Angels Landing

by Rochelle Alers

  “You’re right.” She turned her head and kissed his cheek. “Go to work before your boss writes you up.”

  “Do you mind if I stop by when my boss isn’t clocking me?” he teased.

  “Of course. I’ll even cover for you if he comes around looking for you,” she said, smiling.

  “You’re definitely a keeper,” he said.

  Later that afternoon Kara had another visitor. This time it was Morgan. She put Oliver in his crate and closed the door. She’d finally calmed the puppy enough where he’d stopped shaking. She’d temporarily placed the crate near the back staircase, covered the fleece dog mat with wee-wee paper, and placed bowls of food and water in a corner.

  Kara studied the renderings and photographs Morgan had spread out on the dining room table. “It’s amazing.”

  “What’s amazing?” Morgan asked.

  She pointed to an early photo of one of the guest bedroom suites. “It looks so shabby when compared to the rendering.”

  “It’s the same room and furniture but with different wallpaper, rugs, windows, and bed dressing. The other accessories in the room will look the way it did a hundred fifty years ago.”

  Moving along the table, Kara stared at each photo and its accompanying rendering. “What about the fabric on the chairs?”

  “I deal with two fabric houses specializing in eighteenth and nineteenth-century patterns. One is in Charleston on King Street and the other in Atlanta’s Buckhead neighborhood.”

  “Which one do you recommend?”

  Morgan smiled, dimples deepening. “The local one of course.”

  “Do I have to keep the same colors? Because whoever decorated appears to have been obsessed with green.”

  “I noticed that, too. We can always change the colors. What colors are you thinking about?” Morgan asked, opening a book with fabric samples.

  Kara met Morgan’s dark eyes. “Every piece of furniture in this house is either light or dark, so I’d like each of the bedrooms to have a different palette.”

  “How do you like these?” She pointed to swatches of fabric that paired white with blue, rose, black, lavender, and cream. “The light-colored furniture is mid-1700s French. These pieces were probably purchased when the house was first built in 1832. The mahogany pieces came later.”

  “Are they antiques or reproductions?”

  “They’re antiques. Why? Are you thinking of auctioning off a few pieces?”

  “No, actually,” Kara admitted. “I was thinking of donating a few pieces to a museum. I found several chests filled with china, crystal pieces, and silver. There are duplicates of everything.”

  “Why don’t you give them to an auction house? Of course, they’ll take their fee, but you could always use the money for the upkeep of the property. Restoring Angels Landing isn’t a onetime endeavor. You’re going to have to hire people to maintain the gardens, make repairs and…. Why are you looking at me like that, Kara?”

  She knew it was time to level with Morgan, inform the historical architect of her future intentions for the property. “If we’re going to work together, then we must trust each other.”

  “You don’t want me to restore the property?”

  Kara rolled her eyes upward. “Morgan, please don’t get melodramatic on me,” she remarked when the other woman pressed her palms to her chest as if she was going to faint. “Of course, I want you to restore the property.” Morgan twisted a plait around her finger, and Kara saw that her hand was shaking. She knew the architect had taken a huge risk resigning her position to go into business for herself, even if someone had put up the money.

  “Remember when you told me why you didn’t want developers here?” Morgan nodded. “That they would take business away from island merchants?”

  “Yes. Where are you going with this, Kara?”

  She told her everything, watching as Morgan’s eyes danced with excitement. “I want Angels Landing to become part of the Gullah tours. Those who take the tour would be able to buy sweet-grass baskets from artisans on the island if I decide to open a souvenir shop. In fact, everything in the shop will come from Cavanaugh Island. If it’s not made here, then it won’t be sold here. Think destination weddings and business meetings. We can have a restaurant on the property that can be a spinoff of Jack’s Fish House. And I’ve heard that Lester Kelly is the island’s cake man.”

  “And he makes the most incredibly beautiful wedding cakes,” Morgan added. “You know you’ve just appealed to my historic gene.”

  “So you like my idea?”

