A Lowcountry Wedding (14 page)

Though this was far from a pleasure trip. He had a lot of facts to dig up, people to meet, and soul-searching to do. He needed to learn more about this Parker Muir—a stranger to him. When his mother died, he’d thought he was alone in this world. Now he’d learned he had a living grandmother, Marietta Muir, and if the Internet was to be believed, three half sisters.

Atticus was an only child. His parents had told him that they couldn’t have more children. But now he knew that it was his father who could never have a child. Atticus supposed that was one of the hurdles his parents had faced when they’d separated. He scratched his head and wondered what kind of a man would take his wife back, pregnant with another man’s child, then raise that child as his own.

A pretty damn good man, Atticus thought as he pushed forward along Interstate 26. Tyrone Green had been a formidable personality. With a big voice and staunch principles he could be intimidating in the courtroom. And in the home, as well. He was generous with charities, a deacon in the church, and took on a lot of pro bono cases. Atticus had always admired him and knew his father loved him. But they were never close. Part of the reason was because Tyrone worked so hard and rarely had time. But even if he did, he wasn’t the type to play catch in the yard or take his son to a game. Not because he didn’t care. The thought had probably never even crossed his mind. But he was a good father in his own way. He did his best, and Atticus, now knowing the circumstances of his birth, thought Tyrone did better than most men would have done.

Atticus looked out the passenger window as he approached
the Ravenel Bridge. It spanned the Cooper River like two giant, glistening steel sailboats. Beneath, the blue waters sparkled in the sunlight. His thoughts stilled as he became another tourist gawking at the sight of the shimmering water below speckled with pleasure boats and, beyond, great hulking cargo ships in dock. As he soared over the bridge, the fabled city spread out beneath him. He spied the multiple church spires that gave Charleston the name the Holy City.

As he crossed the bridge into Mt. Pleasant, his thoughts shifted from the Green family he’d grown up with to the Muir family he would soon meet. He stretched his fingers against the steering wheel as he felt a surge of apprehension. The Muir family of Charleston was historic. His search had come up with a long family tree, and annotations of papers held by the Charleston Library Society. He’d felt a quiver of disquiet when he’d read the old slave purchase records. He knew it was likely that a wealthy Charleston family in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries would have had slaves, but to read it—to read in unforgiving print that his own ancestors had owned slaves—was hard for a black man to accept.

At long last he crossed the wetlands from Mt. Pleasant to Sullivan’s Island. The shadow of his Silverado pickup truck traveled on a parallel path to it. The truck was a far cry from the flashy two-seater sports coupe of his youth, but it had a powerful engine, was cushy inside, and was the southern man’s dream car. Plus it suited his new lifestyle. He used the truck for church business, carting food, clothing, and supplies from one place to another.

The low tide exposed the rich black mudflats and mounds of black, sharp-pointed oysters. White egrets perched elegantly
on long sticklike legs, feasting on fiddler crabs and a cornucopia of insects. Some good fishing was back in those creeks, he’d wager. He smiled ruefully, trying to remember the last time he’d picked up his rod. He couldn’t. Sullivan’s Island was similar to the barrier islands he frequented off the coast of Georgia, the beautiful Sea Islands—St. Simons Island, Sea Island, Jekyll Island, and of course Tybee Island and the magical Cumberland Island.

Yet each island had its own history and unique flavor. Crossing onto Sullivan’s Island, he spotted first a small green space on his left separated from the road by a small chain. A handsome sign declared it to be an African-American cemetery. He knew that Sullivan’s Island had played an important role in African-American history. But had never heard of this cemetery. A number of slave cemeteries with unmarked graves were on the barrier islands, some of them only recently discovered as a result of development of coastal property. He made a note to research this cemetery later. For now, his attention was focused on one house on the island, Sea Breeze, home of the Muir family. His map showed it to be on the back side of the island, facing a small body of water called the Cove.

Turning onto Middle Street, he crawled at a snail’s pace past a few blocks of small restaurants and shops in lowcountry-style buildings. Once beyond the strip, the streets were thickly lined with palmetto and oak trees covered with the spring-green softness of new leaves. Even a stranger such as him could detect a sense of neighborhood. As well as an air of privilege. Charming historic cottages and imposing new mansions nestled in the foliage, side by side.

His navigation system led him off Middle Street to the narrow
side streets along the back of the island. When he hit a gravel road, he checked his map. Yes, this was the correct way. He drove slowly forward, slowing when he noted the mailbox number before a property hidden behind a tall green hedge. This was it.

He paused at the entrance, modest yet subtly imposing. Atticus recalled his mother telling him, “Those with real money don’t need to advertise.” His mouth went dry and he could feel his heart pumping in his chest at the prospect of meeting the Muir family.

Atticus had decided to arrive without calling them first. He didn’t want to give them the chance to refuse him. And, perversely, he wanted to see what kind of a reaction a black man at their front door would receive before he told them of his family connection. He’d rehearsed in his mind what he planned to do. He would knock on the door, and when it opened, he’d politely introduce himself, then tell them that his mother was a great friend of Parker Muir’s. How she had spoken of him so often that he was curious to see where he’d lived. This would give him the opportunity to gauge for himself how he was received, to get a feel for them before he boldly told them that he was Parker Muir’s illegitimate son. News like that had to be presented carefully. Anyway, he thought, blowing air through his lips, that was the plan.

Atticus wiped his palms on his thighs. A pretty flimsy plan, he knew.

He shifted into drive and passed through the hedge. The house was what was called by Charlestonians a beach cottage, a place a wealthy city family had come to in the sweltering summers to escape the heat. Over the years the small house had to
have been raised on pilings and renovated, yet it had kept all the grace of the original. Solid, elegant, but not ostentatious. He caught in the air the unmistakable whiff of old money.

