Then she saw a sign ahead. SALTAIRE PLANTATION. SOUTH CAROLINA’S FINEST PRIVATE GOLF COMMUNITY.
Private golf community. She turned to look out the window. There was no one playing golf. She didn’t see one car parked in front of the condos that appeared as an oasis of wood and glass in the distance.
And they actually called it a plantation. Not exactly politically correct.
She glanced over to Cab, who kept his eyes on the road.
“Do you play golf, Cab?”
“On occasion; do you?”
“No. And it doesn’t look like too many people are playing here.”
“That’s because they’ve glutted the area with condos and gated communities. SaltAire is only half full in season. Building has slowed to a crawl.”
“Is that what happened to your friend’s barbecue place?”
“Pretty much. They bought it and then didn’t have the funds to build anything in its place.”
“They should have thought about that before they razed the land and left his business to rot.”
“You’re against progress?”
Abbie shrugged. “No, just exploitation.”
He looked sharply at her, then back to the road. “Good. Too many people like Silas get cheated from some suit who’s never spent an hour here. Just sent an underling to make an offer. Before you know it, they’ve lost their homes, their businesses, and everything they’ve ever owned. Most folks around here have managed to eke out a life for decades. Now it’s harder for them to keep up with expenses. No health insurance, no pensions. Silas wanted his granddaughter to go to college. Turns out she got a scholarship.”
“So he didn’t really need to sell.”
“Nope, and he got screwed.”
“Silas? Beau’s friend?”
“Yes. How do you know Silas?”
“I met him and Beau coming back from their fishing trip.”
Cab started to say something, then just grunted and went back to watching the road. “I have to make one stop, and then I’ll take you over to Myrtle Beach or down to Charleston, though it’s bit of a hike.”
“Why don’t you do your errand and we just see the local sights?”
“Why?”
“Because I came here for peace and quiet, not bright lights and big cities. Even charming ones.”
“Why did you come here?”
Abbie hesitated. “I wanted to go on a quiet vacation. My friend Celeste suggested I come here. Frankly, I think she’s a little worried about her aunts and uncle, and since she wasn’t able to come, I’m sort of her proxy.”
“How long have you known Celeste?”
“Since I went to work at the same station as her. Eight years, give or take a few months.”
“You work at the television station?”
“I did.”
“Doing what?”
“I was the weathergirl.”
“The weath—You were the weathergirl?”
“Yes.”
“A weathergirl.” Cabot shook his head. Chuckled.
“And what’s so funny about reporting the weather?”
“Nothing at all. I thought maybe you were in real estate.”
“Real estate? Why?”
“It’s just that the Crispins have been pestered to death about selling Crispin House. It’s prime oceanfront acreage. It could make somebody a fortune . . . just not anyone who lives around here.”
“And you thought I would use my best friend to weasel my way into a land deal?”
“Sorry. But I’ve never met her. It was a natural assumption.”
“A jaded assumption.”
“Maybe.”
“She’s very busy.” They both had been busy; both had neglected their families. But she had a feeling that the Crispins felt it more than Abbie’s own family. Hers didn’t mind not seeing her as long as she was out making the world a better place. They kept in touch by e-mail and Skype. She wondered what they thought of her now.
“She really does care. She asked me to check up on them. Make sure they were okay.” It hadn’t been quite that straightforward, but if Abbie found out that anyone was trying to cheat them, she knew Celeste would be on the first available flight to help them out.
“Okay. I apologize. But you have to admit, it seemed like a natural progression. And in view of certain situations—well . . .”
“Something like unpaid taxes?”
Cabot stared at her. “They told you?”
Abbie shook her head. “I’m afraid I was walking past an open door and overheard.”
He was looking straight ahead, and Abbie took the opportunity to scrutinize his face. “What’s your interest in the Crispins?”
His head snapped toward her. “Interest? They’re my friends. I’ve know them since I was a kid. Beau even taught me how to whittle. I was abysmal.”
Out of the blue, Cabot the third smiled. It was an amazing transformation that sent a little thrill to her stomach. It was also extremely short-lived. An old man, with an older nag pulling a cart, moved out of a dirt path and onto the shoulder of the road.
“Watch out!” Abbie yelled.
Cabot jerked the steering wheel, and the Range Rover swerved into the other lane.
The old man led the horse to the shoulder and continued on his way. Then he raised a hand in an afterthought of a wave. Abbie raised her hand in return then snatched it back as the man began to dissolve before her eyes, shimmering pieces cascading to the ground and evaporating into nothing. Abbie blinked, blinked again, but all she saw was his hand still lifted in the air.
Chapter 7
Sorry about that,” Cab said as he pulled the Range Rover back into the lane. “I was looking at you instead of where I was going. But he wasn’t in any danger.” Granted, he hadn’t been paying close attention to his driving, but he hadn’t come close to hitting the old guy. She’d way overreacted.
