The High Tide Club Page 5

  “I’m sorry,” Brooke said. “As I’ve tried to explain, based on the little you’ve told me, I really don’t think I can help you.”

  The old lady’s eyes were closed again.

  “And remember,” Josephine said. “Strictly confidential. Not a word to anybody about what we discussed today.”

  Josephine nodded off once more, leaving Brooke wondering again if she should go or stay. She still smarted from the intrusive questions about Henry’s paternity and whether his father knew of the boy’s existence.

  Henry had straight dark hair, a high forehead, and a short nose like her own. His moods changed moment to moment. One minute he was climbing into Brooke’s lap and smothering her face with kisses while she was trying to work at the kitchen table, and the next thing she knew he was scowling and howling, “Bad Mommy!” Strangers stopped her at the grocery store to comment that he was a carbon copy of his mama. But sometimes, when the tantrum clouds passed, and he gave her that full-faced impish smile, all she could see was Pete. He had Pete Haynes’s smile, Pete’s square jaw, long, Bambi-like lashes, stormy blue eyes, and smooth olive skin. Even the faint sprinkle of freckles across Henry’s nose and cheeks were Pete’s.

  He was his father’s son, a son Pete knew nothing about.

  6

  Josephine

  October 1941

  “Such a lovely party.” Everybody kept saying it, and it was true. Papa and I wanted everything perfect for Millie’s engagement party.

  The ballroom floor had been waxed and polished until it shone like a mirror. The orchestra, brought all the way down from Atlanta—ten pieces—played all the most popular songs from that year. Caterers had been brought in too. A steamship round of roast beef, silver trays piled high with cracked lobster tails, steamed shrimp and oysters mounded on beds of crushed ice, poached quails’ eggs, and the cleverest little pink cakes. Flowers everywhere. Orchids from the greenhouse, huge vases of peonies and roses and lilies, their perfume scenting the gentle breeze blowing in from the open doors to the veranda.

  Thank goodness for that breeze! October could still be oppressively warm on Talisa, but even the weather cooperated that evening, with a full moon shining down on the loveliest party that I’d ever seen.

  My gown was pale blue silk, with elegant beading and a plunging neckline. Millie was fairy-tale pretty in pink organza, the gown a surprisingly generous gift from her miserly grandmother, and Ruth, in seafoam-green satin to complement her copper hair. “You girls look like a rainbow,” Papa had said, nodding in approval.

  A hundred people filled the ballroom at Shellhaven that night. Or was it two hundred? Such a pretty, perfect night.

  Until Russell strolled back into the ballroom from the veranda. He’d been drinking steadily all night, supplementing the champagne punch from the silver flask stuck carelessly in the breast pocket of his dinner jacket. Poor Millie had been on edge all night, fluttering around, too nervous to do more than nibble at the edges of the plate of food Ruth had tried to coerce her into eating.

  “He hasn’t danced with her once tonight,” Ruth had hissed in my ear, glaring in Russell’s direction.

  “Too busy drinking and talking sports and smoking cigars with his fraternity brothers,” I’d agreed, following her gaze.

  Russell Strickland stood by the french doors, holding the stub of a still-lit cigar in his hand, coolly surveying the room. The dance floor was a crush of color and movement because right at that moment the orchestra was playing Glenn Miller.

  Ruth slipped her arm around my waist, and we both hummed along and swayed to the rhythm. “Moonlight Serenade.” A perfect song for a perfect night.

  “What’s he staring at?” I muttered.

  Russell’s eyes were narrowed, his jaw tight with anger.

  “Oh Lord,” Ruth said. “It’s Millie. She’s dancing with another man.”

  “Where?” I craned my neck to see through the crowd.

  “Over there, near the punch bowl.”

  Finally, I spotted Millie’s gauzy pink dress. She was in the arms of a lanky man with a white dinner jacket and a deep tan. “Oh, for heaven’s sake. It’s only Gardiner. He’s just being nice. Papa probably made him ask Millie.”

  “Maybe your brother is just doing the gentlemanly thing, asking his little sister’s best friend to dance, but I doubt Russell sees it like that,” Ruth said. “He is holding her awfully close.”

