Return to Magnolia Harbor

by Hope Ramsay

  There was only one way to find out, so she called her aunt.

  “Hey, darlin’,” Aunt Donna said by way of greeting, when she came on the line.

  “Does everyone in town think I was sent away to have Colton St. Pierre’s baby?” Jessica asked.

  Silence greeted her.

  “They do, don’t they?”

  “Well, honey, I’m afraid that rumor got started when your parents sent you off to Longwood Academy. I have no idea where, although I certainly understand how. And believe me, I have done my best to set the record straight, but you know how it can be. I thought it was laid to rest, but then you came back to town and reconnected with Colton. And that just dredged it all up again.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me what people were saying?”

  “You didn’t know?”

  Now she felt like an idiot. How could she have missed this? “No.”

  “Oh. Well, I reckon that’s because you go out of your way to avoid gossip. I’m so sorry, honey. I thought…Well, obviously I didn’t think at all. I assumed, and you know how that goes.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “And really, you know times have changed. I think the majority of folks in town are rooting for you and Colton to find happiness together.”

  “Are you?”

  “Honey, I am not my sister. All I ever wanted was for you to be happy. And if Colton St. Pierre makes you happy, then I say you go for it.”

  “Donna, I want you to actively tell people that I didn’t have his baby, okay? And then I want you to make it doubly clear that I don’t love him. We’re friends.”

  “Honey, gossip doesn’t work that way. But you have my word that I’ll try my best.”

  It wasn’t nearly enough, but it was all Jessica was going to get. So she let it go and spent the next five minutes making small talk, mostly about her cousins Noah, Ethan, and Abby.

  When she finished the call, she pushed her conversation with Donna aside and got to work on her critical to-do list. Now that she had a firm client in hand, she needed to upgrade her office space, get those business cards printed, and fix her web page. She wanted to have another client lined up before Topher’s project was completed.

  And if, by some miracle, she made it into the final round for the City Hall project, she wanted to make sure her office looked professional. So she hauled out her interior design plans and got to work. She’d just placed an order for Herman Miller room dividers to partition off the conference room and reception space when her phone rang, a gentle reminder that she also needed a business phone system. Running Blackwood Designs from her personal cell phone had to stop.

  She checked the caller ID but didn’t recognize the Miami, Florida, number. Another potential client? She’d spent the morning drawing down her savings—this call might be the answer to her prayers.

  She pressed the connect button and answered with, “Blackwood Designs.”

  “I’d like to speak with Jessica Blackwood,” the deep male voice replied, and she once again kicked herself for not purchasing that phone system sooner.

  “This is Jessica,” she said, then held her breath.

  “Oh. Hi.” The voice got a tiny bit friendlier. “This is Damon Brant. You may not remember me, but we met at the Building Resilience Conference about two years ago.”

  Her breath caught in her throat. Who wouldn’t remember Damon Brant? When she’d been working for Costa Designs, she’d attended one of Damon Brant’s workshops. She’d been so impressed with what Mr. Brant had said about resilient design and climate change that she’d given him her card and then shamelessly inquired as to whether Brant, Waller, and Palmer Associates, his Florida design firm, was looking for new architects.

  Unfortunately, they weren’t. Otherwise, returning to Magnolia Harbor when Momma had gotten sick might have been a much bigger sacrifice. Not getting that job turned out to be a classic example of the simple beauty of an unanswered prayer.

  If she’d gotten that job, she might not have been able to return to Magnolia Harbor to nurse her mother in the last months of her life. Those months had been precious. She and Momma had reconciled after too many years of recriminations over what had happened her senior year in high school.

  She was glad she’d forgiven Momma.

  “Uh, yes, I remember you,” Jessica said, pulling herself away from bittersweet memories of her mother’s last days.

  “Good. Because I remember you too,” Brant said, his tone warm. “You sent me no less than five résumés over a six-month period, and I do recall you asking me face-to-face at a conference about job openings in our Miami office.”

