Chapter 2 - The Stolen Sanctuary
The next morning, I stood beside Daniel on the wooden boardwalk overlooking Sullivan’s Island.
The salty Atlantic breeze whipped through my hair, carrying the fragrance of blooming jasmine and sea grass across the dunes.
At the end of the private crushed-shell drive stood Gull’s Rest.
It was breathtaking.
The three-story historic manor featured soaring white columns, double wraparound verandas, ancient live oaks draped in Spanish moss, and a manicured lawn sloping gently toward the crashing turquoise surf.
A fleet of commercial delivery vans, catering trucks, and floral staging trailers blocked the circular driveway.
Giant white wedding tents were already being erected on the ocean lawn.
Workers were stringing fairy lights through the weeping branches of the oaks, while florists unloaded hundreds of imported white hydrangeas and blush peonies.
At the center of the terrace stood Aunt Victoria, holding a gold clipboard, wearing designer tortoiseshell sunglasses and a silk designer blouse, barking orders at the wedding coordinator.
Beside her, my cousin Madison was twirling in her five-figure couture rehearsal gown, laughing as her bridesmaids took high-resolution videos for social media.
Daniel gently touched my elbow. "Do you want to walk in right now with the police?"
"No," I replied, a wave of profound, icy clarity washing over every nerve in my body. "If we call the sheriff today, Victoria will claim it’s an administrative error, file a temporary title injunction, and drag this out in probate while Madison finishes her fairy-tale wedding on my mother's lawn."
"Then what's the play, Allison?"
"We play by Victoria’s rules," I said, watching Madison post another selfie in front of the veranda. "She wants a sophisticated society spectacle that defines her family's social standing. She wants to show all of Charleston that she is the supreme matriarch of the Vance legacy."
I pulled out my phone, dialing the direct line of Marcus Alden, the senior partner at Charleston’s preeminent maritime and real estate law firm.
Marcus had been my mother’s childhood friend and the attorney whose signature was stamped on the trust papers in my cedar chest.
The line rang twice before a gravelly, cultured Southern voice answered.
"Marcus Alden speaking."
"Mr. Alden, this is Allison Vance," I said, my voice steady as granite. "My mother told me to call you when I was ready to stop becoming smaller."
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There was an immediate, sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line.
"Ally," Marcus murmured, his tone thick with profound emotion and fierce vindication. "I have been waiting twelve years for this phone call. Come to my office on Broad Street immediately. It's time to bring your mother home."
