Angels Landing

by Rochelle Alers

  “Where would you find the people to do the restoration?” Kara asked Morgan.

  “Most of them would come from Haven Creek. There are at least four master carpenters, and a few that are experts in brick and plasterwork. There is also a father and son team that put in parquet floors with herringbone or inlaid designs that will take your breath away. The advantage to using local artisans is that they’re always available and take a lot of pride in their work because they have to maintain their reputations. The fabric for the chairs can be ordered from a firm on the mainland that specializes in patterns that are almost an exact match to what you have.”

  Kara put on her sunglasses. “We can talk while we walk.” She knew there was a lot of land to cover, and she wanted to see as much as she could before nightfall. She waited until Morgan drove her SUV around to the rear of the house, then they took off walking.

  Afternoon shadows had fallen, and the air was much cooler when they finally returned to the main house. Morgan gave her an overview of life in the Sea Islands when rice-producing plantations provided much of Europe with “Carolina Gold.” It was African American slave labor that had perfected irrigation techniques using tidal water and man-made dikes.

  She saw the ruins of what Morgan had referred to as winnowing barns where rice grains were processed for shipment. The architectural historian compared Angels Landing to Mansfield Plantation as only two American plantations to be saved from development and reclaimed by a direct descendant of the original owner.

  Kara didn’t want to believe she was a direct descendant of the men in the paintings. Uncovering who her ancestors were and how Cornelius Patton had come into possession of Angels Landing was another missing piece of the puzzle. You can’t know where you are going if you don’t know where you’ve come from. The Gullah saying wasn’t far from the truth as it referred to her.

  Morgan had pointed out that the original owners had built the main house on a hill to provide them with views of the ocean and river. There were more buildings: a schoolhouse, a chapel, and a dilapidated shed filled with blacksmith tools. There were two cemeteries, one for the white family and the other for blacks. The area in the undeveloped northeast section was made up of a densely forested woodland and swamp.

  Kara felt like crying when she saw the cabins that had made up the slave village. The one-room shacks were structurally unsafe to enter, but when she’d peered through the windows she saw items that had been essential to those who’d lived there: broken pottery, spoons, a chair, table, and frames for several beds. Morgan took pictures of everything: trees, several ponds, outbuildings, and what had once been gardens.

  “I don’t know if you realize what you have here,” Morgan said to Kara.

  “Yes, I do. Angels Landing is like a pretty girl covered in dirt and grime. And I know it’s going to take time to clean her up where everyone sees her beauty.”

  “You’re very lucky Angels Landing is here instead of on the mainland because it probably wouldn’t have escaped the Civil War when Union soldiers either occupied or burned plantations when they came through Charleston. I took photos of the books in your father’s office, and many of the titles go back more than one hundred years. They alone are worth a small fortune. I’m certain private collectors would act like rabid fans at a music concert if they saw them.”

  Kara stared at the avenue of live oak trees leading up to the main house. “How long do you think it would take to restore everything?”

  Morgan supported her back against one of the massive pale pink marble columns. “Probably two, maybe even three years.”

  She closed her eyes. “That long?”

  “That’s not very long, Kara. As a student at SCAD, I’d worked on projects that were ongoing for more than six years. My recommendation would be to start with the house and the gardens. The outbuildings would be the last because I would have to search for authentic artifacts to re-create life as it was more than 150 years ago.”

  Kara opened her eyes, staring at Morgan. As they walked she’d also regaled Kara with how she’d become an historical architect. Morgan had admitted her first choice when enrolling in Howard University’s College of Engineering, Architecture and Computer Sciences was engineering but quickly changed her concentration when she took an architecture course. She graduated as an architect, then returned to South Carolina to enroll in the Savannah College of Art and Design to pursue a degree in historic preservation.

  “Who would supervise the project, Morgan?”

  Morgan stared off into the distance. “Most likely it would be one of the partners.”

  “You do all the legwork, and they get to supervise? No pun intended,” she added when Morgan looked at her. “Right now my legs are screaming for mercy. I can’t remember when I’d walked so much.”

  Morgan nodded. “It’s like running a half marathon. And to answer your question as to supervision. I’m only an assistant. One of the partners or senior architects will probably oversee the project.”

  “How long have you been with the firm?”

  “Two years.”

  “If you don’t mind my asking, how old are you?”

  “Thirty-two.”

  “How many years will it take before you’re more than an assistant?”

  Morgan lifted a shoulder. “I don’t know. Probably at least another ten years, give or take a few.”

  Kara took a deep breath, held it, then exhaled slowly. She’d known she was going to use Morgan’s firm within an hour of their surveying the property. However, she’d hoped to work directly with her, not the owners of the architectural and design firm.

  “How would you like your own firm?”

  Morgan stood up straight. “What are you talking about?”

  “I just came into more money than I know what to do with. Taylor… my father’s will states I have to restore this property, and that’s what I intend to do. Right now, I don’t have the patience to go through what I’ve just gone through with you. I’ll hire you if you set up your own firm.”

  “But I don’t have my own firm,” Morgan whispered.

  “Open an office here on Cavanaugh Island, and I’ll be your first client.”

