“Wood storks,” Shug said, pointing. He gave her a smile. He was a thickly built man, in his fifties, she guessed, with heavily muscled arms. He wore neatly pressed blue jeans and a short-sleeved blue work shirt. “We got lots of birds over here. Famous for it, I guess. Is this your first trip to Talisa?”
“Sort of,” Brooke said. “I was here for a Girl Scout campout years ago. It didn’t end well.”
“You must have been on the other end of the island,” Shug said. “Whole different world over here.”
“It’s beautiful,” Brooke said. “So… wild. And peaceful. Do you live on the island full-time?”
“We do now. Louette, that’s my wife, she was born and raised here. We moved to Brunswick a long time ago for work, but then our kids got grown and moved away, and I got laid off my job at the port. Right around that time, Louette’ssister, who still lives here, said Miss Josephine was looking for some help. We come over and talked to her, and we been here ever since. Eleven or twelve years now, I guess.”
“I didn’t realize anybody but the Bettendorfs or Warricks lived here,” Brooke said.
“Oh yeah. There’s a bunch of black folks been living at Oyster Bluff, since right after the Civil War. The whole island was part of a plantation that got burned down by the Yankees, because they thought the owners were blockade-runners. Later on, the government gave all these former slaves a little piece of land up at Oyster Bluff. Nobody else wanted it, because it was swampy and they were afraid of yellow fever. Those folks, they stayed and scratched out a living, farming and fishing and hunting. They’re what are called Geechee. Louette’s people, they’re all Geechee.”
“And do they still own their own land?” Brooke asked, fascinated by this chapter of Georgia history she knew so little about.
“Nope,” Shug said. “People moved off and sold their land to the Bettendorfs, or they had so many kids, and none of them wanted to stay here, so they just abandoned the houses. There’s not but ten or twelve families still living at Oyster Bluff now, and Miss Josephine owns all that land. She’s nice and all, don’t charge hardly anything for rent, but it’s still not the same thing as owning your own place, you know?”
“I know all too well,” she said wistfully, thinking of the modest two-bedroom concrete block cottage she rented at St. Ann’s, as opposed to the restored Italianate three-story town house in Savannah’s historic district that she’d walked away from when she broke her engagement to Harris Strayhorn.
The truck rounded another curve, and suddenly, a blanket of bright green lawn spread out before them. The grass was patchy and spotted with clumps of dandelions, wild garlic, and silver-dollar weed. Overgrown formal beds of bedraggled-looking azaleas and camellias were planted in tiers on the gently sloping lawn, and a line of palm trees announced that they were approaching the Bettendorf family compound.
“We’re here,” Shug said, slowing the truck to a stop so she could get out and take a look.
3
Situated at the top of the gentle slope was an astonishing pale pink wedding cake of a mansion, consisting of a two-story central block bristling with vaguely Moorish-looking arches, a pair of peak-roofed turrets, and a crenelated balcony projecting over a porte cochere. This was flanked on either side by wings of only a slightly more modest design. Each was marked by a towering sentinel palm tree. The roof consisted of pale-green fired-clay barrel tiles that reminded Brooke of the frosting on a gingerbread house. The place bristled with leaded glass windows, wrought iron Juliet balconies, heavy plaster bas-relief flourishes, and curlicued ornaments. A thick green curtain of ivy crept across the façade of the house, and crimson bougainvillea traced the outline of the porte cochere.
“Wow.”
“Mmm-hmm,” Shug agreed. He started the truck again, and as they drew closer, she could see that the curving concrete driveway leading up to the mansion was buckled and potholed, the pink stucco on the house was cracked and faded, and the roof sported great gaps of broken or missing tiles.
Shellhaven was slowly, inexorably crumbling as surely as a century-old layer cake.
“It don’t look like it ought to,” Shug said, his voice sorrowful. “I keep after it the best I can, but it’s only me now. Time was, half a dozen hands worked on the grounds here. One man, his whole job was taking care of the roses. There was a tractor kept the grass cut and a grove with the prettiest oranges and lemons and grapefruit you ever seen. Peach trees and pecan trees, of course. A greenhouse too, just to grow flowers and orchids for the house. All gone now. A pine fell on the greenhouse, and some kind of blight killed all the fruit trees. Just as well, ’cause these days, you can’t find nobody wants to live way over here and do an honest day’s work. Plus, Miss Josephine, she’s pretty tight with a dollar.”
If Josephine Warrick was as rich as local legend had it, Brooke wondered why she’d allowed her home to deteriorate to this extent.
“I’m sure you do the best you can, and she’s probably very grateful to have you,” Brooke said tactfully.
He pulled the truck beneath the porte cochere and pointed to the heavily carved arched double doors. “Go ahead on inside. Louette’s waiting to take you to see her.”
***
She pushed the door open and stepped inside timidly, momentarily blinded while her eyes adjusted from the harsh sunlight to the near darkness of the entry hall.
The naked bulb of a tarnished brass wall sconce dimly revealed a high-ceilinged room with black-and-white checkerboard tile floors, cracked plaster walls, and age-darkened wooden beams overhead. The crystal chandelier hanging from an ornate plaster medallion was caked with dust and cobwebs. The air was oppressively hot and damp.
“Hello?” Her voice echoed in the empty room.
“I’ll be right there,” a woman’s voice called from the darkness. A moment later, a woman she guessed was Louette bustled into the room. She looked younger than her husband, with close-cropped graying hair and a freckle-flecked, caramel-colored complexion two shades lighter than his. She had the comfortable thickness and heavy bosom of solid middle age and was dressed in a white synthetic-blend uniform.
“Miss Brooke? I’m Louette. You got here okay? That C. D. didn’t ride you too hard coming across the river today?” Her pleasant accent had a distinct singsong lilt.
“It was bumpy, but I’m here in one piece,” Brooke said.
“Well, we don’t get a lot of company these days, and Miss Josephine’s got herself all worked up waiting to see you, so I guess I’d best take you back there.”
She gestured for Brooke to follow her down a wide hallway. They passed arched entryways into what looked like twin parlors, furnished with overstuffed sofas and chairs and heavily carved tables and chests.
