“Very noble,” Gabe said, nodding. “Talking about the wildlife over there. That could be another argument against developing Talisa. Say, if there were some kind of rare or endangered animal indigenous only to that specific island. The navy’s development of the big sub base down at Kings Bay in that neck of the woods was delayed for years because of some obscure species of gopher turtles that nested down there. You might ask Josephine about that.”
“I will,” Brooke promised. “You said there are two ways to challenge the condemnation? What’s the second?”
He chewed on some ice. “Well, theoretically, you could argue that the condemnation is not intended to serve the public trust. But realistically, how do you claim that a big new state park with acres and acres of pristine beaches and a new marina is a bad thing for citizens?”
Brooke’s shoulders sagged, but she struggled valiantly to mount a defense against Gabe’s reasoning.
“This state has dozens of parks already—which it doesn’t have the funding to staff or maintain. Who’s going to pay for not just the acquisition but the development of Talisa?”
“Nice try,” Gabe allowed, doodling on a yellow legal pad. “But feasibility is not really something you can litigate.” He grinned. “There is one place where that argument might work. The court of public opinion.”
“You’ve lost me,” Brooke said.
“I’m talking about politics,” Gabe said. “Do an end run. Who are your state representatives down here? Call ’em up. Ask ’em to lunch and make your case to them. Or better yet, have Josephine Warrick call and raise hell with ’em.”
“I can definitely call those guys,” Brooke said, nodding. “And you’re right about a phone call from Josephine. I just don’t know if she’s up to it. Health-wise.”
“She’s that sick?”
“End-stage lung cancer,” Brooke said. “But she’s still razor sharp and full of piss and vinegar. She might really enjoy unloading on some hapless state senator.”
“Sounds like that could be your game plan,” Gabe said.
He wadded up the empty paper sacks and put them in the trash, then took the lunch dishes and stacked them in the sink before returning to the table. He handed the file folder to Brooke. “This has got all my research and the relevant legal citations you’ll need.”
“Gabe. I can’t thank you enough,” Brooke said.
“This is going to be a fun one. I envy you, Brooke.”
“That’s your idea of a good time? Going up against the majesty of the state?”
“Sure. That’s exactly what makes it fun. The law doesn’t necessarily have to be dry and dusty. This is your chance to get creative. Think outside the box.”
“If you say so.” She opened the file and thumbed through the contents. “Hey, there’s something else I wanted to talk to you about. Josephine says she wants to create a trust—with three beneficiaries.”
“I know you didn’t do a lot of estate work when you worked at our firm, but that should be pretty cut and dried,” Gabe said.
“It might be, except for the fact that one of the beneficiaries is mom,” Brooke said.
“You and Marie? Really?”
“Yeah. It’s another long story. Josephine never had children, and she doesn’t have any living family members, so she’s decided she wants to leave Talisa to the heirs of her oldest, dearest friends, including a woman who worked for her family for many years. Coincidentally, my maternal grandmother, Mildred, who died years and years ago, was Josephine’s best friend since kindergarten.”
“So you’ve got a big conflict,” Gabe said.
“Afraid so. She wanted me to track down the other friend’s heir, which I’ve done. I contacted her last week to let her know Josephine wants to meet with her. Would you have any interest in handling the estate work?”
“Me?”
“Why not? If you’re worried about the money, I don’t think that should be a concern. She’s apparently loaded.”
“Money’s not the issue,” he said quietly. He looked around the room. “I’m fifty-nine, Brooke. I’ve been thinking maybe I should slow down my work schedule. Not retire, not yet, but maybe not take on any new clients.”
“I guess that’s understandable,” Brooke said, trying not to show her disappointment. “Okay. I’m sure I can find somebody else locally.”
“Oh, what the hell,” Gabe said. “Who am I kidding? I’m selling this place because I never come down here. Work is what I do. Tell you what. Talk to your client, and if she agrees, I’ll come down and talk to her and get the ball rolling on the trust.”
“Really?” Brooke threw her arms around her old boss in an impulsive hug. “That would be awesome! We’ll be working together again. It’ll be just like old times.”
“We’ll see,” Gabe said, patting her back awkwardly. “We’ll see.”
20
Josephine was standing in the front door at Shellhaven, leaning heavily on a cane. She was dressed in baggy khaki slacks cinched with a worn leather belt and a tucked-in long-sleeved pale pink blouse. A baseball cap with the Audubon Society logo shaded most of her face. With a shock, Brooke realized it was the first time she’d seen her client standing upright and outside the confines of the library-turned-bedroom. It was Monday afternoon.
Shug pulled the pickup truck in front of the door, and Brooke got out. She’d called the house on Sunday, during her drive back from Sea Island, to let Josephine know she wanted to come see her, and Louette had promised to give her the message.
Even before the old lady opened her mouth, Brooke sensed she was in a rare mood.
Shug leaned out the driver’s-side window. “Hey, Miss Josephine,” he said, also obviously startled by the boss lady’s miraculous transformation. “Ain’t you lookin’ perky today.”
“Hello, Shug,” Josephine said. She nodded at Brooke. “So you changed your mind. Needed the money, is that it?”
