The Weekenders (8 page)

Then he clicked over to his bank's Web site. Good. The funds had been transferred from his California bank to his new bank in North Carolina.

He tapped a button and the computer screen darkened. He sat back in the chair and wondered at the state of his emotions. Dread. A heavy, sick feeling of dread bored up from his belly, accompanied by an uneasy sense of guilt.

None of this was new to Nate Milas. He'd tried to quash these emotions. None of this was his doing. This was all on Wendell Griggs, who'd managed to take a thriving family business, and in the space of only two short years, driven it to bankruptcy and beyond. The stalled hotel project, the cleared but unsold new subdivision lots, and the empty and padlocked retail spaces just a block from his family's own modest Island Mercantile? Not to mention that pretentious and weird spaceship-looking home he'd had built on Sand Dollar Lane? That was all Wendell.

Not Nate's problem. Not Nate's fault. Then why, he wondered, did this whole business feel like such a betrayal?

He couldn't forget the hurt, stunned look on Riley's face when she'd been served on the ferry. Had she really been blindsided by all of this?

 

8

It was a closely held family secret. Although Riley's mother, Evelyn, fancied herself a dyed-in-the-wool Southerner, the truth of the matter was that her grandfather, James Thomas Riley, was an Ohio-born carpetbagger—a successful storekeeper who moved to the South in the years following the Civil War to make his fortune.

James Thomas Riley and his older brother and business partner, Charles, had made their money in timber, cutting down the longleaf pine forests of North and South Carolina and shipping the milled lumber to New York City to help supply the inexhaustible need for materials to build new factories, bridges, and apartment buildings.

In 1919, James T. and Charles made an uncharacteristically questionable decision—they bought Puquitta Island, named such by the indigenous Lumbee Indians, sight unseen, for the timber. Family lore had it that the brothers quarreled bitterly, nearly coming to blows over who was to blame upon the discovery that Puquitta's maritime forests consisted not of the highly desirable longleaf Southern pine, but mostly of thick stands of live oak, scrub pine, and red laurel.

After only one visit to Puquitta Island, the brothers forgot about their investment and turned their attention to enjoying their newfound fortunes. At the age of thirty, James married a beautiful nineteen-year-old Charleston debutante named Muriel Beacham, and a year later Earline, the first of their four daughters, was born. Charles, a confirmed bachelor, devoted himself to philanthropy and butterfly collecting.

Never one to miss an opportunity to make money, it was Charles who, in 1926, came up with the idea to build a golf course, a small hotel, and fine vacation houses on Puquitta. He'd read about Sea Island, formerly called Long Island, a resort that automobile magnate Howard Coffin was building on a barrier island down in Georgia, and didn't see any reason why such a plan wouldn't work for their homely little patch of land.

The brothers promptly dumped the ungainly Lumbee Indian name, and rebranded the property Belle Isle.

Charles hadn't actually seen the Georgia resort, so he had no way of knowing that a causeway had been built to link Sea Island to the mainland. And he'd overlooked the fact that Howard Coffin's project was served by the Central Georgia Railroad, meaning potential homebuyers and resort guests could arrive by rail or car, whereas Belle Isle, located five nautical miles off the coast of North Carolina, was accessible only by ferryboat.

While younger brother James, married with a growing family, stayed and ran the timber business from their offices in Wilmington, bachelor Charles moved to the island and set about building his new empire.

He hired a young architect, picked a prime building lot on the protected bay side of the island, on a bluff, and began construction of a residence meant to set the tone for the other homes intended for the resort. Lumber for the house was sourced from a small stand of longleaf pines and cedars in the island's interior.

The resulting house was a beauty—a Gilded Age mash-up of gambrel roofs, dormers, porches, and verandahs, all clad in soft gray cedar shingles and sporting sixty-four windows, each with its own set of distinctive shutters featuring pine-tree silhouette cutouts. It had two stories, projecting wings from either side, marble baths, high ceilings, a billiard room, library, and even a small putting green next to the carriage house. Six months after the house was completed, during a particularly cold and blustery winter, Charles fell ill from pneumonia and died.

Which was how James Thomas, J.T., came to own Shutters, and how his oldest granddaughter, Evelyn Rose Riley Nolan, came into possession of the drafty but beautiful island landmark.

