Stargazey Point Page 3

  Beau, wearing a dark suit and looking uncomfortable, stood up when Abbie stepped through the archway. And so did another man.

  “Abbie, come in and sit down over here,” said Millie. “Beau, pour Abbie a little glass of sherry.”

  “She might prefer something else, Sister,” Marnie said.

  “Oh.” Millie’s hand flew to her chest. “Of course.” She frowned at Abbie, more flustered than judgmental.

  “Sherry’s fine,” Abbie said. She could swear Marnie snorted. Abbie took a closer look at Marnie’s sherry glass and wondered if it might contain the infamous scotch.

  The stranger had sat down and was lounging in a big club chair, one ankle crossed over his knee. He was drinking something dark in a tumbler. It matched his attitude and his looks, which were pretty okay even by Chicago standards. Dark hair, dark eyes, tanned, fit from what she could tell by the shirt front that showed through his unbuttoned sports jacket. He eyed her speculatively and not at all friendly.

  Good. For a minute she’d been afraid the sisters were trying to set her up.

  “My goodness, where are my manners,” Millie said. “Cabot, this is our guest, Abbie Sinclair. Abbie, this is Cabot Reynolds . . . the third.”

  The third, right. Abbie fought not to roll her eyes; Marnie didn’t bother.

  “How do you do?” he said dryly.

  “Nice to meet you,” she said, matching his tone. The air between them could have chilled lemonade. Fine by Abbie.

  “And how long are you staying, Miss Sinclair?”

  Longer than you want me to, obviously, thought Abbie. And what was that all about? She thought Southern men were supposed to have impeccable manners. But maybe he wasn’t totally Southern. His voice modulated from a soft Southern drawl to something with more bite. Probably educated at a stuffy private school, where Reynolds the first and second had attended.

  At that moment a gong echoed from somewhere in the house.

  Marnie shook her head and stood up. They walked across the hall to the dining room. Cabot the third escorted Millie; Beau offered an elbow first to Abbie, then Marnie.

  Marnie leaned past her brother. “Don’t get used to all this grandeur,” she whispered. “Usually we just eat on trays in front of the television.”

  Abbie smiled. “Good to know.” Whatever this trip would be, Abbie was getting the feeling it wouldn’t be dull. The three siblings alone would make a great study. Gentility gone to seed, but struggling to survive. A way of life, fragile and soon to become extinct . . .

  Abbie’s step faltered as her mind automatically switched into documentary mode. Beau’s hand tightened over hers, and he gave her an encouraging smile. She smiled back and with an effort pulled her mind back to dinner.

  No more lapses like that, she warned herself. That life was over. She wouldn’t go there again.

  The dining room was a long rectangular room painted a pale yellow and surrounded by a white chair rail. At the far end, French doors opened onto a brick patio and overgrown shrubbery. The oval dining table was placed off center, which Abbie surmised was because several leaves had been taken out to accommodate only five diners. It was still huge and she was glad that the place settings had been clustered around one end with Millie at the head of the table, Beau and Marnie to her left, and Cabot and Abbie to her right.

  Dinner was everything she had imagined a Southern dinner to be. Crystal wine and water glasses, the good china, and sterling flatware. The house itself might be slowly fading away, but they were still dining in style.

  The first course arrived in a flowered gold-rimmed soup tureen carried by a young African American man dressed in a white coat and black trousers several inches too short. He held the tureen as if it contained nitroglycerin while Ervina ladled a rich crab bisque, pale pink with chunks of crabmeat, into their bowls.

  “Thank you, Ervina,” Marnie said. “How are you doing this evening, Jerome?”

  Jerome grinned at her for a second before he lowered his head. “Fine, ma’am,” he mumbled and sped back to the kitchen. Ervina followed at a slower pace.

  The soup was thick and rich, and Abbie was stuffed by the time the next course arrived. She hadn’t been eating very much lately. She looked apprehensively at the roasted chicken, the potatoes, greens of some variety, corn bread, and several other dishes. And she wondered how she could manage to eat enough not to appear rude.

  “Why, Millie, this is a feast fit for a king.” Cabot the third smiled charmingly at Millie then cut Abbie a sideways look.

  “Delicious,” she agreed, resenting the arrogant so-and-so who thought he had to prompt her on good manners.

  Millie beamed back at the two of them.

  Marnie looked across the table and said, “Only eat what you want. It’s sometimes hard to eat at the end of a travel day.” She aimed the last part of the sentence at Millie.

  “Why, of course,” said Millie. “And if you get hungry during the night, you just come down to the kitchen and make yourself at home. Ervina goes home at night so you’ll have to fend for yourself.”

  “I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

  “We are early risers and eat breakfast about seven o’clock, but you sleep in and we’ll fix you something when you’re good and ready.”

  “Thank you, really. But you don’t have to feed me. I’m sure there are plenty of places in town. I’m just happy that you’re letting me take advantage of your hospitality.”

  “Nonsense,” Millie said. “We love takin’ care of our young people. Though most of them seem to move away as soon as they can. It might be a little dull around here until the season begins, but I’m sure Cabot would love to show you around town.”

