Haven Creek

by Rochelle Alers

  “You don’t have to turn on the hard sell, Fran. My interest in Nate has to do with restoring Angels Landing Plantation, not whether he’d make a good boyfriend or husband. And even if I were interested in him, I don’t have the time for a relationship.”

  “I think you forget who you’re talking to,” Francine said in a whisper after a long, uncomfortable pause. “Aside from my family, you’re the only one who knows I’m psychic. You claim you don’t want me to tell you your future, but that doesn’t stop me from seeing visions that pertain to you.”

  Morgan’s heart was beating so hard and fast she was certain it could be seen through her tank top. When she first met Francine, she’d found her somewhat strange, with her head of unruly curly red hair and bohemian style of dress, reminding her of the 1970s hippies in her grandfather’s photographs. The kids at school said Francine was weird, but Morgan admired her because she marched to the beat of her own drum. And her offbeat style suited her dramatic talent, which far outweighed her eccentricity. An aspiring actress, Francine was also quick to remind those who questioned her ethnicity that she was Gullah despite her fair complexion, red hair, and green eyes.

  One day Francine said that Morgan, her study partner, was going to get an award at graduation for excellence in math. This disclosure made Morgan uncomfortable because they weren’t going to graduate high school for another two years. When Morgan asked Francine how she knew this, her response was, “I was born with a caul over my face.” Gullahs believed that a baby born with a caul or veil over its head would have supernatural abilities. This included the ability to see spirits and talk to them, or become a healer. Talk of ghosts and spirits had always frightened Morgan, so she made it a point to leave the room whenever the subject came up. However, when she did receive the award at graduation for exceptional math scores, she realized that Francine was psychic.

  A chill swept over her and she shuddered as if it were thirty degrees rather than eighty. Slumping limply against the back of the swing, she closed her eyes. “Talk to me.”

  Moving off the rocker, Francine sat next to Morgan, reaching for her hand. “You’ve been in love with Nate for a long time. The reason you never left the Creek was because you were waiting for him to come back.”

  Morgan opened her eyes. “That’s where you’re wrong, Francine. I had a crush on him in high school, but after he left and didn’t come back I forgot about him.”

  “You were forced to forget about him because he was married.”

  “Are you saying I still feel something for him?”

  A shadowy smile parted Francine’s lips. “Not consciously.”

  “What about Nate? Does he unconsciously feel anything for me?”

  Bright green and dark brown eyes met. “Didn’t he ask you out?”

  “He asked me because he wants other women to know he’s not available.”

  “It’s more than that, Mo.”

  “What is it, then?”

  Francine shook her head. “I don’t know.”

  “Why not?” Morgan asked.

  “I haven’t concentrated on him. When I do, I’ll let you know.”

  “No, Fran. Please let it go.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want to know?”

  Smiling, she nodded. “Very sure. I’ve always lived my life by letting things unfold naturally. It gives me the option of dealing with it or letting it go.”

  “Okay. But I’m going to tell you if the spirit comes to me with a warning for you to be careful.”

  Easing her hand from Francine’s, she hugged her. “Thank you.”

  “It’s all good. I’m going back now. Why don’t you come with me?”

  “I’m too relaxed to get up and get dressed again. After I go to my mother’s for Sunday dinner, I plan to relax for the rest of the long weekend.”

  Francine pushed to her feet, Morgan rising with her. “Are you going to any of the Memorial Day celebrations?”

  Every year families gathered in the square at Sanctuary Cove for a ceremony honoring veterans who’d fought in wars dating back to the Revolution. This was followed by reenactments, beginning with the War of Independence and concluding with skirmishes commemorating the Civil War. The stagings were always held in an open field behind the church in Angels Landing.

  “I don’t know yet,” Morgan said. She didn’t want to commit to going and then back out. Her holiday weekend plans included cleaning her house, putting up several loads of laundry, and watching at least two movies from a stack still encased in cellophane. “If you want to hang out next weekend, then I’ll go to Happy Hour with you.”

