Chapter 20
Twenty
“That’ll be one-twelve thirty-five,” says the college-aged guy behind the plexiglass window. Rolf, according to his nametag. Whatever the hell kind of name that is. “Would you like to round up to donate to the Historical Preservation of the Historical Home and Garden Foundation of the Lowcountry?”
“What? No.” I slap a mosquito on my neck, smearing a blood red streak from my palm to my linen pant leg. “One hundred and twelve dollars just to look around?”
Rolf sips a canned energy drink, bored, wordlessly pointing to the rates on a sign. Magnolia Plantation is written in large, white, historical-looking script above a list of bold, black, egregiously modern prices.
After the idiotic oysters and hotel, I seriously considered driving home.
I won’t make it two weeks—I might not make it two days.
After I pay for this, I’ll barely have twenty dollars.
I can’t afford another night at the hotel, and the only reason I have any food in my body is because of the included continental breakfast where I stuffed my face then proceeded to fill my purse with fruit and boxes of cereal before checking out.
I’ll have to eat again.
I’ll have to get gas—several times.
Buy entry tickets.
I left my credit card with my mom in case they had an emergency. I might have to ask Reese to send me money.
Or sleep in my car.
And starve.
This is bad. This is really, really bad.
“Rue?” It’s Nash. Staring at me as I white-knuckle my debit card. Along with Cap. And Rolf. Waiting. “Why don’t I get this one?” He reaches for the wallet in his back pocket, a blend of confusion and concern lacing his features as he moves.
“No.” I smile. “Sorry, I was thinking about”—I look at Cap—“boats.” I swipe my debit card and feel nauseous as I enter my PIN, bracing myself for the word “DECLINED” to appear on the screen.
This is the lowest my bank account has been since I was sixteen.
“Plus, my clients insist.” And my pride is an asshole.
Rolf slides our tickets along with three maps under the window, and I force myself to focus.
“How easy would it be to break into this place?” I ask him.
Cap’s snort turns into a hack behind me.
Rolf, however, barely blinks. “Honestly? Not hard. Just a gate at the entrance.” He shrugs and takes another slurpy sip from his lime-green can. “Be a long walk but we don’t have any security or anything.”
Excellent.
“Very stealthy,” Nash says into my ear as we walk away.
I cut my eyes to him and unfold my map. “I don’t have time for stealth.” Or money for bail.
Cap drops onto a bench under the shade of a crepe myrtle dripping with magenta petals. He takes a short sniff of his oxygen then a long hit off Penny.
“Stop getting stoned, Cap,” I order. “I need you to focus.”
I look around the grounds, barely registering the impressiveness of the gardens. I need the gold to be here. I need it today and not in a fortnight.
“Dad,” he corrects.
“Dad,” I grit out. “Stop getting stoned, Dad.”
He gives a pleased nod, Penny on his whiskery lips.
Nash says, “Four hundred and sixty-four acres with six miles of trails.” He points to the map. “Maybe we all need to get stoned.”
It’s not his fault he has money for gas and I don’t, but his grin tickles my middle finger just the same.
“We can’t dig up that many acres.” I blow my bangs out of my eyes. “Anson said in the letter that he was looking for a place where his wife could paint—where would that be?”
Cap adjusts his captain’s hat, takes another hit from Penny, then turns his attention to people watching, spinning his cane. Ignoring me.
Nash studies his map. “My money would be on Long Bridge or somewhere in the gardens.” He squints at said gardens. “But they’ve been so worked over the years—planting, renovating, maintenance—I’d be hard-pressed to believe we’d find anything original. Too handled.”
Around us, daffodils, azaleas, and roses—among seemingly a hundred other varieties of blooms—explode with color like they were planted solely to inspire.
Even the thick, muggy air is on theme, rich with the scent of blooming gardenias.
It really is beautiful. And extremely well-maintained.
Nash is right. Any sort of clue would have never remained undiscovered for over one hundred and sixty years.
“What about the house?” I ask.
Beyond the gardens, a stately, white-columned home sits at the end of a lush lawn.
“Eh,” says Nash. “House was burned to the ground during the war by Union soldiers. Plus, it seems like Anson was more focused on the property itself. The element of nature.”
Taking the letter out of my purse, I reread the section about the plantation.
there is a plantation here with a garden bigger than our whole farm. the owner is a reverend and allowing visitors. I went for a forenoon looking for the perfect scene for you to paint and found it in unexpected colors of green, brown, white, and blue
I agree.
“Let’s go to this bridge then.”
“You go,” Cap says around Penny. “I’ve seen it all.”
