Stargazey Point (2 page)

He tossed the chamois on his worktable, lifted his keys off the peg by the door, and stopped to look around as he did at the end of every workday. For a full minute he just stood and breathed in the faint odor of machine oil, mildew, and childhood memories.

He tried to imagine the time when he’d stop for the day, look up, and see all the work he’d put into the old derelict building gleaming back at him; the colored lights refracting off the restored mirrors bursting into fractured reds, blues, and yellows, while music swirled around his head and the smell of fresh sawdust curled in his nostrils.

So far he only saw a dark almost empty room, locked away from the world by a sagging plywood door. Right now he only saw how much more there was to do. But never once since he’d returned had he ever looked over the space and thought,
What the hell have I done?

Cabot padlocked the door, then crossed the street to Hadley’s, the local grocery store, bait shop, and gas station. He jogged up the wooden steps to the porch and was just pulling a Coke out of the old metal ice chest when Silas Cook came out the door, a string bag of crabs slung over his shoulder. He dropped the bag into a bucket of water and sat down on the steps. Cab sat down beside him and took a long swig from the bottle of Coke.

“You see that taxicab drive through town awhile back?” Silas asked.

“I heard it. Did you?”

“Sure did. Me and Hadley came right out here on the porch and watched it drive by.”

“See the passenger?”

“A girl come all the way from Chicag-ah.”

Cabot nodded. Like Chicago was the end of the earth.

“You goin’ on over there?” asked Silas, nodding down the street toward the old Crispin House.

“After I get cleaned up. I finagled myself an invitation to dinner.”

“Well, you in luck there, ’cause I just dropped off a dozen of the finest lady blue claws you’ll see this season. Told Ervina she oughta just drop em in the pot but Miss Millie, she want crab bisque. So she make crab bisque.”

Cabot leaned back and rested his elbows on the top step. “Fine dining and a chance to get a good, close look at the Crispins’ guest. Find out just what she’s up to.”

“What do you think she’s up to? She’s a friend of their niece’s, like they said, come on vacation.”

“Maybe. But what do we know about their niece? They haven’t seen her in years. Maybe she sees a gold mine waiting to be exploited.”

Silas pushed to his feet and looked down at Cab. “Go on, Mr. Cab. You don’t trust much of nobody, do you?”

Cabot was taken aback. “Why do you say that? I trust you, and Hadley, and Beau, and . . .”

“I mean other people.”

“Sure I do.”

“You more protective of this town than folks who’ve lived here all their lives, and their daddies and granddaddies, too.”

“You gotta protect what’s yours, you should know that, Silas.”

“Yessuh, I know it. And I learnt it the hard way. I just don’t get why you know it. Well, I’d best be getting these gals in my own pot.” Silas started down the steps; when he got to the bottom, he turned back to Cabot. “You tell Mr. Beau, I’m going out fishin’ tomorrah if he wanna come.”

“I will.” Cabot gave the older man a quick salute and finished his Coke while he watched Silas walk down the street. Then he went inside to pay for his drink.

“One Co-cola,” Hadley said, punching the keys of an ancient cash register. “You see Silas outside?”

“Yeah,” Cab said. “I’m getting crab bisque at the Crispins’ tonight.”

“Did he also tell you we seen their visitor?”

“Yep.”

“She was a pretty thing as far as I could see. Pale as a ghost though, even her hair, kinda whitelike. She looked out of the window just as she passed by and I swear it was like she looked right into me. It was kinda spooky.”

“Spooky or speculative? Like someone planning to cheat the Crispins out of their house and land?”

“Don’t know about that. Silas says they’re expecting her. Friend of their great-niece’s or some such.”

“Maybe,” Cabot agreed. “I’ll keep an eye on her.”

“Know you will, son. Know you will.”

Cabot walked home, thinking about the Crispins and his uncle Ned, who was the reason he was here. Or at least the reason that brought him to Stargazey Point this last time. Ned had died and left Cabot everything.

He’d hardly seen his uncle since he’d graduated from high school over fifteen years ago. But before that, he’d spent every summer with Ned, working long hours at the now defunct boardwalk.

