The High Tide Club

“I remember Buckwheat,” Felicia said, her voice icy.

“How did he get the nickname Buckwheat?” Lizzie asked.

The stockroom door swung open, and Yvonne stuck her head inside. “Dad, I’ve gotta go home and get supper started. I need you to come run the register until Michael comes back.”

“Sure thing,” Mickey said, lumbering to his feet, eager to escape the prying eyes of these three women. “Sorry, ladies, I gotta go to work now.”

“The nickname,” Lizzie repeated. “How did Buck get that nickname?”

Mickey squirmed and gulped his beer. “I didn’t name him that, you understand. It was one of the older guys who started it, and after that, it just stuck. Charlie, or C. D., whatever you wanna call him, he had this wild, kinky hair. You know, like that colored kid from Our Gang.”

Lizzie thought about that for a moment. She pulled out her cell phone and pulled up the photo she’d copied from the Good Shepherd yearbook.

“This is a photo of the boys from your cottage, isn’t it?”

The old man’s face softened. “Son of a gun. It sure is. Look at that. We look like the Dead End kids, don’t we? There I am, right there in the middle.”

“Which of the boys is Buck?” Lizzie asked, handing him the phone.

He stared down at the photo and finally tapped one face. “I can’t be sure, but I think maybe this is him. He was for sure the smallest kid in our cottage, and he’s wearing a ball cap, like Buck always used to do. Maybe because he was trying to hide the kinky hair.”

Felicia’s eyes were blazing, but her voice was calm. “Are you saying Charlie looked black? Like he was African American?”

“His skin wasn’t all that dark, not as dark as yours,” Mickey said. “Like maybe just real tan. You know how kids are. They say stupid stuff. The guy who gave him that nickname, he said he bet Buck was part colored. And that’s why his mama left him in a church. Because she didn’t want anybody to know she had a colored baby.”

“Dad! Are you coming?” Yvonne screeched.

Mickey downed the rest of his beer and scurried out of the stockroom.

52

“What planet was that old dude from?” Lizzie asked as they drove away from the liquor store. “‘Buckwheat’? ‘Colored kid’? What a dinosaur.”

“Nothing new to me,” Felicia said, turning around from her perch in the front seat of the Volvo. “You’ve been living in your little bubble out in California all this time. Wake up, girl. This is the Deep South. We got more crackers here than a box of saltines.”

“Could it be true?” Brooke asked. “Could C. D. be Josephine’s son? And biracial?”

“You think just because I’m black I can spot that one drop of chocolate in the glass of milk?” Felicia demanded.

“That’s not how I meant it, and you know it,” Brooke said, the blood rushing to her face.

“Relax,” Felicia said, laughing. “I was just yanking your chain. ’Cause I’ve lightened up.” She held out her hand to Lizzie. “Let me see that picture again.”

Lizzie pulled up the photo and handed over the phone.

With two fingers, Felicia enlarged the image until the blurry face of a runty six-year-old filled the iPhone screen. Shadow cast from the bill of his cap obscured most of the upper half of his face, but the slight smile was visible.

“It’s possible,” she said, studying the photo. “His lips are sort of full, and maybe his nose is a bit flatter and broader. His skin tone? No darker than some of my Italian friends. Of course, I can’t see his hair because of that cap. But yeah, he could be passing.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen C. D. without a hat. And a cigarillo,” Brooke said. “And he’s spent a lifetime out in the sun. The question is, what do we do with this gem of information?”

“Let’s go see Sister Theresa, show her this photo, and ask if there was ever any discussion that Charlie, or Buck, or whatever you want to call him could have been biracial,” Lizzie said.

“Can’t. I’ve gotta pick up Henry from Mom’s by five, and I’m already late,” Brooke said.

“And I’ve got to make sure Auntie Vee has eaten and taken her meds,” Felicia said. “Louette’s been great about letting us stay there, but I’m the one responsible for Vee’s health.”

“Maybe you could tactfully broach the subject of C. D. with Varina again, given what we learned today,” Lizzie said.

Felicia laughed. “She was absolutely adamant that Josephine never had a child. I don’t know what her reaction would be if I ask her if Josephine had a child with a black man. Her head might just spin all the way off her head at the very idea.”

“If C. D. would ever return my call, I’d ask him about it,” Brooke said, glancing at her own phone, which hadn’t rung. “I guess I’ll let Gabe know what we learned today. After all, he’s the administrator of Josephine’s estate. Let him sort it all out.”

53

By the time she’d fed and bathed Henry and yawned her way through story time and bedtime, it was after nine o’clock, which was an hour past his normal bedtime and what felt like an eternity past her own.

Brooke peeled out of her clothes and crawled into her unmade bed wearing an old T-shirt. Her laptop rested on her nightstand, but she didn’t have the energy to even lift the top. She had emails to return, legal issues to research, documents to draft. The corner of her bedroom was piled high with this week’s dirty laundry and last week’s laundry that she’d never gotten around to folding. She wouldn’t get to any of it tonight, and based on what she knew of her upcoming schedule, tomorrow wasn’t looking good either.

Which left only Saturday. In her past life, Saturdays were for long runs followed by endless Bloody Mary–soaked brunches, followed by a trip to the nail salon and maybe shopping with a girlfriend, and then date night with Harris.

But that life was ancient history. It would be a miracle if she managed to muck out her house, get to the grocery store, and maybe do some laundry this Saturday.

Saturday! She flopped backward onto the mattress. This Saturday was supposed to be date night with Gabe Wynant. She’d allowed herself to be sweet-talked into going to a dinner dance with him at the Cloister, but she’d forgotten to line up a babysitter.

She reached for her phone, keeping her fingers crossed that Farrah would be available.

There was a missed call on her phone from an unfamiliar number and an area code she’d never seen before. The caller had left a message. She touched the Play button, and as soon as she heard the voice her pulse rocketed.

“Hey, Brooke. It’s Pete. Look, I know it’s short notice, but I’m back on the East Coast, headed to a conference in Miami. I’ve got a stopover in Savannah, where one of my former colleagues from the Park Service is picking me up, then we’re driving down to the conference together. I’m wondering—no, I’m hoping, you might agree to meet me at the Savannah airport. I bought a cheap plane ticket, which means I’m about to board my first of three legs of the flight, which is supposed to get me in around ten tomorrow morning. Maybe we could do an early lunch and catch up before my colleague picks me up? Okay, anyway, I really hope to see you tomorrow. I’ve missed you, you know?”