The List (11 page)

“Did you talk with your mother?”

“Selectively. She knew I went to Chicago and met with the lawyer. She is aware of the known estate, but I didn't tell her about the letter or the List. I wasn't sure reopening her pain was the responsible thing to do. I wanted to sort it out myself. That's what this trip is about.”

Renny looked into Jo's eyes again. He saw a steel there he hadn't noticed before. “It took a lot of courage for you to get in his truck and come down here.”

“I thought it over from every angle. In the end I decided I had to see what this thing is all about for myself.”

Renny pulled his chair closer to the table. “I have a proposal. Do you want to hear it?”

Jo raised her eyebrows. “What?”

“First, let me buy your lunch. Agreed?”

“Agreed.”

“Second, you follow me to Georgetown. Who knows, you may have another flat. Agreed?”

She smiled slightly. “Agreed.”

“Third, you have supper with me tonight at the nicest seafood restaurant we can find in Georgetown. Agreed?”

“Agreed, if we go Dutch treat.”

“We'll negotiate that last stipulation later.” Then, mustering every ounce of earnestness he possessed, he said, “Fourth, I want to help you through this situation. Agreed?”

Jo considered Renny's offer for a moment. “I'm not sure. We don't know what's involved, and we just met an hour ago.”

“Well, we're together so far, and you said I was divinely sent to you.”

“Are you serious?”

“Very serious.”

“Agreed,” she said, the hint of a smile returning.

“Let's shake on it.” Renny extended his right hand across the table.

Jo placed her left hand in his and squeezed lightly. Renny was unprepared for what he felt—a brief, intense tingle, almost as strong as a low-voltage shock, swept up his arm, down his back, and vanished. Startled, he looked at Jo. Her eyes met his, but her face revealed nothing.

“Good,” he said, not at all sure what he meant or what had happened.

They walked to the cash register where five bottles of Moncks Corner Barbecue Sauce stood at attention. Fred came out of the kitchen. Renny handed him a twenty. “The food was good, especially the stew. My compliments to the chef.”

“Yeah.” Fred's eyes narrowed as he handed Renny his change.

6

The eye is the window of the soul.

A
NONYMOUS

J
o's truck was ready when they returned from lunch. After she paid for the tire, Renny walked her to the truck.

“I'll take you through the Francis Marion National Forest,” he said. “It's the more scenic route to Georgetown from here.”

“Who was Francis Marion?”

“A Revolutionary War hero known as the Swamp Fox.”

“Fine. Just keep me away from any alligators.”

Traveling seldom-used two-lane roads, Renny set a leisurely pace. It was a little less than an hour's drive from Moncks Corner to Georgetown, and Renny spent most of the time replaying his lunch with Jo, occasionally casting covert glances toward her in the rearview mirror. Between his thoughts and glances, it seemed only a few minutes until they passed the city limits sign.

Georgetown was almost as old as Charleston, but much smaller, nestled beside the Winyah Bay near the confluence of the Black and Pee Dee Rivers. Because innumerable rivers, streams, and inlets intersected the rainy Low Country coast, some of the earliest settlers found the area suitable for growing rice. Within a generation, thousands and thousands of slaves toiled in rice paddies dispersed along the low-lying coastal area. Georgetown became the point of arrival for the slave ships and the point of shipment for the bags of rice produced by the slaves' backbreaking labor.

Only a handful of antebellum homes and other pre–Civil War structures dotted the modern Georgetown waterfront. The largest of these relics, the Rice Planter's Inn, faced Front Street, one block from the bay. A large rectangular structure, the three-story inn was the oldest continuously operating hotel in South Carolina. Built by a sea captain from slave trading profits, the dark green structure had survived storm, war, and the pressures of twentieth-century economics.

They parked in back of the inn. “Welcome to Georgetown,” Renny said when they got out of their vehicles.

“Whew, it's muggy.”

“That's why things slow down the closer you get to the coast. People can't get in a big hurry—it just makes them and their cars overheat faster.”

They climbed the steps to the front porch, a wide expanse that circled the building. Several ceiling fans vainly stirred the soupy air. No one sat in the row of white rattan chairs lined up behind the porch rail.

Inside, they entered a dark, cool foyer. “The air conditioning works,” Renny said. “That's a good sign.”

To the left of the entrance was the front desk, and a clerk who looked nearly as ancient as the inn gave them a raspy greeting, “Welcome to the Rice Planter's Inn. May I help you?”

“Hello, I'm J. F. Jacobson. I should have a room reserved for the weekend.”

The man squinted at a large date book a moment, then, as if he had made a surprising discovery, said, “Yes, here it is, Josiah Fletchall Jacobson. You have room 6. It is located at the east end of the second floor. May I help you and Mrs. Jacobson with your luggage?”

It was Renny's turn to look surprised. “This is not Mrs. Jacobson.”

“I see.” The clerk's squint narrowed further.

“This is Jo Taylor Johnston. She should have a reservation of her own.”

