CHAPTER 1
March in the South Carolina Lowcountry could be unpredictable. Rain. Heat. A sudden chill or a blustery wind was commonplace. Get a few miles inland, away from coastal breezes, and there might even be a hint of the humidity that would intensify with summer. Overhead, tall pines, heavy with pollen, swayed until everything was covered in a distinct neon-yellow.
Holly Brooks preferred the tangy salty-sea air and lower humidity of Brookwell Island, but when her mom called, she drove inland to visit. Though Holly had been raised on the island and planned to spend the rest of her life in this amazing small town, her parents’ marriage had fallen apart while she’d been in college.
Embarrassed beyond measure, her mother had filed for divorce, sold the house, and hit the restart button on her life. Holly didn’t blame her. Small-town life could be intense, especially when things went wrong and painful secrets suddenly became the topic of every conversation.
Which was why she dedicated herself to getting the story right—whatever it might be. As the editor-in-chief, lead reporter, and occasional delivery driver for the localBrookwell Bugle,she believed full transparency was essential to doing the job right for the community. But she insisted on applying as much compassion as possible in the process.
She rolled down the window on her old-faithful powder-blue pickup as she drove across the bridge. One breath of that marsh air and she was home. Amazing how a few miles could make such a difference. Cruising along Central Avenue, she waved at the folks she recognized, turning down Bay Street toward her two-bedroom bungalow. Parking under the carport, she was more than ready to get back to her home office and check for messages.
The only time Holly and her work phone were parted was when she went to see her mom, out of respect for what she’d gone through. The break wasn’t usually a big deal—Brookwell was a small market—but she’d been waiting for news about a freelance piece she’d submitted to a bigger outlet. Her salary with theBuglewas fair, but having steady freelance income made life much more comfortable.
She’d missed five calls, and had three messages waiting in voice mail. As she changed from the dress she’d worn to brunch with her mom into her favorite faded jeans and aBrookwell Buglepolo shirt, she hit the speaker button and let the messages play.
The acceptance of her freelance pitch earned a fist pump, Parker’s Fish Camp wanted her to run another help-wanted ad for servers, but it was the message from herBugleco-editor Vince Goodridge that stopped her cold.
She hit replay on the voicemail app. Over the sound of highway traffic, she listened to Vince’s message again.
Hey, Holl! The new owner of the Marion estate on the point has moved in. Sebastian Sterling. Some tech genius or investor type. Anyway, I had an in-person interview with him today, but I’m stuck out here with a flat tire. My notes are in the Buglefolder. If you can’t cover it, let me know and I’ll call him to reschedule.
Timing wasn’t the issue. The Marion estate was less than thirty minutes away if she took her bicycle and the day was too beautiful to take the truck. But hearing the Sterling name gave her pause. Everyone wanted more details on the island’s newest resident. Gathering her camera and voice recorder, she sent Vince a text message that she would take the interview.
At least she wouldn’t be going in completely blind. Like her, Vince knew the value of background research. They worked well together to highlight and focus on the vibrant life of Brookwell Island, showcasing the community and all it had to offer for locals and tourists alike.
Last year, their coverage of the annual music festival had been picked up by three regional outlets. They’d celebrated together at the Pelican Pub with a bottle of champagne. Reviewing Vince’s notes on Sterling and the questions that topped his list, she had the feeling her partner was aiming for this article to go viral. She would certainly do her best to get the intel he was after so that when the interview was published, it had the best chance of success.
Holly pulled her hair up into a high ponytail and slipped into her battered deck shoes for the trip. Pedaling her sea-foam green beach cruiser up the gentle incline toward the north end of the island, she felt a bead of sweat trickle down the nape of her neck, disappearing beneath the collar of her shirt. She shifted gears, the chain on her bike giving a rhythmic click-clack before the ride got easier.
A couple weeks ago, she had conducted interviews with a few longstanding legacy-seat members of the music festival committee. The annual summer festival was the biggest tourism draw for Brookwell and committee seats were more hotly contested than official local elections. Some folks were sure thelegacy seat holders got in the way of progress, but after her interviews Holly didn’t agree.
Her friend Grace Teague, owner of the Beach Belle clothing shop on Central Avenue was a perfect example. As long as the Teague family owned the boutique, they would have one seat on the coveted committee. Grace took her role on the committee seriously and, in Holly’s opinion, did an excellent job of balancing the local interests with the adjustments that allowed essential growth of the event.
Ages ago, the Marion family had a festival committee seat as well as a perpetual position on the town council. She’d have to look up whether that valuable committee seat carried over to the new owner.
Of course, that was her focus, not Vince’s and she was heading to the Marion estate to conduct the interview on his behalf.
Though she supposed it was now the Sterling estate, it would take time for the town to latch on to the name change. Possibly forever. In a town like Brookwell, history and tradition often overruled something as basic as new ownership.
Whatever they called it, the estate was a sprawling piece of prime, waterfront land that had been left to sit dormant for over fifteen years. Mrs. Woodrow Marion, widow of the late Senator Marion, had been the last resident.
Until now.
Holly had sat through her share of town council meetings as the fate of the Marion estate was debated. Although they had no claim on the property, no one wanted to see it fall into disrepair. Fortunately, the senator had made arrangements for basic upkeep, but it seemed his descendants had no fondness for small town life.
She could hardly wait to get inside and see the place. She’d been too young to attend the lavish parties the estate was famousfor. But she’d spent plenty of time in the digital archives in Charleston and Brookwell fascinated by the photos of the estate and its many famous guests.
Sebastian Sterling was officially famous, but apparently not a guest. He was a tech titan who had built an empire on encryption and then vanished from the Silicon Valley scene.
She wondered how he’d convinced the Marion heirs to sell. “Every story has a secret,” Holly murmured as she pedaled. While she wasn’t in the habit of airing everyone’s dirty laundry, the mantra had served her well since she’d taken over theBugle. She believed transparency—within reason—helped the community thrive. Secrets had a tendency to fester and divide folks.
She couldn’t wait to learn what had brought Mr. Sterling to town, to effectively introduce a famous new resident to the community.
Her reporter’s brain toyed with potential headlines for the column.Mystery Mogul at Marion. Or maybeRecluse Takes R&R on Brookwell. The alliteration was too cutesy. “Only a starting point,” she said to herself. Vince would have the final say before they published anything.
She could see the perimeter of the estate now, where an iron fence and tall shrubs protected the estate’s manicured lawns from the wilder, salt-scrubbed edges of the northern marsh. The closed gate was a masterpiece of iron crafted by the incomparable blacksmith, Phillip Simmons. She didn’t need an archive to know that fact since Simmons was considered a local artistic hero and a state treasure.
She pulled over to the side of the road to snap a few photos of the fading No Trespassing signs tacked to the palmetto trees on either side of the gate. Would Sterling take those down soon or simply put up brighter warnings to stay away?
