The High Tide Club

“You’re sleeping in the house now?” Brooke was taken aback.

“Uh-huh. Miss Josephine fell and hurt herself Monday night. Said she tripped over one of the dogs. Somehow she managed to get up and get back in the bed. It’s a miracle she didn’t break a hip or crack her skull wide open. She fought me on it, but last night I fixed me a bed on the sofa in the living room, and that’s where I’m gonna be staying until…” Louette’s voice trailed off.

“Do you think Josephine needs round-the-clock nursing care?” Brooke asked.

“Maybe. But I know her, and she ain’t gonna do that. No, ma’am. She ain’t gonna want to spend the money on a nurse. It’s funny. She’s been telling me the doctor says this cancer will kill her, but she really ain’t ready to admit yet just how sick she is.”

Gabe turned around to Brooke. “Maybe that’s something I could discuss with her, if we’re redoing her will. She probably already has an advanced health care directive.”

“It’s worth a try,” Brooke said.

* * *

“Y’all go on inside, please, while I park Nellybelle out back,” Louette said when they’d reached the house. “She’s in the living room. Got herself all fixed up today, on account of having herself a ‘gentleman caller.’”

Gabe got out of the car and took a few steps backward to take in the house. The grass had been freshly cut, the formerly overgrown shrubbery nearest the house had been trimmed, and the flower beds weeded. He let out a low whistle under his breath. “So this is Shellhaven. Even with the decay, the photos don’t do it justice. It’s magnificent.”

“Just wait,” Brooke warned. “If you’re into shabby gentility, this is the place for you.”

She led the attorney through the foyer and down the hallway to the living room, where they found the lady of the house sitting in a high-backed chair angled in front of the fireplace, facing the sofa.

True to Louette’s word, Josephine seemed to have transformed herself into an old-style grande dame for today’s meeting. She was wearing a floor-length flowered silk caftan with a stunning double-strand pearl necklace and matching earrings, and a fluffy silver bouffant wig that sat slightly askew on her head. She wore bright pink lipstick and a thick application of face powder that failed to hide a bruise on the right side of her face, but she still managed to look formidably regal. A box fan had been propped in front of one of the windows, its blades barely managing to stir the blanketlike heat in the room.

“Josephine,” Brooke said, “I want you to meet my former boss, Gabe Wynant.”

“Forgive me for not standing to greet you,” Josephine said, offering her hand to Gabe. “I took a tumble the other night and I haven’t quite regained my equilibrium.”

Gabe gently shook the old lady’s hand. “It’s a pleasure, Mrs. Warrick. Both to meet you and to see your beautiful home.”

“Not as beautiful as it once was, but we do our best,” their hostess said. She gestured toward the sofa, which had been liberated from its dust cover. “Please sit.”

They exchanged pleasantries for a few minutes, the way Southerners do at a first meeting, while Gabe discreetly unbuttoned the top button of his dress shirt and slipped out of his blazer in deference to the heat.

“I believe I knew your father,” Josephine said. “He was a lawyer too, isn’t that right?”

“That’s right. He was one of the founding partners of our law firm,” Gabe said.

“And your mother’s people?” she asked.

“Mama was a Poole. She grew up in Macon,” Gabe said.

“Macon? I don’t believe I know anybody from Macon.” It was clear that to Josephine Bettendorf Warrick, Macon might as well have been Mars.

“Gabe’s the senior partner at my old firm,” Brooke said, hoping to move the conversation along to business. “I’ve filled him in a little on your legal situation.”

“But I’d appreciate it if you’d tell me exactly what your wishes are in regard to this proposed trust and, of course, your estate planning,” Gabe said, sliding a yellow legal pad from his briefcase and balancing it on his knees.

“We’ll get to that,” Josephine said airily. “Where did you grow up and go to school, Gabe, if you don’t mind my asking.”

“Don’t mind at all,” Gabe said. “I grew up in Ardsley Park, went to prep school at Benedictine, like most of the guys in my neighborhood. Went to University of Georgia, undergrad. Came home from school, messed around in Savannah for a year or so, and then my dad pointed out that it was pretty inevitable that I would go to law school. So I did.”

“And what law school did you attend?” Josephine said. “UGA?”

“No, ma’am. That’s where my dad went, but I was just ornery enough to want to go a different route, get a little farther away from home. I’m a proud Duke Blue Devil.”

Josephine looked impressed. “You know, I believe Richard Nixon went to law school at Duke University.”

“So I’ve heard,” Gabe said, grinning. “It was a little before my time.”

“Well, yes, you’re obviously much, much younger,” Josephine said. “More attractive too, I might add.”

“You’re too kind,” Gabe said.

Brooke felt her jaw drop slightly. The old lady was actually flirting with Gabe Wynant. Ninety-nine years old and batting her eyelashes like a Chi O at a KA mixer.

“I suppose you’ve been married a long time?” Josephine asked.

Brooke held her breath for a second.

“I was, yes. Unfortunately, my wife passed away nearly two years ago,” Gabe said.

“Oh, dear. I had no idea. I’m so sorry.” Josephine looked flustered.

“You couldn’t have known, so please don’t apologize,” Gabe said. “She, uh, had liver cancer, so I will say that it was mercifully quick.”

“I have cancer myself,” Josephine said. “The doctors tell me it’s terminal. I just hope my illness will be as mercifully short as your late wife’s.”

“I hope so too, ma’am,” Gabe said. He coughed politely. “Which is why, if you don’t mind, we ought to get down to talking about the disposition of your estate.”

“Yes, time is fleeting,” Josephine agreed. She looked out the open living room window at the expanse of green lawn flowing down toward the ocean, and she touched the pearls at her neck. “As fleeting as summer.”

“Josephine says she wants to leave the island and Shellhaven to three women,” Brooke put in quickly, hoping to get the old lady to focus on the task at hand with Gabe.

“I’ve been thinking about that. Since Varina is in her nineties and Marie is in her midseventies now, I think I’ll include Felicia and you, Brooke. Let’s make it five beneficiaries.”

Gabe’s eyebrows rose slightly, and Brooke took a deep breath. “That’s very generous of you, Josephine, but that makes it doubly important that I excuse myself so the two of you can talk.”

“What do you mean?” Josephine demanded. “I want you here too.”

“It’s like I explained to you the first day we met,” Brooke said patiently. “My participation in planning for your estate is a conflict of interest.”