Sweetgrass (26 page)

“You won’t have a choice,” she countered. “You don’t know all the facts, Morgan.”

“What facts?” he asked, instantly alert.

“There’s the matter of the loan.”

He bridled. “What loan? There’s no record of any loan. I’ve been through all the bank statements.”

“This wasn’t done through a bank. It was a private loan. From me.”

“From you? For how much?”

“Five hundred thousand dollars.”

His eyes bulged. “Five hundred
thousand?
When did this happen?”

“In 1989, after Hurricane Hugo. The farm was devastated, remember?” When he nodded, she continued. “Then you remember that your father lost his barns, most of his livestock and equipment, the crops… He was ruined. He couldn’t rebuild. He would have lost the place then.”

Morgan rubbed his brow, recalling those hard times. “The whole area was hit bad, but I remember he said we were lucky. The house remained standing. And the avenue of oaks. He took it as a sign.”

“Yes,” she replied softly with a sad smile. “I remember him saying that. I couldn’t agree with him, though. My house on Sullivan’s Island was swept away, along with everything in it. I didn’t feel like counting my blessings.” She paused and looked off. “But it was Preston’s style to do just that.”

“Yes, it was.”

“But we digress,” she said, focusing on the current situation. “He was in dire straits, so he came to me for help.”

“And you lent him money.”

“Under the most favorable of terms. He’s my brother. I wanted to help him, but I couldn’t afford to gift him the money. I dropped the annual rate to a lower rate. It was the best I could do and better than he could get anywhere else. He recognized that he might not get on his feet, and if such was the case, we set up a bailout, so if we had to sell, we’d split the profits at a sixty-forty split.” She took a sip of her drink to give Morgan a chance to digest all that she’d just told him.

“Why did you wait to tell me?” he asked.

“I’d hoped it wouldn’t come to this. I gave you every
chance to come to the decision to sell, which I still maintain is the only sensible thing to do. You must sell, Morgan.”

“My father—your brother—loves that place. It means more to him than a home. It’s his life’s work. And you want to take it from him?”

“I understand he loves the property,” she replied patiently. “I also understand that you love the property. But someone in this family has to be practical. Mama June needs to eat. Your father’s nurse needs to be paid. And if the taxes aren’t settled, the whole lot will be taken from him, anyway. Morgan, stop spinning your wheels. You really don’t have a choice in this.”

“Aunt Adele, just give us a little more time. I’ll find a way to repay the money. I swear.”

“I’ve waited fifteen years already, for my brother’s sake. With Preston out of the picture—no offense, dear—I’m no longer confident I’ll see the return of my sizable investment.” She picked up her fork and began jabbing at her salad. “No. My mind is made up. I’m not waiting any longer. I have a buyer and the land will be sold.”

Morgan stood up abruptly and pulled his wallet from his pocket. He took out several bills and laid them on the table. “This isn’t over, Adele. No matter what you might think. I’ll find a way to pay back that loan.”

“You still aren’t listening. There is no more time,” she replied.

Morgan turned on his heel and marched from the restaurant, eager to get as much space between him and his aunt as possible. He slammed into a wall of heat and humidity when he stepped into the harsh, unforgiving sunlight. He stopped and stood squinting in the glare, dazed and wondering what the hell he would do next.

Five hundred thousand dollars.
He’d been so stunned by the news that he didn’t even ask how much was left to pay on the
loan. But even if it was half as much, he knew they couldn’t afford to repay it. They were limping by as it was. Even if he sold his ranch, he couldn’t raise that much capital. And besides, there wasn’t time. If he knew his darling aunt, she’d sic the lawyers on them immediately.

He went in search of a phone. He needed to call his lawyer, too.

Later that afternoon, Hank walked into Adele’s office just as she was finishing a call to her lawyer. She lifted a finger in the air for him to wait. Her dark eyes watched him as he glanced around the room, his fingers fidgeting with impatience.

