Chapter Three
THE HOUSE IS QUIET AS I MOVE THROUGH THE KITCHEN AND start mixing up a box of blueberry muffins, timing them to be fresh out of the oven at nine. Milly’s always punctual. And she has a sweet tooth. Never mind that I could eat five myself right now.
Morning light pours through the windows in wide slants, covering the counter and the manila folder with patterned light. I slide it closer, my fingers catching the edge, and suddenly I’m back in that office in Charleston.
“She wanted you to have the house, Lucy. She was clear about that,” Mr. Hassell says.
I nodded, but it didn’t quite hit me. I signed the papers and walked out like my life hadn’t just changed shape.
Now, standing here slightly hungover in her kitchen, I open the folder again.
Inside, it’s all still there, deed papers, account info, a note Gran wrote in her shaky but unmistakable hand.
“Take care of this place, and it will take care of you. The walls hold more than memories. They’ll always remind you who you are.”
Behind the note is a typed letter from Mr. Hasell, outlining the basics of a trust that Gran set up. Enough to cover upkeep, taxes, some repairs if I’m careful. I press my thumb against the curve of her signature.
Right on time, I hear Milly’s voice from the front porch. “Yoohoo, Lucy!”
“Come on in, Milly,” I call out.
She steps into the kitchen carrying a spiral notebook with a plate of cookies stacked on top.
I smile. “Are those chocolate chip?”
“Wouldn’t dream of bringing anything else,” she laughs, setting them down on the island. “It’s fixing to be a beautiful day, so let’s get this boring stuff over quickly, shall we?”
She plants her hands on her hips and grins. “I can see that look. You’re already ten steps ahead in your mind. But trust me, this part’s simple. We’ll be through it in no time.”
We settle in at the breakfast table with the blueberry muffins between us.
Milly opens the notebook and dives in, running through everything.
She’s already compiled a list of contacts, service providers, and account details, bless her.
She’ll continue managing the day-to-day maintenance of the house, and I can handle any payments from the RBC account here in the Bahamas.
I need to go by the bank to get that all settled.
“I’d been telling Margaret over the last year that we’d need to look at replacing the garage roof soon,” Milly says, flipping a page.
“I just noticed it yesterday,” I nod. “I should probably handle it before hurricane season, don’t you think?”
“I’ll have Jay come take a look,” she says, jotting it down in her notes.
“You’re a lifesaver, Milly. I don’t know how I’d do this without you.” Especially from Charleston. It feels almost manageable with her here to help.
“I’ve been thinking about something. I know Gran never wanted to rent out the house…but I’m considering it. What do you think?”
Milly leans forward, eyes bright. “I think it’s a wonderful idea. It’d be a shame for this pretty house to sit empty too much. You could ease into it, start by renting to friends of friends.”
“That’s a good idea.”
She scans the room. “We’ll need to declutter a little, too. Just a little freshening up.”
I nod, already thinking about the closets in Gran’s room.
After we finish, Milly leaves me with the notebook she prepared, neatly tabbed and more organized than anything I could’ve pulled together.
I can almost picture it, guests coming and going, the house pulsing with life again.
My shoulders relax as I tuck the notebook under my arm, a small spark of possibility flickering.
I pull my hair up and decide it’s time. If I’m going to rent this place someday, I need to start cleaning and organizing, especially Gran’s suite.
I begin in her bedroom. The chaise where she used to read with the stack of Town & Country magazines fanned out.
The closet doors creak slightly when I open them.
Inside, the walk-in is like stepping into a time capsule of quiet elegance.
Her rose perfume lingers on the racks of dresses in every shade of white, cream, and blush.
Her signature wide brim hats hang on pegs beside a single straw bag with slightly frayed handles.
I start slowly, pulling out pieces one by one and putting them into piles.
Keep. Donate. Maybe. I’ll call Mom later to see what she and Dad might want.
I fold carefully, setting aside a few pieces I know I’ll never part with.
I find one of Gran’s old caftans folded carefully at the back of a shelf, pale coral silk with a delicate neckline of beading.
I hold it up and smile. The memories are so vivid they feel alive.
Of friends, a mix of locals and part-timers, our bonds deepened season after season.
We’d fill our days on the beach, running up to Tip Top for candy and snacks, and sneaking over to Grandfather’s Beach.
As we got older, we’d take boats out to quieter beaches on nearby islands, where a lot more exploring, and a lot more firsts, happened. The freedom we had here was a teenage dream. Loose curfews. Late-night dock parties. Tan lines we’d spent hours working on, and laughter echoing into the dark.
While we were off adventuring, the adults would spend lunch hours at Coral Sands’ deck, overlooking the beach.
It has one of the best views on the island.
Dinners rotated between houses. There was always something, a cocktail hour, a garden party, a beach bonfire.
And we were never excluded from the festivities.
That was the magic of it. We were expected to show up. Dressed. On time. Ready to mingle.
By the age of sixteen my friends and I were sneaking Rum Dums and Goombay Smashes, carrying on lively conversations at the dinner table with far too much confidence.
Gran said one should never underestimate the importance of social skills.
As a result, I’ve always been able to hold my own at any dinner table with any guest. I don’t think Gran knew about the Rum Dums, but then again, nothing got past her.
The parties were always chic but unfussy.
You’d spot celebrities, swimsuit models from whatever magazine or catalogue shoot was happening on the beach, sometimes even royals.
At one dinner, I was seated next to an actual princess.
I was surprised by how normal she was. We hit it off and still spend time together whenever she visits.
Nothing was too perfect. The power would cut out. Storms would roll in out of nowhere. We’d end up dressing in the dark, eating and dancing by candlelight. It only made the moment better.
I press the caftan to my chest, then fold it gently and place it in the “keep” pile.