CHAPTER 5
C HAPTER 5
C urtis slipped from the assembly, eager to avoid the questions he knew Rae would have asked. His only alternatives were to avoid her altogether—which was totally not happening—or make this particular journey.
There was, of course, the possibility that Rae Alden had been transformed by the twelve years since their last meeting. He certainly had. But from what he had seen in the assembly, Curtis figured she had become an adult version of the teen he had loved. Feisty, intelligent, beautiful.
Curtis left Morehead by way of Highway 70 and crawled north, the afternoon traffic both heavy and very slow. He did not mind. There was nowhere he needed to be this evening. No one waiting for him. Not ever again.
He crossed the bridge over Harlowe Creek and entered Beaufort, one of the most beautiful places on earth, as far as Curtis was concerned. The town occupied a spit of land where three bodies of water intersected. Front Road overlooked the Rachel Carson Reserve and the islands of Shackleford Banks. The town had been founded in the mid-eighteenth century, and remained calmly defiant of time’s relentless flow.
Curtis snagged a space in the crowded public lot, then headed inland. His destination was two blocks away, where Broad Street met one of the local marinas. Here the world held to a different pace. Live oaks, magnolias, and blooming dogwood trees stood sentry to homes and shops older than the nation. Traffic was slow, almost apologetic. Tourists walked and gawked and reveled in a bygone era.
What had once served as the town’s milliners and premier dress shop now housed the Beaufort Bookshop. Occupying the property’s carefully tended garden was a crescent moon of whitewashed cottages that formed the Peninsula Guesthouse. Curtis climbed the front steps and opened the bookshop’s front door, causing the bell to chime. The same bell that had greeted him all those many lives ago.
A lovely teen, perhaps fifteen years old, sat on the stool with both elbows planted on the countertop. She was the definition of bored. Curtis was halted by the sight, and the memories.
“Good afternoon.”
She did not look up. “Just shoot me.”
The left wheel of Emma Alden’s chair still squeaked. She appeared in the doorway leading to the storeroom and greeted him with: “Great heavens above.”
“Hello, Emma.”
“Are you a ghost?”
“Some days, it feels like it.”
The teen still had her face planted on her hands. “Tell me about it.”
Curtis walked over, bent down, accepted the older woman’s embrace. Then he returned to the counter and said, “I used to sit where you are.”
Still, no movement. “Yay.”
“Has Emma given you her spiel about staying open so tourists have a place to gather and meet the locals?”
“Only about a million times.”
“Let me guess,” Curtis said. “Your parents agreed to staff the bookshop a couple of hours every day in exchange for a lower rate on the cottage.”
She lifted her head, but only so she could raise her arms and stretch. “The longest hours of my entire existence.”
“Are they at least paying you for your time?”
“Ha.” Back to slump. “Double ha.”
“Which means they caught you doing something fairly awful.”
“Our young friend broke curfew,” Emma said. “She was due back at what, ten?”
No response.
“She insists she and a local lad merely wanted to watch a sunrise over the Atlantic,” Emma said. “Apparently, her parents did not consider that an adequate excuse.”
Curtis fished in his pocket. “You know the Fortunate Harbor Hotel?”
She glanced up, a microsecond of inspection, long enough to dismiss him as being of no interest whatsoever. “So?”
“How would you like to have access to their beach club?”
That brought her to full alert. “That costs, like, fifty dollars a day.”
“Per person.” He took a pen from the mug beside the register. “Unless you have friends in high places.”
Emma wheeled closer. “You work for that lot?”
“The owners.”
“I should bar you from my door.”
“Too late.” He wrote swiftly, then asked, “What’s your name?”
“Beverly.”
He handed her the card. “See what it says there? Contingent. That means your family can come with you, but only if you agree. Here’s what I suggest. Emma needs you to keep working here, and you need to get paid. I’m sure Emma would be willing to shift your hours to the morning.”
“If a certain young lady is able to crawl out of bed before one in the afternoon.”
“For a chance to lounge poolside at Fortunate Harbor, my guess is she won’t even need an alarm.” To Beverly, “If your folks kick up a fuss about payment, you take the bus leaving from Front Street. Our logo is on the side. It runs once every hour and stops twice in Morehead City before heading for the resort. We operate the service for locals working at the hotel. Just show the driver this card. Which means if necessary you can go by yourself.”
