Chapter 7 - THE STALE COFFEE OF INDEPENDENCE
They didn't leave immediately. They sat in their SUV parked at the edge of the Edisto driveway for nearly an hour, doors closed, engine idling, burning expensive premium gasoline while they debated their next move.
Through the binoculars I kept by the window, I watched Brooke arguing animatedly with her hands while Julian stared blankly through the steering wheel, rubbing his temples. Finally, the SUV shifted into reverse, crunched loudly over the oyster shells in the drive, and sped off toward the main highway.
They were heading back to Charleston—or perhaps to Atlanta, where Brooke’s parents lived in a house just as ostentatious and superficial as her personality.
Either way, they were no longer my emergency to manage.
I spent the next three days in absolute, blissful solitude. I walked along the deserted beach at low tide, collecting whelk shells and sea glass. I read two entire novels, slept eight hours a night without interruption, and cooked simple meals of grilled fish and fresh tomatoes seasoned only with sea salt and black pepper.
By the fourth day, my phone rang. I expected it to be Julian again, perhaps with another round of recriminations or legal threats.
Instead, it was Marcus.
“Eleanor,” Marcus said, his voice unusually grave. “You might want to turn on the local news out of Charleston.”
“Why, Marcus?” I asked, pouring my morning tea. “Did my hydrangeas make the front page?”
“Not quite,” Marcus chuckled dryly. “Your son’s real estate deal on Kiawah just completely imploded.”
I froze, the teacup halting halfway to my mouth. “Imploded? How?”
“Turns out the developer holding the title was running a shady shell company out of Savannah,” Marcus explained. “The federal investigators seized the entire tract this morning for wire fraud and mortgage tampering. If Julian had closed on that house last week as planned, he would have been tied directly into the title chain as a secondary investor. He would have lost every single cent of his liquid capital.”
I sank slowly into the kitchen chair.
For months, Julian had been screaming at me, at his business partners, and at the market because the closing had been delayed. He had treated the delay as a personal insult, a conspiracy against his success, a tragedy that forced him to door-step my house in panic.
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In reality, the delay had been the only thing that saved him from financial annihilation.
“He’s at my office right now,” Marcus added quietly. “He looks like he just survived a shipwreck. He asked me to tell you... well, he didn't say much. But for the first time since I’ve known him, he didn't sound angry. He just sounded tired.”