  “Because every single living person in the room is on that dance floor,” I said, laughing. “You and I are the only ones who aren’t dancing.”

  “Russell isn’t dancing. And he doesn’t look at all happy at the way his fiancée is looking right now.”

  Ruth was right.

  “Should we do something?” I asked. “Maybe try to distract him?”

  “And how would we do that?” Ruth’s dark green eyes crinkled in amusement. “Strip naked? Faint at his feet? Offer him some cake?”

  “Or another flask of whiskey. I’ve got a better idea, though. You could ask him to dance.”

  “You ask him. You’re the hostess.”

  “Should I?” My stomach did a little flip. Russell Strickland had always been perfectly polite to me, but there was something intimidating about him. And not just his football-player size. Everything about him was outsized and intense.

  “Never mind now. The song’s almost over. I think you and I should warn Millie…”

  But it was too late. The music had ended, and Russell was steaming across the room, shouldering his way through the throng of partygoers until he’d reached the spot where Millie was standing.

  She’d been talking to Gardiner, her cheeks pink with excitement. A moment later, Russell clamped his hand around her bare upper arm. She turned, and her eyes widened in surprise. Russell said something to Gardiner, who took a step backward, shaking his head in disgust.

  The next moment, Russell was towing Millie toward the ballroom door, not really holding her hand but nearly dragging her. Luckily, most of our other guests didn’t notice. The music started again, and Ruth and I stood rooted to the spot where we’d been standing.

  “Should we do something?” I asked. “Should we tell my father?”

  Ruth thought about it, then shrugged. “Maybe not. It would just make Russell madder. And he’d probably take it out on poor Millie and spoil your wonderful engagement party.”

  “Poor Millie,” I whispered.

  * * *

  “Are you going to help me or not?”

  “I want to help you,” Brooke said. “But I’m still not clear on what you think I can accomplish. Besides, you never finished telling me about these friends of yours. Or how you plan to make amends with them.”

  “I certainly did,” Josephine snapped. “I told you about Millie. And Ruth. And Varina.”

  “You told me that Varina is still living and that your friend Millie was my grandmother,” Brooke said. “But what about Ruth? And why do you need to make amends with these women?”

  “Oh.” Josephine looked down at the Chihuahuas, who were dozing on her lap. “Sometimes I do get a little forgetful. And sleepy.”

  Brooke laughed. “Sometimes I dream of sleeping ’til noon. My son creeps into my room two or three times a night. I don’t think I’ve gotten more than four uninterrupted hours of sleep since he was born.”

  “Why don’t you just lock him in his room? Or lock your own door, for that matter?”

  Brooke tried not to show her shock. “You’re joking, right? Lock a three-year-old in his room? What if there was a fire? Or he really needed me in the middle of the night?”

  “Oh, well, I didn’t think of that,” Josephine said with a shrug. “That’s why Preiss and I never had children of our own. I don’t think I would have made a good mother.”

  Brooke silently agreed with that assessment. “Anyway, it’s time for Henry to transition to a big-boy bed. Maybe then he’ll let me sleep in peace.”

  “Is Henry a family name?”

 
“Yes. He’s named for my grandfather. Millie’s husband. I suppose you knew him too?”

  “I regret now that I never met him. But Ruth said he was a good man, and I heard he was good to Millie.”

  “Mama was only sixteen when he died, and she was devastated. I think he was much older than Granny,” Brooke said.

  “I believe that’s what I heard.” Josephine nodded. “Thank goodness he left Millie well fixed. You know, Millie’s father—he’d be your great-grandfather—lost everything in the crash of ’29. If it hadn’t been for her grandparents, they would have been penniless.”

  Brooke gazed at the pin fastened to Josephine’s chest. “I’m a little confused. Earlier, you said my grandmother had those pins made for her bridesmaids. But you just told me you never met my grandfather.”

