13. Tristan
A fter leaving Evie in the capable hands of Ms. Bianchi to finish sorting through the will and its accompanying documents, I make my way to the Chatham County Recorder’s office. I’d like to examine the official records of all the Doyle family's properties, maybe suss out the location of this elusive “silent” distillery.
Also, I need to ensure that Randall fulfills his end of the deal by handing over everything he’s supposed to when he transfers control of the business. He can keep his home and his personal belongings, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he tries to conceal something crucial to the distillery. He’s shady like that.
Shady enough that I’m glad, also, he doesn’t know that Evie just inherited Myrtle’s estate. He’s a little too close to the Deschamps and I don’t want those fuckers knowing where Evie’s gonna be. Not right now, anyway. They’ll probably all find out eventually.
I’m pulling into the parking lot of the recorder’s office when I spot Maribelle emerging from the building. She does a double take when she sees me getting out of the Suburban, waving as she turns to come my way. She looks like a real society wife these days in low heels and a classy, knee-length dress, her shiny, auburn hair just brushing her shoulders.
“Tristan Kelly,” she purrs, stopping a few feet away. Her sly grin hasn’t changed one bit, nor has the way she looks at me, like she’s one hundred percent down to fuck if I am.
“Maribelle.” I give her a polite smile, remembering what a firecracker she used to be. “Doyle-Spencer, is it?”
“It is.” She slips her phone into the little purse hooked on her arm. “What’re you doing here?”
“Here in Savannah, or here at this office?”
“Here,” she says with a little laugh, gesturing to the office building. “I think I know why you’re in Savannah.” She cocks her head. “Something about you trying to take possession of our distillery?”
“Sounds about right.” I pull my briefcase from the passenger seat and close the door. “I’m sure Randall’s told you all about it.”
She shifts, raising an eyebrow. “You do realize he’ll never allow that, right?”
“I’m not discussing this with you, Maribelle,” I say firmly.
“And why not?” she demands, bristling. “You think I don’t know exactly what’s going on? What’s going wrong ? I’ve worked at our distillery for years, Tristan, and it wasn’t to secure a paycheck. It was to secure our family’s legacy—not so easy to do when you’re the only one who seems to care.”
Interesting . Maribelle’s always had a sharp tongue, but I seem to have really hit a nerve. “Are you suggesting that your dad’s not committed to the distillery’s legacy?”
“Committed, yes, but capable? That's another matter entirely.” She glances toward the sky like she’s hoping it’ll give her the strength to go on. “You have no idea how hard I worked to maintain Doyle Whiskey’s accounts, to make new connections of influence all throughout the South, only to have Daddy squander it with his bullshit.”
This just gets juicier and juicier, doesn’t it? Before, I would’ve assumed that Maribelle had her father’s back in all this, because they used to be close, but then I found out about her money laundering and scheming. And while I don’t blame her bitter rant, it’s surprising she’d blab like this. Leaning against my ride, I gesture for her to go on.
She pauses, casting a suspicious glance at me. “What?”
“You seem to be building toward something, so what is it?” I prompt, thinking of the pictures Lucky sent me. Who have you been seeing, Maribelle? What’re you up to ?
But she softens again and takes a step closer, her lips curving into a flirty little smile I know all too well. “Not so fast. You’re the enemy, here, remember?”
“Nah, I’m an old friend.” I set my briefcase on the roof of the SUV, sliding my hands into my pockets. “You can trust me.”
“Is that what you told my sister to get her to marry you?” she asks with a smirk. “Kind of shameless, using your history like that, considering.”
“Considering what?”
“How badly she used to crush on you.”
Anticipating my opponent’s next move has always been easy for me. It’s one of the reasons it’s hard to catch me off guard in the ring and in life. But Maribelle’s revelation is a sucker punch to the heart. “What?”
“How did you not know that?” She cackles, eyes dancing with glee. “She was completely in love with you! For years!”