“No. Well, sort of. My son had surgery recently, and my insurance is crappy.”
“Surgery? What’s wrong with the boy?”
“He fell off a jungle gym and broke his arm in two places.”
It didn’t miss Brooke’s attention that the old lady hadn’t offered any empathy or condolences for her son’s injury. Not that she’d expected any.
“You must be feeling better,” Brooke observed. “I’m glad.”
Louette peeked out from the spot where she’d been standing at Josephine’s elbow.
“She’s got some new medicine making her feel way better.”
“Steroids.” Josephine grimaced. “They don’t cure anything, but I’ll admit my breathing is much improved. Although they make me feel like I’m about to jump out of my skin.”
“She’s eating way better,” Louette confided. “Sleeps better too.”
“Shug,” Josephine called to her handyman. “Just leave the truck right there. I want to take Brooke around and show her the island while I have the energy.”
His amiable face showed his alarm. “For real? You don’t need to bother about that, Miss Josephine. I can take her anyplace you want her to see.”
“Not necessary,” Josephine said firmly. She turned to Brooke. “I assume you can drive a stick shift? I know how, of course. But it might be better if I navigate and you drive.”
“I know how to drive a stick,” Brooke said.
“All right, then,” Shug said reluctantly. He slid out from behind the steering wheel and held the door open, then ran around and helped Josephine onto the passenger seat.
“Ready?”
Josephine’s face was pink with exertion, and she was breathing heavily as she adjusted the portable oxygen canister hanging from a strap on her shoulder.
She pointed toward the end of the driveway. “Down there, then take a sharp left where the road forks.”
* * *
The old woman directed her driver on a road that took them toward the state park and nature center. The blacktop was crumbling in places and pitte
d with potholes. Wooden directional signs pointed toward a bathhouse, wilderness camping area, wildlife interpretive center, and conference center.
They drove under a thick canopy of live oaks, sweet gums, and pines. Clumps of palmettos crowded up against the shoulder of the road, and Brooke caught glimpses of some primitive-looking log cabin structures where the vegetation thinned out.
“Interpretive center,” Josephine said, sniffing. “These fools don’t know the first thing about the wildlife on this island.” She pointed at a low concrete-block building with smoked-glass windows. “That’s their conference center. Don’t ask me what they confer about, though.”
They rode in silence through the half-empty campground. Here and there, Brooke spotted tents and picnic pavilions, and occasionally they passed a family hiking or biking along the road. It looked innocuous—idyllic, even—but Brooke could feel the anger radiating from Josephine as she glared at what she saw as the state’s intrusion on the environment.
“This is what they intend to do with my land if they succeed in taking it,” Josephine said, scowling at two teenagers who sped by on all-terrain vehicles.
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about today,” Brooke said, sensing an opening. “I conferred with a former colleague of mine, and he had some suggestions about how it might be possible to deal with the state’s efforts to buy your land.”
“Steal it, you mean. What sort of suggestions does this colleague of yours have?”
“First of all, we need to get an independent appraisal of your property. Do you know if your Atlanta lawyers have an updated appraisal?”
“Maybe,” Josephine said. “I can’t keep track of all the correspondence they’ve sent over the years.”
“I can ask them to share their files, but you’ll need to contact the law firm, by registered letter, to notify them that you’ve hired me to work on the matter. I drafted a letter, and if you approve, you can sign it, and I’ll send it out today.”
“All right.”
“We can certainly continue challenging the state’s offer as being unfair and inadequate,” Brooke said. “But that doesn’t halt the condemnation; it only slows it down.”
“I want it stopped,” Josephine said. Her bony fists clenched and unclenched. “That’s what this is all about. I won’t rest until I know the state will never be able to take my land.”
“I understand,” Brooke said soothingly. “But our options are fairly limited. One way we might approach it is through political means.”
“How’s that? I don’t trust politicians. Never have.”
“Do you have any connections in the state legislature?” Brooke asked. “Do you know your local state senators and representatives?”
Josephine wrinkled her nose. “I used to know Jimmy Carter’s mama. She was nice, even if she was a Democrat. And Preiss played golf with Talbott Hicks, who was our U.S. senator from this district, but he’s long dead. Back in my churchgoing days, I knew Maralai Graham, who was in the general assembly, but she’s dead too. And Mike Stovall, he was our state senator, but I believe he got indicted for racketeering last year.”
“How about anybody who’s alive?” Brooke asked, stifling a laugh. “Or not currently incarcerated?”
“Jenks Cooper is still alive, and I don’t believe he’s gone to prison yet. He’s the state representative from our district.”
“Great. Do you know him?”
“I know his grandmother and his mother and his wife,” Josephine said. “Lovely women. Jenks is a scalawag, but aren’t they all? I believe he’s some sort of vice president at my bank.”
“Anybody else?”
“There’s the governor,” Josephine said.
“Ooh, good. You know Governor Traymore?”
“Of course. I’ve known Tubby since he was a child. I contributed to his election campaign, as a favor to his mother. Personally, I don’t think Tubby is all that bright.”
“Are you friendly with anybody in local politics? Like somebody on the county commission? Judges, anybody like that?”
