The Weekenders (33 page)

“I sold some of my stock, and my broker gave me the dickens about it, but I didn't know what else to do,” Evelyn said. “I kept telling myself that something would change, and it would be all right, but then we found out your house had been foreclosed on, and all I could think about was losing this house.”

Parrish cleared her throat. “Evelyn, if you don't mind my asking, exactly how much interest are you paying?”

“It's forty thousand dollars,” Evelyn said. “Every month.” She turned to Riley. “I'm so sorry, honey. You don't know how sorry. I believed Wendell instead of my own flesh and blood. And now I've ruined everything. This house—this was to be yours and Billy's after I'm gone. And Maggy's. It was all I had to give you. And now it's gone.”

“You haven't missed a payment, though, have you, Evelyn?” Parrish asked.

“Well, no. But I've been dipping into my principal to pay that interest, and W.R. told me I should never, ever, do that unless it was an emergency.”

“I'd say keeping a roof over your head is an emergency,” Parrish said.

“You haven't ruined anything, Mama,” Riley said, hugging her mother again. “And it's not your fault. Wendell fooled all of us. We'll figure this out, somehow, and anyway, nobody wants to lose this house, but the most important thing is that we have each other, right?”

“That's true,” Evelyn said tearfully. “And right now, I'm realizing how important that really is.”

Billy cleared his throat. “Uh, as long as Mama's coming clean about her questionable judgment regarding Wendell, I guess now would be a good time to admit that I did the same thing.”

“Oh my God,” Riley cried. “You didn't! Why?”

“Same old story,” Billy said. “He came to me, said his hotel deal was in jeopardy, and if he didn't get the money to buy some additional land, the whole north end project would go up in flames. He swore me to secrecy and promised it would be strictly a short-term loan, and he'd pay interest. Long story short, I cleared out almost everything in my trust fund and gave it to him.”

He looked over at Riley. “I'm so sorry, sis. If I had the money, I'd give it to you. You know I'd do anything for Maggy.”

“I don't know whether to laugh or cry,” Riley said, looking around the table. “He took us all in. Every single member of this family got ripped off by my husband.”

“Except me,” Roo said brightly.

“Of course not,” Evelyn said.

“What? You think because I dress like a bag lady, I'm the poor relation? Well, the joke's on you, Evelyn Riley. I've been playing the stock market for years. I bought Facebook at seventeen and change when it was in the toilet.”

“I'm amazed,” Evelyn said, shrugging. “All these years I've been buying you lunch at the club.”

“And that's why I'm rich and now you're poor,” Roo said cheerfully. “And by the way, Wendell did try to hit me up for money, but I told him, no way, José. ‘Neither a borrower nor a lender be,' that's my motto.”

“Good for you, Roo,” Billy muttered, getting up to go look for the vodka bottle.

“And in the meantime, Evelyn,” Parrish said, “if you like, I could go to the bank with you and see if they'd be willing to renegotiate that balloon note. They'll do that sometimes, under some circumstances.”

“I'll go with her,” Billy said quietly.

All heads turned in his direction. “It's great of you to offer, Parrish, but I'm her son. I'll go to the bank with Mama and explain that she took out that note under duress. We can work something out.”

“Thank you, son,” Evelyn said, tearing up again. “But what are we going to do about Riley's house?”

“I'll just have to tell Maggy the truth,” Riley said. “Or a version of it. I can't tell her the full extent of what Wendell's done. Not until she's older, anyway. I'll think of something.”

“Well I'll be damned,” Roo said loudly. “Here I sit, and it's like I don't even exist with you people. Did nobody think to ask me if I'd like to help buy back Riley's house?”

Riley was, for once, speechless.

“Roo, you just told us neither a borrower nor a lender be was your motto,” Billy said.

“I'm not talking about a loan. This would be a gift. To Riley and Maggy.”

“Oh no, Roo, I couldn't take your money,” Riley demurred.