Every part of me wants to deny what Maribelle is saying because if it’s true, then I really am an asshole. Marriage was the most efficient way to kill two birds with one stone: save Evie from Cole and get legal access to the distillery, making the path to total ownership significantly smoother. Had I’d known that Evie’s emotions were involved, though, I’d have been a little less hasty to suggest it. Maybe.
But I can’t totally deny it, not when a highlight reel of Evie’s blushes starts flashing through my mind.
Maribelle sighs loudly. “I’m sure she’s over it now, Casanova. And even if she’s not, well, she’s a big girl. She knew what she was getting into when y’all made this deal.” Her fingers brush against my forearm, her signature move from way back when. I’m not the horny, impulsive teenager I once was, but I hold still, letting her touch me. Letting her think she’s in control. “Remember when we used to play Kameloot?”
I nod. Kameloot was a quirky, obscure card game about medieval magic that Maribelle and Evie introduced to Lucky, Maeve, and me one summer. It quickly became a favorite, and we’d battle it out every time we got together, even when we’d far outgrown the game.
“Players could either work together or against each other, but we realized pretty quickly that the winners were usually the ones who banded together.” Her dark eyes search mine as her hand falls away. “We were good partners, weren’t we? ”
I give another slow nod, remembering. We did work well together, probably because of all that adolescent sexual tension. An echo of that tension still exists, only it’s off now. Like fruit that’s gone bad.
“I know you understand the value of strategic alliances,” she says.
“Where exactly are you going with this?” I ask quietly, glancing at my watch. Evie’s going to be calling soon, and I haven’t even made it into the building.
“You know exactly where I’m going,” she says, just as quietly.
“You want to be partners?” I let incredulousness flavor my chuckle, keeping things light.
She folds her arms, the position pushing up her tits. “Something tells me that you might just win this battle against my father, and when you do, you’re going to need someone who knows what they’re doing. If you want the distillery to make it, anyway.”
“Sure.” I shrug, knowing she won’t like what I’m about to say next. “Evie and I would appreciate your expertise.”
Maribelle's eyes flash with irritation for the briefest moment before her expression smooths back into cool indifference. “Evie? Are you being purposely obtuse right now?”
“Nope.” I grab my briefcase, my patience starting to run low. “Evie and I are married . You can either work with us or against us.”
“Evie, bless her heart, is weak. And clueless—she has no idea what it takes to run the distillery and I think you know that. In fact, you’re betting on it because you know she won’t interfere.” Maribelle’s eyes narrow, the sensuality she wielded just moments ago replaced by cold calculation. “You're in this for the same reasons I am—power.”
Her business acumen would prove invaluable in running the distillery, but I don’t trust this woman as far as I could throw her. Besides, her words rub me the wrong way. Evie isn’t fucking weak. Maribelle’s always written her off, always treated her like shit.
A memory of a hot summer afternoon, long ago, surfaces. We’d been walking around for hours, and when Evie started falling behind Maribelle told her to go home and eat more cake. I remember Maeve giving Maribelle the finger before grabbing a teary-eyed Evie and leaving. Lucky kept walking, not about to get wrapped up in sibling drama, and my dumb ass was too distracted by Maribelle’s T I was just curious.”
I tuck this away for future reference, allowing the conversation to veer into what my family, especially Lucky and I, actually do back home. Evie’s curious now, so why not? A secret for a secret. She might as well know who she’s hitched to.
A small, but insistent, voice suggests I clear up Maribelle’s assertion that Evie used to like me, but that might not go over too well. Evie can be sensitive, and the last thing I need is her getting angry or defensive about it if it’s true. Because there’s a possibility that “old crush” is still hanging around, and if it is, then things are more complicated between us than I thought.
A lot more complicated.
We drive by a couple of subdevelopments before Evie directs me down a quiet road where the houses are more spread out. “There it is,” she says finally, pointing to a large, two-story house set back from the road, partly hidden by trees. I pull up to a locked gate, which Evie manages to open after trying several keys on her ring.
Pulling through, we continue down a driveway lined with manicured shrubs. The lawn is surprisingly well kept, considering no one lives here right now, and so is the house, an attractive, older home with a wraparound porch. Evie gestures to a cluster of palm trees on the right. “Let’s park over there, in the shade.”