She was now on full alert. “Get out of town.”
Curtis tapped the card. “This is good for the rest of your stay.”
Emma said, “Now is when you thank the gentleman.”
Beverly asked, “Can I bring my friend?”
Curtis looked a question at Emma, who replied, “She means the utter cad who kept her out all night. He reminds me of you.”
“Probably not a good idea,” Curtis said. He tapped the card once again. “Nine o’clock sharp, bright and cheerful and welcoming. When Emma asks, you hop. Agreed?”
“This is totally wild.”
“Her parents are going to freak out,” Emma said. “Seeing as how our dear Beverly was sent here on punishment detail.”
Beverly released her day’s first smile. “I know, right?”
Curtis watched Emma wheel her chair around and followed her from the shop. “Nice to meet you, too.”
* * *
Emma parked her chair in the corner and used a cane to work around the kitchen. She did not invite Curtis to sit because she didn’t need to. Emma Alden had been part of his world since he was five. All that time, she had suffered from arthritis. The chair was used on bad days. There had always been a lot of those.
Her late husband had been a big man with a booming laugh, a builder whose forebears had mostly died early from heart attacks. He had transformed their garage into the village bookstore and erected a series of two-room bungalows on their broad rear lawn, leaving Emma with both a source of income and a means of maintaining connection with their beloved hometown. A photograph of the man adorned almost every wall in their home.
Emma did not ask if Curtis wanted tea. When they were kids, he and Rae had often complained about the taste, but put up with it because of her homemade butter cookies. Her back to the room, Emma asked, “How long has it been?”
“Twelve years,” he said. Several lifetimes.
“How did a dashing young man like yourself stay single?”
“I didn’t,” Curtis replied. “She died.”
Curtis watched her pour boiling water into the waiting pot, set it on the kitchen table, and then bring over mugs and a plate of cookies that neither of them would touch. She settled slowly into the chair opposite his, leaned her cane against the table, poured the fragrant broth, and only then spoke. “When was this?”
“Almost four years ago,” he replied. “Severe preeclampsia.”
She sipped. Avoided his gaze. Calm and accepting. “She was pregnant.”
“Just coming to the start of her second trimester. One day everything was fine. The next, seizures. The day after, a stroke. Two days later, I lost them both.”
Her silence was the reason why Curtis had come. Enduring the hard confession, because of this woman’s calm acceptance. Her ability to endure the impossible. For years.
She said, “Drink your tea before it goes cold.”
Her signature brew was made by another local woman, an herbalist who now served an online clientele that extended through the Southeast. Willow bark and dandelion and other elements that now spiced the kitchen’s air. Sweetened with honey from another friend’s hives. Curtis sipped and waited. And remembered.
Preeclampsia was a condition that usually did not occur until well into the third trimester. Most patients also suffered from a history of either hypertension or very high blood pressure. Lorna, his late wife, had neither. Curtis endured the hard moment, something that came far less frequently these days. Emma’s kitchen became filled with the dark shock, the impossible transition. One moment, family. The next, a vacuum where their tomorrows had once resided.
Emma drew him back with, “You want me to tell Rae.”
“Would you?”
“Of course.” She reached over and took his hand. “My dear child.”
The words became caught in his throat. He swallowed hard, managed, “Thank you, Emma.”
She retreated back across the table, said, “Rae would worry this like a pup over her favorite toy.” She sipped again. “You were right to come.”
The silence held them for a time. He finally confessed, “This tea is actually very good.”
“Don’t sound so shocked.” She refilled his mug. “I assume this means you’re not hoping to rekindle things with Rae.”
“Ha. No.”
“Because she’s the next best thing to engaged.”
“I’m happy for her.”
Emma’s blank expression held any number of unspoken thoughts. All she said was “John Anders, her beau, keeps asking. Rae is gradually bending to the idea.”
He tasted several responses with the tea, settled on, “What do you think of him?”
“Everyone says he is a wonderful young man. John’s parents think she walks on water.”
Curtis suspected Emma was ready to say more. If he asked. Instead, he decided on, “Changing the subject. Can you recommend a local realtor?”
“Are you talking about a place on the island?”
“No. Here in Beaufort.”
