The High Tide Club Read online

  “Any idea how many people we’re talking about? Like, maybe a ballpark figure?”

  “My guess? Nine or ten families,” Felicia said.

  Brooke fetched a card from her desk and offered it to her visitor, and at the same time, Varina Shaddix reached up and planted a kiss on Brooke’s cheek. “You tell Josephine I’m coming to see her real soon,” she whispered in Brooke’s ear. “You tell her I’ll be praying that demon cancer lets loose of her. Will you do that?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Brooke said. “I’ll let her know.”

  16

  Felicia Shaddix had hit on a matter that had been worrying Brooke ever since she’d changed her mind and decided to work for Josephine Warrick. The State of Georgia was, as her client said, circling like buzzards, trying to force Josephine to sell Shellhaven and the land surrounding it to add to the existing park on the other end of the island.

  Brooke knew little to nothing about statutes pertaining to condemnation law. The good news was that she knew somebody who would be able to school her on the issues. The bad news was that he was a senior partner in her old Savannah law firm. And she hadn’t spoken to Gabe Wynant since the day she’d turned in her resignation letter four years ago.

  He had actually been the one who’d hired her, been a mentor and a friend to her, and Brooke could still see the look of disappointment on his face the day she’d shown up, unannounced and dripping wet in his office doorway, to tell him she was quitting and leaving town.

  The morning she’d quit, Brooke had to make three circles of the block around Calhoun Square, where the Farrell, Wynant offices were located, before finding a curbside parking space a block away. And of course, she’d left her umbrella at home. By the time she stepped into the office’s marble-floored reception area, she looked like a drowned rat.

  “Gabe?”

  He was sitting at his desk, his suit jacket draped over the back of his chair, his face still ruddy from having just showered and shaved in the bathroom adjoining his office.

  “Brooke! My God, what happened to you?”

  She gestured toward the bow window that looked out on the live oaks of the square. “Poor planning,” she said. Rain streamed down her face and her legs, leaving a puddle on the jewel-toned Oriental rug.

  He stood, went into his bathroom, and came back with a thick, white monogrammed bath towel. “Here, see if this will help.”

  She toweled off her hair, made a half-hearted attempt to mop up the worst of the water, then draped the towel over her shoulders.

  “Sit,” he said, gesturing toward one of the leather wingback chairs facing his desk. “Unless you want to go home and change first. I’m sure whatever it is can wait.”

  “No,” she’d said quietly. “I’m afraid if I leave now, I’ll lose my nerve.”

  “You? Never,” Gabe said. “But I don’t like the look on your face right now. As a matter of fact, aren’t you supposed to be on your honeymoon?”

  Gabe Wynant was then in his late fifties, but he claimed his hair had turned white overnight after a particularly grueling lawsuit he’d filed against the City of Savannah. He was lean and tan, with a beaky oversized nose and dark eyes behind trendy tortoiseshell Warby Parker glasses.

  Brooke took a deep breath. “I’m resigning.”

  “What? Why? Aren’t you happy here?”

  “I have been. I was.” She felt her upper lip quivering and swallowed. “I thought you would have heard by now. Harris and I … anyway, the wedding’s off.”

  “I just got back from vacation, so no, I hadn’t heard,” Gabe said. “I’m sorry, Brooke. We all really liked Harris. He’s a nice guy.”

  “The best guy in the world,” Brooke agreed. “And I’m the biggest idiot in the world. But I just can’t…”

  She was crying now, big, huge, crybaby tears. He sat and waited. Finally, he handed her a box of tissues.

  “I’m not ready to be married,” she said finally. “I thought I loved Harris enough to get past that, but I guess maybe I don’t. Love him enough, I mean. In fact, I’m terrified of being married. And I was terrified to tell anybody, which is why I ran away.”

  “Okay,” Gabe said slowly. “But just because you broke off your engagement, that doesn’t mean you have to quit your job. Does it?”

  “I can’t stay here any longer,” Brooke said. “I’ve lived in Savannah my whole life, except for when I was in school. I know this sounds like a horrible cliché, but sometimes clichés are true. For me anyway. I feel like I’m suffocating. I’ve made a huge mess of my life. I’ve let my family and friends down, hurt Harris and his family terribly. I’m a disaster. You don’t want me working here, Gabe.”