“I don't know why not. Except for Evelyn, you and Billy are all the family I've got left. And from the looks of things, I don't believe Billy's going to be giving me any great-nieces or nephews. Right around the time you were born, I bought FedEx stock. Made a killing on it, too. I've had that money set aside for both of you, for years now. I'd just as soon give you your share now, while I'm alive and able to enjoy your kissing my butt every day out of gratitude, than wait until I'm cold and in the grave.”

“I don't know what to say,” Riley said, astonished.

“Then it's settled. I'll take the ferry into town tomorrow and get you a cashier's check. Now, then.” Roo tapped her cheek. “Just give me a little sugar and then get this old girl another Manhattan. That fancy wine is giving me a headache.”

 

38

Gnats swarmed as Nate Milas plunged into the tall grass at the creek's edge. But he'd come prepared this time, coated himself in bug spray, wore long sleeves and work boots. Still, it seemed that every time he inhaled he got a mouthful of no-see-ums.

He glanced back at the dock to make sure his Pathfinder was securely tied. It was a typical steamy June day, and his shirt was already sticking to his back. The tide was out, and when he saw the thick oyster beds that lined the steep bank, his mouth watered for the taste of oysters the way they'd eaten them as kids—pried open with a jackknife, coated with hot sauce, and popped right in the mouth, fresh out of the creek. He took out his cell phone and clicked off a couple of photos.

He knew from his reading that the oyster fishery was making a comeback on this part of the coast, and had tucked that fact away. Now, it was an added attraction to the plan that was coming together in his head.

Nate unfolded the survey map of the Holtzclaw property that he'd bought at the county courthouse the previous day. As he walked the property, he marveled that this island jewel had gone untouched for so many years. According to the survey, the parcel contained just under fifty acres, and of that there was more than a thousand feet of creek frontage.

Gazing down at Fiddler's Creek, he could envision a multitude of deep-water moorings, more floating docks, and a heavy-duty boat lift. There was also enough high ground for drydocks, trailer parking, and room for whatever outbuildings would be needed.

Heading away from the river, he walked past the house toward the hard-packed road that led onto the property. For the first time, he noticed a large barn-type building, half-hidden by a dense stand of overgrown azalea and camellia shrubs, and nearly smothered by a thick wisteria vine growing up from the north corner of the structure.

He found the barn door, but it was fastened with a new-looking padlock. He stood back from the building a few yards and took some photos. He didn't actually need to see inside. The sloping tin roof was rusted, but intact. With any luck, the rest of the structure, built of the same weather-beaten cedar as the house, was sound. The barn, which didn't appear on the survey, was a huge plus.

He hiked up the drive toward the main road, noting the new gate—and the damaged padlock. He'd idly wondered how Riley had gotten onto the property, and the lock confirmed his suspicions. He smiled despite himself. She was maddeningly stubborn and opinionated, but Riley Nolan wasn't one to let a little thing like a locked gate keep her from her mission.

Nate turned back around and returned to the house. After his confrontation with Riley, he'd been too depressed to complete his exploration on Sunday, but now there was plenty of time.

He climbed the stairs to the third floor. The roofline here was steeply pitched, but on each side of the central hallway were tucked two more bedrooms with a bath connecting each. He photographed each room, then walked through the rest of the house, documenting nearly every inch.

The kitchen wing was located in a shed-roofed addition on the side of the house. It looked to have been added sometime in the sixties or seventies, with cheap roll-vinyl flooring and outdated harvest-gold appliances. A shattered window over the rust-stained, cast-iron sink looked out onto the creek. He looked up at the ceiling and saw evidence of more raccoon activity, and water damage from a leaky roof. None of this mattered. The space was large, and once gutted, he felt sure it would accommodate a commercial kitchen.

Nate walked out onto the porch. This was the money shot. The house was on high ground that allowed panoramic views of Fiddler's Creek, with the Atlantic Ocean not a fifteen-minute boat ride away. After snapping more photos, he made his way back to the dock.

He'd intended to leave, but the scent of the hot sun beating down on the salt-soaked boards was too much of a siren call. Nate always kept a fishing rod and a rudimentary tackle box in the skiff. He fetched the rod and fastened a chartreuse jig onto his line.

