Return to Magnolia Harbor

by Hope Ramsay

  * * *

  Jessica pulled into the full parking lot at Grace Methodist Church on Saturday evening. Peggy Fiedler certainly had a large following of people ready to believe the worst about Topher.

  A surge of annoyance flooded through her. How dare the woman? If she’d had an issue with Topher’s house, why not come directly to them and talk about it instead of stirring people up and holding a big, one-sided town meeting?

  She took a big breath, her annoyance morphing into anger. That little burn in her gut was useful. She could draw on that flame and use it to stand up for Topher and his dream.

  She found a parking space at the far end of the lot, got out of the VW, and scanned the cars, looking for Topher’s BMW. But it wasn’t there. She checked her watch: fifteen minutes before the meeting was scheduled to start. Was he going to abandon her?

  They’d had several phone calls over the week as she’d put the finishing touches on the architectural plans needed for his building permit. He had tried to talk her out of coming here several times, but each time she’d insisted, he’d promised to come and stand with her against the crowd.

  She pulled her cell phone from her purse and messaged him: Where are you?

  She got no response, which didn’t surprise her. Facing down a crowd of people would be hard for him. She’d made it clear that she didn’t need him. She could do this on her own.

  And it was something she needed to do. Not just to face Caleb Tate but to stand up for herself and her design. And to protect Topher if it came down to that.

  Not just because he was her client.

  He’d become much more than that. And he could become even more if she would allow it. But she refused to fall in love with him.

  She picked up her portfolio, containing a couple of foam-core boards with the newly completed elevation drawings for his house. It was everything he’d talked about. A house up on stilts with four bedrooms, a wraparound porch, and a flat Carolina Coastal roofline that would make it look a lot like a keeper’s cottage. Sited next to the lighthouse, it would look as if it had been there for decades.

  She headed into the church and turned down the hallway to the Sunday school wing. As she approached the meeting room, the hum of voices grew louder.

  She hesitated in the doorway, looking for a bright Hawaiian shirt, but the crowd was awash in neutral colors.

  The room was crowded with people she didn’t recognize. Only a handful of year-round Magnolia Harbor residents: Bernice Cobb, the nurse practitioner at the local clinic; Wally Faulkner, one of the town’s many charter boat captains; Lewis Harland, who worked for Colton St. Pierre; and Bobby Don Ayers, the real estate broker, sat near the front of the room.

  Who were the rest of these people? Vacation homeowners? Activists from the mainland?

  She glanced toward the front of the room, where Peggy Fiedler was having a conversation with Representative Tate. Peggy couldn’t have been more than five feet tall and had to crane her neck to look up at the big man who’d once played football for the Rutledge Raiders and the University of South Carolina.

  Tate was smiling down at the activist like a cobra, hypnotizing his prey. Didn’t Peggy realize that Caleb was a pro-development legislator? He didn’t exactly have a sterling record on topics like climate change.

  Had Peggy been bribed? It was a troubling thought.

  She checked her phone again. Nothing from Topher, and maybe that was a good thing. There were a lot of strangers in this room who would probably stare at him.

  “Hey,” a deep voice said from behind.

  She turned to find Colton St. Pierre, dressed as always in his khakis and maroon St. Pierre Construction golf shirt.

  She’d spoken with him a week ago Friday, when she’d returned his phone calls. He’d been frantic to reach her when she’d been in Miami to let her know about the toxic flyers the Conservation Society had been putting up all over town. By the time they’d spoken, she’d already seen them. But since that conversation, she hadn’t seen or spoken to Colton at all.

  “Hi,” she said. “How’s it going with Kerri?”

  He frowned. “Not good. She’s mad at me.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe because everyone says you’re cheating on me and she thinks we’re a thing.”

  “What?”

  His gaze bored into her. “I know you’ve heard the gossip around town.”

  She sighed heavily. It might be nice to live in a big city where a person could find anonymity. “I have. And I’m sorry.”

  “About what? Sleeping with Topher?”

  She blinked. “Are you jealous?” The words popped out of her mouth without thought. No, it wasn’t possible for Colton to be jealous. He and Kerri were sleeping together. Right?

  “So you’re here to defend Topher Martin?” Colton asked, ignoring her comment, thank goodness.

  “I’m here to defend my design.” What she’d said was the truth, but not the whole truth. Defending Topher was on her list, especially since it looked as if he might be a no-show. Someone had to defend him.

  “I figured you’d say something like that.” Colton seemed angry or depressed or something as he turned his back on her and took a few steps down the hallway.

  “What’s the matter?” she asked, following him. “Did Kerri really dump you?”

  “Yeah. But I probably deserved it. I’m a screwup. You should—”

  “Stop. You’re not. You—”

  “No. I am. And it’s worse than that, really.”

  “What? Tell me.”

  He turned around and stared at her. The look on his face spelled disaster, and she suddenly wished she hadn’t invited him to speak his mind. Even before he opened his mouth, some sixth sense told her he was about to say something awful.

  “I really need to know the truth. Are you and Topher Martin a thing?”

  “No. We—” She bit off the words of explanation and said, “No,” a little more firmly the second time.