  “I was working at Costa Associates in Charleston at the time. They weren’t terribly interested in resilient design. I’m not there anymore. I have my own business designing mostly residential buildings.”

  “Well, as it turns out, your residential designs have come to our attention,” Brant said.

  “What?” She was gobsmacked. How on earth could any of her designs have reached Damon Brant’s attention? There were a lot of miles between Magnolia Harbor and Miami.

  Brant chuckled. “Yoshi Akiyama is an old friend of my managing partner.”

  “Oh,” was all she managed to say.

  Mr. Akiyama again. She’d had no idea, when he’d hired her to design his bird house, that he’d be her main source of marketing. The man was connected all over the South. Every single project, including Topher’s, had been as a result of that very first house she’d built here on Jonquil Island.

  “Yes,” Brant said. “Yoshi and Justin Waller were roommates at Georgia Tech. And Yoshi kept telling Justin that we needed to talk to you. Justin was out there in South Carolina last weekend and saw the house for the first time. He said the engineering is solid.”

  “Thank you.” Heat crawled up her face.

  “So, we’ve taken a look at your online portfolio. You’re very inventive.”

  “Uh, thanks.”

  “Look, I know this is coming from way out of the blue. But BWP is planning to expand our services into residential design, both custom-built homes and design build, and we’re looking for architects with that kind of experience. We need a team leader. And I was wondering what it would take to induce you to come down to Miami. We could give you an opportunity to design a lot more houses.”

  Holy moly. This was like some weird dream come true, only the timing couldn’t have been worse. She’d just plunked down a huge chunk of her savings on that Herman Miller furniture. Could she cancel the order?

  But did she want to do that?

  She honestly didn’t know.

  “Um, look, you’re right. This is from way out of the blue. I’ve been working to establish my own business, and—”

  “I understand. And there’s nothing like working for yourself. But you’ll never have as much opportunity in South Carolina as you could here in Miami.”

  “So, what’s your time frame? Can I think about this?”

  “Of course. We’re just putting the plans together for this new division. You’ve got time, but we’d like to have you down to Miami in the next few weeks so you can see what we’re about and why we want you so badly.”

  She almost said no, and then she thought about Granny and Daddy and all the people in her life who’d told her what a screwup she was.

  Here was validation in the form of someone she respected. She’d be an idiot not to at least consider his offer.

  “Okay. But I’ve got a couple of projects I’m working on now and—”

  “No problem. If you decide the fit is good, you can complete anything you’re working on. Honestly, Jessica, we’re very excited about the possibility of having you. Justin hasn’t stopped talking about Yoshi’s house.”

  “All right. I’ll consider it.”

  “Great. I’ll have my secretary give you a call in a day or two, and we’ll schedule a visit.”

  When she ended the call, she leaned back in her chair. Should she seriously consider th
is?

  A little voice said yes, so she picked up her phone, called the furniture distributor, and canceled her order.

  She could give it a couple of weeks. Maybe this offer from the firm in Miami was exactly what she needed.

  Maybe she wasn’t cut out to be a businesswoman. She was terrible at the marketing and organization. Maybe getting a job would give her more time to do what she loved best.

  It was an exciting thought, until she remembered MeeMaw’s house. If she left Jonquil Island, she’d have to leave the old place behind.

  She couldn’t leave it unoccupied, and it would cost a fortune to renovate it to the point where it was suitable for a vacation rental. The truth was clear. She’d have to sell it. But letting go of that place would break her heart.

  * * *

  Thursday afternoon, after a day and a half of brooding over his nearly disastrous swimming adventure, Topher decided it was time to figuratively get back on the horse that had thrown him.

  He put on his swimsuit and headed out to the beach. He understood the risks, but swimming was improving his health. He promised himself that he’d swim closer to shore, where he could touch the bottom in case he got into trouble. And he wouldn’t push himself too far too fast. He was an impatient man, but getting stronger would take time. He couldn’t force it and run the risk of new injuries or worse.

