Stargazey Nights (13 page)

Peter Pan or crazy, he didn't care. He was working longer hours than he had in Atlanta, but he fell into bed each night and slept like a baby until sunrise. Woke up each morning with a clear conscience and he felt alive.

Things had changed in the years since he'd visited here as a boy. ­People had been hit hard. Houses sat empty, where their owners had given up and sold out or just moved on. All around them, real estate was being gobbled up by investors.

Silas was right; he didn't trust ­people. Especially ones who came with big ideas on how to improve their little, mostly forgotten town—­starting with selling all your property to them. He knew those ­people; hell, he'd been one of those ­people.

And now suddenly, out of the blue, a friend of the niece shows up, which was a stretch considering they hadn't seen their great-­niece in years. He'd tried to convince the Crispins not to let her stay in the house. They knew nothing about her; she might have ulterior motives and he'd be damned if he'd let those three be taken advantage of. They were proud, old-­fashioned, and close to penniless. Vulnerable to any scam.

Abbie Sinclair. Just the name sounded like pencil skirts and four-­inch heels. A calfskin briefcase attached to a slender hand with perfectly manicured fingernails, talons just waiting to snatch away their home and way of life.

A
BBIE SHOULD HAVE
seen it coming once the taxi entered the tunnel of antebellum oak trees. One second she'd been looking at the ocean, the next the sun disappeared and they bounced along uneven ground beneath an archway of trees. The temperature dropped several degrees, and Abbie's eyes strained against the sudden darkness to see ahead. Another minute and they were spit out into the sunshine again.

And there was Crispin House.

It was more than a house, more like a Southern plantation. Not the kind with big white columns, but three-­storied white wood and stucco, with wraparound porches on the upper two floors. The first floor was supported by a series of stone arches that made Abbie think of a monastery with dark robed monks going about their daily chores in the shadows. Italianate, if she remembered her architectural styles correctly.

The taxi stopped at the steps that led up to the front door. For a long minute Abbie just sat in the backseat of the cab and stared.

“Whooo.” The driver whistled. “Somebody sure needs to give that lady a coat of paint.”

He was right. The house had been sorely neglected. She just hoped the inside was in better shape.

She could see spots of peeling paint and a few unpainted balusters where someone had repaired the porch rail. There was a patch of uneven grass and one giant solitary oak that spread its branches over the wide front steps, casting the porch in shadow.

This was crazy. Celeste had merely said her relatives would love to have her stay with them, they had plenty of room. She hadn't said that they could have housed a large portion of the Confederate army. Well, she'd stay one night and if things didn't work out, she'd seen an inn in the little town they'd just driven through. It at least had a coat of paint.

She paid the driver, added a generous tip since it seemed that he wouldn't have any return fares, and prepared to meet the Crispin family.

There was movement on the porch, and Abbie realized that a man had been sitting on the rail watching her. He stood, fumbled in his pockets, brushed his palms together, and started down the stairs, lean and lanky and moving slow, his knees sticking out to the side with each downward step.

Abbie reached for the door handle, but the door opened and a face appeared in the opening. His skin was crinkled and deeply lined from the sun. A shock of thick white hair had escaped from his carefully groomed part and stuck up above his forehead. Bright blue eyes twinkled beneath bushy white eyebrows and managed to appear both fun loving and wise at the same time. Abbie suspected he'd been quite handsome as a young man. He still was.

“Miz Sinclair?”

“Yes,” Abbie said, though it took her a second to recognize her own name. In its slow delivery, it sounded more like Sinclayuh. It was soft and melodious, like a song, and Abbie relaxed just a little. “You must be Mr. Crispin.”

“Yes'm, that's me. But folks round here all call me Beau.” He held out a large bony hand, the veins thick as ropes across the back, then he snatched it back, rubbed it vigorously on his pants leg, and presented it again.

Abbie smiled up at Beauregard Crispin, took his proffered hand, and got out of the car.

