3. Tristan
O nce upon a time, our family was close to the Doyles. Dad and Randall were old friends who’d gone to the same posh Catholic summer camp every year as kids and managed to keep in touch as adults. Every few summers, my parents took us south to spend a week or two at the Doyles’ massive estate, which was like something straight out of a gothic movie with its secret passageways and hidden doors. We’d play hide and seek for hours, our games often spilling into the gardens surrounding the house. We’d hit up the tourist shops along River Street, eating just-made fudge, then visit old cemeteries or haunted mansions. Whole days were spent on Tybee Island, swimming until we were wrinkly and sunburned.
Notwithstanding the business aspect of this particular trip, I’m looking forward to hanging out in Savannah again. Especially as an adult. As much as I love my city, a change of scenery couldn’t have come at a better time.
Over the next two days, I methodically make my way through a detailed to-do list, adding even the simplest tasks lest I forget something. My lists, calendars, sticky notes and alarms might seem excessive to some, but they anchor me when my ADHD tries to scatter my focus. I spend the night before my flight packing a suitcase and my duffel, which has all of my gear—gloves that still carry the scent of sweat, two fresh sets of wraps. I toss a pair of sneakers in there, along with an empty water bottle. I don’t relish the thought of running in the heat, but giving up my routine is not an option. Hopefully I’ll find a suitable gym while I’m down there.
"You know you got this, right?” Lucky wanders over, peering at my suitcase. He came over with Liam a little while ago, bearing a six pack of my favorite beer and a couple of pizzas.
“You got this!” Liam affirms, flinging pepperoni in his zeal. He’s got a slice of pizza in one hand and the origami dinosaur I just made him in the other.
“Heck yeah, I do.” A smirk tugs at my lips, softening my concentration. “Just because I can’t step into the ring doesn't mean I’ve forgotten how to fight.”
“Exactly.” Lucky claps a hand on my good shoulder, the weight of it grounding. “Although I’m hoping Doyle doesn’t put up much of a fight.” He frowns. “But don’t underestimate him, you know? That fucker’s wily.”
“I’ll keep an eye on him,” I promise, not too concerned about it.
He hands Liam a paper towel and points to the fallen pepperoni. “Pick that up, please.”
“You should get a dog,” Liam says, swiping at the floor. “Shelby always licks up food.”
“Yeah, maybe.” I love dogs, and I’ve thought about getting a pet, but sometimes it just feels like too much responsibility.
“I’ve been thinking about sending Finn down with you,” Lucky continues.
“Not yet.” I shake my head. “Doyle’s more likely to let his guard down if it’s just me.”
“Yeah, that’s true. I just don’t like the thought of you riding solo down there.” Lucky rubs his chin thoughtfully. “We’ll wait, then. Call me if things start going sideways, though.”
By the time the sun comes up the next morning, my plane is hurtling down the runway. I watch Boston shrink as we ascend into the sky, the trees and buildings and still-sleepy roads washed in early morning orange.
Three hours later, I’m leaving Savannah’s tiny airport in a rental, blasting the rented Range Rover’s air conditioner in an attempt to mitigate the humidity and heat. Pulling up navigation, I plug in the directions to my new home, a fancy house in the historic district that belongs to my Aunt Vicki’s friends, Adair and Rob. It’s usually rented out to tourists, but they were happy to do us a favor.
Savannah’s languid charm welcomes me as I glide down its wide, tree-lined avenues. It’s an undeniably pretty city, all laidback Southern elegance with its Spanish moss-draped oaks and antebellum architecture. It’s rich in history and culturally significant, a lot like Boston.
At my navigation’s prompting, I pull into the garage of a cream, ivy-clad Italianate with pale blue trim. I message the owners to let them know I’ve arrived then let myself inside with the keycode. It’s a beautiful house, too big for just one person, but I’m not complaining.
I peek into the kitchen, pleased to see a bottle of wine and a welcome basket on the counter. Closer inspection shows me it’s overflowing with fancy chocolates, cookies from a local bakery, fresh fruit and mixed nuts. I have a wicked sweet tooth, so this comes in clutch. There’s a handwritten note propped against the wine, encouraging me to enjoy my stay, along with a list of things to do in the area. Forsyth Park is just a block away. Perfect for morning runs. I add a reminder to my phone to find a local boxing gym, too.
Upstairs, I pick the first bedroom I see—a spacious, sun-lit room dominated by a large, antique four-poster bed. Resting my bags on the settee, I strip off my already-sweaty clothes and take the first of what’s sure to be a ton of showers. Lucky and Maeve used to poke fun at my obsession with bathing, but I can’t help it. For someone who loves rolling around a jiu jitsu mat and working out until I’m drenched, I really hate feeling dirty.