Evie’s quiet at first. I follow her from room to room, watching her peek below the sheets covering the furniture. I can tell that being here makes her emotional, but soon she starts telling me stories about her great aunt. How close they’d been, her mother too, how this had felt like a magical place.
“Myrtle was my dad’s aunt, but she couldn’t stand him,” she says with a thick laugh, running her fingers over the engraved surface of an antique wardrobe. “She loved us, though. I think she saw herself in my mom.”
Evie leads me upstairs, her hand lingering on the banister. At the top, she pauses and turns to me, her eyes bright. “This was my room,” she says, opening the door to reveal a cozy bedroom with faded, blue floral wallpaper. “Whenever I slept over.”
I follow her in, imagining younger Evie curled up on the white canopy bed with her manga. She goes to the window, parting the lace curtains, and looks out. Her profile seems wistful as I join her, gazing out at the gardens below. “Tristan,” she says after a moment. “Thank you for doing this. For being here with me.” She turns then, face upturned, and my heart constricts at the trust in her eyes. I don’t know if I deserve it, but I like how it feels.
Why is that? Why do I like how it feels? Without thinking, I push her hair over her shoulder, letting my hand linger at her shoulder. “Sure.”
Her eyes flare. The air seems to thicken between us. I know I should pull my hand away, but I can't seem to move. “I want to show you the garden,” she blurts, backing away. “It’s the reason I love gardening so much.”
“Lead the way,” I say, but she’s already gone, probably spooked by me touching her. I keep thinking about what Maribelle said earlier and how blind I must’ve been not to have noticed it. Evie’s always been a skittish, blushing little thing. How was I supposed to know she’d harbored actual feelings for me? Feelings that might not be totally gone? Fuck.
Downstairs, Evie holds the screen door open for me as we leave the glass sunroom at the rear of the house. We step down into the backyard, where a sprawling, lush garden stretches out for about a half an acre. Unlike the meticulously groomed gardens I’m used to, this is kind of wild in a beautiful way, an explosion of colors and textures. There are shade-giving palms and oaks, foliage and flowers so thick in places I can’t see beyond it.
“Holy shit,” I murmur, following Evie over to a stone fountain. No wonder she loves plants so much. This place is like the Garden of Eden.
“There used to be water in this,” she says, running her fingers over the lip of the basin. “And it was full of lily pads.” Walking around the fountain, she points to a cluster of multi-hued blossoms. “I helped her plant those. Zinnias, coneflowers, asters … they attract butterflies, see?”
A pair of yellow butterflies float around the flowers, dipping down as if to drink from them. “Who’s been taking care of it?”
“The estate pays Ms. Bianchi’s firm, believe it or not. Aunt Myrtle set it up before she passed,” she explains, stepping down a brick pathway that winds through a cluster of flower beds.
I walk slowly after her. “I guess it’s your job now, right?”
“I guess.” She nods, stooping to cup a yellow rose in her palm. “Look at these. Mama and I used to help her plant bulbs like this in the fall.”
It’s obvious she misses her aunt, and suddenly I’m relieved that she has this place. It’s full of memories and flowers and all the shit she loves, and she’ll always have it no matter what happens.
“There’s a little creek back there,” she says dreamily, pointing to the very back of the garden as she stands. “There used to be an orangery, too, but it’s probably been taken over by nature.”
I squint, shading my eyes. All I see is trees, lots of dense brush, and more trees. “What’s an orangery?”
“It’s kind of like a greenhouse, but for citrus trees. This one hasn’t been used forever, but it was a big deal back in the olden days.”
My phone vibrates with a text. It’s Lucky.
Can you talk?
“Hold that thought,” I tell Evie, leaving her to reminisce. I stroll around the side of the house to give my brother a call. “What’s up, Lucky?”
“Hey, listen to this.” As always, he jumps right in like we’re mid-conversation. “You know the West Saint Julian Street warehouse? Turns out that building used to belong to the Deschamps family, and they’ve been trying to get Randall to return it to them.”
