by Lisa Wingate
“Hello?” I venture, since nobody seems to be materializing from the rooms down the hall. “Hello?”
Maybe they’ve stepped out for a minute? The place is dead quiet.
My stomach growls, crying out for popcorn.
I’m about to raid the machine when the back door opens. I slap the popcorn bag down and turn around.
“Hey! I didn’t know anyone was in here.” I recognize Trent Turner III from the photo online, but that picture was taken from a distance, a full-body shot in front of the building. He was wearing a ball cap and had a beard. It didn’t do him justice. Now he’s clean-shaven. Dressed in khakis, well-worn loafers with no socks, and a nicely fitted polo shirt, he looks like he belongs under an umbrella table somewhere…or in an ad for casual living. He’s sandy blond and blue-eyed, the hair just shaggy enough to backhandedly say, I live on beach time.
He moves up the hall, juggling a couple to-go bags and a drink. I catch myself ogling the haul. I think I smell shrimp and chips. My stomach offers another audible protest.
“Sorry, I…there was no one here.” I thumb over my shoulder toward the door.
“Ran out for some lunch.” Placing the food on the counter, he looks around for a napkin, then settles for swiping up stray cocktail sauce with a piece of printer paper. Our handshake is sticky but friendly. “Trent Turner,” he says with casual ease. “What can I do for you?” His smile makes me want to like him. It’s the kind of smile that assumes people do like him. He seems…honest, I guess.
“I called you a couple weeks ago.” No sense starting right off with names.
“Rental or buy-and-sell?”
“What?”
“A place. Were we talking about a rental or a property listing?” He’s searching his memory banks, clearly. But there’s also more than casual interest coming my way. I feel a spark of…something.
I catch myself smiling back.
Guilt niggles at me instantly. Should an engaged woman—even a lonely one—be reacting this way? Maybe it’s just because Elliot and I have barely talked in almost two weeks. He’s been in Milan. The time difference is difficult. He’s focused on the job. I’m focused on family issues.
“Neither one.” I guess there’s no sense postponing this any longer. The fact that this guy is good-looking and likeable doesn’t change reality. “I called you about something I found at my grandmother’s house.” My fledgling friendship with Trent Turner is, no doubt, doomed to be short-lived. “I’m Avery Stafford. You said you had an envelope addressed to my grandmother, Judy Stafford? I’m here to pick it up.”
His demeanor changes instantly. Muscular forearms cross over a ripped chest, and the counter quickly becomes a negotiation table. A hostile one.
He looks displeased. Very. “I’m sorry you wasted the trip. I told you, I can’t give those documents to anyone but the people they’re addressed to. Not even family members.”
“I have her power of attorney.” I’m already pulling it from my oversized purse. Being the lawyer in the family, and with my mother and father preoccupied by the health issue, I am the one designated on Grandma Judy’s documents. I unfold them and turn the pages toward him as he’s lifting his hand to protest. “She’s in no shape to handle her own affairs. I’m authorized to—”
He rejects the offering without even looking at the papers. “It’s not a legal matter.”
“It is if it’s her mail.”
“It’s not mail. It’s more like…cleaning up some loose ends from my grandfather’s files.” His eyes duck away, take in the swaying palms outside the window, evading my probing.
“It’s about the cottage here on Edisto then?” This is a real estate office, after all, but why maintain such secrecy over real estate documents?
“No.”
His answer is disappointingly brief. Usually, when you throw a wrong assumption at a witness, the witness responds by inadvertently giving you at least a piece of the right one.
It’s obvious that Trent Turner has been through many a negotiation before. In fact, I sense that he’s been through this very negotiation before. He did say those documents and people, as in multiple. Are other families being held hostage as well?
“I’m not leaving until I find out the truth.”
“There’s popcorn.” His attempt at humor only serves to stoke the fire in my belly.
“This isn’t a joke.”