  Francine’s smile was dazzling. “You know I’m partial to Happy Hour.”

  “Friday or Saturday?”

  “Friday,” Francine said as she walked off the porch and got into her car.

  Resting her shoulder against the porch column, Morgan stared at the taillights of the fire-engine-red sports car until it disappeared from her line of vision. You’ve been in love with Nate for a long time. The reason you never left the Creek was because you were waiting for him to come back. She hadn’t wanted to tell Francine she was wrong for fear that her friend would come up with something else she wasn’t ready to accept.

  When Morgan was thirteen, she wasn’t in love, but she was infatuated with Nate. As an adult, she’d come to experience love, and for her the relationship was fraught with more pain than passion. She hadn’t come back to live in the Creek because she was waiting for Nate; she’d come back because of the promise she’d made to her grandfather.

  Pushing off the column, Morgan sat down on the top step, hugging her knees to her chest. It was her twelfth birthday when her grandfather asked her what she wanted to be when she grew up. She hadn’t hesitated when she said an engineer.

  He then suggested she create a wish list of all the things she wanted to accomplish, put it away, and then take it out every ten years to monitor her accomplishments. By twenty-two she’d graduated college with a degree not in engineering but architecture. That time, when she updated the list, her items had decreased from ten to six, because some of her childhood entries were unrealistic.

  The day she celebrated her thirty-second birthday Morgan retrieved her list and was mildly surprised to find that she’d attained many of her goals. What she’d found odd was that most of what she’d aspired to was career related. Her only personal longing was to own a home, and that had been achieved by the terms of her grandfather’s will. He’d left her his house, a parcel of land in Haven Creek, and an extensive collection of photographs, a few of which hung in museums around the country and several of which were sold to private collectors. He’d also bequeathed her a collection of jazz records dating back to the 1940s.

  What was disturbing was that her wish list didn’t include marriage or children. In another two months she would turn thirty-three and there wasn’t a week that went by without her sisters reminding her that not only was her biological clock ticking, it was also winding down. She’d tried explaining that her love life wasn’t a priority because her focus had always been on her education and establishing a career. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t had a few relationships; however, they were usually short-lived due to her unwillingness to commit. Her career had always come first. She’d become so driven to achieve professional success that the running joke among her engaged or married girlfriends was that she had become a professional bridesmaid. She’d been a bridesmaid for both her sisters, for Francine, and for two former college roommates. After her fifth time as a bridesmaid she doubted whether she would ever have her own “happily ever after.”

  Morgan knew she still had time to look for Mr. Right and settle down with a couple of children, but doubted whether she’d ever find a husband on Cavanaugh Island. The hurtful comments from the boys about her height and weight wreaked havoc on her emotional stability, and the result was an inability to feel completely confident with men.

  When she updated her wish list for the second time, she never
could have imagined her involvement in restoring Angels Landing Plantation to its original magnificence.

  Once again her love life would take a backseat to her career.

  Wednesday morning, Nate punched in the code on the keypad at the entrance to Shaw Woodworking. Ironically, he hadn’t realized how shabby the wooden building looked until after he’d built the barn less than a thousand feet away from the structure that had become a Haven Creek landmark.

  His great-grandfather had built the one-room cabin after his wife complained about the noise coming from the shed behind their home. Elias Shaw was rarely seen in public because he’d spend most of his waking hours sawing and hammering tables, chests, headboards and footboards, chairs and servers. Elias and succeeding generations had continued the tradition of date-stamping and signing each piece.

  He opened the door, inhaling the smell of raw wood, which was like life-giving oxygen to him, and chided himself for staying away so long. Returning to the Creek had healed him inside and out. He’d reconnected with his family and his roots.

  Roots. The word reminded him of Morgan. It’d been her sole reason for not leaving the Creek, and it was the reason he’d returned. Nate wasn’t certain how long he would’ve continued to live in L.A. if it hadn’t been for his father’s health crisis or Bryce’s involvement with the law. His marriage had ended in divorce, the housing market had gone belly-up, and except for an occasional job building movie sets, his days and nights were usually spent walking along the beach.