He’d driven over from Atlanta to settle Ned’s estate. It wasn’t much, the old octagonal building, a small tin-roofed cottage in the backside of town. And the contents of a shed situated inland and watched over by an ancient Gullah man named Abraham.

That discovery had sealed his fate. The memories of the magical summers he’d spent with Ned broke through the high-pressured, high-tech world he inhabited, and he knew he had to recapture that magic. He gave up his “promising” career as an industrial architect for an uncertain future. Traded his minimalist-designed, state-of-the-art apartment for a rotten porch, broken windows, and peeling paint.

According to his Atlanta colleagues, he’d lost his mind.

When he asked his fiancée, Bailey, to move to Stargazey Point with him, she accused him of playing Peter Pan. Just before she threw her two-karat engagement ring at his head.

Peter Pan or crazy, he didn’t care. He was working longer hours than he had in Atlanta, but he fell into bed each night and slept like a baby until sunrise. Woke up each morning with a clear conscience and he felt alive.

Things had changed in the years since he’d visited here as a boy. People had been hit hard. Houses sat empty, where their owners had given up and sold out or just moved on. All around them, real estate was being gobbled up by investors.

Silas was right; he didn’t trust people. Especially ones who came with big ideas on how to improve their little, mostly forgotten town—starting with selling all your property to them. He knew those people; hell, he’d been one of those people.

And now suddenly, out of the blue, a friend of the niece shows up, which was a stretch considering they hadn’t seen their great-niece in years. He’d tried to convince the Crispins not to let her stay in the house. They knew nothing about her; she might have ulterior motives and he’d be damned if he’d let those three be taken advantage of. They were proud, old-fashioned, and close to penniless. Vulnerable to any scam.

Abbie Sinclair. Just the name sounded like pencil skirts and four-inch heels. A calfskin briefcase attached to a slender hand with perfectly manicured fingernails, talons just waiting to snatch away their home and way of life.

A
bbie should have seen it coming once the taxi entered the tunnel of antebellum oak trees. One second she’d been looking at the ocean, the next the sun disappeared and they bounced along uneven ground beneath an archway of trees. The temperature dropped several degrees, and Abbie’s eyes strained against the sudden darkness to see ahead. Another minute and they were spit out into the sunshine again.

And there was Crispin House.

It was more than a house, more like a Southern plantation. Not the kind with big white columns, but three-storied white wood and stucco, with wraparound porches on the upper two floors. The first floor was supported by a series of stone arches that made Abbie think of a monastery with dark robed monks going about their daily chores in the shadows. Italianate, if she remembered her architectural styles correctly.

The taxi stopped at the steps that led up to the front door. For a long minute Abbie just sat in the backseat of the cab and stared.

“Whooo.” The driver whistled. “Somebody sure needs to give that lady a coat of paint.”

He was right. The house had been sorely neglected. She just hoped the inside was in better shape.

She could see spots of peeling paint and a few unpainted balusters where someone had repaired the porch rail. There was a patch of uneven grass and one giant solitary oak that spread its branches over the wide front steps, casting the porch in shadow.

This was crazy. Celeste had merely said her relatives would love to have her stay with them, they had plenty of room. She hadn’t said that they could have housed a large portion of the Confederate army. Well, she’d stay one night and if things didn’t work out, she’d seen an inn in the little town they’d just driven through. It at least had a coat of paint.

She paid the driver, added a generous tip since it seemed that he wouldn’t have any return fares, and prepared to meet the Crispin family.

There was movement on the porch, and Abbie realized that a man had been sitting on the rail watching her. He stood, fumbled in his pockets, brushed his palms together, and started down the stairs, lean and lanky and moving slow, his knees sticking out to the side with each downward step.

Abbie reached for the door handle, but the door opened and a face appeared in the opening. His skin was crinkled and deeply lined from the sun. A shock of thick white hair had escaped from his carefully groomed part and stuck up above his forehead. Bright blue eyes twinkled beneath bushy white eyebrows and managed to appear both fun loving and wise at the same time. Abbie suspected he’d been quite handsome as a young man. He still was.

“Miz Sinclair?”