  Josephine ran a bony finger over the pin. “Millie was engaged to someone else. His name was Russell … something.” She looked up at Brooke. “Can you believe I’ve forgotten his last name? That’s the wedding I was to have been in. But it never came off. Later, Millie married your Henry. Ruth said he was very distinguished. Some type of educator, I believe?”

  “He was an English professor at Kenyon College, in Ohio,” Brooke said. “His first wife died in one of the influenza epidemics, and Mama said he’d been a widower for years before he met Granny at a party in Boston. They got married a month later. Can you imagine doing that now?”

  “Quite the whirlwind courtship,” Josephine said, her tone acerbic. “But dear Ruth said the wedding was a lovely, intimate affair.”

  “You were going to tell me more about Ruth,” Brooke prompted.

  “She had the loveliest red curls,” Josephine said. “And a temper to go along with them. A spitfire, we called her. But she had a tender heart. And she was such an animal lover. She’d find an abandoned kitten behind the dining hall at school and rescue it. Sneak it into our room, feed it milk with a medicine dropper. She hated any kind of injustice, hated cruelty. Ruth was a crusader.”

  “Whatever happened to her?”

  Josephine shrugged. “We … had a disagreement. I suppose it came to a head with the ’72 election. Ruth despised Nixon. She was what Preiss called a limousine liberal. Came by it honestly. Her mother was a suffragette.”

  Brooke shrugged. “Was that so awful? She sounds pretty amazing to me.”

  “You wouldn’t understand,” Josephine said. “It was a different time. Ruth was so … preachy. So damn certain about everything. Now? I see that our quarrel was silly. She and Millie were wonderful friends. We were like sisters. Closer than sisters.”

  “I know what you mean about missing your oldest friends,” Brooke said wistfully. “My best friend, back in Savannah? Holly? She was Harris’s sister.”

  “The man you jilted,” Josephine said.

  “She was supposed to be my maid of honor. But I ran away the night of the bachelorette party,” Brooke confessed. “I was scared and confused. Afterward, I was too ashamed of the way I’d acted to reach out and apologize. It’s been nearly four years, and we still haven’t spoken.”

  “Foolish pride,” Josephine said, shaking her head. “Foolish, foolish pride.”

  7

  “So, Ruth and Millie. They were your best friends from boarding school? What about Varina, the woman you mentioned yesterday?” Brooke asked.

  “Ah, Varina. Of course she didn’t go to school with us. She was black! And much younger than we were. Only fourteen. Her father was Geechee, and her family worked for my father here on the island. Do you know about the Geechees?”

  “They’re the descendants of slaves, right? From the Gullah tribe in West Africa? Who stayed here on the coast of Georgia after the Civil War and emancipation?”

  “That’s right. Harley—he was Varina’s father—was a Shaddix. The little church graveyard at Oyster Bluff is full of Shaddix headstones. Harley’s people were slaves who worked at the plantation that once stood right where Shellhaven now stands. Harley and his wife, Sally, came to work for my papa before he’d even finished building this house. Poor Sally, she was from the mainland, and I don’t think she ever got used to living over here. Sally died, leaving Harley to raise their four children. Varina was still a baby, and the only girl.”

  Josephine fiddled with the trim on the afghan draped loosely around her shoulders. “I’m afraid the Shaddix boys took after their daddy. They were hard workers, and capable enough, but I don’t think any of them ever went to school beyond sixth grade.”

  “But Varina was different?”

  “Oh yes. She was the prettiest little thing, and bright as a new penny. After Sally died, Harley’s sister, Margie, came to work here, and she’d bring Varina up here to Shellhaven with her most days. She was reading before first grade and had such a thirst for learning. She knew every inch of this island and loved to show us all her secret places.”

  The old lady’s face shone as she spoke of Varina’s accomplishments. “At first, Papa didn’t think it was right—her spending so much time here. He was a free thinker for that day and time, but even he worried that people would wonder about a little colored girl getting big ideas.”

  Brooke winced at the term colored girl. She’d lived in the South her whole life but had never gotten used to the lingering vestiges of racism.

  “But Varina became a friend?” Brooke asked.