  “Don’t play, Kara. You know I love it. What makes it so ingenious is it’s like living off the land. You’ll use what you have here, not like outsiders that will take from us. That way the plantation will take care of itself.”

  “I really don’t like that word.”

  “Neither do I,” Morgan agreed, “but it is what it was. It’s a word that has been around since the fifteenth century, and some of the first plantations were established in Ireland. A lot of tourists come to the island in the summer, but it’s the Cove that draws most of the business, then the Creek, and the Landing is last because it’s totally residential.”

  “I went to college with a girl who was from Savannah, and she could trace her family tree back to the Revolution. She told me her house was listed on the Savannah tour of homes and gardens. It could be the same with Angels Landing if some people were willing to open their homes and gardens like they do in Savannah.”

  Leaning over, Morgan took her iPhone from her bag, touching the Notes icon. “Take a look at this,” she said, handing Kara the phone. Kara’s smile grew wider as she read the note.

  “Yes!” Kara gave Morgan a high five, then did a happy dance while still seated. “I can’t believe we’ve come up with a similar plan.”

  “What do they say about great minds? Why should the developers reap all the profits? I gave you that little pep talk to get you thinking about the possibilities for Angels Landing. I also didn’t want you to think I was trying to coerce you into doing something you weren’t comfortable with.”

  “Were you testing me?” Kara asked.

  Pressing against the worn fabric on the back of the dining room chair, Morgan ran her hands over her neatly braided hair. “I wasn’t testing you, Kara. This is your property and your project so the final word rests with you. Angels Landing is similar to Middleton Place, Mansfield Plantation, Drayton Hall, or Borough House Plantation in that they have private governing bodies and are registered as a historic place and/or historic landmark. The difference is you’re female, African American, and a direct descendant of Shipley Patton. Once the word gets out, Angels Landing will operate like the other historic homes, and I hope it will put a stop to the developers preying on Cavanaugh.”

  Kara felt as if a weight had been lifted off her shoulders. What she’d planned for the property wasn’t an original idea, but after spending hours on the computer researching historic sites throughout the South, she’d felt she could do the same for Angels Landing. She felt a warm glow flow through her. The puzzle was beginning to take shape, and soon she would be able to see the whole picture.

  “Let’s hope it does. I don’t know why, but I feel like celebrating. Is there any other place, other than Jack’s, where we can go and have a little fun?”

  “Hey,” Morgan drawled. “I’m down if you are. There’s Happy Hour in the Creek. It’s the only bar on the island. And it’s happy hour from the time it opens around five until it closes. They cater to an under-forty crowd and offer a wonderful buffet.”

  “Is it a popular place to hang out?”

  “It is for the locals. We get a lot of folks from the mainland on Friday and Saturday because of the live music. There is a cover charge, but I always get around that because one of my cousins is a partner in the club.”

  “Is everyone on the island related?” Kara asked, laughing.

  “No. And those who are make it known. We can’t have cousins marrying cousins lik
e they do in some states,” Morgan joked.

  “You know that’s wrong. Incest is illegal.”

  “Tell that to some folks.” Morgan checked her watch. “It’s a little after five. If we get there before eight, then we should be able to get a table.”

  “That gives me a couple of hours to wash my hair and flat iron it.”

  Morgan flipped her braids. “That’s why I have low maintenance hair. Wash and go.”

  “I had my hair braided once, and I had to take them out the next day because they were so tight I sat up all night in ppppaaaaiiiinnnn.” Pain had come out in four syllables, causing Morgan to laugh and Kara to laugh with her.

  Gathering up the photographs, Morgan left the renderings for Kara. “I’ll come back and pick you up between 7:15 and 7:30.”

  “I’ll be ready.