  “You’re the furthest thing from a disaster. You’ve got a fine legal mind. Your work here has been excellent, and all your clients adore you. The fact that you were savvy enough to walk away before getting entangled in a marriage you had doubts about means you’ve got a good head on your shoulders.”

  “I didn’t walk away. I ran. All the way to Cumberland Island. I was a coward. I’m still a coward. I snuck into town last night. My parents don’t even know I’m here. Harris is still at his parents’ house in South Carolina. I’ve packed up the rest of my stuff, and as soon as you and I are done talking, I’m headed back down there. I can’t face anybody, Gabe. It was all I could do to make myself come in here this morning, to hand in my resignation in person. I thought it was the least I owed you.”

  Gabe nodded. “I appreciate that, Brooke. And you’re not a coward, so please stop saying that. A coward would have gone through with the wedding, despite the misgivings. The way I did, twenty-five years ago.”

  It was an open secret around the office that Gabe Wynant’s marriage was over. He and his wife, Sunny, still lived under the same roof, but Sunny was an alcoholic who’d been in and out of rehab three times just in the time Brooke had worked at Farrell, Wynant.

  Brooke didn’t know what to say to that. “I’ve gotta go,” she said, standing. She stuck out her hand, and Gabe took it and clamped it in both of his.

  “Good luck, then,” he said.

  She’d walked all the way back to her car before she realized she still had the firm’s bath towel wrapped around her shoulders.

  Brooke still had that towel. And she still had Gabe Wynant’s direct number in her cell phone.

  * * *

  “Brooke? Is that really you?”

  “Hi, Gabe,” she said. “Yes, it’s really me.”

  “My gosh, it’s good to hear from you. How the hell are you? Are you still living down, where was it, Brunswick?”

  “I’m fine, thanks. I’m living in St. Ann’s. I even hung out my shingle here.”

  “Did you go with an established firm?”

  “No, I’m solo,” Brooke said. “My practice isn’t anything like it was in Savannah. I do a little of this, a little of that, whatever the other guys in town don’t want to take on.”

  “That’s great. I’m so glad to hear you didn’t quit law. You’re not, by any chance, calling to tell me you want to come back to us at Farrell, Wynant, are you? Because my offer still stands. The firm would welcome you back with open arms.”

  Brooke’s face flushed with pleasure. It was nice to be wanted.

  “That’s so kind of you, Gabe. I can’t tell you what it means to have you say that. But no, I’m not calling about a job. What I could use is your advice. I’ve actually got a new client, and although I’ve tried to persuade her I don’t have any expertise at what she needs, she’s insistent that I’m the only lawyer she wants.”

  “Happy to help out if I can,” Gabe said.

  “Do you have a few minutes to chat? It’s kind of a long story.”

  “I’ve got a meeting in ten minutes. Can you give me the condensed version?”

  “I’ll try,” Brooke said. “Have you ever heard of Josephine Bettendorf Warrick?”

  “Of course,” Gabe said promptly. “The queen of Talisa. My dad was a friend of her late hu
sband, Preiss. I met her a couple of times, years ago, when she and Preiss came up here for parties and such. Is she your new client?”

  “Yes.”

  He whistled softly. “Did she dump her Atlanta law firm? Schaefer-Moody?”

  “I wouldn’t say she dumped them. But if you know Josephine, you know she’s, um, fairly headstrong. And eccentric.”

  “What’s she want from you?” Gabe asked.

  “She wants me to keep the State of Georgia from condemning her house and the rest of the island. They want to annex her land into the existing state park on the other end of the island. They’ve made her an offer, and they’re pressing hard.”

  “How much?”

  “Six million.”

  “For the house and how much land?”

  “Twelve thousand acres, give or take.”

  “I’ve never set foot on that island and I can tell you right now that’s a bullshit offer,” Gabe said.