“It may be under Mr. Jo Taylor Johnston,” Jo added.

The clerk examined Jo and, satisfied that she was female, ran his finger down the right side of his reservation book. “Here it is. You are correct. It is in the name of Mr. Johnston. Is Mr. Johnston coming?”

Renny interjected, “She is Mr. Johnston. I mean the reservation is for her because her name is Jo Taylor Johnston.”

The clerk put both hands on the ledge that separated him from Renny and Jo, paused, thought for several seconds, and as if reaching a momentous decision, handed Jo a key and said, “You can have room 12 at the west end of the third floor. If Mr. Johnston should arrive, I will notify you and you will have to find another place to stay.”

Jo chuckled as they climbed the stairs to the second floor. “I felt like I was on
To Tell the Truth.
Will the real Jo Taylor Johnston please stand up?”

The second floor had six rooms, three overlooking the street in front of the house, three facing the bay. Renny opened the door to a modest-sized room, simply furnished with a large four-poster bed, a beautiful armoire that took the place of a closet, and a couple of chairs. The wall on the left opened to a small bath.

Jo's room upstairs was the same size, but had a smaller bed, a tiny closet, and a finely crafted vanity sink. “I can wash my face like my great-great-grandmother did on the plantation. By tonight I'll be a Southern belle.”

“Your Michigan accent will need some work before you take your Southern belle test,” Renny responded.

“I could take lessons.”

“You wait here. I'll get your luggage,” Renny said. “Southern belles don't carry anything heavier than a parasol.”

“Right, but as you said, I've not passed my test yet.”

They carried the luggage without the desk clerk's help. Renny was concerned the old man wouldn't survive a trip up to the third floor. Besides, Renny wanted to handle the old trunk himself. As he lifted it out of the back of the Porsche, Jo asked, “What's that?”

“We'll talk about it at supper,” Renny said quickly. “Is seven-thirty OK? You'll have time for a nap, if you like.”

“Yes, that will be great.”

Once in his room, Renny lay down on the bed, stared at the ceiling, and replayed the afternoon's events. He lingered at the moment he held Jo's hand in the restaurant. A strange but pleasant experience, he had never felt anything quite like the sensation that came over him from such a simple touch. An attractive woman, Jo exuded life, and Renny wanted to get to know her better. Also, they had an involuntary link because of the List. She was the only woman on earth with whom he could discuss it. A shared secret, a joint adventure, a common challenge inexorably draws people together.

Closing his eyes, he began to unwind. Tomorrow would be soon enough to meet a room full of old men. Tonight, he wanted to eat some seafood, have a good time with Jo, and maybe do a little more than touch her hand. He dozed off with pleasant thoughts.

Jo poured some cool water into the metal basin nestled in the washstand, splashed her face, and dried it with a soft green hand towel. Because her room faced the rear of the house, she pulled up a chair to the window so she could look out over the bay. Directly in front of her, two shrimp boats gently swayed at anchor, their nets draped over their sides like old-fashioned petticoats drying on a clothesline. Farther out, a small sloop, hoping to find a breeze in the bay, motored slowly away from shore. She watched the peaceful scene for several minutes. She, too, wondered about the effect of Renny's touch at the restaurant.

Staring out the window, she remembered an incident at the hospital in April. She was working in the OR during a five-level bypass procedure for a forty-five-year-old man. Dr. Leonard Starks, the cardiologist, had harvested veins from the patient's leg and had completed the last of the five bypasses. When he ordered the patient brought off the heart-lung machine, the patient's vital signs began to drop. Jo had her hand in the man's chest holding a clamp and silently began praying for her patient. At the moment the man's heart should have resumed beating, nothing happened, and the operating room erupted in activity. Jo intensified her silent petition. An inner voice whispered,
Touch him
, and as soon as she briefly laid her free hand on his arm, a warm tingle flowed from her. The man's heart fluttered slightly, then started beating. “It's beating!” one of the OR techs yelled in her ear. Dr. Starks completed the final portion of the surgery, and the man had a full recovery without any residual damage to the heart muscle. Jo was ecstatic.

The sensation in the restaurant had been the same.

Dressed in light khaki slacks and a white shirt with the sleeves partly rolled up, Renny knocked on Jo's door at 7:25.

“Come in. I'm almost ready.” She was wearing a yellow-and-white sundress. Barefoot, she sat in the small chair near the window and strapped on some white sandals. For an instant, Renny wished he was a shoe salesman and could help her put them on. Looking up, she smiled. “That's it. Let's go.”

Neither spoke as they descended the stairs. Holding the front door open, Renny followed Jo onto the porch.

“Let's walk” Renny said. “The desk clerk told me about a restaurant two blocks down the street.”

The restaurant, a rectangular building not much bigger than a train car, nestled beside the bay and a small grassy area next to the wharf. Renny and Jo sat at a table for two beside a window overlooking a restored frigate resting at anchor.