“Yes,” Abbie said, though it took her a second to recognize her own name. In its slow delivery, it sounded more like Sinclayuh. It was soft and melodious, like a song, and Abbie relaxed just a little. “You must be Mr. Crispin.”

“Yes’m, that’s me. But folks round here all call me Beau.” He held out a large bony hand, the veins thick as ropes across the back, then he snatched it back, rubbed it vigorously on his pants leg, and presented it again.

Abbie smiled up at Beauregard Crispin, took his proffered hand, and got out of the car.

The driver carried her two bags up to the porch. “Y’all have a nice stay,” he said, then nodded to Mr. Crispin, got back in the taxi, and drove away.

Abbie felt a moment of panic. She had a feeling there might not be another taxi for miles.

“After you.”

She hesitated, just looking at Beau’s outstretched hand, then she forced a smile and began to climb the wide wooden steps. She’d just reached the porch when the screen door opened and two women stepped out of the rectangle of darkness. They had to be Millie and Marnie. The Crispin sisters.

Here’s the thing about my relatives,
Celeste had told her.
They’re sweet as pie, but they’re old-fashioned. I mean really old-fashioned, like pre–Civil War old-fashioned.

Abbie had laughed, well, her version of a laugh these days.
I get it, they’re old-fashioned. No four-letter words, no politics, no religion. Not to worry, I have better sense than to talk politics to people who lost the wahr.

The what?

The war. That was my attempt at a Southern accent. No good?

Celeste shook her head.
Not by a long shot.
She dropped into a speech pattern that she’d nearly erased through much practice and four years of studying communications.
The wahuh. Two syllables and soft. It’s South Carolina, not Texas. We’re refined. We’ve got Charleston.

Abbie impulsively grabbed Celeste’s hand.
Don’t you want to go with me?

I’d love to but I can’t get away from the station.

When was the last time you had a vacation?

Can’t remember. You know the media. Out of sight, out of— Go have a good time. Let them pamper you. They’re experts.

Now, Abbie suddenly got it. She would have recognized them in a crowd. Millie, the younger sister, prim, petite, neatly dressed and hair coifed in a tidy little bun at the nape of her neck. And Marnie, taller, rawboned, dressed in a pair of dungarees and a tattered man’s T-shirt smeared with dirt. Her white hair was thick and wild with curls. According to Celeste, Marnie had left the fold at sixteen only to return fifty years later, the intervening years unspoken of, what she had done or where she had been, a mystery.

Us kids used to make up stories about her. Once we were convinced she was a spy for the CIA, then we decided she traveled to Paris and became the mistress of a tortured painter and posed nude for him. We were very precocious.

She came for a visit once, but we weren’t allowed to see her. She only stayed two days, and I heard Momma tell Daddy that she was drinking buttermilk the whole time she was there, ’cause it was the only thing she missed. And Daddy said, it was because it covered the smell of the scotch she poured into it.

They’re teetotalers.

Not at all. Aunt Millie has a sherry every afternoon.

“My de-ah,” Millie Crispin said, coming forward and holding out both hands. “Welcome to Crispin House. We’re so glad to have you. Beau, get Abbie’s luggage and bring it inside.”

“Please, I can—” But that was as far as she got before she was swept across the threshold by the deceptively fragile-looking Millie.

“Now you just come inside and leave everything to Beau.”

Abbie didn’t want to think of Beau struggling with her suitcases, but she saw Marnie slip past them to give her brother a hand, just before Millie guided her through a wide oak door and into a high-ceilinged foyer.

“I thought you might like to see your room first and get settled in,” Millie said in her soft drawl.

“Thank you.” Abbie followed her up a curved staircase to the second floor, matching her steps to Millie’s slower ones.

At the top of the stairs was a landing that overlooked the foyer. A portrait of a man in uniform hung above a side table and large Chinese vase. Three hallways led to the rest of the house.

Millie started down the center hall. “We’ve put you in the back guest suite. Celeste and her mama and daddy used to stay there when they visited.” Millie sighed. “There’s a lovely view.” She chattered on while Abbie followed a footstep behind her and tried to decipher the pattern of the faded oriental runner.