  “I agree. She’s got the only deepwater dock on that end of the island, all the beachfront, and the only freshwater supply on the island. And get this—the state paid her cousins three million for their little bit of the island back in the seventies. That’s where the existing state park is located now.”

  “So, obviously, you need to fight the condemnation,” Gabe said. “Look, Brooke. I need to get to my appointment. Here’s an idea. I’ll be down at my place on Sea Island over the weekend. You’re not that far from there, right? Why don’t you come up and have dinner with me, and then you can give me more details and we can throw around some ideas.”

  “This weekend?”

  “Yeah. I’ve got something Friday night, but I could do Saturday, or even Sunday night if I don’t head home until Monday morning. What do you say?”

  Brooke sighed. “I don’t know, Gabe. That’s so generous of you, but the thing is, it’s tough getting a babysitter on weekends.”

  “You’ve got a kid?” He sounded shocked.

  “Henry. He’s almost three. That’s another long story. Look. My mom is coming down to stay with us, and I guess maybe I could get away for a couple of hours. Is there any way I can let you know over the weekend?”

  “Why not? I’m going to be on Sea Island anyway. You’ve got my number, so just call or text me. I won’t make dinner reservations at the club until I hear from you.”

  Brooke grinned. “Thanks so much, Gabe. Really.”

  17

  “Where’s my little fella? Where’s my sweet Henry?”

  Marie Trappnell arrived at Brooke’s house shortly after 6:00 P.M. on Thursday night with a rolling suitcase and a gigantic tote bag overflowing with groceries and wrapped gifts. She swept past her bemused daughter and into the house.

  Hearing her voice, Henry sped across the living room and flung himself at her knees, repeating his name for his grandmother over and over again. “Ree! Ree!”

  Marie plopped herself down on the floor and gently pulled him onto her lap.

  “Oh, my sweet boy! My poor angel.” Marie kissed his face and the top of his head. She looked over at Brooke. “He’s breaking my heart. I’m not hurting him, am I?”

  “He’s not made of glass, Mom,” Brooke said. “It’s been six weeks and he’s fine. Just don’t fling him around the room.”

  Henry held his arm up awkwardly for his grandmother’s inspection. “Look, Ree. I got boo-boo.”

  “I see,” Marie said. She kissed his arm. “Better?”

  He beamed. “Better.” But the colorfully wrapped gifts had already drawn his attention. He pointed. “What’s that, Ree?”

  Marie pulled the tote toward them and spilled the contents onto the floor. “Well, let’s see.”

  Henry picked up a stuffed dog. “Puppy!” He waved it at Brooke. “I got puppy!”

  * * *

  After they’d eaten dinner and put Henry to bed on the mattress in Brooke’s room, Marie took a good look around her daughter’s living room.

  “This is really nice,” she said, taking another sip of her wine. “You’ve done a lot since the last time I was down.”

  “It’s not Ardsley Park,” Brooke said wryly.

  She actually had taken pains to fix up her modest cottage. Marie had donated the furniture from her garage apartment in Savannah after the departure of her last tenant. The sofa and matching ottoman were comfortable but with ugly, eighties brown-plaid upholstery, which Brooke had covered with sets of washed and bleached canvas drop cloths.

  She’d splurged on an indoor-outdoor rug from a big-box store at the mall in Brunswick and had assembled a gallery wall of inexpensive thrift store paintings along with Henry’s framed crayon drawings.

  Marie yawned and stretched her legs. Brooke thought she looked distinctly out of place in this room of castoffs. Her mother had an innate elegance and sense of style that Brooke had always envied.

  After the divorce, Marie had stopped coloring her dark hair, and her now silver hair was cut in a sleek bob, just below her chin. Unlike Brooke, she never left the house without eyeliner, blush, and lipstick. Her clothes weren’t showy, just classics, like the well-fitting jeans and oversized Eileen Fisher white linen blouse she wore tonight. Her hands were long and slender, with nails painted a neutral color. She wore no rings.

  “I’m so glad Henry is okay,” Marie said. “I was terrified when I heard about the surgery.”

  “If it makes you feel any better, even though Henry is fine and the arm has totally healed, I’m still a little freaked out about the whole thing.”

