The High Tide Club
“Oh. My. God!” Farrah spun around on her chair so that she was facing Brooke. “Finally. Who’s the guy?”
“Just a lawyer I used to work with in Savannah. An old friend, that’s all.”
“Suuuuure.”
“Farrah?”
“Yeah?”
“Not another word.”
45
Farrah peeked out the small window in the front door. “I think he’s here.”
“Get away from that window,” Brooke said. “Aren’t you supposed to be putting my son to bed?”
“Oh my God. He’s totally driving a Porsche 911. Who is this guy?”
“Farrah!”
“Just let me get a good look at him. You know, to make sure he’s not an ax murderer or something. I wish I could see his license plate.”
“Farrah!”
“Okay, he’s getting out of the car. Wait. He’s got white hair. Seriously, how old is this dude?” She whipped her cell phone out, held it against the window, and clicked off three frames in rapid succession.
“Farrah!” Brooke’s teeth were clenched. She wiped her sweaty palms on the side of her white jeans. Her stomach was doing flip-flops, and she could already feel the familiar heat creeping up from her collarbone. She’d felt like this for the past hour. It was as though she were reliving junior high again. Why in God’s name had she agreed to go out with Gabe Wynant?
“Okay, he’s standing by the car, but he’s not moving. He’s looking at his watch. He actually dresses kind of cool for an old guy. He’s not even wearing dad jeans.” She snapped off a few more photos.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“I’m taking his picture, so if you don’t come back tonight, I’ll have something to take to the cops.”
“Farrah!”
“I’m going.”
The doorbell rang. Brooke took a last gulp of her white wine and pasted a smile on her face.
“Hey, you,” she said.
“Hey, you too,” Gabe said. He was dressed casually, in dark wash—but not dad-style—jeans and a crisp, pale yellow dress shirt with rolled cuffs. He wore Gucci loafers, but no socks. “Ready to go?”
“Come on in for a minute. I just need to look in on Henry and kiss him good—”
“Noooooooo!” The three-year-old ran into the living room, dressed in his pajama top, but naked from the waist down. He threw himself against Brooke’s legs, wrapping his arms around her knees. “Nooooo. I don’t want you to gooooo!”
Farrah darted into the room after him. “Sorry,” she said breathlessly. “I turned to grab his pull-ups and he made a run for the door.”
“Come on, Henry,” she said, gently trying to coax the boy away from his mother. “It’s story time. Good Night, Good Night, Construction Site. Your favorite.”
Henry tried to slap away the babysitter’s hands. “No. I go with Mama.”
Brooke leaned down and hoisted the boy into her arms. “Hey, little man. It’s time for bed. You go with Farrah and help her read, and I’ll be home before you know it.”
He shook his head, then stared at Gabe. “Who that?”
Gabe smiled nervously. “Hi, Henry. I’m Gabe.”
“This is Mama’s friend,” Brooke added. “Can you say, ‘Hi, Gabe’?”
“Gimme five!” Gabe said, holding his hand out, palm up.
Henry buried his face in Brooke’s shoulder. “Noooo!” he wailed.
Farrah reached out and managed to peel the boy off his mother. “Let’s go, Henry McBenry,” she said, heading back to the bedroom. “Have a good time, Brooke,” she called over her shoulder. “Nice to meet you, Gabe.”
* * *
He’d chosen a new restaurant she’d been meaning to check out. It was Italian, located in a restored craftsman cottage a block away from the waterfront. There were flowers and candles on the table, which actually had a white tablecloth.
Gabe smiled at her as the waiter brought their wine. “Are you as nervous as I am?”
She sipped her wine. “That depends. Is your pulse racing? Do you feel like you might vomit at any moment?”
“Check and check. Plus I had to change my shirt twice before I left the house tonight, because of all the flop sweat.”
She laughed. “Okay, I didn’t require a wardrobe change, which makes me feel marginally better, so thanks for that.”
“It’s just dinner. That’s what I’ve been telling myself all night. Right? Dinner with an old friend and colleague.”
“Absolutely.” She nodded and sipped her wine.
He took a gulp of his own wine. “I’m sixty-three, by the way.”
“Okay…”
“I just thought I’d get that out of the way. In case you were wondering and trying to figure out if I really am too old for you, which I hope I’m not.”
“I’ve got a confession to make,” Brooke said, emboldened by the wine. “I already knew that. I checked on Martindale-Hubbell.”
“I Googled and checked you on LinkedIn,” he countered. “Very impressive. I’d forgotten you graduated near the top of your class.”
“So we’re two smarty-pants lawyers. We should be able to get through a simple no-risk dinner together, right?”
“Not a problem,” he said. “And since you mentioned the lawyer thing, I’ve got good news. The court appointed me administrator of Josephine’s estate today.”
“Wow. That was fast.”
“One of the circuit judges was a law school classmate of mine,” Gabe said.
“Ah yes, the good-old-boy network,” Brooke said, hoping she didn’t sound bitter.
“In this case, it was helpful. We can speed things up and start wrapping up Josephine’s estate.”
“It’s hard for me to believe she’s gone,” Brooke said wistfully. “Even though I only knew her for a short time, and of course, her illness diminished her on an hourly basis, she was such a strong life force with such an amazing story to tell.”
“I agree. It’s sad.”
“I’m really pissed she died without telling us who killed Russell Strickland or where the body is buried,” Brooke admitted. “My one hope is that Lizzie really will be able to unravel all of Josephine’s secrets while she’s staying at Shellhaven.”
Gabe frowned. “I’m not sure it’s such a good idea for Lizzie to be living there. I mean, I personally don’t really have a problem with it, but as administrator, once I track down those cousins of hers—the heirs apparent, as it were—they might not like it at all.”
“It’s not like she’s moving in for the rest of her life,” Brooke protested. “And it’s a good thing that Shellhaven isn’t empty, with Josephine gone now. What’s it going to hurt?”
“Maybe you’re right,” Gabe said hastily. “Anyway, for the short term, I suppose it’s okay.”
Their appetizers arrived then, and the discussion segued into favorite restaurants, gossip about Savannah, old clients, and mutual friends.
It wasn’t until their desserts arrived—chocolate sea salt gelato with biscotti for her, a glass of port for him—that Brooke realized two hours had flown by.