The driver carried her two bags up to the porch. “Y'all have a nice stay,” he said, then nodded to Mr. Crispin, got back in the taxi, and drove away.

Abbie felt a moment of panic. She had a feeling there might not be another taxi for miles.

“After you.”

She hesitated, just looking at Beau's outstretched hand, then she forced a smile and began to climb the wide wooden steps. She'd just reached the porch when the screen door opened and two women stepped out of the rectangle of darkness. They had to be Millie and Marnie. The Crispin sisters.

Here's the thing about my relatives,
Celeste had told her.
They're sweet as pie, but they're old-­fashioned. I mean really old-­fashioned, like pre–Civil War old-­fashioned.

Abbie had laughed, well, her version of a laugh these days.
I get it, they're old-­fashioned. No four-­letter words, no politics, no religion. Not to worry, I have better sense than to talk politics to ­people who lost the wahr.

The what?

The war. That was my attempt at a Southern accent. No good?

Celeste shook her head.
Not by a long shot.
She dropped into a speech pattern that she'd nearly erased through much practice and four years of studying communications.
The wahuh. Two syllables and soft. It's South Carolina, not Texas. We're refined. We've got Charleston.

Abbie impulsively grabbed Celeste's hand.
Don't you want to go with me?

I'd love to but I can't get away from the station.

When was the last time you had a vacation?

Can't remember. You know the media. Out of sight, out of—­ Go have a good time. Let them pamper you. They're experts.

Now, Abbie suddenly got it. She would have recognized them in a crowd. Millie, the younger sister, prim, petite, neatly dressed and hair coifed in a tidy little bun at the nape of her neck. And Marnie, taller, rawboned, dressed in a pair of dungarees and a tattered man's T-­shirt smeared with dirt. Her white hair was thick and wild with curls. According to Celeste, Marnie had left the fold at sixteen only to return fifty years later, the intervening years unspoken of, what she had done or where she had been, a mystery.

Us kids used to make up stories about her. Once we were convinced she was a spy for the CIA, then we decided she traveled to Paris and became the mistress of a tortured painter and posed nude for him. We were very precocious.

She came for a visit once, but we weren't allowed to see her. She only stayed two days, and I heard Momma tell Daddy that she was drinking buttermilk the whole time she was there, 'cause it was the only thing she missed. And Daddy said, it was because it covered the smell of the scotch she poured into it.

They're teetotalers.

Not at all. Aunt Millie has a sherry every afternoon.

“My de-­ah,” Millie Crispin said, coming forward and holding out both hands. “Welcome to Crispin House. We're so glad to have you. Beau, get Abbie's luggage and bring it inside.”

“Please, I can—­” But that was as far as she got before she was swept across the threshold by the deceptively fragile-­looking Millie.

“Now you just come inside and leave everything to Beau.”

Abbie didn't want to think of Beau struggling with her suitcases, but she saw Marnie slip past them to give her brother a hand, just before Millie guided her through a wide oak door and into a high-­ceilinged foyer.

“I thought you might like to see your room first and get settled in,” Millie said in her soft drawl.

“Thank you.” Abbie followed her up a curved staircase to the second floor, matching her steps to Millie's slower ones.

At the top of the stairs was a landing that overlooked the foyer. A portrait of a man in uniform hung above a side table and large Chinese vase. Three hallways led to the rest of the house.

Millie started down the center hall. “We've put you in the back guest suite. Celeste and her mama and daddy used to stay there when they visited.” Millie sighed. “There's a lovely view.” She chattered on while Abbie followed a footstep behind her and tried to decipher the pattern of the faded oriental runner.

They came to the end of the hall and Millie opened a door. “Here we are. I hope you like everything.” They stepped inside to a large darkened room. A row of wooden shutters blocked the light from the windows and a set of French doors that Abbie hoped led to a balcony. Millie hurried over to the windows and opened the shutters. Slices of sunlight poured in, revealing an elegant but faded loveseat and several chairs.