Hank was a handsome man, stocky yet fit in a crisp white cotton shirt and tie, even vain about his appearance. Good looks and amiability were an asset in the real estate business and Hank used these attributes as weapons. He was what she liked to call a back-slapper, a convivial fellow always ready with a clever quip or a joke. He was a fun guest at a party, but never too rowdy or too off-color, and never controversial. Most people were not aware of Hank’s driving ambition. Beneath his easygoing facade he was hungry for power and wealth. Adele understood this hunger, even sympathized with it. She mentored Hank because he was both promising and loyal. And because he was the closest thing to a son she’d ever have.

She hung up the phone and indicated a chair with a turn of her hand. Hank sat down and crossed his legs.

“What’s up?” he asked, eyes alert.

“I’ve just had lunch with my nephew.”

“Morgan?” he asked, surprised.

She nodded. “He has a plan to save Sweetgrass,” she said with exaggeration.

Hank frowned at the news. She reached into her purse and pulled out a package of cigarettes. Lighting one, she inhaled
deeply, taking a moment to settle the pique that rose at the memory of the meeting.

“It was enough that I had to spend days with him going through every shred of paper in Preston’s possession.” She shook her head with disgust. “What a mess. I don’t know how anyone can be so disorganized. I deserve an award for putting up with my nephew’s attitude for so long without whittling him down to size. But this takes the cake. He has this idea of putting the land under a conservation easement.”

Hank shifted in his seat. “That’s not a bad idea.”

She scoffed. “It’s not going to happen. We both know that. I’m at my wit’s end, I tell you. When he called to schedule this meeting, I thought for sure he was going to tell me that they needed to sell. I was prepared to give him the good news about the buyers for the property and it would have been a happy ending.” She took a long drag from her cigarette, then snuffed it out. “It’s a shame it has to be this way,” she said, exhaling.

“Are you sure?” Hank asked. “You don’t want to be wrong about this.”

Adele nodded. “I can say with assurance that they do not have a copy of my partnership agreement with Preston. I’ve just talked to my lawyers. They’re starting the legal papers.”

That evening, Nan drove home from Sweetgrass along the winding, tree-lined road. It was a dark night with no stars and heavy cloud cover. She took the curves slowly, wary of slow-moving possum or the sudden leap of a deer. When she pulled off Rifle Range Road into her development, she took a ragged breath and sighed, dog tired. She craved a hot bath, a chilled glass of wine and bed—in that order.

She’d volunteered to sit with Daddy so Mama June could go to bed early tonight. Morgan had taken Kristina into Charleston for dinner. He was fit to be tied when he came
back from his lunch with Aunt Adele, but he wouldn’t go into it. They were oil and water, those two, she thought, wishing it were different. It would make her home life easier.

As for Kristina, she and Morgan had been hanging out a lot lately. “We’re just friends,” Morgan had told her. She smiled. This
friendship
was a hot topic of conservation between Mama June and Nona on the back porch

The lights were burning in the living room as she pulled up to her own house. With a groan, she saw Aunt Adele’s car parked in the driveway, carelessly blocking the entrance to the garage. Nan parked the car on the grass. She felt the humidity slam into her as she stepped from the air-conditioning of her SUV into the thick air of a Southern summer night. The crickets pierced the silence with swells of song, and frogs bellowed in the wetlands.

Nan slipped through the back door and made her way to the kitchen, careful not to make any noise so she could escape the heated discussion going on in the living room. She was about to tiptoe past when she heard Hank mention Sweetgrass. Nan paused, instantly alert, and leaned against the hall wall to listen.

“I don’t know how much longer we can avoid giving them an answer,” Hank said. “This group wants to move now. If we can’t deliver Sweetgrass, they’ll move on to another project.”

“They’re grandstanding,” Adele replied. “There’s very little out there with the same attractiveness or history of Sweetgrass.”

“All true. But what good is that if the family won’t sell?”

“They’ll sell,” she declared. Adele exhaled her frustration in a curse. “That boy’s been a bother since he was in short pants. Morgan is family and he’s had a hard time of it. But
why doesn’t he just go on back to Montana? Ever since he got here he’s been interfering with business that’s no concern of his.”

“He can get pretty high-handed,” Hank agreed. “When I offered to help, he just thanked me and smiled in that polite way of his that tells you to shove off.”

“What did you expect? He knows you work for me.”

“We should all be working on the same team.”