“What?” She turned slightly toward him; there was perspiration on her forehead. She was gripping the handle so hard that he wouldn’t have been surprised to see it come away in her hand.
“Are you feeling all right?” Please don’t throw up in my car, he thought. “Should I stop?”
“What?” she repeated, then shook her head. She released the handle, sat back. “No, I’m okay.”
Thank God for that, because she was okay. More than okay. If she was being straight with him. Her compassion for Silas’s situation, and her seeming aversion to development. She could be playing him. Hell, he’d been played by women before. Of course, in those days he had been a player himself, so all was fair. But he’d left that behind.
“But maybe we should go back.”
He slowed down and pulled onto the rocky shoulder, came to a full stop. She looked ready to bolt.
“Look. I apologize. For my bad manners, my bad driving, my bad whatever else set you off. The Crispins are my friends, and now they’re your friends. The least we can do is try to be friends, too.”
She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, a strangely sensual gesture. Took a breath. “Okay.”
“Good. Now I have to stop by Bollinger’s Electrical to pick up some parts for my generator, and then the day is yours. Deal?”
She looked reluctant, and for a second he thought she was going to turn him down, but finally she said, “Okay.”
“Great,” he said and hoped he wasn’t making a big mistake.
Marnie cut down the overgrown path that led to Ervina’s cottage. She could see a thin wisp of smoke rising out of the stand of palmettos ahead. Ervina had the fire going.
Warmth for old bones. Hell, how did she get to be so damn old? Seems like just a few weeks ago, she was in her prime, strong, not bad looking, with a purpose in life. Even now, she’d wake up in the middle of the night, which happened more and more the older she got, and she’d forget where she was. Think she was on her road somewhere, or reach for the warm loving body beside her, and she would feel a tingle of expectant excitement, mixed with sorrow. Then she’d recollect, and the excitement would dissipate like the driest desert sand, to be replaced with not resentment, not anymore, but with a kind of peace. Knowing she was home.
Now she was relegated to puttering about the garden. No, not puttering, but working her butt off, breaking her brittle old back. The garden was a necessity. It was the only way they could make ends meet. Keep up the façade of living. Feeding them and bringing in a few dollars by selling the surplus to a farm stand down the road. And it was all about to go up in smoke, like Ervina’s chimney.
She stepped into the clearing of hard dirt in front of Ervina’s shack. The shack had been white sixty years ago, but the paint had long since melted and flaked away. Too much time, too much weather. The house was still standing. The porch sagged a bit. It creaked beneath her feet.
She pulled the front door open, stepped inside to the familiar smell of clean linoleum and heady herbs. She peered into the shadowed room.
“Thought you might be showin’ up today.”
Marnie prided herself on not jumping out of her skin; she was used to Ervina’s shenanigans. Ervina reveled in her witch-doctor status, the belief that she could weave magic, that she could read thoughts, know the future, that she could save you from yourself. It was mostly bunk, but it didn’t change the fact that Ervina could “see” things and she was the wisest woman Marnie had ever known.
Marnie eased herself down in the lumpy chair. The spring was out. Ervina or someone had covered it over with a quilt, but it still poked right into Marnie’s bony butt.
“What do you want with ole Ervina? Miz Millie don’t want me to come play step and fetch again to impress yo’ guest? Not that I think it fooled the girl for a minute.”
“You only agreed to do it to get a closer look at her.”
“You right about that.”
“I still want to thank you.”
“You oughta be thankin’ Jerome. He was scared spitless carryin’ that big old soup tureen. He was sure he was gonna dump it in somebody’s lap.”
“Well, tell him Miss Millie appreciates it.”
“Miz Millie don’t know the difference. That woman got her head in the clouds, has done since she was a baby. That’s all right though, whatever gets us through the day.”
Ervina shuffled over to the cast-iron stove and poured hot water into two round cups that were waiting on the table. She set one cup down by Marnie’s chair, took another one for herself and squatted down facing Marnie, the fabric of her long skirt billowing over her knees.
“Damn, how do you still do that?” Marnie asked.
“Just do, that’s all. But that’s not the question you came all this way to ask.”
“No,” said Marnie. “I’m just not sure how to ask it.”
“Huh. Well, here’s the answer. You need that girl and that girl, she needs you. Be patient and we’ll see.”
Bollinger’s Electric seemed to spring miraculously out of the marshes. It was a one-story flat-roofed bunker, made from concrete blocks and painted a grayish green.
There was one car in the parking lot. Cab pulled in next to it.
“I’ll just be a minute.” It was obvious he wanted her to wait in the car.
Maybe it was curiosity or maybe pure perversity that made her open the car door. “I’ll come, too.”
He held Bollinger’s door for her, and she stepped into a utilitarian rectangular room that was trisected by an arrangement of partially filled metal shelves.
A man, dressed in khaki work clothes, got up from a stool behind the counter. He lifted his chin, which was stubbled with a reddish beard. “Cab, my man.” He switched his focus to Abbie.