  The telephone call from Odessa telling him that Bryce was in jail and Lucas had been transported to a hospital after he’d suffered a mild stroke had galvanized Nate into action. He told his landlady he was giving up his apartment, then wrote her a check for the remaining months on his lease. He also paid her to pack up his personal items and ship them to Cavanaugh Island. Hours later he was on a nonstop flight from LAX to Charleston International. He’d taken a taxi directly from the airport to the hospital. He was relieved that his father hadn’t suffered any lasting effects from the stroke, but the doctor had issued a stern directive that Lucas had to lower his cholesterol and blood pressure. He’d also advised Lucas to work fewer hours and exercise more. It all translated into semiretirement.

  Nate checked the dehumidifier that ran around the clock to prolong the life and preserve the quality of the planks of wood stored on built-in shelves in the cabin. He’d gotten up early to work on the doors to an armoire. The client had requested a replica of an eighteenth-century French piece made of cherrywood. Lucas had spent countless hours sanding the padauk until it felt like satin under his fingertips. The wood was difficult to work with because of its interlocking grain. But with patience and perseverance it’d become a beautiful, rich, deep red with dark streaks shimmering over the surface. His father had promised to deliver the armoire the week after Labor Day, and Nate knew he had to finish carving the door-panel inlay to complete the piece by the due date. Working on the barn had taken up most of his spare time, but now that the roof was installed he would shift his attention to commissioned pieces.

  Flipping a switch, Nate turned on the track lighting that illuminated the space. He had been true to his word when he told Bryce that he could join the family business. Bryce’s probation officer had mandated that he have full-time employment, and working at Shaw Woodworking fulfilled that requirement. But Nate’s reaction to seeing Bryce carve wood was one of astonishment. His brother was to wood as Michelangelo was to marble. He was an artistic genius.

  Nate had just placed a bag containing food that Sharon had prepared for him in the refrigerator when the door opened. Peering over his shoulder, he saw Lucas walk in with Bryce. “What jolted you two out of bed so early this morning?” he said teasingly.

  Bryce scratched his chest, which was covered by a white T-shirt. “I made a mistake and set my clock for five instead of six.”

  Nate nodded. “If you come in early, then that means you can leave early. I’m glad you’re here because I’d like to discuss something with both of you before we start working.”

  Lucas straddled a seat at the bench where they normally took their meals. “Why do you sound so ominous?”

  Smiling, Nate sat opposite his father. “Trust me, Dad. It’s hardly ominous.” He turned to stare at Bryce. “If you’re making coffee, then I’ll take a cup.”

  “Me, too,” Lucas called out.

  “No coffee for you,” the brothers said in unison.

  “Dr. Monroe said I could have one cup a day as long as it’s decaf.”

  “You know this ain’t decaf, Dad,” Bryce said.

  Nate reached across the table and patted his father’s hand. “I’ll pick up some decaf when I go to the store later on today.” He glanced away rather than watch Lucas’s crestfallen expression. He couldn’t imagine not being able to eat or drink whatever he wanted. “Thanks,” he said when Bryce handed him a mug of steaming black coffee. Bryce had added milk to his own.

  “What do you want to talk about?” Bryce asked as he straddled the bench seat.

  “I’d like to restructure the business,” Nate said after he’d taken a sip of the hot brew.

  Lucas angled his head and narrowed his eyes. “Restructure how?”

  Nate stared into a pair of eyes much like his own. “It’s time we incorporate.”

  Pulling a handkerchief from the pocket of his coveralls, Lucas dabbed his shaved pate. “Why didn’t you do this a long time ago?”

  “Remember, Dad, I was never involved in the company.”

  “Wrong, Nate. You’ve worked with me since you were a boy.”