  “But you could be?”

  Boy, Colton could read her like an open book. “I don’t think he’s my kind of guy, and—”

  “Stop.”

  “What?”

  “He’s a good guy. He was always pretty straight up with me, you know? He once told me that I needed to be careful with you.”

  “What? When?”

  “Years ago. Before I was arrested. Before I even knew what that meant. And I—”

  “When exactly did this conversation happen?”

  “That summer you were a lifeguard at the yacht club. I was waiting for you to get off work one day, and he just got into my car and told me that I needed to be careful with you. He told me you were an amazing person. I gather you’d just saved some kid’s life. And you know what? He was right. You are an amazing person, and I…” He blew out a breath.

  “Colton, what’s the matter?”

  “Look, I don’t want to lay something heavy on you. But I want you to know the truth. Because, you know, Kerri made me think, and you deserve the truth.”

  “About what?”

  “It was never Topher Martin who started those rumors about us.”

  “Of course it wasn’t. It was most probably Caleb. He’s such a—”

  “No! It wasn’t him, either. It was me.”

  She lost the ability to breathe for a long moment.

  “It was all me,” he said. “I told the lies.”

  “Why?” The word came out as a whisper.

  He shrugged. “I was trying to make myself more important, you know? It was a big deal that a girl like you had decided to be my friend. So I told a story to Jamal Kingwood.”

  She blinked, trying to remember who the hell Jamal Kingwood was.

  “He was the center for the Raiders. I was kind of jealous of that, you know? He was a big man on campus. Whatever. So I bragged to him about taking you down to Dead Man’s Cove. He must have repeated it to other members of the team.”

  Jessica had to rest h
er hand on the wall as the room started to spin. Don’t faint. She desperately sucked in air as Colton continued.

  “I’m sorry to lay this on you now. But I guess I’ve been carrying it around for so long. And I needed to get it off my chest. The thing is, you never owed me anything. It was never your fault. And I sure as hell wouldn’t want to be the reason you couldn’t forgive Topher Martin, if it turns out that you really care about the guy.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Damn, damn, damn. Topher was running late. The afternoon had been a nightmare, searching for Jackie high and low and even checking with the police about the possibility of an Amber Alert.

  And then, just thirty minutes ago, Micah’s sister-in-law had called to say that the boy had been found wandering around Jude St. Pierre’s property. Topher had no idea how the boy had gotten that far away from town, or why he was out there in the wilderness north of Magnolia Harbor in the area some peopled called Gullah Town.

  But Topher would have to wait for his answers because he needed to be at Grace Church. By the time he arrived, the parking lot was filled to overflowing. Even the handicapped spots were taken, so Topher had to park down the street. It took him forever to walk back to the church and find the meeting room, where things were already under way.

  He stood in the doorway, looking for a seat, but they were all taken. He didn’t see Jessica right away, but the room was large and packed. She might be hiding in the back.

  He turned his attention to the grandmotherly woman who stood at the front of the room making a PowerPoint presentation. Her slides, in a garish shade of kelly green, flashed on a screen at the corner of the room. She was giving a long spiel about the mission of the Moonlight Bay Conservation Society.

  Behind her, Caleb Tate sprawled in a folding chair. When their eyes met, the politician straightened and had the audacity to give Topher a cheesy smile.

  What? Did the jerk think he’d won, just because Topher was here? He could think again. Topher didn’t plan to say a word. He was here to support Jessica and nothing else.

  Just then the woman changed the slide, and a grainy photograph of Jessica’s first design flashed on the screen. It was the elevation drawing of the stupid castle he’d asked for.

  Rage coursed through him. Someone with access to the cottage had taken these photos. Ashley? Karen? Sandra? Any one of them could have taken the photograph while he’d been off swimming or tossing the football with Jackie.

  If he had to bet, he’d say Ashley was the culprit, just because she had more opportunity to snoop around the cottage than either of his older cousins. But what had possessed his family to hand those photos over to the Conservation Society?

  He didn’t have to guess too hard. They had always been dead set against him moving out to Lookout Island.

  The speaker took out a laser pointer and began pointing out the features of his castle: the spires, the castle wall, the swimming pool, and the damned party deck.

  It was more than embarrassing. It was infuriating.

  He was about to break his self-imposed rule and stop the proceedings, when a voice from the back piped up.

  “Excuse me, Ms. Fiedler,” Jessica said, her voice surprisingly loud and firm without a microphone. She’d been in the last row, obscured from his view by a big guy in the row in front of her. But she was standing now and heading down the aisle as she spoke. “Everything you just said is untrue.”

  The speaker turned toward Jessica, a frown folding down over her intense gaze. “Who are you?”

  Jessica advanced to the middle of the room. “I’m Jessica Blackwood, Christopher Martin’s architect.”

  The crowd gasped and murmured. Topher balled his fists. If anyone said a negative word about Jessica, he would explode. He wasn’t going to let her be hurt by these people.

  “You designed this crap?” the speaker said, pointing an accusing finger at her.

  * * *

  Jessica stared Peggy Fiedler down as an unwanted memory filled her mind of Daddy pointing an accusing finger at her. “I won’t tolerate a liar in this house,” he’d said.