Ambling back out to the hallway, I descend the curved staircase and call Kenny, our local broker, to make dinner plans. A quick check of my phone’s map app shows me that I’m actually pretty close to the Doyles’ in-town mansion. Not surprising, as Savannah isn’t that big. I’m tempted to pass by, but there’ll be time for that later .
Instead, I lace up my sneakers and go for a run. I’ve got a couple of hours to kill.
With nightfall draping the city in shadows, I head to my meeting with Kenny. The air’s thick with the promise of rain, the charged atmosphere mirroring the anticipation coiling in my gut. Finding street parking, I blend into the crowd moving down River Street, past a live jazz set and then the blues, the sugary scents of caramel and fudge blending with the savory aromas floating from the restaurants dotting the cobblestone street.
“Excuse me,” I mutter, sidestepping a drunk couple weaving by in the opposite direction. Spying the seafood restaurant Kenny told me about just ahead, I cross over and duck inside.
The hostess leads me upstairs to a bustling patio overlooking the river, where Kenny waves at me from a corner table. We’ve never met, but I recognize him from pictures. Kenny’s in his sixties, with the wide, solid look of a guy who once played sports and thinning hair that’s more gray than blond.
“Tristan Kelly. Well, if you don’t look just like your daddy,” he drawls, rising to shake my hand. His voice is low, genial, his smile amused. “Your brother, too.”
“I’ve been told.” I chuckle, lowering into the chair across from him. A bottle of whiskey and two glass tumblers are already on the table. “Nice to officially meet you, Kenny. I appreciate you getting together on such short notice. I know you’re a busy man.”
“Don’t mention it, son,” he says. “I’ve been working on this deal with your daddy and your brother for quite some time now. It’s only natural we bring you into the fold so we can finally start wrapping things up.”
I nod, watching two riverboats pass each other on the water. “So, talk to me. Catch me up on everything there is to know.”
“Where do I even start? That distillery has been simmerin’ in a stew of trouble for a while now.” Kenny gestures toward the whiskey between us. There’s no name on the bottle’s iconic gold label, just the Doyle family crest. “You drinking? ”
“When in Rome,” I say with a grin.
“That’s right.” He nods, opening the bottle. “Thing is, Randall Doyle owes a lot of folks money, not just y’all. He’s always been a gambler, a risk-taker, and that used to work for him just fine. But at some point, he bit off more than he could chew, started borrowing and spending beyond his means, and now, well …” Shaking his head, he slides my glass across the table. “His granddaddy would turn in his grave if he knew the mess that man had made.”
“I’m surprised no one else has tried to seriously collect,” I muse, taking a small sip. I tend to prefer craft beer, but this is nice. Smoky, with hints of honey or maybe molasses. Vaguely fruity.
“He has his way of keeping ‘em at bay,” says Kenny. “He’s on the board of directors for the local chamber of commerce, so he’s got the ear of all the right people. For example, I know for a fact one of his buddies was dumping wastewater from a brewery and Randall bribed officials to look the other way.”
“All of that influence, plus a successful distillery that was literally handed to him, and he’s still struggling,” I say, thinking of how different my own father is. Our family might operate on both sides of the law, but Dad’s always been steady, focused, and responsible. In control of his vices. “That’s a damn shame.”
“That’s what happens when you’ve got a lack of prudence and a proclivity for self-destruction,” Kenny says sagely. “He might’ve met his match with the Deschamps though.”
“Why, who are they?”
“Another old local family, just as influential. They’re big in commercial real estate, own half the buildings you see downtown. They also run a real popular restaurant down on Broughton Street,” he explains, swirling his whiskey. “Always a line of people waiting to get in, day and night.”
“And Doyle owes them, too?”
Kenny holds up his finger and flashes a megawatt smile, blinding me with his preternaturally white teeth. “How you doing, darlin’?”
“I’m just fine, Mr. Kenny,” our server, a slip of a girl with blonde curls, says with a sweet smile. “What can I get for y’all tonight?”
We order a couple of seafood platters on Kenny’s recommendation, and then he leans in, clearing his throat. “The Doyles and Deschamps have been friends a long time. I’m talking decades. There’s always been talk around town that it’s more of a business relationship though, trading favors and such.”
“What kind of favors?”
“Well, both families have connections, so they scratch each other’s backs. Because of his role over at the Chamber, Randall’s got his fingers in policy development, government relations, things like that. He’s big on networking and promotions, attracting new businesses to Savannah.”