“Over here is your bedroom,” Millie said, guiding Abbie through another door to another room, this one fitted out with a high four-­poster bed with the same shuttered door and windows. Millie bustled about the room opening the shutters and pointing out amenities. “The bath's through there . . .”

Millie's words buzzed about Abbie's ears. She appreciated her desire to be welcoming, but she wanted—­needed—­solitude, anonymity, not someone hovering solicitously over her every second. Coming here had been a big mistake.

“If you need anything, anything at all, you just pull that bell pull and Ervina will come see to you.”

Ervina? Was there another sister Celeste hadn't told her about?

“You just make yourself at home. We generally have dinner at six, but come down any time you like.”

Abbie followed her back into the sitting room and to the door. “Now you have a rest and then we'll have a nice visit.” Millie finally stepped into the hallway.

Abbie shut the door on Millie's smile and leaned against it.

There was a tap behind her that made Abbie jump away from the door.
Be patient,
she told herself.
She's trying to be nice.
She opened the door.

Marnie was there with her suitcases. Abbie opened the door wider and Marnie lugged them in. She was followed by an even older African American woman carrying a tray.

“You shouldn't have carried my bags.”

“No bother. We send the luggage up on a dumbwaiter. Ervina, put that tray over on the Hepplewhite.”

Ervina wasn't a sister. She was the servant. And she was ancient.

Ervina shuffled into the room, carrying a tray laden with cups, saucers, and plates of food that looked heavier than the woman who carried it. Abbie felt a swell of outrage and fought not to take the load from the woman.

Marnie walked through the room turning on several lamps. “We'll leave you alone. Millie insisted on the tray. Don't overeat because she's going to feed you again in a ­couple of hours. And don't worry that you'll be trapped in the house listening to two old broads talk your ear off. You just do however you want. Come, Ervina, let's leave the poor girl alone.” Marnie headed for the door.

Ervina followed. She slanted a look at Abbie as she passed by, nodded slowly as if Abbie had just met her expectations, then she shuffled through the door and shut it without a backward look.

Bemused, Abbie turned off the lamps Marnie had just turned on. They had to be conserving electricity. Because from the little she'd seen of Crispin House, shabby genteel wasn't just a lifestyle, it was a necessity.

And then there was the elaborate tea tray, sterling silver, filled with cakes and little sandwiches with the crusts cut off, tea in a bone china pot and a pitcher of lemonade.

“Celeste, I could brain you. What the hell have you gotten me into?”

Abbie took a cucumber sandwich and crossed to the French doors. After fumbling one handed with the handle, she popped the rest of the little sandwich in her mouth and used both hands to pull the doors open.

She stepped out to the wraparound porch where several white rocking chairs and wicker side tables were lined up facing the ocean. The air was tangy with salt, and she breathed deeply before crossing to the rail.

Below her a wide lawn slid into white dunes that dipped and billowed before the old mansion like a crinoline. Delicate tufts of greenery embroidered the way to the beach, wide and white and ending in a point that stretched like a guiding finger to the horizon.

And beyond that, water and sky. She'd come to the edge of the world. Not a violent wave-­crashing, jagged-­rock edge that you'd expect, but the Southern genteel version with fat lazy waves rolling in, tumbling one over the other before spilling into white foam on the sand.

Abbie filled her lungs with the spicy, clean air and slowly let it out. Part of her tension oozed away. She was tempted just to stay right there looking at the ocean forever, but they were expecting her for dinner.

She went inside to unpack. Her coat was lying across the chenille bedspread.

Her cell phone rang. She turned her back on the coat and checked caller ID.

“Perfect timing,” she said, answering it.

“Did you just arrive?” Celeste's voice crackled at the other end of the call. Great. Lousy cell reception. Well, she wanted solitude.

“A few minutes ago. This place is incredible, kind of Southern gothic.”

“Ugh. Is it in really bad shape? I've been meaning to get back, but I never seem to find the time.”

“The outside more than the interior, though it looks like someone has started repairs. But everything is very comfortable, the sisters are a hoot, and Beau . . . I adore him already.”