The Weekenders (7 page)

“I don't know. Maybe the battery's dead on the opener.”

“Open the front door, Mom,” Maggy called, pulling Banks away from the trees.

Riley tapped the icon and got out of the cart, shouldering one of the L.L. Bean canvas tote bags. “I hope the damned computer thingy isn't on the fritz. I don't know why we can't just have a lock and key like normal people.”

“Hey, Mom!” Maggy called.

“Honey, I'm coming! Just give me a minute, will you? You're not the only one who needs a bathroom.”

“There's some kind of sign on the door,” Maggy called.

Riley dropped the bags and hurried toward the doorway, where her daughter stood bathed in a pool of light.

Taped to the door was an official-looking plastic-coated poster.

NOTICE OF FORECLOSURE.

“Oh my God,” Riley whispered.

“What's it mean?” Maggy asked, dancing from one foot to another. “Why can't we get in the house?”

“Oh my God,” Riley repeated. She took out the document she'd been served on the ferry and actually read it this time, her eyes glazing over all the legalese. But there were two words she understood: default and foreclosure.

“Ed,” she called, holding up the document.

“Right here,” he said, setting down the tub of groceries. He took a pair of reading glasses from his breast pocket and stared at the notice for a moment. “Ah shit,” he said under his breath.

“What the hell?” Parrish said, joining them. “Is this somebody's idea of a joke?”

“It's no joke,” Ed said. He handed his phone to his wife. “Parrish, see if you can get the sheriff's office on the line.”

*   *   *

“Mom!” Maggy cried. “I've got to go. Don't you have a key? Or something?”

“Let's go around to the back of the house,” Riley said. “Your dad was the last one here, and sometimes he forgets and leaves a door unlocked.”

“Ohmygod, I'm gonna wet my pants,” Maggy said, following Riley along the flagstone path toward the rear of the house. “I can't hold it.”

Riley pointed toward a clump of shoulder-high azaleas. “Just go over there and wilder-pee like you used to do when you were a Girl Scout.”

“Gross!” Maggy protested, but she hurried over to the shrubbery and a moment later rejoined her mother on the path. “Ugh. There were tree frogs over there. And a lizard.”

“You used to adore tree frogs and lizards,” Riley reminded her. “Come on, let's see if we can get in the house.”

The light was a dusky purple now. Cicadas thrummed from the tall grass, and an owl hooted from a nearby tree. She glanced up at the sky, and was somewhat reassured by the ever-present blanket of stars. It was the one constant on Belle Isle. Oh yes, and there was a full moon tonight, too.

As they walked, Riley composed a mental to-do list. Call sheriff's office. Get house unlocked. Have old–fashioned locks installed. Charge up golf cart. Get grass cut and shrubs trimmed. Track down Wendell Griggs and divorce his ass.

“Come on, let's try the kitchen,” Riley told her daughter. They crossed the dense green lawn, their ankles damp with evening dew. She tried the kitchen door, but it too, was locked.

Now Maggy pressed herself up beside her mother. “Mom? Can we get in? What's going on?”

Riley curled an arm around Maggy's shoulder. “I don't know, honey. Dad must have changed the locks for some reason. Um, let's go back to the front of the house where Ed and Parrish are.”

She willed herself not to break into a run, or burst into hysterics, or do anything to alarm her daughter.

“This has to be a mistake,” she said to herself.

*   *   *

They heard the putt-putting of the golf cart before Billy pulled up alongside Ed's cart.

Ed held his cell phone to one ear while Parrish sat in the cart and fumed. “What's going on?” Billy asked. “Where are the girls?”

“Right here,” Riley called, as she and Maggy rejoined the others.

Ed held his phone away from his ear. “I'm on hold with the sheriff's office. What did you see around back?”

“Nothing. Everything is locked up tight, and I can't even see inside.”

“Is there any way to jimmy one of the doors open?” Parrish asked.

Ed frowned. “Not until we know what's going on.”

“I don't get it,” Billy said, looking from Ed to Riley and back to Ed again.

“There's a foreclosure notice posted on the front door, and the locks have apparently all been changed,” Parrish said bitterly. “And that document your sister was served on the ferry—that was a foreclosure notice.”