*   *   *

Riley's heart always did a little flutter kick whenever she caught sight of the old house. Spotting the lighthouse from the ferry was a game she and Billy had invented as young children, but the first glimpse of the elegant gray-shingled mansion was her private prize.

The house was lit up, and the front porch light shone through the full darkness as Billy pulled the golf cart under the porte cochere. “Oh good,” he told Riley in a hushed voice. “Mama's not back from the beach party yet.”

Together they shepherded a sleepy Maggy into the house. Riley found a bowl of tomatoes on the kitchen counter and a plastic tub of pimento cheese from the Mercantile in the refrigerator. While Maggy dutifully pinpricked her finger to test her blood sugar, Riley fixed a dinner of pimento cheese sandwiches and poured herself a large glass of wine.

She took a sip and grimaced. Evelyn Nolan drank gin, not wine, which meant that the house wine at Shutters was whatever cheap, vinegary jug wine she found on sale at the Harris Teeter in Southpoint.

“Okay,” Billy said, sinking down onto a chair at the Formica dinette table. “You're all unloaded. I put your suitcases in your rooms.”

“Is Uncle Scott here?” Maggy asked, cramming a handful of potato chips into her mouth and chewing vigorously.

“Right here,” Scott said, strolling into the kitchen with a wriggling pug under each arm. He set Ollie and Banksy down on the linoleum floor and helped himself to a potato chip from Maggy's plate.

Billy and Scott lived a short golf cart ride away in the island's former firehouse, which they'd completely restored.

“Hey, shug,” he said, reaching across the table and squeezing Riley's hand in his.

Scott Moriatakis had been born and raised in San Francisco, but he'd managed to acquire an authentic-sounding Southern accent soon after meeting Billy Nolan. He was a full head taller than his partner, with streaks of gray at his temples and a neatly trimmed goatee that set off his olive skin. He was barefoot and dressed in a bright turquoise T-shirt and coral-colored skinny jeans.

“When did you get in?” Riley asked, nibbling at her sandwich.

“Day before yesterday,” Scott said. “Or maybe it was day before that. I lose track of time when I'm here working.”

“But he couldn't be bothered to let me know that,” Billy said.

“I needed two days alone to finalize the schematics for the restaurant in Boca Raton,” Scott countered. “You know what I'm like when I'm trying to finish a project.”

“Say no more. He's a bear. Or I should say, unbearable,” Billy told a giggling Maggy.

Scott dipped a spoon into the tub of pimento cheese and tasted it thoughtfully. “You know, this would make a nice appetizer for the Southern-themed diner Stephen wants to do in Durham.”

“Mama usually serves it on Ritz crackers with some of Aunt Roo's pepper jelly drizzled over it,” Riley said. She set her half-eaten sandwich down on the plate and pushed it away. And then drained the glass of piss-poor wine she'd poured herself.

“Rough day, huh?” Scott said, taking note of the wine.

“Epic,” Riley said.

“Uncle Scott! Somebody changed the locks at our house,” Maggy said. “Daddy's gonna be so mad when he finds out.”

“No way!” Scott looked from Riley to Billy for affirmation. “Did you call the cops?”

“We did,” Riley said quietly. She glanced over at Maggy, catching her in mid-yawn.

“Sweetie, why don't you take your insulin and then you and Banks can go on up to bed?”

“I'm gonna wait up for Dad,” Maggy said.

“There aren't any more ferries tonight,” Riley pointed out.

“Sometimes he catches a ride over,” Maggy said stubbornly. “Or maybe he's got our boat over at Southpoint. You don't know.”

“I'm too tired to argue with you now,” Riley said sharply. “Go on up to bed like I asked. If Dad does come in, I'll send him upstairs to see you first thing. I swear.”

“Come on,” Billy said, tugging at Maggy's hand. “I'll walk you up. I'll even see if I can find that raggedy old Little Mermaid blankie you used to love.”

“Mimi probably threw it away,” Maggy said, her voice forlorn, allowing herself to be led from the room.

“No way,” Billy said firmly. “Mimi never throws anything away.”