  “Thank you, but—”

  “When you’re rested up. You’d love to do that, wouldn’t you, Cabot?”

  Abbie doubted it. “I wouldn’t want to take Mr. Reynolds away from . . .” Whatever it is he does.

  “I’d be happy to.” He smiled tightly at Abbie.

  She smiled back just as tightly. She’d have to have a talk with the sisters tomorrow and gently, but firmly, tell them she was not interested. Not in Cabot “the third” or anyone else.

  “But I can’t until Tuesday. The community center’s water heater’s rusted out and I told Sarah I’d come over and help Otis install the new one. Then I have a job over in Plantersville in the afternoon.”

  So he worked. As a plumber? Before she could ask him, Jerome came back with individual crystal dishes of a thick yellow pudding filled with chunks of bananas and vanilla wafers.

  Abbie managed to eat dessert, which was delicious, listening politely to the conversation without having to think of too much to say. Between the food, and the slow lyrical voices, exhaustion began to creep over her. Millie and Cabot did most of the talking, while Marnie occasionally put in a word or two. Beau just ate, answered when he was spoken to directly, but didn’t volunteer any conversation of his own.

  A block of partially carved wood sat by his plate, and several times Abbie saw his hand inch toward it only to draw away again at a mere glance from Millie. Abbie wished she had asked more about the family before coming. She knew anecdotal-over-a-martini details, like Marnie camouflaging the smell of scotch with buttermilk, and how Millie ruled the house even though it was really Beau’s inheritance. But she hadn’t heard any real history, and it was obvious there was some interesting history between the three.

  As Abbie wa
tched their interplay, she became more intrigued. She liked the siblings. What she didn’t get was how Cabot Reynolds the third fit into it. Celeste hadn’t mentioned him. He didn’t seem to be a relative, and yet he obviously had free rein of the place. Maybe that’s why she was picking up such unfriendliness from him. He was afraid she’d usurp his position as favored guest?

  He might be a plumber, but Crispin House and the land that surrounded it must be worth a fortune. And Cabot the third might just be trying to parlay friendship into financial gain—for himself.

  Don’t get involved, she warned herself. She wasn’t going to do that anymore. No more lost causes. No more exposés. No more long weeks of grueling work in hideous conditions just to have your film confiscated, your cameras destroyed, your . . .

  “And we want you to stay just as long as you can. If you don’t think it will be too dull.”

  Abbie realized that everyone was looking at her; there was concern on Marnie’s face.

  God, what had they been talking about? “I don’t think it will be dull at all. Solitude is just what I came for.”

  “Well, you’ll find plenty of that here,” Marnie said under her breath.

  “We won’t bother you at all,” added Millie. “Will we, Sister?”

  “Not at all,” Marnie said, attention focused on Abbie. “You just come and go as you like.”

  Abbie sneaked a peek at Cabot Reynolds. He was frowning at his water glass. He definitely didn’t want her around.

  Millie stood, and the others took their cue. Beau surreptitiously slipped the piece of wood in his pocket and edged toward the door.

  “I’d best be taking off,” Cabot announced as soon as they reached the archway to the parlor. “Your guest looks like she might nod off midsentence.”

  Abbie widened her eyes and suppressed a yawn.

  “By the way, Beau, Silas said he was going fishing tomorrow if you were interested.”

  “Yes, thank you, Cabot, I think I am. I’ll walk you back into town.”

  “Don’t you stay out till all hours,” Millie said.

  “Haven’t stayed out till all hours since I was in the merchant marines,” Beau said and winked at Abbie.

  “Thank you for dinner,” Cab said. “You tell Ervina for me that that’s the best crab bisque I had all season.”

  “I will. Beau, you keep that jacket on if you’re going outside.”

  “G’night, Cab,” Marnie said.

  Abbie smiled and nodded; Cab nodded. The two men left.

  “Well, we won’t see him back anytime soon,” Millie said with a sigh.

  It took Abbie a couple of seconds to realize she was talking about Beau and not Cabot. Beau didn’t say much, and he was definitely more comfortable with a piece of wood in his hand than sitting over a china bowl of bisque making polite conversation—something Abbie could relate to—but he seemed perfectly capable of taking care of himself.

  “Would you like to go up to your room, dear? You’re welcome to watch some television with Sister and me. We don’t have cable, but we can pick up the Charleston and Myrtle Beach stations pretty good.”

  “I think I’ll go up and read for a bit. It must be the salt air, but I’m tired. It was a lovely dinner. Thank you.”

  “Our pleasure. Good night, dear.”

  Abbie climbed the stairs to her room, dreading the idea of going to sleep, but dreading the idea of having to watch the evening news with Marnie and Millie more.

  She wondered how long she could stand Millie’s solicitude. It was probably what Southern hostesses did. Abbie had visited a lot of countries, met all kinds of people, but she’d never met anyone like Millie. It was as if she belonged in another era, like one of those characters in the recent burst of Southern movies. Which, Abbie realized, were probably based on people like Millie.