Billy's jaw dropped. “You can't be serious.”

“Dead serious,” Riley said.

“Can they do that?” Parrish asked her husband. “I mean, is that even legal? Riley, you didn't get any kind of notices or anything in the mail, right?”

“No!” Riley said sharply. “Don't you think I would have paid attention to something like a foreclosure notice?”

“That can't be legal, right?” Billy said, turning again to Ed.

“Hang on, somebody's coming on the line,” Ed said.

He held the phone to his ear again. “Hi. Yes, this is Ed Godchaux. I'm an attorney for Riley Griggs, who owns the property at 555 Sand Dollar Lane over on Belle Isle. There's a foreclosure notice posted on her front door, and the locks have been changed. All of this has occurred without any prior notification to her. I need to speak to somebody to get this straightened out.”

He listened, shaking his head in frustration.

“That's the best you can do? Yes, I realize
you
probably don't consider it an emergency, but I can assure you, my client and her daughter who have been locked out of their home consider it very much of an emergency.”

Ed removed his glasses, polished the lenses on the hem of his shirt, then put them on again.

“Well, who can answer my questions? Let me give you my cell number and my client's. Okay? Can you have somebody call me?”

He glanced over at Riley and she gave him her cell number. He repeated both numbers to the dispatcher. “Can you have the sheriff call one of us back?”

Ed rolled his eyes in frustration. “Not until Tuesday? You're kidding me.”

“That's right. I'm well aware that it's Memorial Day weekend. So you're saying nobody can tell me anything, or unlock my client's house … or do ONE GODDAMN THING TO HELP HER OUT until Tuesday?

“I'm sorry, ma'am, but I tend to take that tone, and the Lord's name in vain, when I'm faced with blatant disregard for … Hello?”

Ed tapped the disconnect button. “She hung up.”

*   *   *

“Can they just do that?” Billy repeated.

“I don't know. Maybe. You gotta understand it's been thirty years since I had a class in real estate law. And I went to law school in Massachusetts. Every state has different statutes when it comes to foreclosures. I really have no idea how things work in North Carolina.”

“So much for a Harvard law degree,” Parrish said. “Look, we obviously can't get anything done standing around here in the dark. We're all hot and tired and hungry. At least, I am. Riley, you guys can just come back to our house. I'll fix us some dinner.…”

“Riley, have you talked to Wendell?” Billy asked abruptly.

“No,” Riley said, her lips compressed. “I've tried calling and texting. All day. His phone goes right to voice mail.”

“It's not his fault,” Maggy said shrilly. “Daddy wouldn't do this. My parents are not getting a divorce. Somebody screwed up, that's all.” She raised her voice, shouting now, the words echoing in the darkened treetops, alive now with blinking fireflies. “So everybody stop acting like this is all my dad's fault!”

Riley tried hugging her child, but Maggy pulled away. “Leave me alone.”

“Okay, Mags,” Parrish said, her voice soft, soothing. “Nobody's saying it's your dad's fault. You're right. It's just some big screwup. We'll get it straightened out in the morning. Now, can we go get some pizza? Or Rice Krispies? Or something?”

“Parrish is right,” Riley said. “You haven't eaten in hours. We need to check your sugar and get some food in you.”

Maggy put her hand out. “I'm fine. Just give me a protein bar and one of your stupid juice boxes. Okay? And stop looking at me like I'm gonna pass out or die. How many times do I have to tell you? I. Am. Okay.”

Riley handed her the bar and the juice without comment. Maggy tore off the wrapper and deliberately tossed it to the ground and took a savage, defiant bite of chocolate and oatmeal.

“It's settled then,” Parrish said. “You'll spend the night at our place, right? We can stash your stuff in the garage until this is all worked out.”

“What about your cats?” Maggy said, chewing with her mouth open. “Thelma and Louise will beat the crap out of Banksy.” She turned suddenly pleading eyes toward her mother. “Why can't we just stay at Mimi's house? I could sleep in my old room, and you could have your old room, and Banks can play with Ollie.”

“Who's Ollie?” Ed asked.

“Mimi's dog Ollie is Banksy's sister,” Maggy said. “Please, Mom?”

