.
“Mom?”
Her mother’s beautifully composed face was in ruins. She stared numbly at the letters. “Where did you find these?”
“Lizzie found them. In Gardiner’s footlocker, which was shoved way in the back of a closet in the library at Shellhaven. The military shipped it there to Josephine after he was killed.”
Marie scowled. “That horrible, horrible woman.”
“Who? Josephine?”
“Yes.” Marie tossed the stack onto the table. “She read these letters, then hid them. She knew Mama was in love with Gardiner, was having—I mean, had—his child. Mama was her oldest, dearest friend. And Josephine just cut her out of her life. No wonder she wanted to make amends with us.”
“I’ve been thinking about that,” Brooke said. “Maybe that’s why Josephine quit talking to Ruth too—because she knew Granny had confided in Ruth but not in her. Of course Josephine read all the letters. She must have been furious at her best friends.”
“Why? Why, after Pops died, didn’t she reach out to Mama? The secret wouldn’t have mattered so much then, not between the two of them, anyway.”
“I don’t know,” Brooke admitted. “There’s so much I didn’t understand about Josephine. After Preiss died, she was essentially alone for the next forty years or so. All those years, she had no family, and she isolated herself from her oldest, closest friends. But she did have family—she had us, and we were what? An hour and a half away, in Savannah? A phone call, that’s all it would have taken. Instead, she waited until she knew she was dying.”
“Mama never said a word,” Marie said, twisting and untwisting the napkin she held in her hands.
Brooke sat down in the chair opposite her mother’s and gripped her hands in hers.
“Do you think Pops knew?” It was a question that had haunted Brooke since she’d read Millie’s last letter to Gardiner.
“He must have, but he certainly never let on to me,” Marie said, attempting a smile. She dabbed at her eyes with the napkin. “Pops was my father,” she said finally. “He was! He was the most patient, most loving and gentle man in the world.”
“I can’t believe Granny kept this a secret, all these years. And none of us had any idea.”
“I can,” Marie said. “Looking back now, I can understand why she was so private, and self-contained. I always thought it was just that famous New England reserve.”
“It must have been awful for Millie, keeping that secret. Pregnant and unmarried, knowing it would cause a scandal, wondering if Gardiner would come home from war to marry her. And then having to grieve him all alone,” Brooke said.
“I’m glad Josephine didn’t reach out to us,” Marie said. “I couldn’t have forgiven her for the way she treated my mother. She didn’t deserve to call us her family.”
Marie jumped to her feet and went into the kitchen. When she came back, she had an open bottle of wine and two glasses. She poured a glass and offered it to Brooke.
“No, thanks. I’ve got to drive home, remember?”
“Right.” Marie took a long drink of the wine.
“These letters change everything, you know. You’re Josephine’s niece, her closest relative and her heir, unless we find out that C. D. actually was her son.”
“I don’t need Josephine Warrick’s money.” Marie’s voice dripped scorn. “I had a career and saved my money, your father was generous with the divorce settlement, and I’ve done well with my investments. I thought it was a nice gesture when she reached out to us. I thought I’d be indulging her by going over to Talisa to meet her. And yes, I wanted you to have whatever bequest she wanted to give you. But knowing what we know now?” She drained the wineglass. “I’d be willing to give that damn island and the house to the state just to spite Josephine.”
“Who are you kidding?” Brooke said. “You’re the least spiteful woman I know. Anyway, are you telling me you’re not even just a little bit curious about Josephine’s estate? Don’t you want to know what it’s worth? Call me a mercenary little money-grubber, but I am. I’ve been wondering ever since I first set foot in Shellhaven.”
“I feel like I’m suddenly living in some weird parallel universe. All of a sudden, I’m not who I thought I was. I can’t even begin to process this. Anyway, what if this is all some kind of a mistake? And we’re jumping to conclusions?” Marie asked.
Brooke pointed to the letters. “Do you think they’re fake? Does that look like Granny’s handwriting?”
With a fingertip, Marie traced the elegant slanting script on a brittle envelope.
“It’s Mama’s handwriting,” she said slowly. “And the voice in these letters, it’s hers. I can hear her so clearly as I read them. She used to write me letters like these when I was away at college. I still have them, you know. Packed away somewhere in the attic. I even have a few letters Pops sent me when I was away at summer camp. He knew I was homesick, so he’d draw these funny little cartoons of my cat, Mrs. Whiskers, with the silliest balloon captions.”
She sniffed and dabbed at her eyes again. “I wish you’d known Pops, Brooke. I wish he’d known you. And Henry, of course.”
“I wish it too.” Brooke stood up. “I’d better hit the road.”
Reluctantly, Marie handed her the letters. “You’ll need to give these to Gabe, right?”
“Yes. I had Farrah make copies of everything for you, but he’ll want the originals,” Brooke said. “And I wouldn’t be surprised if the cousins, once they hear this news, don’t insist on getting your DNA compared to Josephine’s.”
Marie shuddered. “Does that mean needles? You know how I feel about blood. And needles.”
“I think it’s just a matter of something simple. Like a cheek swab,” Brooke said.
They walked toward the front door.
“Did you talk to your dad?” Marie asked.
Brooke tensed. “Briefly.”
“Gordon wouldn’t tell me what he wanted to discuss. From the look on your face, I’m guessing it didn’t go well.”
“You could say that. He doesn’t like the idea of me dating Gabe. I wish you hadn’t told him I was.”
“I didn’t think it was classified information. Did Dad have a specific objection, or was it just the age thing?”
“Patricia has some malicious gossip about Gabe that she’s just dying to spread, but I shut him down before he could get started.”
“Maybe you should have listened,” Marie said. “Gordon is many things, but a gossip isn’t one of them.”
“I’ve known Gabe for years. I think I know him a lot better than Patricia does,” Brooke said.
Marie kissed her daughter on the cheek. “Sometimes the people we think we know the best are the ones with secrets we can’t even fathom. Drive carefully, okay?”