The High Tide Club

“He must have, but he certainly never let on to me,” Marie said, attempting a smile. She dabbed at her eyes with the napkin. “Pops was my father,” she said finally. “He was! He was the most patient, most loving and gentle man in the world.”

“I can’t believe Granny kept this a secret, all these years. And none of us had any idea.”

“I can,” Marie said. “Looking back now, I can understand why she was so private, and self-contained. I always thought it was just that famous New England reserve.”

“It must have been awful for Millie, keeping that secret. Pregnant and unmarried, knowing it would cause a scandal, wondering if Gardiner would come home from war to marry her. And then having to grieve him all alone,” Brooke said.

“I’m glad Josephine didn’t reach out to us,” Marie said. “I couldn’t have forgiven her for the way she treated my mother. She didn’t deserve to call us her family.”

Marie jumped to her feet and went into the kitchen. When she came back, she had an open bottle of wine and two glasses. She poured a glass and offered it to Brooke.

“No, thanks. I’ve got to drive home, remember?”

“Right.” Marie took a long drink of the wine.

“These letters change everything, you know. You’re Josephine’s niece, her closest relative and her heir, unless we find out that C. D. actually was her son.”

“I don’t need Josephine Warrick’s money.” Marie’s voice dripped scorn. “I had a career and saved my money, your father was generous with the divorce settlement, and I’ve done well with my investments. I thought it was a nice gesture when she reached out to us. I thought I’d be indulging her by going over to Talisa to meet her. And yes, I wanted you to have whatever bequest she wanted to give you. But knowing what we know now?” She drained the wineglass. “I’d be willing to give that damn island and the house to the state just to spite Josephine.”

“Who are you kidding?” Brooke said. “You’re the least spiteful woman I know. Anyway, are you telling me you’re not even just a little bit curious about Josephine’s estate? Don’t you want to know what it’s worth? Call me a mercenary little money-grubber, but I am. I’ve been wondering ever since I first set foot in Shellhaven.”

“I feel like I’m suddenly living in some weird parallel universe. All of a sudden, I’m not who I thought I was. I can’t even begin to process this. Anyway, what if this is all some kind of a mistake? And we’re jumping to conclusions?” Marie asked.

Brooke pointed to the letters. “Do you think they’re fake? Does that look like Granny’s handwriting?”

With a fingertip, Marie traced the elegant slanting script on a brittle envelope.

“It’s Mama’s handwriting,” she said slowly. “And the voice in these letters, it’s hers. I can hear her so clearly as I read them. She used to write me letters like these when I was away at college. I still have them, you know. Packed away somewhere in the attic. I even have a few letters Pops sent me when I was away at summer camp. He knew I was homesick, so he’d draw these funny little cartoons of my cat, Mrs. Whiskers, with the silliest balloon captions.”

She sniffed and dabbed at her eyes again. “I wish you’d known Pops, Brooke. I wish he’d known you. And Henry, of course.”

“I wish it too.” Brooke stood up. “I’d better hit the road.”

Reluctantly, Marie handed her the letters. “You’ll need to give these to Gabe, right?”

“Yes. I had Farrah make copies of everything for you, but he’ll want the originals,” Brooke said. “And I wouldn’t be surprised if the cousins, once they hear this news, don’t insist on getting your DNA compared to Josephine’s.”

Marie shuddered. “Does that mean needles? You know how I feel about blood. And needles.”

“I think it’s just a matter of something simple. Like a cheek swab,” Brooke said.

They walked toward the front door.

“Did you talk to your dad?” Marie asked.

Brooke tensed. “Briefly.”

“Gordon wouldn’t tell me what he wanted to discuss. From the look on your face, I’m guessing it didn’t go well.”

“You could say that. He doesn’t like the idea of me dating Gabe. I wish you hadn’t told him I was.”

“I didn’t think it was classified information. Did Dad have a specific objection, or was it just the age thing?”

“Patricia has some malicious gossip about Gabe that she’s just dying to spread, but I shut him down before he could get started.”

“Maybe you should have listened,” Marie said. “Gordon is many things, but a gossip isn’t one of them.”

“I’ve known Gabe for years. I think I know him a lot better than Patricia does,” Brooke said.

Marie kissed her daughter on the cheek. “Sometimes the people we think we know the best are the ones with secrets we can’t even fathom. Drive carefully, okay?”

63

On Friday morning, Brooke’s cell phone buzzed to signal an incoming text. It was from a number she didn’t immediately recognize. It was a screenshot of a court document. She squinted as she read the tiny print. It was a copy of a Chatham County property tax lien against Gabe W. Wynant, in the amount of $90,000, on behalf of KPW Roofing Inc.

Beneath the screenshot was the text message:

Heard you’ve been looking for me. Your boyfriend Gabe is a phony. If you want to know what I know, come over to island and we’ll talk.

Now she knew the number. It belonged to C. D. She was relieved that he was apparently alive and well but annoyed at his reference to Gabe as her boyfriend. And what was this about a lien?

Okay, when and where?

My friend Ramona has a boat tied up at the municipal pier. It’s called Foxxy Lady. She’s waiting. I’ll pick you up at the Talisa dock. Come now, okay?

She hesitated, wondering why she felt uneasy about responding to a text from the old man. He was harmless, wasn’t he? But where had he been hiding, and why was he reaching out to her now? Her thumbs flew over the phone’s keyboard.

Waiting on my assistant to arrive at office. Can’t leave ’til then.

She glanced at the clock on the office wall. Farrah was thirty minutes overdue. So this was what the old man had been furtively researching in the library databases. The real estate lien must have been the result of a clerical error. Gabe’s town house in Savannah was on West Jones Street, one of the most beautiful streets in the downtown historic district. It was easily a $2 million property. She frowned. What was C. D. up to?

The office door opened, and Farrah breezed in, her cell phone wedged between her shoulder and left ear as she sipped from a huge Styrofoam Slurpee cup. Brooke fixed her with a disapproving stare. “Gotta go,” Farrah told her caller. “My boss is giving me the death stare.”

The girl set her backpack and Slurpee on her desk. “Sorry about that. What’s up?”

“You’re late,” Brooke said. She picked up her phone and texted C. D., and she reached for her pocketbook.

Leaving now.

His return text was almost immediate.

Come alone and don’t tell nobody.

“I’ve got to go,” she told Farrah. But the idea of a secret meeting with this paranoid old man was making her feel paranoid.