“A friend of the Crispins,” Cab said. “I’m showing her the sights.”
“Abbie Sinclair,” she said, putting out her hand.
The man grinned, displaying tobacco-stained teeth, and shook it. “Howd’ya do. Quincy Bollinger. You staying up at Crispin House?”
“Yes. I’m on vacation.”
Quincy glanced at Cab. “You don’t say. Well, I’m sure they’re glad of the company. Got your stuff in back.” Quincy nodded to Abbie, then he went through an open doorway to a crowded storage room.
A few minutes later he came back pushing a loading pallet that held a heavy cardboard box and two spools of electrical wire. A big brown mongrel lumbered behind him, then stopped to turn lugubrious, bloodshot eyes toward Cabot then Abbie.
“Bubba, you leave Cab and his girl alone.”
Bubba rolled his head, padded past Cabot, and snuffled Abbie’s hand.
“Bubba,” Quincy commanded halfheartedly.
“He’s all right,” Abbie said. She leaned over and took Bubba’s jowls between her hands. Gave them a good scratch.
“Bubba, he’s got a way with the ladies,” Quincy said. “He sure does.” He chuckled. “Uh-huh, he sure does. Let’s load this stuff in your truck, Cab.”
The two men headed outside, leaving Abbie and Bubba to get better acquainted. The merchandise was loaded, Cabot paid cash, and they were back in the car in a matter of minutes. Cabot handed her a bottle of hand sanitizer.
“Thanks,” she said. “Bubba was very effusive in his affection.” Abbie scrubbed her hands then wiped off her cheek where Bubba had given her a parting slurp.
Cabot puffed out air.
“What?”
“I gotta say. I wouldn’t have been surprised if you had been totally grossed out by Bubba. Some women . . .”
“Oh, please, I’ve—” She stopped abruptly. She’d been about to say, I’ve been around a lot more intimidating animals than an old coonhound. “—always liked dogs,” she finished lamely. “Though Bubba has some serious slobbering going on.”
Cabot laughed. It was a warming sound, and Abbie realized that she hadn’t heard him laugh before. Of course she hadn’t been doing much laughing herself lately.
“So where to? There’s Myrtle Beach, amusement parks, bars, and restaurants.”
Abbie shook her head. “I’m not a theme park kind of girl. Something low-key would be fine. Though I’m not partial to alligators.”
“Neither am I,” Cabot said. “Anyway, we’re a little overpopulated for them. Just stay out of the swamps.”
“Not a problem.”
“How about a quaint, historic, not-too-over-tourist-populated town with a nice harbor, good seafood, and a better sunset?”
“Sounds great.”
“I’ll call Millie and tell her not to expect you for dinner.”
Abbie felt a serious stab of panic; she breathed it away. They’d gotten a late start, and even though it was still early afternoon, they hadn’t seen much outside of marshes and electrical stores.
About twenty minutes later they came to a bridge, actually two bridges, that spanned converging rivers. A WELCOME TO HISTORIC GEORGETOWN sign greeted them at
the far side.
“It’s not much when you first enter it,” Cabot said as they drove down a four-lane street with fast-food places, motels, and industrial buildings. “Most people pass right by without stopping.”
“I’m not sure the local businesses are as happy about that as you seem to be.”
“They get enough business.” He turned left, leaving the industrial area behind. They drove down a tree-lined street flanked by white clapboard houses, grass, and shrubs.
“Feel like walking a bit?”
“Sure.”
Cabot made another turn and parked at one of the spaces that ran along both sides of the street. They walked along the sidewalk, shaded by thick live oaks. Here each house was marked with a historical designation, and Cabot pointed out special features as they passed by.
“They’ve done a good job of preservation and renovation,” he said. “Hard to imagine wars were ever fought here.”
“Definitely serene looking,” Abbie agreed, though she had no problem imagining blood and gore here—or anywhere for that matter. And that disturbed her. She didn’t want to be like that. She wanted to breathe easy and be happy again. Live in a house like the ones they’d passed. She’d wanted that for longer than she cared to admit, but it made her feel doubly guilty.
They crossed the street, and Cabot stopped her to point out an oriel window almost hidden by the trees. As they walked along, he explained the difference between Italianate and Georgian style. The way he talked about finials, cupolas, cornices, and gables was almost reverent.
His enthusiasm was catching, and Abbie found herself asking questions about architecture. She also found herself thinking about Cab Reynolds and wondering if she had misjudged him.
A few blocks later they came to a large Southern-plantation-type house that overlooked a river. The house was open to the public, but they didn’t go inside. Instead Cabot led her through a park and onto another street where shops painted in charming colors lined both sides of the street. Abbie couldn’t help comparing these well-tended stores with their cheerful façades and colorful flower boxes with the struggling, straggling stores at Stargazey Point.
Stargazey Point Page 9