“Really?” I ask. “When was it theirs?”
“A long, long time ago, like nearly a century ago,” explains Lucky. “Pax got into a private digital archive of the Doyle family’s business records. Looks like they were in business with the Deschamps at one point.”
I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the window I’m passing, and I look shocked. “You’re kidding me.”
“Nope. Pax is still digging around, but I’ll let you know if he finds anything else. ”
“Okay,” I say, thinking about the run-down warehouse. Evie pointed it out to me once, when we were walking around City Market. “I wonder why they would want it back, though? They already own a ton of real estate down here.”
“Lots of prime real estate, right?” Lucky muses. “Real historic?”
“Yeah, but the warehouse is a dump,” I reply. “I’m wondering if they’re more interested in the plot it’s on.”
“Or maybe it’s about what’s in the warehouse. Pax did find a mention of legacy assets in those old records.”
“What are legacy assets?”
“Anything that’s passed from one generation to the next—old equipment, real estate, investments, whatever,” explains Lucky.
“Like a silent distillery?”
He chuckles. “That would be one hell of an asset.”
I circle around the house and start back toward the garden. “I’ll call Kenny, see if he can shed some light on it. Bro’s like the analog version of Pax when it comes to local lore.”
“Whatever it is about this warehouse, you just make sure you watch your back. Nothing I hear about the Deschamps is good,” Lucky says cagily. “Things could get hairy after you secure the takeover next week.”
I rough my fingers through my hair. “I know. I’ve thought about that.”
“I’d feel a lot better if you had a few more guys to help you keep an eye on things,” he adds. “And more hardware.”
“Go ahead and send a few more down. Have ‘em drive so they can come strapped,” I say, finding Evie deep in the garden. She really looks like a flower child now, barefoot, her brilliant red hair glowing in the dappled sunlight. Her rings and bracelets glint as she brushes her nose against a flower, a small, peaceful smile curving her lips. It’s like she belongs here.
I call Kenny the minute we get back to the rental. The info Lucky shared might not mean much, but I won’t know for sure until I ask.
The phone rings a few times before Kenny picks up. “Kenneth LaMonte. ”
“Hey, Kenny. Tristan Kelly,” I say, stepping out onto the back deck. “You got a minute?”
“I got a few,” he quips. “I have an appointment soon, though, so make it snappy.”
“Lucky told me that Randall Doyle’s old warehouse on West Saint Julian Street used to belong to the Deschamps family, and that they’ve been trying to get it back from him for a while. Do you know anything about that?”
There’s a brief pause on the other end of the line. “The Deschamps and Doyles had some kind of business arrangement in the early 1900s, both before and after Prohibition. When that fell apart, there was a dispute over assets, including some land.”
“Interesting.” I pace back and forth on the deck, processing the new information. “Do you know why the Deschamps are so eager to get it back now? Seems like this has been dragging on for such a long time.”
“There might be something important in that building,” Kenny says. Exactly what Lucky said. Legacy assets . “But I’m guessing they just want it so they can fix it up and rent it out. Make some of their money back from Randall that way.”
“A buddy of mine told me the Doyle warehouse was a point of contention amongst the businesses around City Market because Randall wasn’t keeping it up to standard,” Kenny goes on. “When the Deschamps got wind of that, they doubled down on their efforts to reclaim it. Randall finally agreed to sign it back over to the Deschamps—I’m assuming as a partial repayment of his debt to them—but he’s been putting it off for years.”
“Sounds like reneging on deals is his M.O.,” I say, letting out a low whistle. “How is he not dead in a ditch somewhere?”
“Well, the Deschamps can’t prove it’s theirs, so they have no legal standing,” he says. “Just like your daddy can’t technically prove that Randall owes him even though we all know he does.”
“Yeah, but I get the impression they don’t always go the legal route.” And neither do we . I lean on the railing, looking out into the darkening yard. “Randall’s not just playing with fire. He’s playing with explosives.”