  And here she was again, standing up for the truth when no one wanted to believe her. The crowd began to murmur in an ominous tone, and her knees and hands started to shake.

  Had the truth ever set anyone free? Or had it only hurt people? Colton’s truth hurt terribly. She wished he’d never spoken it out loud.

  Of course, the truth she’d come to speak wasn’t nearly as earthshaking, but the audience didn’t want to hear it. They wanted someone to be against. They wanted to stop Topher no matter what the truth.

  But the little rebel who had always lived down inside of Jessica refused to give up.

  “I designed the castle,” she said. “And you’re right, it’s a monstrosity. It’s not my best work. But Mr. Martin rejected that idea weeks ago. There isn’t going to be a castle on Lookout Island.”

  “You designed this ridiculous house?” Caleb stood up from the folding chair where he’d been lounging. “Really?” His voice dripped with sarcasm. “This is something the City Hall design selection committee will be interested to know.”

  Well, the City Hall project was already a dead deal because she’d refused Caleb’s bribe. It struck her that maybe she should tell the truth about Caleb and his attempted shakedown. But she wasn’t brave enough to say that out loud. Besides, the audience wouldn’t believe her—she had no proof. And damaging Caleb wasn’t her goal.

  She’d come here to defend her design and to clear the way so that Topher could build his house. The rest might be important in the long run but not in the moment.

  “I have the information about the final house plans here. I’ll be filing for a building permit next week. It seems to me y’all should take a look at the final plans, not a concept that was rejected.”

  “I’m going to ask you to please sit down,” Peggy Fiedler said. “This isn’t your meeting. It’s mine.”

  “No,” Jessica said, her tone defiant. “This is an open meeting, and people here deserve the truth about the house Mr. Martin is planning to build.”

  “If you don’t sit down, I’m going to call security,” the grandmotherly woman said in a voice that brooked no argument.

  Jessica’s heart redlined. The very last thing she wanted was a scuffle with the law. She could just imagine what the gossips would do with that. But these people needed to hear the truth. She cast her gaze around the room and realized Topher was standing by the door, dressed in khakis, a white golf shirt, and a blue blazer.

  His presence gave her courage. So she hurried forward and put the foam-core board with her elevation drawing onto an easel at the front of the room. “Here are the drawings.”

  “No one gave you permission to put that up there,” Peggy said. “Take that down.”

  A young man in the front row charged the easel and literally ripped the board out of Jessica’s hands.

  Jessica turned to the crowd. “Don’t you want to know the truth? Are you happy to let these people tell you what to believe?”

  “Everyone here knows that Christopher Martin’s investment company has significant holdings in various enterprises with very poor environmental records. He’s not a friend of the climate. And he doesn’t need to build a house on an island with a historic lighthouse. Your plans are irrelevant,” Peggy said.

  Jessica glanced at Topher, hoping he would counter the woman’s words. But he continued to lean against the doorframe, his arms crossed over his chest.

  “No one has cared about the lighthouse in years,” Jessica said. “Y’all were happy to let it fall into ruin until right this minute. So this looks more like a vendetta against Mr. Martin than a meeting designed to rationally discuss the house he wants to build. You should all know that we’re happy to entertain changes that will mitigate environmental impacts.” She scowled at the man who’d taken her drawings away.

  “I’ve asked you nicely to sit down or leave. We all understand that Mr. Martin is pa
ying you to say these things. But here’s the truth for you—we are not for sale.” Peggy finished speaking and turned toward Caleb, who continued to grin like a jackal. “Perhaps Representative Tate would like to say a few words about his legislation that would protect Lookout Island in perpetuity.”

  Tate strolled to the podium, giving Jessica an odious look before he seized the microphone. “I would love to talk about my bill. But before we leave the subject of Topher Martin, ya’ll should know that he’s in the room right now.”

  “What?” Peggy scowled out at the audience.

  “Right there.” Caleb pointed. “Christopher Martin is the man standing by the door. The one with the scars.”

  * * *

  More than a hundred eyes turned in Topher’s direction, the vast majority filled with hatred and raw disgust. People would believe anything, and he certainly had a villain’s face.

  That was the thing. He’d never aspired to be a hero. The truth was far more complicated. The speaker was right. He had invested in all sorts of start-up and high-tech businesses over the years. He hadn’t given much thought to the moral consequences of those investments; he’d just read those companies’ spreadsheets and bet on the ones that looked like winners. He’d won more than he’d lost, and that had given him power and prestige. But it hadn’t made him a good person.

  “Save the island!” the woman at the podium yelled, and like automatons, the people in the room chanted with her, drowning out anyone who might have spoken the truth about the house he wanted to build.

  He hated watching Jessica try to argue with this mob. He wanted to march across the room and rescue her, but that would have been the wrong move because she was doing fine all on her own. She didn’t need to be rescued. She didn’t need him.

  So he pushed away from the doorframe and started to turn away. But right then one of the people sitting in the front row, a broad-shouldered man wearing a blue suit, his gray hair shaved marine style, calmly stood, walked right up to Caleb, and pulled the microphone out of his hands.