On either side of the main house stood a small white wooden building. The one on the right was the picture of a lowcountry cottage, with a red tin roof and front porch complete with rocking chairs. To the left sat a sorry-looking garage that appeared to be tilting. He grinned, thinking that building at least appeared to have weathered one storm too many.

Standing proud in the middle was an enormous live oak tree, its boughs drooping low and laced with moss. The magnificent tree was ancient, budding countless green leaves that would provide welcome shade in the summer. Atticus drove around the gravel circle to park near the line of bright pinks of azaleas that bordered the front of the house. Stepping from the car, he paused to breathe in the cool, moist air that tasted of salt, and stretched his neck after the five-hour drive.

So this was Sea Breeze. Home of the Muir family. He wondered if his illegitimate tie to the bloodline would earn him a welcome here. As he climbed the front stairs to the veranda, he noted that the tidy house was well maintained with a fresh coat of paint on the trim, green ferns already hanging in large baskets over the railing, and black iron urns spilling colorful, cool-weather pansies on either side of the door. Staring at the closed glossy black door with the striking brass knocker in the shape of a shell, Atticus wondered which of the Muirs he’d meet when the door opened. Perhaps Marietta, his grandmother. She was widowed and had lived alone in this house for over a decade. Though recent real estate reports revealed that the house had recently been sold to a Miss Harper Muir-James. This would be
his youngest half sister. Quite a purchase for a single woman about the same age as himself, he thought.

He stood at the door.
No more stalling,
he told himself. There was only one way to meet the family, and that was to knock on this door. He took a moment to compose himself, breathing deep as he did before a sermon. Then he rang the doorbell.

In the tense silence he heard the sound of footfalls in the house. His stomach tightened. Too late to change his mind. The front door swung open.

An elderly woman stood before him, tall and slender and with the straight carriage of confidence. His first impression was of an elegant woman dressed in a quality tan sweater with a crisply ironed white blouse. A coral scarf softened her appearance, as did her white hair, which seemed to float around her head like a halo. She had a pretty face, even kind. One that was open and welcoming. She had a mug in her hand, and Atticus was relieved to see warmth in her clear blue eyes as she offered him a smile of welcome.

“Hello?” she said inquiringly.

His shoulders began to relax.

Then suddenly her expression froze. Her eyes rounded as though startled. “Parker!”

The mug dropped from her fingers, tumbled, crashed on the floor, shattering.

The mention of Parker’s name shook Atticus to the core. He stood momentarily frozen as Marietta gasped and rushed to pick up the broken pieces of the cup.

“Please, wait one moment,” Mrs. Muir said, flustered. Her
cheeks were pink and she cast several curious looks at his face, trying unsuccessfully to be discreet. “I’ll just dispose of these. I’ll be right back.” She hurried off, leaving the front door open.

Atticus rammed his fists into his pockets and stared unseeingly over his shoulder at the scenery. He was stymied, unable to think of what to say or do next. All he could hear in his mind was the woman’s startled cry of her son’s name.
Parker!
The poor woman was clearly upset. She’d left the door open to a complete stranger.

“Forgive me,” Mrs. Muir said on returning. She appeared once again composed, though her eyes betrayed her, shining unusually bright. “You reminded me of someone I knew.” She added airily, “I don’t know what came over me.” Mrs. Muir extended her hand and approached him. He saw her long fingers with clean, short, polished nails and only a simple platinum wedding band. “I didn’t catch your name.”

Atticus cleared his throat and lifted his hands from his pockets. “I’m Reverend Atticus Green, ma’am. My mother was a friend of your son.”

“Really? Of Parker’s?”

In his mind he heard her startled cry of that same name and knew what they were both thinking of that moment. “Yes. She often talked about him. And how he described this place. Sea Breeze, correct?”

“Yes.” A soft smile relaxed her features. “Did he?” The comment pleased her and he felt another stab of guilt.

“I was in Charleston on business and thought I’d drive by and see it. I shouldn’t have come by uninvited.” He broke a quick smile. “My mother would be very angry with me. Truly, I’m sorry I disturbed you.”

“Any friend of Parker’s is welcome at Sea Breeze. Please, Reverend, won’t you come in? Mind the tea,” she warned him, indicating the spilled liquid on the floor. “I’ll get to that later.”

He followed her into a large living room that was all creams and blues, the colors of the sea. Atticus appreciated the refinement and wealth reflected in the well-appointed room.

“Won’t you sit down, Reverend Green?” Marietta led him to a Chippendale cream sofa. “Would you like something to drink? Water? Coffee or tea?”

Atticus felt his first relief that she’d welcomed him into her home as any genteel lady would a guest, even an uninvited guest as he was. He felt the first flush of shame that he’d put her into this awkward position by not calling first. His mother had taught him better.

“No, thank you.” He sat straight backed on the linen sofa, uncomfortable in the strange surroundings that were, he knew, his family’s home.

“It’s a lovely home.”

“Why, thank you.” Mrs. Muir joined him, sitting on the matching sofa across from him, her hands folded tightly on her lap. Blue-patterned pillows bolstered her back, lending her a regal air. Yet despite her outward composure, two bright blotches of pink stained her pale cheeks, a sign of heightened alertness. “So, Reverend, what can I help you with?”

Atticus hadn’t planned what to say once he’d gained entry to the house. And now that he’d met Mrs. Muir—his grandmother—the inclination to tell her the truth sat at the tip of his tongue. Especially since she’d seen in him a resemblance to her son. He ventured the topic by saying, “I’m sorry I startled you.”

Mrs. Muir looked at her hands. “You’re probably wondering why I called out the name Parker?”

“Well, yes.”