The tide was wrong, and the trout probably preferred live shrimp, which he didn't have, but Nate didn't particularly care one way or the other. He settled himself on the edge of the dock with his legs dangling over the edge and cast his line into the middle of the creek, letting the line drift toward a deep spot in the bottom before setting the bail of his reel. He leaned back, closed his eyes, and inhaled the scent of mud and marsh and salt, occasionally giving the line a gentle bump.

He found his mind drifting too, back to his pirate days.

They were fourteen years old. Too young for real jobs, too old to be bossed around by parents or babysitters. There were four in his crew, island boys all, no summer people or weekenders allowed. Unlike the rich brats who spent their summers lounging around pools or swatting at tennis balls, they were the sons of working-class families. Pete Davenport's mother was a single mom who cleaned houses on the island for a living. The Mayo twins, Bobby and Corey, lived in a modest cottage in the village. Their alcoholic father was the groundskeeper at the golf club, and their mom had been missing in action for as long as the twins could remember.

Nate was the captain of the crew—not because he was clearly from a higher socioeconomic class, but only because he'd managed to save enough money from mowing lawns to buy a leaky old Montgomery Ward aluminum johnboat with a fifteen-horsepower Johnson outboard.

Most mornings they'd meet up at the marina, pool their money to buy gas, Cokes, and chips, and set out to sail the seas. They knew the salt flats of the bay and the winding creeks like they knew their own home phone numbers.

They spent their summers on the water, fishing, crabbing, and casting for shrimp, which they'd either sell to the bait house or use themselves, and generally getting into the kind of mostly innocent trouble boys got into. They explored the wildlife refuge, hung out at the dump, shooting rats with Pete Davenport's BB gun, and talked about the cars they would buy and the girls they would screw when they got older.

That fall, they all started high school on the mainland. Nate played JV football, and then baseball in the spring, and the rest of the crew played truant. When summer rolled around that year, Captain Joe decided he was old enough to work as a deckhand on the
Carolina Queen,
and the Mayo brothers found work as caddies, while Pete Davenport was forced to attend summer school in a doomed effort to save his failing grades. Nate hung with his friends on weekends, when he wasn't working, or went into town to lift weights at the high school gym with the rest of the football team, but predictably, the crew drifted apart.

There was one last memorable escapade, the Labor Day weekend before school started. A camping trip was organized, and the crew took the johnboat and an old Boy Scout pup tent and some mildewed sleeping bags out to Lighthouse Key, the marshy island that was home to the Big Belle lighthouse.

Corey Mayo had swiped a bottle of Jim Beam from a golfer's bag, and they'd had themselves a high old time around their campfire, roasting hot dogs and passing the bottle around until the four of them either passed out or puked.

And that was the last hoorah for Nate's crew. Sixteen, it turned out, was the age when their differing interests and temperaments set the crew adrift for good.

Before their senior year of high school, Pete's mother remarried and moved with him to Orlando. The last Nate heard, he was selling used cars in Tallahassee. Corey Mayo dropped out of high school, drifted on and off the island, and eventually ended up in prison for car theft. His brother, Bobby, enlisted in the Army and served honorably in Operation Desert Storm. He'd come home from the war suffering from PTSD, gotten married, and had a baby on the way when he'd killed himself on a cloudless May day in Fayetteville, North Carolina.

And Nate Milas had gone off to college at Wake Forest, started one doomed business, then moved to California with his best buddy and girlfriend to start up a new enterprise, a real estate app called Cribb.

The johnboat had developed a slow leak while he was away at school, and when he'd returned home to the island at Christmas break, he discovered it had sunk at its mooring, ruining the outboard and ending their pirate days forever.

He found his own success as improbable as the Mayo brothers' failure. He'd thought about the crew a lot since his return home to Belle Isle. What, really, was the difference between himself and those fourteen-year-olds? An intact family, yes, that was part of the equation. His parents had been loving, but strict. Annie Milas, a teacher herself, had kept on top of him about his studies, and Joe, who'd never gone to college, had passed along his own demanding work ethic.