“Don’t tell me you’re thinking of putting down roots. Not here.” When he did not respond, Emma continued, “Do you have any idea how many folks you’ve infuriated with this new hotel?”
“You do realize it’s not just a hotel.”
“Even worse! Your buying a place in Beaufort is just about the most dreadful idea I’ve ever heard! You’ll be tarred and feathered before your furniture is moved in!”
It felt beyond good to have a reason to smile. “No furniture. I’m living a furnished-apartment existence these days.”
“I’m serious!”
“I know there’s a problem. I just came from the assembly in Morehead City. And I have an idea.”
“So you’re not after buying a home.”
“Maybe someday. Right now, I couldn’t even say how long I’m going to be here.”
“Will you tell me what you’re thinking?”
“Yes. If you insist. But I’d rather wait and see if this particular dog has fleas.”
She tried to smile and glare at the same time. “You used to say that a lot as a child.”
“I remember.”
She reached for her phone without taking her eyes off him. Hit speed dial. Waited. Then, “Gloria? Hi. I have a young man here in my kitchen who is wanting to waste your precious time.”
“Thanks a lot, Emma.”
“Gloria wants to know what this is about.”
Curtis raised his voice. “Cash purchase of a specific Beaufort property. To be concluded as swiftly as possible.”
Emma listened, said, “She’s on her way.”
* * *
Curtis waved to a smiling Beverly as he passed the bookstore and walked the sunlit lanes back to Front Street. The town suited him, and always had. Beaufort was not really cut off, in the sense of dangling at the end of roads leading nowhere else. But anyone heading to the beach either had to travel by boat or join the crawl through Morehead City.
As he had requested, the realtor’s red Lexus SUV was parked by the Fortunate Harbor bus stop. The service had been put in place for hotel employees, then expanded to include locals wanting a free ride to the beachside park. Few took advantage of the service, of course, given how folks felt about the hotel.
The realtor was an immaculate woman in her late forties or early fifties, dressed in a suit that Curtis thought was beachside formal. Coral slacks and matching jacket, pastel sandals with cork heels, white silk blouse. Her hair was a natural blond going gray, her fingernails painted the same brilliant red as her car.
“Mr. Gage?”
“Curtis.”
“Gloria Tanner. So nice to meet you. Your aunt is a treasure, I can’t tell you.”
“Emma is no relation. I’ve known her since I was a kid.”
Her words held the local’s silky down-home accent. “You’re from around these parts?”
“I was. My family moved away. Now I’m back.”
“And working for Fortunate Harbor.”
“Actually, I’m with the parent company.”
“May I ask in what role?” When he hesitated over the question, she hastened to add, “I’m naturally curious, Mr. Gage. And I’m a realtor. Which means I sometimes step on toes without meaning to.”
“It’s a valid question, and really please call me Curtis. But I’d be grateful if you would treat what we say as confidential.”
“Understood.”
“I answer directly to the chairman.”
“I see. Or rather, I probably don’t need to.”
“You are no doubt aware of the problems we’ve had regarding the adjacent resort.”
“I couldn’t live here and be as nosey as I am without knowing. And your job . . .”
“I’m just your basic problem solver.”
Another silence. Then, “I hope you won’t mind me wishing you good luck with that.”
“I’ve always been partial to honesty.” He swept a hand in the direction of the sunlit street. “Why don’t we walk?”
They rounded the bend and started along the riverfront. This section of town still resembled the place he had loved as a child, a quiet backwater where two kids could roam freely and play games of adventure and mystery. They did not speak again until they had passed the marina and approached the dilapidated home.
Curtis said, “I’m interested in this particular property.”
“In that case, let’s just keep on walking.” She held to the same steady pace, but everything about her radiated a new level of tension. “The owner lives across the street. See that house set back from the road? It belongs to Reddit Ryder. A purely vile and nasty man who lives up to the strangeness of his name.”
Something sparked in Curtis’s memory. “We used to throw pecans and crab apples at his tin roof.”
“You’re lucky he didn’t shoot you.” She cast him a tight glance. “Gage? Gage. Your daddy was the sheriff!”
“That’s right. He was.”
“Well, great heavens above. I remember you. Your momma. . .”
“Iris.”
“Iris Gage. We were acquaintances. You folks had the farm just outside the Beaufort city limits.”