  Morgan’s eyelids fluttered wildly. “I don’t have that kind of money. And besides, I’d never open an office in Haven Creek. I’d be in direct competition with Ellison and Murphy.”

  “What about Sanctuary Cove? I noticed there were a few vacant stores in their business district. I’ll loan you the money you’ll need to be operational.”

  “Why are you doing this, Kara?”

  “Why wouldn’t I, Morgan?” She’d answered her question with one of her own. “We’re both young, single black women who have to fight to make our way in this world. I’m an overworked and underpaid social worker with a male supervisor who refuses to give me a favorable evaluation even though I go above and beyond what is called for in my job description. I’ve lost track of the number of times I was tempted to resign and set up a private practice. That is virtually impossible in Manhattan because I’d have to rent an office or a desk with another group of social workers and/or psychologists.

  “I barely make enough money to pay rent on the apartment I share with a friend, buy food and a monthly Metro-Card for the bus and subway. Then there are movie tickets that are nearly twenty dollars, and please don’t buy popcorn or a soda. If I go to a club and give the bartender a twenty for a drink, I’m lucky if I get back two dollars, which becomes his tip. It’s not easy for us, Morgan, and if you don’t want to accept my offer, then I’ll respect your decision.”

  “Damn, Kara. You really know how to pile on the guilt.”

  “That’s what my roommate says.”

  Morgan smiled. “What do we have to do to make this a reality?”

  “Are you familiar with the law firm of Sullivan, Webster, Matthews and Sullivan?”

  “No.”

  “David Sullivan Jr. was Taylor Patton’s attorney and is also my attorney. I’ll ask him to
draw up an agreement stating that I’m an investor and silent partner in your firm.”

  “Aren’t you afraid I’d run out with your money?” Morgan asked.

  Kara chuckled. “Where are you going, Morgan? Didn’t you tell me you live here? And I have to assume your family still lives here.”

  Morgan nodded. “They do.”

  “Would you embarrass your family when word got out that you’re a thief? I don’t think so,” she added when Morgan gave her a wide-eyed stare. “I’m giving up a lifestyle I’ve come to like and a career I love despite all my bitchin’ and moanin’ to fulfill a dead man’s wish. Together we can make it happen, or the new owners of Angels Landing may not look like you or me. And I don’t have to tell you that developers could care less about preserving the Gullah culture once they put in their golf courses, condos, and country clubs.”

  “I won’t say anything to my supervisor until I’m ready to leave.”

  “Good for you.”

  “I’ll take time off and check out the vacant stores in the Cove. Once the news gets out that I’m renting space in the Cove, the proverbial shit will hit the fan.”

  “What’s the worst they can do, Morgan? Fire you?”

  Morgan laughed until tears ran down her face. “By that time it’ll be too late.” She sobered. “I’ll need office furniture and equipment.”

  “What about employees?”

  “All I need is a receptionist who will handle the phone and paperwork. I have a good working relationship with the artisans in the Creek, so that eliminates looking for them. You know, Kara, I think this is going to work.”

  “Of course it is. I don’t want to be rude, but I’m going inside to soak in the tub for a while. My calves are singing the hallelujah chorus right about now. You have my numbers, and I have the one to your cell. I’ll call you tomorrow after I speak to David.”

  Morgan threw her arms around Kara’s neck. “Thank you, girlfriend.”

  “You’re welcome, girlfriend.”

  Kara opened the door and walked into the house that held memories and secrets of those who’d lived before her. Hiring Morgan to restore the house was another piece of the puzzle that would soon be in place.

  Chapter Seven

  Jeff couldn’t wait to return home. He’d played phone tag with Kara even before he’d left the island to attend a crime prevention conference. With the proliferation of illegal firearms and an increase in drug-related crimes, the governor and law enforcement officials had convened with a joint task force that included police departments from as many as two hundred small towns.

  By the time Kenny called to say that Kara wanted him to call her at home, it was after eleven and much too late to call. Then Spencer White woke him at dawn, apologizing because his secretary had misplaced a letter from the governor requesting his presence at the conference and he had to leave for Columbia posthaste. Jeff was tempted to refuse the mayor’s directive because he suspected Spencer was so busy campaigning for his upcoming reelection that he had misplaced the letter and decided to blame the secretary.

  He’d asked his closest neighbor to look in on his grandmother during his absence, although he doubted she would do anything to exert herself. The cardiologist had inserted a shunt into her heart to divert the flow of blood from one chamber to another because he’d wanted to avoid a bypass procedure.

  Jeff knew Corrine didn’t like curtailing her normal activities yet resigned herself to following the doctor’s directives. Corrine had been very active up until the attack, and she still talked about not being able to bowl. For years she’d belonged to a bowling league that met every Sunday night at the Charleston bowling alley. She’d also been an avid swimmer and like most children on the island had learned to swim by jumping off the pier.

  He wasn’t certain why Kara wanted him to call her, but when he’d checked in with his deputies, they reported back that Mrs. Todd said Kara was spending a lot of time in Charleston. Sending her flowers and the balloon had been a knee-jerk reaction when he’d passed the florist. Jeff hadn’t wanted to believe it had taken less than a week for Kara to change her mind and move to the island. She’d revealed that she was required to stay for five years, but five years was a great deal longer than one or even three weeks.