“I realize that.” For the first time, he seems slightly sympathetic to my plight. His arms uncross. A hand runs roughly through his hair. Thick brown lashes close over his eyes. Stress lines form around the edges, hinting at a life that was once considerably more high-pressure than this one. “Look, I promised my grandfather…on his deathbed. And trust me—it’s better this way.”
I don’t trust him. That’s the point. “I’ll go after them legally if I have to.”
“My grandfather’s files?” A sardonic laugh indicates that he doesn’t take to threats very well. “Good luck with that. They were his property. They’re my property now. You’ll have to be satisfied with that.”
“Not if this could damage my family.”
The look on his face tells me I’ve struck close to the truth. I feel sick. My family does have a deep, dark secret. What is it?
Trent lets out a long sigh. “It’s just…This really is for the best. That’s all I can tell you.” The phone rings, and he answers it, seeming to hope the interruption will drive me away. The caller has a million questions about Edisto beach rentals and activities on the island. Trent takes the time to talk about everything from fishing for black drum to finding mastodon fossils and arrowheads on the beach. He gives the caller a lovely history lesson about wealthy families who resided on Edisto before the War Between the States. He talks about fiddler crabs and pluff mud and harvesting oysters.
He pops fried shrimp into his mouth, savors them while he listens. Turning his back to me, he leans against the counter.
I return to my original seat by the door, perch on the edge, and stare at his back while he offers an endless litany about Botany Bay. He seems to describe the four-thousand-acre preserve inch by inch. I tap my foot and drum my fingers. He pretends not to notice, but I catch him peeking at me from the corner of his eye.
I pull out my phone and thumb through email. If worse comes to worst, I’ll scroll through Instagram or dawdle around with the wedding ideas my mom and Bitsy want me to look at on Pinterest.
Trent bends over a desktop computer, looks up information, talks about rentals and dates.
The customer finally settles on a time and place for the ideal vacation. Trent confesses that he’s not the one who handles logging the rental bookings. His secretary is home with a sick baby, but he’ll email her, and she’ll take care of the confirmations.
Finally, after what seems like at least thirty minutes of chatterboxing, he straightens to his full height and looks in my direction. A staredown ensues. This man is, quite possibly, as stubborn as I am. Unfortunately, he can probably hold out longer. He has food.
Hanging up the phone, he taps a knuckle to his lips, shakes his head, and sighs. “It won’t matter how long you’re here. It’s not going to change anything.” His frustration is starting to show. I’m getting somewhere. I’ve got him rattled now.
I proceed calmly to the popcorn machine and the watercooler and help myself.
Thusly equipped for the sit-in, I wander back to my seat.
He yanks an office chair into position behind the computer, sits down, and disappears behind a four-drawer file cabinet.
At the first taste of popcorn, my stomach lets out an indelicately loud roar.
The shrimp basket suddenly appears on the edge of the counter. Manly fingers shove it my way, but he doesn’t say a word. The kindness makes me feel guilty, even more so as, with a resolute thump, he adds an unopened soda. I’m undoubtedly ruining his perfectly good day.
I help myself to a little handful and return to my spot. Guilt and fried shrimp go q
uite nicely together, it turns out.
Computer keys click. Another sigh comes from behind the file cabinet. More time passes. The desk chair squeals in protest, as if he’s rocking back in it. “Don’t you Staffords have people to do this kind of thing for you?”
“Sometimes. But not in this case.”
“I’m sure you’re used to getting what you want.”
His insinuation burns. I’ve been fighting it all my life—the idea that my only qualifications are a cute blond head and the Stafford name. Now, with the speculation heating up about my political future, I’m incredibly sick of hearing it. The family name didn’t get me through Columbia Law School with honors.
“I work for what I get, thank you.”
“Ffff!”
“I don’t ask for any special favors, and I don’t expect any.”
“So I can call the police and have you removed from my waiting room, just like I would with anyone else who stakes out the place and won’t leave when they’re asked?”