This was a moment Riley had been dreading, ever since seeing the black-and-white notice tacked to her front door. She thought of herself as a strong, competent, modern woman. She was a hard-hitting journalist. Well, formerly hard-hitting, former journalist. She'd faced down cops, politicians, crooks, Hollywood publicists, even deranged fans who'd started an online petition two years ago after she'd changed her hair color. But tonight, after everything that had happened, she just didn't know if she had the energy to deal with her mother.

“Oh, I don't know that we need to inconvenience Mimi tonight,” Riley said uneasily.

“Pleaaaase?” Maggy picked up Banks and held her out to her mother. “Banks wants to go to Mimi's.”

Billy stepped in to assist, sensing Riley's reluctance. “Mama was already headed down to the beach for the full moon party with Aunt Roo,” he said. “Why don't y'all just head over to Shutters? Then we can figure everything out tomorrow.”

Huge tears welled up in Maggy's eyes and spilled down her cheeks. “I just wanna sleep in my old bed tonight. With Banksy.”

Riley knew when she'd been beaten. Sooner or later, Evelyn would have to know all the gory details of this endless day. Maybe it was better that she hear them all, firsthand, from the aggrieved party.

“Thanks, anyway, Parrish,” she said. “And Ed. You've been wonderful. You guys go ahead to the full moon party. Don't let us party poopers spoil the fun. If Billy will give us a hand with our stuff, we'll head over to Shutters. Mama always has plenty of groceries. I'll throw something together for dinner, and then we'll hit the hay and deal with this stuff tomorrow.”

Parrish searched her best friend's face for some sign or signal. “You sure?”

“Positive.”

 

7

After the ferry docked, Nate Milas steered his golf cart back toward Duck Inn, the cabin he'd bought at Sandy Point.

Some cabin, Nate thought, as he pushed through the unlocked door. The place had been a hunting shack, thrown together by members of his father's hunting club in the late sixties with odds and ends of leftover lumber and building supplies pilfered from construction sites around the island. The shack's title was murky, because so many of the original hunting club members had died or moved away over the ensuing years, but he'd finally tracked down the last surviving self-styled Dirty Dozen club member at his home in Pittsboro, and paid eighty thousand dollars for the property. Which was probably a hundred times what his father's pals had paid.

“All mine,” Nate said, surveying the cottage. The floors were scarred oak and the walls were whitewashed planks of rough pine. The original floor plan had been simple: one big main room contained a combination living room and dining room, originally heated only by a potbellied stove installed in a huge rock-faced fireplace at the rear of the room. On either side of the living area were two high-ceilinged bunk rooms. And that was it. For the first ten years of its existence, the shack had neither electricity nor indoor plumbing. A cookhouse had been built a few yards to the east of the shack, connected to the main house by a covered walkway, and a bathhouse, with a communal shower and a two-holer outhouse had been built to the west.

Over the years, the club members had gradually (and grudgingly) upgraded the shack. Electricity and plumbing were added in the early seventies, and the cookhouse had been picked up and tacked onto the back of the original cabin in the early eighties. Bathrooms had been added to each of the bunk rooms.

But there was still no central heat or air-conditioning. And no insulation. Only one burner on the propane-fueled oven worked, and the roof leaked. The furnishings consisted of whatever castoffs the club members' wives had donated over the years. Still, it was home. For now.

Nate sat down at the dining room table, a rickety maple faux Early American number, and powered up his laptop computer. The first improvement he'd made to the cabin was having Wi-Fi installed. Now he clicked over to the Baldwin County legal advertising site and scrolled down the listings until he found the one he wanted and read it for the third time that day.

He still couldn't believe this was really going to happen. His mother had heard gossip in the past couple of years, of problems at Belle Isle Enterprises, but he'd never given them much credence. Wendell Griggs was a sharp operator. He had an MBA, and he'd learned the real estate business from this father-in-law, who also happened to be the shrewdest man on the coast, W. R. Nolan himself.

To beat back the monotony of waiting in hospital rooms during his own father's illness, Nate had started poking around at the courthouse and in online records, and he'd been dumbfounded by what he'd discovered. It was all true. Actually, things were much worse than anybody could have guessed.