  Chapter Twelve

  Kara felt as if every eye in the Happy Hour was fixed on her and Morgan when they wove their way through the crowd in the dimly lit club. It could’ve been a Friday in Manhattan instead of Friday night on Cavanaugh Island. Instead of taxis and car services dropping off passengers in front of clubs sandwiched between buildings in mostly commercial neighborhoods, these clubbers had parked their cars in a lot large enough for one square city block. Young, attractive, and casually chic, they could’ve come from any major city in the world. Most of the men had shed their ties and suit jackets, their dates preening in designer dresses, power suits, and stilettos.

  She wore the ubiquitous New York City black—a sheath dress with an asymmetrical neckline; narrow, black patent leather belt around her waist; and four-inch black patent leather pumps—while Morgan turned heads in black stretch pants, silk blouse, and strappy stilettos. She wouldn’t have had anything to wear tonight if she hadn’t stopped at a boutique when she’d gone into Charleston to do her banking. She thought of the dress and shoes as an impulse buy that had served her well. And if she was going to socialize with Morgan, then that meant she had to make a few more purchases before Dawn packed up her clothes and shipped them to South Carolina.

  A man with a shaved pate leaned in close to Kara, crooning, “Hello, hello, and hel-lo!”

  She laughed. “Hello to you, too.” Prerecorded music pumped loudly as Kara and Morgan followed the hostess to a small table.

  “I called my cousin and told him to save us a table,” Morgan shouted over her shoulder as they sat down. She signaled a waiter and ordered a sex on the beach, while Kara ordered an apple martini.

  The waiter stared at Kara, a slight smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “I need to see some ID.”

  She stared at him, tongue-tied. “Excuse me?”

  “I need to see some ID,” he repeated, his smile now a full grin.

  Kara opened her tiny purse unable to believe she was being carded. She handed the man her driver’s license. “Nice photo, Kara,” he drawled, handing her back the license.

  “If you wanted to know my name you could’ve asked.” She smiled at his look of embarrassment.

  “I’ll be right back with your drinks.”

  Kara and Morgan waited until he walked away before they burst into laughter. “Do you think I hurt his feelings?”

  “I told Damon that asking for a woman’s ID is played out, but you can’t blame him for trying.”

  Kara leaned over the table. “I’m certain seeing the New York State license threw him for a loop.”

  “Don’t delude yourself into believing that. People know who you are, Kara. Damon thought asking for your license would flatter you because he wanted you to believe he thought you didn’t look old enough to drink.”

  “It’s been a while since I’ve been carded.” What she should’ve said was that it had been a while since she’d gone out for drinks. Most Friday nights found her at home, in bed, and trying to catch up on lost sleep before Dawn’s transients invaded the apartment.

  Kara missed her roommate. She missed Dawn coming into her bedroom and flopping down on her bed to talk about what had gone on in her busy life. Kara thought of Dawn, a native New Yorker, as a Big Apple diva. She knew how to talk the talk and walk the walk, teaching and helping Kara navigate the frenetic lifestyle of the celebrated city.

  “People know who you are.”

  Now that they knew who she was, what were they going to do with that information? Kara knew the Pattons weren’t happy about her being on the island, and she wondered who else felt the same. Had the others thought of her as an outsider, too? Had they also shunned Taylor or had he avoided them as well?

  “Should I be concerned, Morgan?”

  Morgan stared at the lighted candle on the table. “I don’t think so. There’s going to be a lot of talk once the repairs begin on Angels Landing. Folks are going to want to drive by and check out what’s going on. The supervisor of the work crew will probably put up barriers on the road leading up to the house where only workmen will be permitted to access the property. My former boss—it feels so good to say that—threw a hissy fit when I handed in my resignation, accusing me of being disloyal. Once he finds out that I’m working for you, he’ll probably bad-mouth me as if I stole something.”

  “What’s the ditty about sticks and stones?”

  “Yeah, I know. Why don’t you go and get something to eat before Damon brings the drinks. I’ll go after you come back.”