“Agreed. But he doesn’t see it that way. How can I get him to understand that selling right now is the best for all concerned? He stands to make a substantial sum of money. A deal like this one is hard to put together.”

“You’re preaching to the choir. Do you know how many man-hours I’ve put into this deal?” Hank asked disagreeably. “The dinners? The trips?”

“If all goes as planned, you’ll be more than recompensed.”

“I’m counting on it. So what do you want to do next? Time’s a wastin’.”

There was a long pause. Nan leaned closer to the door, straining to hear.

“Everything is in order. It’s time to lay my cards on the table.”

“When do you plan to do that?”

“I haven’t been very good about making an appearance at Sunday dinner. I seem to make everyone uncomfortable lately. But I’ll make the effort so Mama June will know my heart is in the right place. We want to minimize the stress and antagonism. They won’t like what they hear.”

“But they won’t have a choice,” he said in conclusion. “The buyout offer is ready and waiting for signatures.”

“Good. Well,” she said, “that should wrap things up. I’ll head on home. I haven’t fed my dogs yet and they’ll be frantic.”

Nan heard a chair scraping the floor. She didn’t linger to hear the parting comments. She hurried up the stairs. In her
room she changed into her nightclothes, then sat in the bed against the piled pillows with the blankets tucked around her waist. She waited for Hank to come up, her mind spinning with questions. At last he joined her in the bedroom, unbuttoning his shirt and yawning.

“What a day,” he said, tugging the shirt off. “I’m beat.”

“Why did Adele stop by so late?” she asked.

“Business, as usual.” He sat on the cushioned bench at the foot of the bed and bent to untie his shoelaces. She heard the thud as each shoe hit the hardwood floor. When he straightened again, he turned toward her, mild surprise on his face. “When did you get home? I didn’t hear you come in.”

“Not too long ago,” she replied.

“How’s Preston?”

“A little better.”

“Can he form words yet?”

She shook her head. “He’s struggling, but he’ll get there.”

That seemed to end Hank’s interest in her father’s progress. He began removing his wristwatch.

“What’s this about buyers for Sweetgrass?” she asked him point blank.

He swung his head around to glare at her, then with a frown, stood and set his watch on the dresser. She wondered if he viewed her as one of “the other side” now that she’d been volunteering with Daddy’s care and spending so much time at Sweetgrass. If so, it was just one more chasm between them. She waited, hands folded on her legs.

“Remember that group from Maryland?” he asked. “The ones who came for dinner?”

“I made she-crab soup for them.”

“Right. Well, they’ve decided to pursue the purchase of Sweetgrass.”

“But Mama June doesn’t want to sell it.”

His shoulders slumped. “Honey, I don’t mean no disrespect, but your mother doesn’t know what’s best for her.”

Nan’s back stiffened. “And you do?”

“Yes,” he replied, seemingly offended by her sarcasm. “I believe I do.” He sighed with resignation and sat down on the mattress beside her. “Sweetheart, how many times must we have this conversation? You have to trust that I know the real estate business better than you do. And a helluva lot more than your brother.” This apparently hit a sore point, for his temper flared. “He owns a few measly acres he calls a ranch. What does he know about tax law and maintaining a property like Sweetgrass?”

She thought of the many times she’d walked by Daddy’s office to find Morgan nose deep in papers and books, or meeting with Bobby and their banker, huddled in conversation. Or the times she’d leave late at night and wave at him as he burned the midnight oil bent over papers on the desk with a glass of bourbon.

She’d always known Morgan was real smart. He knew so much about a lot of different subjects. But he’d never done well in school, mostly because he often ditched classes. The teachers would call and talk to Mama June about how it was such a shame, him being so smart and all. The phrase they always used was “not working up to his potential.”

But no matter who said what, Morgan plain hated going to school. He said he was bored, but even as a kid, Nan figured out that he wasn’t the same after Hamlin died. He stopped sports—even fishing, which he’d loved—and he never went back out to Blakely’s Bluff. Instead, he’d always sneak off alone to the kitchen house or somewhere else with a book in his hand. He’d be mad when he caught her spying and angrily tell her to mind her own business. That was the
main thing that was different after Hamlin died—Morgan got angry.

“I think he might know a lot,” she replied.