  “I assisted you when I was a boy,” he countered. “What’s different now is that I’ve invested in this company, and that means I’m involved. I’ve underwritten the cost for a new building and machinery, and I bought a new truck. Incorporating will protect you against personal loss. If anyone were to sue you you’d lose everything, including your home and land. It’s different when someone sues a company—all you’d lose is the company’s assets.”

  “What’s your stake in this?” Bryce asked Nate.

  “The same stake you’ll have once you’re off probation.”

  Lucas and Bryce listened intently when Nate told them that he planned to move all the supplies, machinery, and unfinished pieces of furniture into the barn. He told them he had an appointment with the family attorney, who was in the process of drawing up incorporation papers that would change the name of the company from Shaw Woodworking to Shaw & Sons Woodworking, Inc. Lucas would be listed as president and Nate as treasurer. Nate would also assume the responsibility of meeting and negotiating with potential clients. Lucas’s work hours would decrease to four hours a day, any three days of the week he chose. Bryce had also been placed on the payroll. He was expected to serve a yearlong apprenticeship, and upon completion would become an equal partner in the corporation. Nate was resolute when he told his brother that he was expected to arrive on time and be ready to work.

  Shaw & Sons Woodworking, Inc. It’d taken him less than two minutes to come up with the name for what locals considered a mom-and-pop establishment. As the descendant of highly skilled furniture makers whose reputation was legendary throughout the Lowcountry, Nate sought to bring the family-owned business and name into the twenty-first century.

  Nodding and smiling, Bryce said, “I like it.”

  “So do I,” Lucas said in agreement.

  Nate’s smile matched theirs. “The projected reorganization will not only benefit the company but the entire family.”

  “How much will I be paid?” Bryce asked Nate.

  “That will be Dad’s decision.”

  Lucas stared at his younger son. “I’ll have to think about it.”

  “What’s there to think about?”

  “Don’t push me, Bryce,” Lucas retorted. “I told you I have to think about it.”

  Bryce’s hands tightened around his mug. “I hope it’s above minimum wage.”

  “That’s en
ough, Bryce,” Nate warned softly. He held up a hand when his brother opened his mouth to continue to challenge their father. “That topic is not open for discussion. However, there’s something else I want you to know about.” He told them about Morgan’s restoration project.

  Lucas shook his head. “That’s a lot to ask from you, son. Don’t you think it may be too much responsibility for you now that I’m semiretired?”

  “No. I have three to five years to re-create the slave village. I’ll also hire several assistants to complete it, so there’ll be no cost overruns.”

  “I just don’t want you to end up like me, Nate, working longer and harder than necessary to provide for the family.”

  Nate gave Lucas a reassuring smile. “You’ve done well, Dad.” What he wanted to say is that he wouldn’t have had to work so hard if Odessa didn’t spend her and his money as if it grew on trees. As a nurse she was required to wear a uniform when at the hospital, but it was her need to have a new outfit for services every Sunday that threatened to bankrupt her husband. If Odessa didn’t see a designer label on a dress, suit, pair of shoes, handbag, or piece of jewelry, then she avoided it like the plague.

  Bryce drained his mug. “I could help you out whenever I’m not working here.”

  “I’d love to have you, brother. Now let’s get to work so we can finish this wooden sarcophagus.”

  Throwing back his head, Lucas laughed loudly. “It is large enough to hide at least two bodies.”

  Chapter Five

  Nate walked into the kitchen, smiling when he saw his niece and nephew sitting on stools at the cooking island. They were watching their mother as she cut strips of dough for a lattice-top pie. He patted his seven-year-old nephew’s head and then dropped a kiss on his five-year-old niece’s neatly braided hair.

  “Mama’s making pie for dessert,” the children chorused.

  Nate gave them a warm smile. “Watch your mama carefully so you can learn to cook as well as she does.”

  Gabrielle patted her hair. “Mama and me have the same hair,” she said proudly. Her hair was styled with a profusion of braids that were pinned into a knot on the crown of her head.