  Pushing back her chair, Kara stood up and walked over to the buffet table where patrons stood two deep waiting to serve themselves. She liked the vibe in the club. It wasn’t as large as some of the ones she’d gone to in Manhattan, but what it lacked in size, it more than made up in atmosphere. A U-shaped bar was the centerpiece, and mirrored walls made everything appear bigger. Tables seating two, four, and six were positioned closely together to maximize capacity. The waitstaff wore white shirts with black ties, armbands, slacks, and shoes. Everyone was patient, polite, and talking softly, but it was the number of people attempting to be heard over the ear-shattering music that increased the noise decibels.

  “You can get in front of me.”

  Kara smiled up at a man with wavy, sandy-brown hair and soulful green eyes. “Thanks, but I’m in no hurry.”

  “Did you know that you’re beautiful?”

  She felt heat sting her cheeks. “No.”

  “Well, you are. Why is it I’ve never seen you here before?”

  Kara knew he was trying to either engage her in conversation or pick her up. She didn’t mind talking to him, but she definitely was not going to be receptive if he wanted more than that. “This is my first time.”

  He extended his hand. “Steve Young.”

  She shook his moist palm. “Kara Newell.”

  “Are you here alone?”

  Kara groaned inwardly. He wasn’t being just friendly; he wanted to pick her up. Any normal woman would’ve been flattered to have an attractive man come on to her, but she wasn’t interested. If he’d been Jeff, then she wouldn’t have been so standoffish. She would’ve been cheesing so much, he would’ve been able to see her molars.

  “No, I’m not.”

  “My loss.”

  Picking up a plate and flatware, Kara moved slowly along the table, spearing small portions of salad greens and toppings. There were the customary dipping sauces for wings, sushi, calamari, chicken fingers, and zucchini sticks. She chose an assortment of cold antipasto and mini–crab cakes.

  Morgan stood up. “Is that all you’re eating?” she asked, looking at Kara’s plate.

  “It’s only the first course.”

  “Good for you. I know a few women with eating disorders, and I just couldn’t be around them because there’s only so much lettuce one could eat without passing out.”

  Kara set her plate on the table. “Not me. I like food too much.” She picked up a fork and cut into the crab cake. Her hand halted when she spied David sitting with a woman. She couldn’t hear what they were saying, but judging from their expressions, they didn’t appear to be a happy couple. Damon returned with the
ir drink order, and Kara paid him, adding a generous tip.

  “I paid for the drinks,” she told Morgan when she sat down.

  “The next round is on me.” They touched glasses. “Here’s to friendship.”

  “Friendship and Angels Landing.”

  The food was delicious, the cocktails perfect, and once the jazz quartet replaced the driving, thumping baseline beat, the music became melodious and soothing. Kara was content to come to the Happy Hour just to listen to the live music. Morgan touched her arm, garnering her attention.

  “Your attorney isn’t having a good night. It looks as if his girl just walked out on him. And judging from the number of glasses on the table, I think he’s had more than enough to drink. I think you’d better do something, Kara.”

  Shifting slightly, she stared at David. The confident lawyer responsible for monitoring and protecting her legal interests was missing, and in his place was a dejected man. There were several glasses on the table, and he’d motioned the waiter over.

  Kara’s relationship with David was strictly business, and she didn’t want to ingratiate herself into his private life. Opening her purse, she scrolled through the directory and tapped a number.

  Jeff had just stepped out of the shower when his cell phone rang. Looping a towel around his waist, he answered the call when Kara’s name and number came up on the display. His twelve-hour shift had ended, and he looked forward to relaxing until it was time for him to return for the eight o’clock shift.

  “Hey, Kara. What’s up?”

  “David’s here at the Happy Hour. He doesn’t look so good, and I think he’s had too much to drink—”

  “I’ll get there as soon as I can,” he said, cutting her off.

  Jeff could not understand what had sent his cousin over the edge because he rarely drank. Even as teenagers, when they shouldn’t have been drinking, David was always the designated driver. He’d taken a lot of ribbing from the rest of the guys in their crowd, but that didn’t seem to bother him. Jeff had never known anyone to be more focused than his cousin David. Jeff dressed quickly and bounded down the stairs, stopping to look in on his grandmother.