  Jeff felt his mind drifting when thunderous applause shook him from his reverie. He still hadn’t figured out what it was about Kara that he’d found so attractive. He knew it wasn’t her looks because he’d dated beautiful women before and a few that were so overtly sexy they turned heads wherever they went. Unfortunately their looks weren’t enough to get him to commit to something other than a physical relationship. The only one who’d gotten him to commit was a North Carolina schoolteacher he’d met when he was assigned to Marine Corps Base Camp Lejeune.

  Pamela wasn’t as pretty as she was charismatic. Her infectious smile, the timbre of her sultry voice, and the dedication she’d shown her students were what had won him over. He’d waited thirty-six years to find someone like Pamela, and when he’d proposed marriage, she accepted without hesitation. Then when he was transferred from Camp Lejeune to Camp Pendleton, Jeff realized their relationship was on shaky ground. Pamela had been appointed to assistant principal, and she’d postponed their wedding date because she had to think about whether she’d wanted to become a military wife. A month later she returned his ring, declaring she’d made a mistake accepting it when she knew he would never give up his military career to live a normal, more stable life.

  A scraping of chairs and more than three hundred men and women representing police forces all over the state filed out of the auditorium. Gathering the many handouts they were given, Jeff shoved them into his plastic folder stamped with the conference title and made his way out to the parking lot. He’d left Cavanaugh Island Wednesday morning, and it was now Friday afternoon. The drive between Columbia and Charleston would take approximately two hours, barring traffic delays. He was anxious to see his grandmother… and Kara.

  One hour and forty-five minutes later, Jeff smiled when he saw his grandmother sitting on the porch knitting. She hated sitting around doing nothing, so she’d picked up her needlework. If he had to recall one thing from his childhood, it was a basket filled with squares of fabric for quilting or colorful skeins of yarn Corrine used for her knitting, crocheting, or embroidery projects. She even knitted or crocheted when watching television.

  He parked his car under the carport beside her Camry and came around to the front porch. Leaning over, he kissed her forehead. “How’s my favorite girl?”

  Corrine gazed up at him with loving eyes. “Your grandmother is just fine. You should be asking that question to that cute little girl you brought here earlier in the week.”

  “She’s just a friend, Gram.”

  “She needs to be more than a friend, Jeffrey. I may not leave this house every day, but I do manage to hear the gossip.”

  Flopping down on a chair beside her, Jeff stretched out long legs. “What gossip now, Gram?”

  “She’s staying. And someone saw that pretty little architect from the Creek over at the house. That can only mean that Kara plans to fix it up. And there has been other talk…”

  Jeff shook his head. He was away from the Cove for three days, and the gossipmongers were busy. “Spit it out, Gram.”

  “You had flowers delivered to Angels Landing.”

  Taking off his hat, Jeff placed it on his knee. “Since when is buying flowers for someone a crime?”

  “It’s not a crime, Jeffrey. It just sends a message that you’re interested in the young lady.”

  “Do you want me to say that I’m not interested in Kara?”

  “Oh no! I think it’s wonderful that you are. It’s just that I want you to be prepared in case you start keeping company with her.”

  “Prepared for what, Gram?”

  “For all the talk about you and Kara.”

  Running his hand over his face, Jeff closed his eyes. “Grandmomma, I could care less a
bout what folks say. Spending two years in Afghanistan taught me to take one second at a time. When I saw men who’d become my brothers in every sense of the word get blown up right in front of my eyes, I promised myself that nothing or no one, could get to me. The exception is you.” He pushed to his feet. “I’m going inside to shower and catch a few winks before I go over to the station house.”

  “Don’t you want something to eat?” Corrine asked.

  “No thank you. I’ll grab something from Jack’s before they close if I get hungry.” Leaning down, he kissed her again. “It’s good to be home.”

  Kara sat at the table in the kitchen drinking coffee and flipping through the pages of the book she’d bought from the Parlor Bookstore. Not only did she want to revive Theodora’s garden, but she also wanted to plant a vegetable and herb garden.

  Even though Mrs. Todd prepared most of the meals, she wanted to begin cooking for herself, even if it was only the evening meal. She’d thought she would be bored, but she’d been anything but. It had taken three trips to Charleston to complete her banking. The accounts in Taylor Patton’s name were closed and reopened in her name. She’d met with an investment banker at each branch who’d recommended which accounts she should utilize to maximize the greatest yield. What she’d refused to do was put her money into accounts that weren’t insured by the FDIC.

  Morgan had called to say she found a small shop two doors from the Muffin Corner on Moss Alley. It was perfect because it was off Main Street. The owner of the property had waived the security fee and the first month’s rent because he’d been trying to rent the space for more than a year and a half. Morgan said she would take the space, then made him swear an oath that he would not reveal who the new tenant was until it came time for her grand opening.

  Kara had David draw up the papers making her a silent partner in M. Dane Architecture and Interior Design. He’d met with Morgan and convinced her to set up a corporation for which he would file the necessary paperwork.