*   *   *

“What's going on between you and Wendell?” Scott asked, as soon as Maggy was out of earshot.

“Absolutely nothing,” Riley said.

“And what's that mean?”

Riley fetched the wine jug and poured herself another glass. “I don't even know where to start.” She hesitated. “This was
supposed
to be the weekend we break the news to Maggy that we're separating. But Wendell pulled a disappearing act, and now all hell is breaking loose.”

She recounted the day's events, including the discovery of the foreclosure notice tacked to her front door.

“Ed tried calling the sheriff's office, but the dispatcher doesn't know what's going on. It looks like we might have to wait until Tuesday to get everything straightened out.”

Scott pointed at Riley's cell phone, which she'd plugged into the only outlet on the kitchen counter. “And you still haven't heard from Wendell?”

“Not a word. Maggy's furious at me, I'm furious at him, and tonight … when Mama finds out, well, you know…” Her voice trailed off.

Scott took a bottle of water from the refrigerator and uncapped it. He took a long swig. “Why do you say that? You don't think Evelyn's going to blame you for everything that's happened—do you?”

“She's sure not gonna blame St. Wendell,” Riley said. “According to Mama, he can do no wrong.”

“Families.” The way Scott said it came out as a prolonged sigh.

*   *   *

She took the wine upstairs, set it carefully on the nightstand on her side of the bed, and looked around the room.

Not much had changed since Evelyn had fixed up what she called “the honeymoon suite” twenty years earlier. The floral wallpaper still had bright blue morning glories twining up sea-green stripes. The ugly marble-topped Victorian dresser that had been her grandmother's still wore a hand-crocheted doily precisely in the middle, with a nearly full bottle of yellowing Youth Dew perfume planted in the middle of it.

The mahogany four-poster bed stood on a sun-faded Oriental rug, and the forty-year-old mattress—that had been her parent's until her father flatly refused to sleep one more night in a double bed—still sagged in the middle.

That was another thing Evelyn didn't believe in spending money on—new mattresses—unless it was for her own bed.

The room was warm and stuffy, and it smelled of lemon Pledge. Riley went to the double-wide window that looked out on the back lawn—and the bay, and tugged upward on the wooden sash until it opened with a screech of protest.

Warm, humid air floated into the room, and Riley felt strangely reassured. Her suitcase stood, unopened, at the foot of the bed, but out of curiosity more than anything else, she opened the top dresser drawer.

Sure enough, she found a stack of neatly folded cotton nightgowns, right where she'd left them—how long ago? Seven, eight years?

She pulled the cotton gown over her head and let its folds settle lightly over her skin, then climbed into bed and poured herself another tumbler of wine.

Riley picked up her cell phone one more time. It had bars, and was fully charged, but what it did not have was any type of communication from Wendell Griggs.

Her mind kept going back to the boldfaced notice taped to her front door. To the sight of her locked front door. And the face of the sheriff's deputy, who'd served her with the foreclosure notice. She wanted to scream. She wanted to throw something. Preferably at Wendell Griggs.

Instead, she found a dog-eared Agatha Christie paperback in the nightstand drawer and started reading and sipping.

By the time Riley finally drifted off to sleep, Miss Jane Marple had discovered the body in the vicarage, and was puzzling over the railway schedule to St. Mary Mead and a single, suspicious fingernail clipping.

*   *   *

“Riley!” A hand clamped firmly over her shoulder. “Riley, wake up.”

She rolled onto her back.

“What on earth?” Evelyn Nolan was perched on the side of the bed, staring down at her slumbering daughter. She was still dressed for the full moon party, in a pair of crisp white linen slacks, a red-and-white-striped blouse, and a navy blue linen Ralph Lauren blazer. Her size-four feet were shod in sporty white kid loafers, and she wore a red silk Hermès scarf knotted at the open neck of her shirt. This was her mother's idea of beachwear. She looked like a tiny, angry robin pecking at a helpless worm. And Riley felt like that worm.

Evelyn didn't wait for Riley to reply.

“Billy told me some crazy story about your house being foreclosed? How can that be?”

Riley struggled to sit up as her mother continued to volley questions at her. “What did the sheriff's office say? Did Ed talk to the sheriff? Where's Wendell?”