  “You don’t show it,” Marie said. “You never have. I think you’re like your father that way.”

  Brooke held up her hand, traffic cop–style. “Don’t. Please don’t compare me to Dad.”

  “I didn’t mean it as a dig, honey. Just a mother’s observation.”

  Brooke took a gulp of wine. “I may look calm to you, but I’m really like those ducks at the Daffin Park pond back home. Gliding over the water on the surface, but underneath it all, I’m paddling like hell trying to keep afloat.”

  Marie cocked her head and studied her daughter. Brooke’s dark hair was pinned up in a messy bun on the top of her head. She wore a loose-fitting T-shirt and denim shorts. She was barefoot and needed a pedicure. And there were dark circles under her eyes.

  “I wish you’d called me sooner,” Marie said. “I wish you’d let me pitch in and help. Not just with money, but with Henry. I know you prize your independence, but sometimes I feel like you’re deliberately shutting me out. And it makes me sad. You and Henry are my world, Brooke.”

  “I know,” Brooke said with a sigh. “I don’t mean to shut you out. It’s just … I guess I feel like I have something to prove. You know, that I can do this. Work. Raise a child. Just be a competent human being. But it’s so damn frustrating. If I’m home with Henry, I’m anxious that I should be at work, doing lawyer stuff. And when I’m at work, with a client—not that I have that many—I feel guilty that I’m not home with my child. And, Mom, I suck. At everything. I suck at life. I really do!”

  Marie got up and sat down beside her daughter on the sofa. She wrapped both arms around her and laughed. “You don’t suck.”

  “No,” Brooke insisted, “I do. What kind of mom lets her kid break an arm at the park? What kind of lawyer can’t even make enough money to pay for decent health insurance for her family?”

  “Don’t you think you’re being a little hard on yourself?” Marie asked. “Do yourself a favor and stop trying to be a superwoman.”

  “I’m not. I just want to be half as good a mom as you were when I was growing up.”

  “Is that what this is about?” Marie asked, raising an eyebrow. “You’re comparing yourself to me? But that’s crazy! You’re a single working mom, raising a child in a town where you have no support system. I had the luxury of being able to quit my job when I had you, because your father was more than able to support us.”

  “And you did everything, and you did it perfectly,” Brooke said. “Beau
tiful, spotless house, gourmet cook, on every committee in town … and I know Dad wasn’t any help with any of that.”

  “It was a different time. None of the women in our social circle worked outside the home. Even the women who had MDs and PhDs and JDs after their names quit their jobs to stay home with their babies.”

  “You sound wistful about that,” Brooke said. “Did you ever wish you hadn’t quit?”

  “Sometimes,” Marie admitted. “Not at first. I mean, I waited until I was over forty to have you. So I’d had a great career, and when I finally did get pregnant, it was such a shock, I thought, well, I should just stay home and raise this miracle child of mine. And that ought to be enough.”

  “And then?” Brooke prompted.

  “I couldn’t get you to sleep or nurse. I was a miserable failure. And I wasn’t used to failing at anything. I’d always been good at everything when I was working.”

  “So what did you do?”

  Marie reached over and stroked Brooke’s hair, tucking an errant strand behind her ear. “I did what you should have done. I finally called my mother and told her I needed help.”

  “That’s when she moved down to Savannah to live with us?”

  “Yes. She literally saved my life. Yours too.”

  “God. It must be an inherited trait. Remember? I had to quit nursing Henry after two months because he wasn’t latching on. And he didn’t sleep the whole night until he was almost two,” Brooke said, shuddering at the memory.

  “You should have told me,” Marie scolded. “Why wouldn’t you call me up and tell me what you were going through?”

  “I don’t know,” Brooke said. “I guess I thought it would be like surrendering. Admitting that I couldn’t take care of my own child.”

  “You can’t do it all alone, honey,” Marie said softly. “Nobody can. Not even you.”

  “I see that now,” Brooke said. She stretched out on the sofa and put her head in her mother’s lap. “I don’t know if it’s the wine or just having you here, but all of a sudden, I sort of feel okay. I think maybe it’s gonna be okay.”