  He was halfway down to the beach when Jackie streaked past him, running with that loose-jointed ease of the very young. The boy raced toward the old oak tree, head down, in a way that set off alarms. Was he crying? Again?

  Damn.

  Maybe he’d put off swimming today. Maybe today he’d just play a game of catch.

  He returned to the cottage, where he put on a shirt and unwrapped the football he’d picked up yesterday. He tucked it under his arm running-back style, before grabbing his cane and limping off to the tree.

  But when he got there, the kid was nowhere in sight. Had he climbed up to the crow’s nest? Topher bent upward, trying to see the boy through the leaves. Yes, right there was a patch of white school uniform shirt.

  “Hey, kid, I got you a present,” he called.

  He got no answer. So he stood there, clutching the ball, the familiar texture under his palm. He itched to throw the damn thing. Could he still hurl it seventy yards and hit a target? Probably not.

  He leaned his cane against the tree and tossed the ball into the air and caught it. It felt good in his hands. A happy reminder of better days.

  “Hey, kid,” he called again. “Wanna play catch?”

  Crickets…or maybe cicadas. Literally.

  He was about to drop the ball onto the ground by the tree’s roots for the kid to find, when someone spoke from behind. “I’ll play.”

  Topher turned to find Reverend Micah St. Pierre walking across the lawn toward him. He wasn’t dressed for football. In fact, his gray cleric’s shirt and dress slacks were almost like a red warning sign.

  “I, uh…” Topher stuttered. A man of God was the absolute last person he wanted to play catch with.

  “I’ll do all the running,” the preacher said in a soft voice, then glanced up at the tree right before giving Topher a wink.

  Oh. Damn. He was an idiot. The minister hadn’t come out here for him. Maybe he should stop thinking the world revolved around him and his pain.

  “Sure, I’d love to play catch,” Topher said in a big voice. “It’s a lot of fun. Did you play football in high school?”

  “Nah. But my brothers and I played catch all the time.”

  Topher threw the ball, a tight spiral that hit the minister right in the chest. Micah St. Pierre caught the ball without a problem. Now came the challenge. If the preacher didn’t toss the football accurately, Topher was going to look like an invalid.

  Micah reared back and threw, and damn if he didn’t put a lot of touch on the ball. It hit Topher in the chest, and he caught it without any problem.

  For some stupid reason, the little black cloud that hovered above his head most days scuttled out of the way. He took a deep breath, redolent with the scents of late summer: Ashley’s flowers, the bay, and the recently mowed grass.

  It was one of those beautiful days when the humidity gave everyone a break—the beginning of the football season. He threw the ball. The minister caught it and threw it back.

  They settled into a rhythm, not talking, just throwing and catching. After about five minutes, the branches of the live oak rustled as Jackie left his nest.

  Micah winked again and rolled his eyes toward the tree. He threw the ball. Topher caught it and sent it spiraling back.

  “Whatcha doin’?” the kid asked. He’d come down to sit on the tree’s lowest branch. The one that ran parallel to the ground.

  “Having a catch,” Micah said. “Wanna try?”

  The kid cocked his head, considering. He looked as if he’d had a really good cry up there. His eyes were puffy, and he had a wet stain on his T-shirt, probably snot.

  “No. I’m no good at sports,” Jackie said.

  Topher limped over to the branch. “Well, neither am I. I can’t run or jump. And day before yesterday, I discovered that I’m not too good at swimming, either.”

  The kid shrugged. Topher leaned against the tree limb. Micah stood back, tossing the football up in the air and catching it.

  This was the preacher’s domain, wasn’t it? Topher knew nothing about kids. And yet Micah seemed more interested in playing with the ball.

  Topher folded his arms across his chest. “So what’s the matter?” he asked.

  The kid shrugged.