  “We all doted on her. We gave her clothes and shoes, treated her to gifts—candy, new books, things like that. Harley had diabetes, and the doctor had to amputate his right foot, and then he really couldn’t work anymore, so he took up preaching, and the boys all quit school to help out. The Shaddixes never had enough to go around. Varina was like our little sister.”

  “If your little sister happened to be a colored girl,” Brooke said.

  The old lady’s eyes flared. “You’re very rude, you know that? I never called Varina a colored girl. That was Papa. And he didn’t mean it in a derogatory way. He never, ever used the N-word, which most people did back then. It was a different time.”

  “You said Varina is still alive?” Brooke asked, interrupting. “And you’ve kept in touch all these years?”

  “Of course. After the war, Varina worked in Jacksonville. For the railroad. But she missed Talisa and her family. Her brothers were all married, with a dozen children between them, and eventually she moved back here.”

  “Here? To Shellhaven?”

  “Part of the time. She worked here for me after Preiss’s death. It was lonely, you know? I never imagined he would die first. He was six years younger than I was. I still can’t get over it. I’ll never get over his death.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” Brooke said. She’d noticed that Josephine’s breathing was growing labored, her narrow shoulders hunched, and her voice raspy.

  She leaned forward and touched the old lady’s hand gently. “Are you feeling all right? Is there anything I can get you? Some water?”

  Josephine’s cough rattled, and she abruptly yanked her hand back, as though she’d been burned. “I’ve taken my pills, and there’s nothing more to be done.”

  “I can leave and come back later, maybe when you’re feeling better?” Brooke offered.

  “I’m not going to feel better,” Josephine snapped. “My time is short, so I’d really prefer it if we could get down to business.”

  “All right. Tell me more about Varina. Does she still live on the island?”

  “No. One of her great-nieces—Felicia, I believe is the girl’s name—took it upon herself to move Varina to Jacksonville, supposedly to take care of her. Felicia is Homer’s granddaughter, or maybe great-granddaughter. He died back in February. Varina has been living with Felicia three or four years now. They tell me the girl is some kind of professor at a college down there, but I don’t know where or what she teaches.”

  “And you’ve had no contact with Varina since then?”

  “I didn’t say that,” Josephine retorted. “Varina came back here for Homer’s funeral,
and that girl brought her here to see me then.”

  “Why is a great-niece caring for her?” Brooke asked. “What about her own children?”

  “Varina never married,” Josephine said. “Bad luck and bad decisions have haunted that family. There were three brothers, and all of them had their problems. Drinking, gambling, bad women, and of course, the damn diabetes. It killed Omar and Otis before they turned fifty. Varina helped raise her brothers’ children and then their grandchildren. Oh yes, they all love their auntie Vee, as they call her.”

  “And you’re on good terms with her?”

  Josephine coughed violently, startling the sleeping dogs, who jumped down from her lap.

  Brooke waited.

  “That pushy Felicia has put all kinds of wild ideas in Varina’s head,” Josephine said, dabbing at her lips with a sodden handkerchief. “When she came to see me, back in February, I assumed it was strictly a social call. But I was sadly mistaken. Shocked, really.”

  “What did Varina want?”

  “Varina never would have thought of it on her own,” Josephine said. “That girl—Felicia—she’s just like all the rest of this generation. Think they’re owed something. Always looking for a handout.”

  Brooke waited.

  “Can you imagine? She wanted me to deed over Oyster Bluff to the families living there. Just give it to them! Land I bought and paid for. And paid a fair price, I might add, when I could just have easily waited and bought it for next to nothing on the courthouse steps for back taxes.”

  Josephine’s indignation sparked another alarming spasm of coughing. Brooke glanced toward the door. Should she call Louette?

  A minute or two later, after the coughing subsided, Josephine’s face remained pink with remembered outrage.

  “What was your answer?” Brooke asked, her face deadpan.

  “I refused! And I let Varina know I was disappointed that she would ask such a thing of me, considering all I’ve done for that family over the years.”

  “I thought the land at Oyster Bluff originally belonged to those Geechee families after the Civil War. Wasn’t the land given to the freedmen by the government?”