Shrimp and popcorn merge to form a lump just below my breastbone. He wouldn’t…would he? I can just imagine the newspaper coverage. Leslie would string me up singlehandedly. “Does that happen often?”
“Not unless someone’s tipped back a few too many brewskies on the beach. And Edisto’s not really that kind of place. We don’t get much excitement here.”
“Yes, I know. And I have a feeling that’s one reason you won’t want the police involved in this.”
“One reason?”
“I doubt you’re unaware that there are people who wouldn’t have hesitated to threaten my family with information that could be damaging…if there were any such information. And that sort of behavior is illegal.”
Trent is out of his chair in a heartbeat, and I’m out of mine. We face each other like generals across a war room table. “You’re about a half inch from meeting the Edisto Beach police.”
“What did your grandfather want with my grandmother?”
“It wasn’t blackmail, if that’s what you’re getting at. My grandfather was an honest man.”
“Why did he leave an envelope for her?”
“They had business in common.”
“What business? Why didn’t she tell anyone about it?”
“Maybe she thought that was for the best.”
“Was she coming here to…meet someone? Did he find out about it?”
He draws back, his lip curling. “No!”
“Then tell me!” I’m in courtroom mode now, focused on one thing—getting to the truth. “Give me the envelope!”
He slams a hand on the counter, rattles everything there, then whips around the end. In a few strides, we’re face-to-face. I stand as tall as I can, and still he towers over me. I refuse to be intimidated. We’re settling this thing. Right here. Right now.
The bell on the door rings, and it barely registers at first. I’m focused on white-rimmed blue eyes and clenched teeth.
“Whew! It’s a hot one outside. Got any popcorn today?” When I glance over my shoulder, a man in an official-looking uniform—a Park Service employee or perhaps a game warden—is standing in the doorway, looking back and forth between Trent Turner and me. “Oh…didn’t know you had company.”
“Come on in and take a load off, Ed.” Trent beckons the incomer with friendly enthusiasm, which quickly wanes when he turns my way again and adds, “Avery here was just leaving.”
CHAPTER 12
Rill
It’s two weeks before I learn that the kids here are wards of the Tennessee Children’s Home Society. I don’t know what wards means when I first hear Mrs. Murphy say it on the telephone. I can’t ask either, since I’m not supposed to be listening in. I’ve figured out that if I shinny up under the azalea bushes alongside of the house, I can get close enough to hear through the screens on her office windows.
“Certainly, all of the children are wards of the Tennessee Children’s Home Society, Dortha. I do understand your daughter-in-law’s predicament. When unhappy, many men turn to liquoring and…dalliances. It is so difficult for a wife. Adding a child to the home at long last might well brighten up the atmosphere and solve the entire problem. Fatherhood has a way of changing a man. I’m certain it won’t be a problem, as you’ll have no trouble paying the fees. Yes…yes…quickly, of course. A surprise for their anniversary. How sweet. If I could just give you one of these, Dortha, I certainly would. I have some darling little cherubs just now. But Miss Tann controls all of the decisions. I’m only paid to board the children and…”
I figure it out from the conversation quick enough—that new word. Wards means that these kids’ parents didn’t come back for them. The kids here say that if your parents don’t come get you, Miss Tann gives you to somebody else, and they take you home. Sometimes those people keep you, and sometimes they don’t. I’m scared to ask too many questions because we’re not supposed to talk about it, but I’ve got a feeling that’s why Stevie’s big sister hasn’t turned up again since the day we got here. Miss Tann gave her to somebody. Sherry was a ward.
We’re lucky we’re not. We belong to Briny, and he’ll fetch us, soon as Queenie gets well. It’s taking longer than I thought, and that’s why I’ve started listening under Mrs. Murphy’s window. I’ve been hoping to hear something about Briny. When I ask the workers, they just tell me to behave myself, or else we’ll have to stay here longer. I can’t think of anything much worse than that, so I do my best to see that all of us behave.