“It was my grandparents’ farm. My father built our home on a neighboring property.”
She squinted at him, as if able to read between his words. “Your daddy’s parents didn’t deed him land?”
“My grandparents stayed furious with my late father until the day he passed. They expected their only son to farm the land that had been in their hands for generations. My father wanted to be a cop.”
She walked slowly, mostly keeping her gaze on Curtis. “Sweetheart, I remember the day your father was shot. The whole town grieved.”
He nodded. Curtis had no interest in dwelling on that particular memory. “Mom is Iris Staples now. Living happily with her dentist husband in Little Rock.”
“I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have called you that. ‘Sweetheart. ’ ”
“Ms. Tanner . . .”
“Call me Gloria. Please.”
“I am genuinely grateful to Emma for bringing us together. Now tell me about the place.”
The house was, to put it mildly, an eyesore. None of the windows Curtis saw were intact. The roof bowed in the middle, like it had given up and now slumped in utter despair. “Old man Ryder uses the state of disrepair as revenge. He and his lawyer . . . Does the name Harvey Sewell ring a bell?”
“I just heard him speak.”
“Well, of course you did. How did you think the meeting went?”
“As well as it possibly could have.” He waved that aside. Later.
“Harvey Sewell is a weasel of the first order, and that’s all I’ll say about the man. Except he and old man Ryder were made for each other.”
“He was old when I was a kid. Ryder.”
“We’re fairly certain he became pickled in his own vile juices sometime back. His daughter is an ER nurse at the Carteret County hospital. An absolute angel. She actually puts up with her daddy. Why, I have no idea. Or how.”
Listening to the woman’s easy manner was like walking through an open door. Curtis remembered so many other people and how they addressed the world. As if honesty in conversation was part of their birthright.
He said again, “The property.”
“Because of the marina, all this riverfront you see here is zoned multiple use. Harvey Sewell weaseled his way through the zoning board and had the Ryder land approved for a condo development. We all assume it happened on a moonless night when the board was hoodwinked by ghouls. The sort of undead that count Reddit Ryder among their clan.” She gave the riverfront land a single glance as they passed. “The prospect of a high-rise with thirty condos blocking out their river has the locals foaming at the mouth.”
“How much does he want for the land?”
“Two and a half million dollars. And I’m telling you straight out, old man Ryder won’t budge on price.”
“How large is the property?”
“Just under three acres. But here’s the thing.” She waved her hand in the general direction of the next property, a lovely old-timey home shaded by multiple dogwoods in full bloom. Between it and the derelict place was a high stone wall. “That place belongs to the Oakley family. They’ve lived there so long you’d think they were here to greet Blackbeard. Or somebody. See how the boundary wall spreads like a fan? They basically own all the riverfront except a narrow little split, call it sixty feet wide. Maybe not even that. Just enough for this dreadful excuse of a pier that’s waiting for somebody stupid to come along and walk on it.” She must have seen something in Curtis’s face that concerned her. “And something else. That family will fight any attempt to build a structure that overlooks their property. You mark my word. They’ll tie you up in knots. For years.”
“I have no interest in building a high-rise.”
She stopped, but Curtis kept walking. Which required her to almost run forward. “You actually intend to bid on this land? Despite everything I just said?”
“No bid. Outright purchase. Cash.”
“Can I ask why?”
“Confidentially?”
“Mr. Gage. Curtis. Confidential is my middle name. It isn’t on my business card. But it should be.”
So he told her his idea.
Gloria’s pace faltered, but she managed to keep going. “If I wasn’t afraid old man Ryder was watching, I’d throw my arms around you and just bawl.”
“You like it?”
“It’s what this town has needed for years. You’ll be the best friend of everybody in Beaufort who wants to see this section of town progress into the nineteenth century. Joke.”
“Funny.”
“Of course, there are a whole passel of locals who are dead set on anything that might move them out of the Steam Age. I suspect some of them are still lighting their homes with coal-oil lamps. But this news might actually sway them in your direction.”
This time, it was Curtis who stopped. “Nobody can know.”
Gloria lost her smile. “Confidential. Understood.”
“I’m going to have a local attorney represent me on this. That is the only face people will see.”
“Please tell me it won’t be Harvey Sewell.”
Curtis liked having a reason to smile. “I was thinking of Rae Alden.”