The High Tide Club
She felt queasy. “Hey, y’all,” she called.
Lizzie and Felicia approached and stared down at the cardboard box. “Nine-millimeter bullets,” Lizzie said. “I guess they’re for that holstered pistol he carries.”
“So wherever C. D. went, he left in a hurry, and he took binoculars and extra ammo,” Felicia said. “And a picnic.”
“And he probably lied when he told Shug he was going boat shopping,” Lizzie added. “But why? And where was he really going?”
“I think we should leave,” Brooke said, slamming the dresser drawer closed. “As soon as I get back to St. Ann’s, I’m calling Gabe. Something weird is going on here.”
56
Henry reached across the kitchen table and touched Brooke’s sparkly diamond-and-pearl-drop earrings. “Pretty!” His face and hands were smeared with spaghetti sauce, but at that moment something in his expression so closely resembled Pete Haynes it took her breath away. She caught her son’s chubby hand in hers, kissed it, then pretended to munch on his fingers.
He giggled, then presented his other hand for similar treatment, but the doorbell rang.
“Farrah’s here,” she told him.
Her heels clicked across the wooden floor, and she caught a glimpse of herself reflected in the living room window. She couldn’t even remember the last time she’d gotten really dressed up for a date. But fortunately, the strapless black cocktail dress she’d bought to wear to a long-forgotten party in Savannah still fit, and the earrings her parents had gifted her as a law school graduation gift were timeless.
Brooke opened the door and frowned. Not at Farrah but at her companion, Jaxson, who stood beside her on the doorstep.
“Wow!” Farrah said, following her into the house. “You look amazing.” She nudged Jaxson. “Doesn’t she look great?”
“Uh, yeah, awesome,” Jaxson said. He’d changed since the last time Brooke had seen him. The greasy blond mullet and scraggly Fu Manchu mustache were gone. His head was newly buzzed, and he was clean-shaven. He carried a large cardboard pizza box in both hands and was setting it down on the coffee table.
“New haircut?” she asked as he settled himself on the sofa.
“Yeah,” he said, opening the box and shoving a gooey slice of pizza into his mouth.
“Jaxson’s going into the army!” Farrah announced. “He leaves Monday for basic training.”
“Congratulations, Jaxson. Farrah, why don’t you come into the kitchen and say hi to Henry. He’s just finishing his supper.”
* * *
“Fawwah!” Henry called, reaching out his arms to his favorite babysitter.
The teenager lifted him out of his booster chair and swung him up in the air. “Henry McBenry!” She sat him on the kitchen counter, wet a paper towel, and began cleaning him up. “I already know what you’re going to say about Jaxson,” she said, her voice low. “So save it. We are not getting back together. He’s just a good friend, okay?”
“That’s fine, but it would have been nice if you’d asked me if he could come with you tonight,” Brooke said. “I’m not really comfortable leaving you and Jaxson here alone with Henry while I’m away overnight.”
“For God’s sake, we’re not going to have sex on your sofa or anything,” Farrah retorted. “We’ll eat some pizza, watch some television, and then he’ll go home. Okay? Don’t be such a buzzkill. Like my mom.”
Brooke glanced at the kitchen clock. “I don’t have time to argue with you about this now. I should have left fifteen minutes ago. Jaxson can stay, but I want him out of here by no later than eleven o’clock. Understood?”
“Whatever.” Farrah set Henry on the floor and began cleaning up the kitchen table.
“There’s breakfast stuff in the fridge,” Brooke said. “I think there are some Cokes somewhere around here too. Don’t forget to lock the front and back doors before you go to bed, okay? I put clean sheets by the sofa bed. And let’s see. Remember to—”
“Quit stalling.” Farrah handed Brooke the overnight bag she’d packed earlier in the evening. “Henry and I will be fine. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Call me if anything comes up. Okay? No matter what time. In fact, I want you to check in with me at eleven. The pediatrician’s number is on the fridge. I’ll text you Gabe’s cell number too. And you’ve got my mom’s phone number, right? Just in case?”
“Yes, yes, and yes. And remember,” Farrah said, giving her an exaggerated wink, “don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
* * *
She called Gabe on the drive to Sea Island to tell him she was running late.
“Damn. Well, I guess that means we won’t have cocktails at the house before we head over to the Cloister,” he said, sounding annoyed. “Dinner starts at seven.”
“Sorry. Babysitter complications. I’ll fill you in when I get there.”
“I’ve left you a guest pass at the gate. Park at the Cloister and meet me inside.”
* * *
As soon as she’d driven through the gatehouse at Sea Island, Brooke felt herself slipping into her privileged past. Everything about the grounds and buildings at the resort and second-home community whispered power and money and taste. There was even a row of moss-draped oaks, each of which had been planted by successive presidents, starting with Calvin Coolidge right up to the most recent occupant of the White House. She pulled up to the entrance to the Cloister, and a uniformed doorman stepped out to whisk her car away.
The lobby was crowded with people dressed in elegant evening wear, and when she saw Gabe beaming as he walked rapidly toward her, a martini in one hand and a glass of champagne in the other, she realized that her date might be the most attractive man in the room.
Black tie suited Gabe Wynant. His jacket was custom-tailored to his slender frame, and his silver hair was just long enough to be hip, but short enough to be considered not trying too hard. Her pulse blipped at the sight of him, and she couldn’t have said if she was nervous or giddy at the prospect of the evening ahead.
He handed her the champagne and kissed her lightly on the cheek. “You look beautiful,” he said before tucking her arm in his. “And I am the luckiest man on this island tonight. Maybe in this state.”
* * *
They were seated at a round table with three other couples, all of whom were Gabe’s old friends or business associates. Despite her misgivings that she’d be seated with a bunch of strangers, theirs was a congenial group: the Johnsons, who’d recently retired and moved from Minneapolis to Sea Island, Dave and Susie (he was a business consultant, she did something in marketing), and Jack and Sharon, both closer in age to Brooke, and from the looks of it, still celebrating their recent marriage, because they held hands every moment they weren’t eating or drinking.
The new chef Gabe had touted lived up to his reputation, producing a French-accented five-course dinner that had them all oohing and aahing—and groaning at the thought of the calorie count.
Even the orchestra was a nice surprise—a versatile sextet that played everything from Big Band standards to sixties soul to eighties rock.
“Hope you’re not too bored,” Gabe said as he led her out to the dance floor. The band was playing a respectable version of “Unchained Melody,” and it felt good to be in a man’s arms again. He held her closely, his hand resting lightly on the small of her back, and he was easy to follow.