I’m taking a chance, coming up under the window like this, and I know it. We’re not allowed to get anywhere near Mrs. Murphy’s flower beds. If she knew I was listening to her phone calls and talks on the front porch when folks come by…I’ve got a few ideas about what might happen to me.
She comes to the screen, and through the azalea leaves I see cigarette smoke puff out. It hangs in the wet air like the genie floating over Aladdin’s lamp, and my nose tickles with a sneeze. I slap my hand over my face, and the branches move. A hammer pounds against my ribs from the inside.
“Mrs. Pulnik!” she yells. “Mrs. Pulnik!”
My skin goes cold. Don’t run. Don’t run, I tell myself.
Fast steps come up the hallway inside.
“What is it, Mrs. Murphy?”
“Instruct Riggs to put out poison this evening under the azaleas. Those infernal rabbits have gotten into my flower beds again.”
“I will be puttingk him to the task immediately.”
“And have him tidy up the front yard and pull the weeds. Tell him to make use of the older boys in any way he sees fit. Miss Tann will be coming tomorrow. I’ll have the place presentable, or else.”
“Yes, Mrs. Murphy.”
“What’s become of the ones in the sickroom? The toddler boy with the deep violet eyes in particular. Miss Tann wants to see him. She has promised him for an order in New York.”
“He is lethargic, I am afraidt to say. As well, he is thin. He takes little bit of corn mush. I do not belief he will travel well.”
“Miss Tann will not be pleased. I am not pleased. You’d think that, having been raised in back alleys and ditches, the little guttersnipes would be hardier.”
“That is true, yes. The girl in the sickroom is decliningk as well. For two days, she refuses to eat. The doctor shouldt be summonedt, yes?”
“No, of course not. Why in heaven’s name would I have the doctor called over a bit of the runs? Children always have the runs. Give her some gingerroot. That should do it.”
“As you wish.”
“How is little Stevie coming along? He is roughly the size of the boy in the sickroom. Older, but that can be changed. What color are his eyes?”
“Brown. But he has become stubborn in wettingk the bed as well. Andt he will not speak even a wordt. I do not belief a client wouldt be content with him.”
“That will not do. Secure him to the bed and leave him in it for the day if he wets again. A blister or two will teach the lesson. In any case,
brown eyes won’t satisfy for this order. Blue, green, or violet. Those have specifically been requested. Not brown.”
“Robby?”
My throat catches. Robby is the name they call my little brother. There’s not another Robby in the house.
“I am afraid not. The five are being saved for a special viewing event.”
I swallow the burning in my throat, push it all the way down to my stomach. A special viewing event. I think I know what that means. I’ve seen parents come here a few times. They wait on the porch, and the workers bring their kids to them, clean and dressed and with their hair all combed. The parents carry presents and give hugs and cry when they have to go. That must be what a viewing event is.
Briny’s coming to see us soon.
But that worries me too. Last week, a man showed up to visit his little boy, and Mrs. Murphy told him the boy wasn’t here. He’s been placed for adoption. I’m very sorry. That was what she said.
He’s gotta be here, the man argued. Lonnie Kemp. He’s mine. I didn’t sign him over for adopting. The children’s home is just boardin’ him till I git back on my feet.
Mrs. Murphy didn’t seem worried, even when the man broke down and cried. Nonetheless, he is gone. The family court deemed it best. He has been taken in by parents who can provide very well for him.
But he’s my son.
You mustn’t be selfish, Mr. Kemp. What’s done is done. Think of the child. He will be given what you could never provide for him.
He’s my son….
The man fell down on his knees and sobbed right there on the porch.
Mrs. Murphy just went back inside and shut the door. After a while, Mr. Riggs hauled the man up and walked him to the street and put him in his truck. He sat there all day watching toward the yard, looking for his boy.
I’m worried that Briny might come here and have the same problem. Only, Briny won’t stand there and cry. He’ll bust his way in, and something terrible will happen. Mr. Riggs is a big man. Miss Tann knows the police.