Morganna and I sat in solo chairs while Bailey and Maria were on the porch swing.
It was a beautifully quiet night as the sun set over the Calibogue Sound. This was one of my favorite places in the world. I’d visited Daufuskie Island many times as a child when my mother brought us to see her older sister Helene. I used to hate returning to the city after being here for a week or two and was ecstatic three years ago when I received my cousin Max’s email with pictures of the B&B that had just hit the market. Ididn’t even bother with a return email, just dialed his number and screamed, “I want it!”
He laughed, and thirty days later I owned another business.
“Facts,” Bailey said in response to Hannah. “Raleigh is my little ladybug. One of the main reasons I’m always hopping on a flight down to Miami.”
Regan chuckled. “Like you don’t have a bunch of little faces to enjoy at home. Sam and Karena’s kids and Lynn’s son are right there whenever you get up from under Devlin to go across town and visit them.”
Bailey shook her head. “You ain’t have to go there. My husband and I are not always in bed.”
“No, you’re bent over the back porch railing like you were the day I showed up at your door,” Maria shot back.
Bailey grinned wickedly. “That’ll teach you not to call first.”
“Well, excuse me.” Maria chuckled. “Forgive me for wanting to see my cousin while I was in town for a quick business trip.”
“You’re excused,” Bailey said, holding her glass up in salute toward Maria. “And I was very happy to see you … after, we were finished.”
“Wait,” Suri interjected. “You made her wait while you, uh, finished?”
Bailey’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Did you think I was gonna stop? Have you met my husband? Two things that man don’t play about is me and getting his nut.”
We all fell out laughing at that. Mainly because, while we didn’t know Devlin Bonner on sexual terms, we were all very aware of how serious the ex-Navy SEAL and former mercenary was about Bailey.
We sat outside for another hour talking, reminiscing, and yes, drinking. This was one of the few times we could really relax and be ourselves. Besides all of us being women of a certain age—which for us meant in our mid to late thirties—wewere also career women, focused on making our mark in this world. While that sent each of us on our individual paths, the Donovan blood running through our veins kept us irrevocably connected. Rather, the weight of the legacy created by our great-great-grandfathers and the expectations passed down through the generations of women who stood by them, rested on all our shoulders, in equal, if unique, portion.
I was the only daughter in a house of overachievers. My father, Charles Donovan, not only veered away from the family’s oil business to start one of the top advertising agencies in the country, had also taken philanthropy to a whole other level. One that coincidentally put him in the category of the top five richest men on the East Coast. My mother, Brenda Baynor-Donovan, turned her childhood hobby of lining up all her dolls every Saturday morning for their weekly wash and style, into a thriving nationally renowned celebrity stylist business. Then, when love and motherhood knocked on her door, transformed her love of hair and all things women’s beauty into three full-service luxury salons in the DMV. And as if having successful parents wasn’t enough, there was my older brother, Cade, who graduated top of his class while snagging a dual political science and criminology degree. Then, he headed straight to Capitol Hill, before deciding that catching serial killers was a far more glamorous job and joined the FBI as a profiler. How was I supposed to compete with all of that?
I wasn’t. Or I didn’t. I learned early on that my only competition was myself, so I never doubted that I could do anything I put my mind to. I just had to make sure whatever I did made my parents proud. That I didn’t do anything to trigger my brother’s hair-thin and deadly temper. And that I always remembered my ancestors who were stolen from their homeland and brought here to work in hot fields, cook and clean, raise the bratty babies of the privileged, and build the world that wouldnever see them as equal. I had to keep in mind that for me, the expectation was always bigger and better.
I liked to think I’d done that by earning my own dual degree in biology and forensic science. Not only did my educational choices shock my parents, but my decision to open Apocalypse and further pursue a career in crime scene cleanup and biohazard decontamination left them flabbergasted. Not necessarily disappointed though, and for me that was a relief. While my father was proud of my drive and tenacity, he wanted a softer life for me. My mother, on the other hand, applauded my independence. She was my biggest cheerleader when it came to making a name for myself in a profession that didn’t have nearly enough women, Black women at that. But Brenda also wanted a house full of grandbabies. She wanted Sunday dinners with her children and the families they created. She wanted, as did my father, to watch the Donovan family continue to grow, thrive, and succeed. All through the lens of a legacy built on integrity, respect, and loyalty.
And what had I done?
I’d fallen in love with the wrong man.
“Hey, you okay?”
Blinking as her voice pulled me from my thoughts, I looked up to see Mo, the nickname Morganna had preferred since she was a little girl. Her hand was on my shoulder like she’d been trying to shake me out of my trance. I hadn’t felt any of that, as my mind had veered into all too-familiar territory.
“Yeah, uh, yeah, I’m good. Just thinking.” Clearing my throat, I stood.
She smiled. “As always. I swear your mind never shuts off. Let me guess, you’ve got another business venture on deck?”
“Because she doesn’t already have enough money.” Kendra came to stand next to me on the other side, and it was then that I noticed the rest of the girls heading into the house.
I guess our nightcap and chat session was over and I’d obviously missed the tail end of the conversation announcing that.
“Wait, do we ever have enough money?” Mo asked. “The only right answer coming from a Donovan is ‘no’. Don’t be silly, child.” That last part was said in the unmistakable, admonishing voice of our great-aunt, Birdie.
Suri, who was pulling her auburn boho braids up into a top bun as she walked toward the back door, paused to add, “You have no idea how many times that woman still says that. These days it’s to Ridge’s youngest, Katy, who is just as precocious astheeBridgette Donovan.”
I smiled, simultaneously missing my great-aunt and being grateful that she was living in London now andnotstateside.
“It wasn’t about business,” I told Mo. “Emily is handling everything back home, and things look to be running smoothly here, so that’s reassuring.” I had Tedra block this week off for our get-together back in January, knowing that while this was technically hurricane season, people were still trying to get in their last summer vacations.
“What about the new venture?” Mo asked, looping her arm through mine as we made our way into the house. “The one in DC, is it?”