“Certainly,” Josephine said. “They all come here with their hats in their hands to ask for money. I never give them as much as they expect, but I don’t send them away empty-handed.”
“Do you feel up to making some phone calls and writing some letters?”
“I don’t see why not. Do you really think it will do any good?”
“It might,” Brooke said. “The state always seems to be strapped for money. They can’t even maintain the parks we have. So how can the state justify spending millions and millions of dollars to acquire land for another park? Especially one you can’t even get to by car?”
Josephine gave her an appraising look. “I believe I might have underestimated you.”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Brooke said. “When we get back to the house, if you’re not too tired, I’ll help you write letters to everybody you can think of at the state level, protesting the state’s attempted land grab, pointing out what a giant misuse of taxpayers’ money it would be, and so on. On the county level, we need to figure out what you pay in property taxes every year and remind the commissioners how much revenue will be lost if your land gets turned into a state park.”
“All right,” Josephine said. Behind the thick-lensed glasses, her eyes glittered with excitement. “Maybe I’ll even call Virginia Traymore. After all, I did make a hundred-dollar contribution to her son’s campaign.”
Brooke rolled her eyes. Georgia’s governor, Tubby Traymore, was a multimillionaire developer. He hardly needed Josephine Warrick’s hundred dollars.
“My colleague has also offered to handle your estate work. As I said before, it’s a conflict of interest for me to have anything to do with that, since my mother is a beneficiary.”
“I’ll want to meet him first,” Josephine said. “When can he come see me?”
“As soon as you’d like,” Brooke said.
They’d reached the exit sign for the state park, where the road veered sharply off to the left.
“Where now?” she asked.
“Take the beach road,” Josephine said.
“Sure thing,” Brooke said. “That’s a part of the island I haven’t seen yet.”
* * *
After a quarter of a mile, the pavement transitioned to a bumpy crushed-shell road. Palmettos and cabbage palms closed in on either side, their fronds slapping against the side of the truck. Brooke slowed, downshifted into third gear, and steered the truck around the worst of the potholes, but some were unavoidable.
At one point she started to apologize for the rough ride, but a glance revealed Josephine with her head slumped against the passenger door, snoring softly. The interior of the truck was silent except for the soft shunting noise of the old woman’s oxygen tank.
She drove for fifteen minutes, unsure about her exact location, but eventually, the terrain changed. Palmetto thickets gave way to dense stands of gnarled and stunted live oaks, whose dark gray trunks acted as a windbreak for the seashore just beyond the tree line.
Here and there on the other side of a towering hedgerow of sea grapes, Brooke glimpsed a stretch of beach and heard the waves crashing. The wind whipped her hair around her face, and she was thankful for the break in the oppressive heat in the truck’s cab. Meanwhile, Josephine slept on.
Finally, she saw a pull-off point on her right, a hard-packed section of shell that gave way to a path down to the beach. Brooke pulled in and shut off the ignition. The beach stretched temptingly in front of her, totally empty of any sign of human activity. Blue-green waves lapped at the shore, and seabirds skittered along the sand. A mosquito buzzed against the windshield.
“Josephine?”
“Hmm?” The old woman blinked slowly, seemingly confused.
“Is this the spot you wanted me to drive to?” Brooke asked.
“Hmm?”
“The beach road,” Brooke said. “You asked me to take you to the beach road. Is this t
he spot you had in mind?”
Josephine nodded. She sat up straight, bracing her hands against the cracked vinyl dashboard, staring out at the seascape unrolled before her.
“It’s beautiful,” she said. “Just as I remembered it. Untouched. Unspoiled.”
Brooke propped an elbow on the windowsill, and the two women sat, without speaking, for half an hour. It was mesmerizing, Brooke thought. She felt her pulse slow, heard her breaths begin to match the inexorable rhythm of the waves rolling into the shore. She watched the long-legged shorebirds and smiled at their graceful antics, rushing in and out of the foam, pausing to dip and sieve for food. A pod of dolphins cruised by, rolling in and out of the waves. It made her think of Henry, whose favorite beach pastime was looking for dolphins.
She glanced at her cell phone on the seat beside her, guiltily wondering how her mother was faring with her son, who’d woken up cranky and uncooperative that morning. She couldn’t tell whether her mother had called, though, because again, she had no cell service.
“Was there something here you wanted me to see?” she asked her client.
Josephine waved her arm toward the horizon outside the truck’s windshield. “This. It’s the place I told you about. Mermaid Beach.”
“Where the High Tide Club went skinny-dipping?”
Josephine nodded. “I haven’t been up here since I got sick. Today, when I woke up, I thought, just for a minute, maybe I’m better.”
“You certainly look better.”
“Looks are deceiving,” Josephine said. “I’m dying. The doctors did scans, and there are new tumors everywhere.” She stared out at the water. “And please don’t tell me you’re sorry. I’m sick of hearing that.”
“What should I say instead?” Brooke asked. Since Josephine felt so little empathy for others, it shouldn’t have come as a surprise that she expected none for herself. Still, her client’s matter-of-fact acceptance of her terminal diagnosis was unsettling.
The High Tide Club Page 13