  “I always rely on the kindness of strangers,” Abbie mumbled to herself in a pitiful rendition of a Southern accent. And realized she was actually relying on the kindness of strangers. And she was grateful.

  That night she slept like the dead, and the dead came back to haunt her.

  Beau and Cab walked back into town. It was a cool evening, growing cooler as the sun sank beneath the horizon, but Beau had shed his suit jacket the minute they were outside and left it hanging on the porch rail.

  “You get that engine up and running yet?” Beau asked.

  “Not yet, but I’m close,” Cab said. “I got it tuned properly and it goes for a few seconds, then it gets hung up. I’ve scoured rust, oiled parts, refitted pieces, but it still gets hung up.”

  “I’ll come over and take a look for you tomorrow.”

  “That would be great. Thanks.”

  Beau nodded. Reached into his pocket for his piece of wood.

  “So,” Cabot began. “Your visitor seems nice enough.”

  “Pretty girl,” Beau said as he fumbled in his shirt pocket for his knife. “I was always partial to blue-eyed blondes.”

  Cab groaned inwardly. It wouldn’t take much for Abbie Sinclair to have Beau wound around her little finger.

  “She’s a friend of your niece’s?”

  “Celeste.”

  “Right. What did Celeste tell you about her?”

  Beau stopped and peered at Cabot. “You interested in her, son?”

  “If you mean are we gonna have to fight over her, no.”

  Beau chuckled.

  “She hardly said a word at dinner. I was just curious why she would choose Stargazey Point for a vacation. She looks like an Aruba kind of woman.”

  “Huh,” Beau said. “Don’t strike me that way. Something int’resting about her though.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t know. But you can feel it.”

  The only thing Cab felt was trepidation that this was another developer’s ploy to cheat the Crispins out of their property. She wouldn’t be the first. They’d been circling like buzzards since Cab had been back and probably before then. Silas and a handful of others had sold their property for way below what it was worth, but that was before Cab’s return. These days, pretty much everybody came to him for advice. Most of the time he’d tell them not to sell.

  It was selfish he knew. Many of them were barely getting by. Hell, he even had to take on some local design jobs, but most of the offers were way below the value of the property.

  They reached the old pier and Beau stopped. “You’re mighty quiet tonight, boy.”

  “Got a lot on my mind, I guess.”

  “Nothin’ bad, I hope.”

  “No, nothing bad.” He’d make sure it wasn’t. It was a good thing after all that Millie had coerced him into taking Ms. Sinclair sightseeing. The best thing he could do was to trap her into giving herself away while he was showing her around on Tuesday. And if she did, he’d have her on her way to the airport before she could whistle “Dixie,” if she even knew the tune.

  “Well, I’ll be seeing you tomorrow then.” Beau wandered off toward the pier. Cabot watched him climb down the rotting pylons to sit on the cement seawall below. It was still just light enough to see the blade of his knife as it sliced into the unformed block of wood.

  Cabot turned toward home thinking about Beau and what it must be like to live surrounded by those two strong-willed women. It would drive Cab mad, but Beau took everything in stride, wandering off to carve beautiful, mysterious forms. Mysterious because Cab had never seen a finished
product, not even in all the summers he’d spent here. Maybe Beau never finished them, just carved and whittled until he carved the wood away.

  Cab couldn’t imagine the Point without Beau and his block of wood.

  And he couldn’t imagine himself anywhere else.

  Instead of going home, he walked the half block to his reason for being in Stargazey. Riffled through his keys until he found the one that opened the padlock that secured the double plywood door. The original doors had been blown off in Hurricane Hugo in 1989, then again in ’99 and ’04. After the last time, Ned hadn’t opened up again. Tourism was off, the beaches had eroded, and with the opening of the big theme parks, there wasn’t much call for his kind of business.

  Cab pulled at one side of the door. It scraped against the dirt as it arced outward. He’d have to put proper doors on soon—these were too unwieldy and probably not that safe—but he had some time still. He wanted new windows installed, the place painted, the electricity working. . . .

  He stepped into the dark cavernous space, thinking he could smell the freshly laid sawdust, hear the distant echo of music, the whirl of lights and mirrors, the delighted squeals of children, the laughter of adults.

  Peter Pan? Maybe. He just knew that even with a promising future, a beautiful fiancée, and a substantial stock portfolio, his life had been sterile and bleak. Until he’d come back to Stargazey Point to settle Ned’s estate. He’d returned to Atlanta seemingly the same, but he had changed in the space of a few short days and the discovery of Ned’s legacy.

  He looked into the dark at the strange machinery and half-finished structures and felt happy. He’d given up everything for this, and he’d be damned if he’d let anyone, including Abbie Sinclair, take it away.

  Abbie scrambles on her hands and knees. Past the donkey, eyes rolling in terror. She thrusts a rigid arm toward the small hand that stretches open-fingered from the mud. She can’t reach it. The harder she tries, the farther it slides away. Only the donkey stays, his head thrashing in the mud. But she can’t reach the boy. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”