He looked over at Riley. “I’m so sorry, sis. If I had the money, I’d give it to you. You know I’d do anything for Maggy.”
“I don’t know whether to laugh or cry,” Riley said, looking around the table. “He took us all in. Every single member of this family got ripped off by my husband.”
“Except me,” Roo said brightly.
“Of course not,” Evelyn said.
“What? You think because I dress like a bag lady, I’m the poor relation? Well, the joke’s on you, Evelyn Riley. I’ve been playing the stock market for years. I bought Facebook at seventeen and change when it was in the toilet.”
“I’m amazed,” Evelyn said, shrugging. “All these years I’ve been buying you lunch at the club.”
“And that’s why I’m rich and now you’re poor,” Roo said cheerfully. “And by the way, Wendell did try to hit me up for money, but I told him, no way, José. ‘Neither a borrower nor a lender be,’ that’s my motto.”
“Good for you, Roo,” Billy muttered, getting up to go look for the vodka bottle.
“And in the meantime, Evelyn,” Parrish said, “if you like, I could go to the bank with you and see if they’d be willing to renegotiate that balloon note. They’ll do that sometimes, under some circumstances.”
“I’ll go with her,” Billy said quietly.
All heads turned in his direction. “It’s great of you to offer, Parrish, but I’m her son. I’ll go to the bank with Mama and explain that she took out that note under duress. We can work something out.”
“Thank you, son,” Evelyn said, tearing up again. “But what are we going to do about Riley’s house?”
“I’ll just have to tell Maggy the truth,” Riley said. “Or a version of it. I can’t tell her the full extent of what Wendell’s done. Not until she’s older, anyway. I’ll think of something.”
“Well I’ll be damned,” Roo said loudly. “Here I sit, and it’s like I don’t even exist with you people. Did nobody think to ask me if I’d like to help buy back Riley’s house?”
Riley was, for once, speechless.
“Roo, you just told us neither a borrower nor a lender be was your motto,” Billy said.
“I’m not talking about a loan. This would be a gift. To Riley and Maggy.”
“Oh no, Roo, I couldn’t take your money,” Riley demurred.
“I don’t know why not. Except for Evelyn, you and Billy are all the family I’ve got left. And from the looks of things, I don’t believe Billy’s going to be giving me any great-nieces or nephews. Right around the time you were born, I bought FedEx stock. Made a killing on it, too. I’ve had that money set aside for both of you, for years now. I’d just as soon give you your share now, while I’m alive and able to enjoy your kissing my butt every day out of gratitude, than wait until I’m cold and in the grave.”
“I don’t know what to say,” Riley said, astonished.
“Then it’s settled. I’ll take the ferry into town tomorrow and get you a cashier’s check. Now, then.” Roo tapped her cheek. “Just give me a little sugar and then get this old girl another Manhattan. That fancy wine is giving me a headache.”
38
Gnats swarmed as Nate Milas plunged into the tall grass at the creek’s edge. But he’d come prepared this time, coated himself in bug spray, wore long sleeves and work boots. Still, it seemed that every time he inhaled he got a mouthful of no-see-ums.
He glanced back at the dock to make sure his Pathfinder was securely tied. It was a typical steamy June day, and his shirt was already sticking to his back. The tide was out, and when he saw the thick oyster beds that lined the steep bank, his mouth watered for the taste of oysters the way they’d eaten them as kids—pried open with a jackknife, coated with hot sauce, and popped right in the mouth, fresh out of the creek. He took out his cell phone and clicked off a couple of photos.
He knew from his reading that the oyster fishery was making a comeback on this part of the coast, and had tucked that fact away. Now, it was an added attraction to the plan that was coming together in his head.
Nate unfolded the survey map of the Holtzclaw property that he’d bought at the county courthouse the previous day. As he walked the property, he marveled that this island jewel had gone untouched for so many years. According to the survey, the parcel contained just under fifty acres, and of that there was more than a thousand feet of creek frontage.
Gazing down at Fiddler’s Creek, he could envision a multitude of deep-water moorings, more floating docks, and a heavy-duty boat lift. There was also enough high ground for drydocks, trailer parking, and room for whatever outbuildings would be needed.
Heading away from the river, he walked past the house toward the hard-packed road that led onto the property. For the first time, he noticed a large barn-type building, half-hidden by a dense stand of overgrown azalea and camellia shrubs, and nearly smothered by a thick wisteria vine growing up from the north corner of the structure.
He found the barn door, but it was fastened with a new-looking padlock. He stood back from the building a few yards and took some photos. He didn’t actually need to see inside. The sloping tin roof was rusted, but intact. With any luck, the rest of the structure, built of the same weather-beaten cedar as the house, was sound. The barn, which didn’t appear on the survey, was a huge plus.
He hiked up the drive toward the main road, noting the new gate—and the damaged padlock. He’d idly wondered how Riley had gotten onto the property, and the lock confirmed his suspicions. He smiled despite himself. She was maddeningly stubborn and opinionated, but Riley Nolan wasn’t one to let a little thing like a locked gate keep her from her mission.
Nate turned back around and returned to the house. After his confrontation with Riley, he’d been too depressed to complete his exploration on Sunday, but now there was plenty of time.
He climbed the stairs to the third floor. The roofline here was steeply pitched, but on each side of the central hallway were tucked two more bedrooms with a bath connecting each. He photographed each room, then walked through the rest of the house, documenting nearly every inch.
The kitchen wing was located in a shed-roofed addition on the side of the house. It looked to have been added sometime in the sixties or seventies, with cheap roll-vinyl flooring and outdated harvest-gold appliances. A shattered window over the rust-stained, cast-iron sink looked out onto the creek. He looked up at the ceiling and saw evidence of more raccoon activity, and water damage from a leaky roof. None of this mattered. The space was large, and once gutted, he felt sure it would accommodate a commercial kitchen.
Nate walked out onto the porch. This was the money shot. The house was on high ground that allowed panoramic views of Fiddler’s Creek, with the Atlantic Ocean not a fifteen-minute boat ride away. After snapping more photos, he made his way back to the dock.
He’d intended to leave, but the scent of the hot sun beating down on the salt-soaked boards was too much of a siren call. Nate always kept a fishing rod and a rudimentary tackle box in the skiff. He fetched the rod and fastened a chartreuse jig onto his line.