“Ah,” I say, following. “And the Deschamps are fellow business owners.”
“Yes, and landlords to a number of other business owners,” Kenny affirms.
“And what do the Deschamps do for Randall in return?” I ask.
Kenny smiles grimly. “This is where things get a little less transparent and a lot more underhanded.”
Maybe that shouldn’t be surprising, but it is. Sounds like my family might have more in common with the good ol’ boy than I realized.
“It’s all hearsay at this point.” Kenny hesitates, probably weighing the merits of revealing what might be little more than gossip. “But it’s a well-known secret around town that the Deschamps use some of their properties for less legal purposes, like gambling and loan sharking.”
Our server stops by, dropping off a breadbasket as I sit back, the pieces all falling into place. “Randall’s one of their customers.”
“He sure is.” Kenny raises an eyebrow.
“But if they’re always greasing each other’s wheels like you said, then what makes this family such a threat now?” I wonder, buttering a piece of bread from the basket. Lucky has a guy he goes to when he needs info, a shadow operative who’ll hack into anything to find out about anyone for a price. Maybe he could do us a solid and dig a little deeper into this whole Doyle-Deschamps melodrama.
“I don’t know. But listen up, because this concerns you and your family, Tristan.” Kenny's voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper. “The Deschamps have started making moves toward acquiring the distillery.”
“Because Randall owes them?” I ask, the bread frozen on its way to my mouth.
He frowns, shaking his head. “That might give them leverage, but no. Apparently there was a deal the two families made way back? I don’t know. But the Deschamps own the acreage next to the distillery and its land, so I’m guessing that part of it is just a desire to expand. Needless to say, their offers to buy have fallen on deaf ears because Doyle Whiskey is an institution in this town, and Randall ain’t selling the family business on a whim.”
“No wonder this fucker keeps putting us off.” I snort, tossing back half my whiskey. “He’s caught between the mother of all rocks and hard places.”
“Indeed.” Kenny nods, gazing out at the river.
“What’s the name of the Deschamps’ restaurant?” I ask. Maybe I’ll drop by some time, see what sort of vibe I pick up.
“Mama Avanelle’s,” he says. “Owned by Mrs. Avanelle Deschamps. She’s nearly one hundred, though.” Kenny raises his eyebrows. “Her great-grandson, Cole, runs the place these days. He's slicker than an eel and twice as mean.”
“Thanks for the heads-up,” I murmur, my words laced with just enough steel to let Kenny know that frankly, I don’t give a fuck how mean Cole is. He’s never met me.
Taking advantage of dawn’s pleasant temperature, I go for a long run through and around Forsyth Park. It’s nearly empty, save for a couple walking their dog and a man sleeping on a bench near the iconic fountain in the middle.
After a shower, I get dressed in a lightweight business casual get-up, grab coffee and one of the granola bars from my welcome basket, and head out. I’m hoping to catch Randall Doyle before he goes to work for the day. I want him to know I’m here on my terms, while making him feel like he’s safe on his turf.
Parking on the street, I get out and scan the property from the sidewalk. An older Rolls Royce sits in the circular driveway, and security cameras dot the top corners of the house, markers of tech near buried beneath the ivy clinging to the walls. Everything’s a bit more … weathered than I remember. Patches of rust cover the iron gates, the intricate scrollwork toward the bottom hidden by weeds. Katherine’s garden, wh ere we played for hours as kids, appears overgrown now. My father said that Katherine left Randall years ago, and then passed away, so I guess he hasn’t bothered keeping it up.
Nostalgia breezes over me as I enter the gates. Suddenly I’m ten again, sweaty and scabby kneed from hours of make believe and climbing trees. The Doyles’ verdant gardens had been an emerald kingdom back then, our shouts lighting up the summer air like fireflies. It’s kind of sad what this place has become. Sad, also, that our families are at odds now. It didn’t have to be this way.
The mansion itself looks like something out of a gothic movie. Walking up the steps, I pause at the front door and snort at the fussy door knocker, a tarnished bronze stag with a heavy ring. I’ve just raised my hand to knock when I hear an angry voice on the other side. A second later, the door swings open and a woman rushes out, flying into my arms with such force that I step back. “Woah.” Steadying her, I reach instinctively for the gun in my waistband.
Blushing a painful shade of red, she looks up at me with hazel eyes like sunbursts, brilliant gradients of honeyed browns and almost iridescent greens. Only one person I’ve ever known has eyes that unusual, and recognition slams into me even harder than she just did. “Evie?”