“You’ve seen it all?” I sound as desperate as I feel. “Who cares? You wanted to do this with me, and I just paid over a hundred dollars for us to be here and—” I look at Nash. “My clients did. You need to see it again. For them. That’s the whole point.”
“Nash knows what to look for,” Cap says without budging. “I’ll wait.”
I clench my fist not holding the map and glare at him.
He smiles.
Smiles!
Like he doesn’t know how badly I need this.
Like every cent that leaves my bank account doesn’t shave another year off my life.
I relent. “Fine.”
Leaving Cap on the bench, Nash and I stroll along a gravel path lush with flora, quiet until he breaks the silence. “I’d call this romantic.”
I look at him sideways, swatting a mosquito on my neck. “Romantic?”
“The style of garden.” He gestures to the shrubs and trees covered in blooms around us. “It’s called romantic.”
“They didn’t take these bloodsucking bastards into consideration when they named it.
” But even with the bugs, it’s enchanting.
It’s cultivated and maintained, but there’s a chaos to it as well.
Like every plant was planned and planted by someone who just finished off a bottle of rosé, adding an element of tipsy whimsy. “Reminds me of Mom.”
Nash hums in agreement as my phone rings, Mom on the screen.
“Speak of the devil,” he says with a grin. “Let me answer.”
Before I can argue, he takes my phone and pushes the button, answering on speaker as we wander. “It’s my favorite mother-in-law,” he says, winking at my glare.
She gasps, delighted, but there’s a small pause too. A flicker of hesitation I never would have noticed before. “Hey, stranger,” is what she says.
“Stranger?” Nash smiles at me and the phone. “Eight years and that’s all I get?”
“Don’t be silly,” she says. My heart goes heavy; she’s buying time. Maybe squinting at the ceiling or snapping her fingers. I’ve seen it so many times and rolled my eyes or got frustrated. Only this time, it brings dread and worry that makes the world spin a little slower.
“Mom.” I try to keep my voice light. “It’s me. I’m here with Nash.”
“I know you’re with Nash,” she snips, recovering beautifully with, “I’d recognize his charming voice anywhere.”
Nash chuckles, but when he looks at me, his smile slips. The secret I haven’t told him fills every fleck of gold and green in his brown eyes as he stills beside me. I have the incredible urge to cry.
Once again, now isn’t the time—it never is. I stop walking to stare at a large yellow bloom and count every petal, telling myself I live in a world securely glued together. Telling myself I will find the gold, and this is a blip. She will be fine.
I brave a look at Nash, my silent plea for him not to pry.
“Well, Iris,” he says, playful as ever as we resume walking, “it seems you and I have a lot to discuss regarding how the mail works. I hear you’ve been making things difficult on me.”
She laughs at this, loud and like a sweet song. “Don’t you listen to a word Rue says unless it’s about Bee.”
“Bee?” he repeats, brows pinching. “Is that—”
I snatch the phone from his hands.
“Mother,” I say, taking it off speaker as we turn onto a path of natural vegetation mixed in with magnolia trees. “Are you calling for a reason?”
“Just checking in,” she says easily.
The path turns into a shrubbery maze, and Nash swats mosquitoes off my arms. I give him an appreciative smile.
Mom continues. “And making sure you’re keeping up your end of the bargain.”
I look at Nash, switching the phone to the opposite ear. He’s concerned about her while she’s talking about his child he doesn’t know exists. It makes me want to cry for a whole different reason.
“Nash is good,” I tell her. “He’s—” His eyebrows raise.
“More annoying than he used to be. Still hasn’t grown up and thinks life’s a joke.
Hasn’t aged well, really. Like a Beanie Baby we were promised would be worth a small fortune by now.
” He laughs at this. “Shame on you for not sending the papers.”
“Ah. You haven’t told him. Guess I’ll tell Reese to cancel the surgery.”
Damn her.
Her tumor isn’t remotely funny, but if this is the game she’s playing, I’m not backing down. “You’re right, we should move it up.”
“I don’t want the surgery anyway,” she chirps in my ear. “What do I care if you spend your life miserable?”
“You should see if they can take extra out and make the whole thing last longer.” I give Nash a tight smile. “Reese will agree, I’m sure.”
Finally, she drops it. “Reese is driving me nuts. She’s worse than you and won’t stop working.”
I laugh, genuinely—that’s Reese. Nash and I stop at a bench on the edge of a slime-covered swamp surrounded by tall trees and cypress knees.
“Always great talking to you, Mom. Go drink some water.”
She’s mid-mutter as I end the call.