  “Have a bad day at school?” Topher remembered his own rocky childhood before Granddad had put a football in his hands.

  “No. Not really. I’m just mad.”

  “About what?”

  “Mom.”

  “Oh.”

  “She said I couldn’t do my Heritage Day project on Cap’n Bill.”

  Topher flashed back on his own third-grade Heritage Day project. Every third grader in Magnolia Harbor had to do a project that would be displayed in City Hall during the festival that marked the anniversary of the hurricane of 1713, the storm that sank the Bonnie Rose, Captain William Teal’s pirate ship.

  Topher had done a report on hurricanes of the eighteenth century and why the 1713 storm had been so devastating. All the rest of the kids had done projects featuring pirates. This propensity for going geek had been one of many things that had marked Topher as the bullies’ favorite target in elementary school. Until Granddad had taught him how to throw a football, he’d been a nobody. Less than that, really.

  So he certainly understood Jackie’s problem. “Everyone does projects on pirates,” he said in an encouraging tone. “What’s your mother’s problem with that?”

  “She thinks it’s not healthy for me.”

  “Why?”

  He shrugged. “I wanted to interview him, you know?”

  “You wanted to interview William Teal?”

  “Yeah. He’s here. He’s always hanging around this spot.”

  A shiver ran up Topher’s spine. He didn’t believe in ghosts. Much. But even theoretically allowing for the existence of a ghost, Topher could certainly understand why Ashley didn’t want Jackie interviewing one for a school project.

  “You know,” the preacher said, crossing the lawn as he continued to toss and catch the football. “If you wanted to do something different, you could study Henri St. Pierre. He was a pirate too. Everyone forgets that.”

  The kid blinked up at the minister, and the tiniest of smiles tipped his mouth. Oh yeah, Jackie and Micah had a special thing going.

  Disappointment, like the unrelenting pull of gravity, settled on Topher’s shoulders. For an instant he’d thought he might be able to help the kid. But it looked like a far more qualified man had already signed up for the job.

  “What’s there to know about Henri St. Pierre besides the fact that he didn’t drown and he helped Rose Howland plant daffodil
s?” The kid rolled his eyes. “I’d be laughed out of class if I did a project about a guy who planted flowers.” The kid’s shoulders slumped again, and the spark vanished from his eyes.

  “I wasn’t talking about the flowers,” Micah said.

  “Then what?”

  “Well, there’s a family story…”

  “What kind of story?” Curiosity laced the kid’s words.

  The preacher smiled and leaned in, speaking in a low whisper. “A story of buried treasure.”

  “Really?” The boy’s eyes grew round.

  “Yup.”

  “Where?”

  “Well, that’s the hard part. They say Rose Howland wrote letters to her father that have a secret coded map to the treasure.”

  “Really?”

  “Yup.”

  “Where are these letters?”

  “In the library.”

  “Come on, I don’t—”

  “I know it sounds far-fetched, but here’s the thing. Only direct descendants of Rose Howland are allowed to read the letters. And you, my boy, are a direct descendant.”

  “Really?” Topher asked, suddenly caught up in Micah’s narrative. “Why the restriction?”

  Micah shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s been a bone of contention in my family for years.” The minister turned back toward Jackie. “But that means you’re the only kid in your class who can read these letters.”

  “Wow. That’s kinda cool. I could read them, then go looking for the treasure. And if I find it, that would be a really great project.”

  “Exactly,” Micah said.

  “Oh boy. Can you help me?”

  “Well, I’m kind of busy, you know. I’m helping to organize the Heritage Day celebration, and I’ve got sermons to write and…stuff.”

  “Oh.” Jackie’s shoulders slumped again.

  “But maybe Topher can help.”

  What the hell? The damn preacher had just played him.

  “Would you?” The boy looked up at him. Damn. Only a real jerk would stand in the way of the excitement on the kid’s face. He’d been well and truly trapped.

  “Uh, yeah, sure,” Topher found himself saying.