Cancel the Wedding (27 page)

He laughed. “So a very strange, but good day.”

I agreed. “Yes, strange but good.” He leaned back on his hands looking up at the canopy of leaves from the elm tree in the front yard. His cheeks and nose, which looked pink earlier, had gone to a full sunburned maroon color. I poked his cheek watching the place where I had touched turn white and then fade back into red.

“What?”

“You're sunburned from the garden party.” I leaned back too, looking up through the same leaves. “I was fortunate that your plans to kill me with heatstroke did not come to fruition.”

He groaned. “We have to do something to build up your tolerance for the heat or you'll never make it down here.”

The weather down here was the least of my problems. “I think we should only do things that involve air conditioning.”

Elliott stood up. “Come with me to the courthouse sometime. It's air-conditioned.”

I took his hand and let him pull me to my feet. “You sure know how to woo a lady. What's at the courthouse?”

“Well, I think it's time we get our hands on more of the paper trail. We can spend some time in the records office and see if you can order those old maps that were missing, maybe get some more records about Mr. and Mrs. Jones. Even Oliver, I bet we can find some records on him there.”

“You had me at air-conditioned.”

He laughed. “Okay then. It's a date.” We kissed good-night, for a very long and satisfying time. Then I watched him walk down the path toward his house.

Most of my time in Tillman was spent with Elliott either on the lake, at the house, having coffee at Jimmy's, or going around town while he did his work for the paper. The rest of my waking hours were usually filled with cleaning up after Logan and organizing all of our research. There was so much disjointed information we had discovered about Huntley, my mother, the fire in her home, George, and now Oliver. It was turning into a web of things that I had not expected and I had to get it straight in my mind. I bought several pieces of foam core and propped them up on the sideboard in the little dining nook. It looked a little bit like I was presenting a science fair project.

I began to tape and pin and note things all over those boards. I began with maps and pictures of the lake as it was now. I pinned up pictures of the ruins of my mother's house and of the family graveyard located behind it. I added the family tree that Elliott created from those names we found.

Next to that were copies of death certificates, birth certificates, and marriage certificates. I pinned up some of the highlighted parts of the TVA report regarding the formation of the lake and the town of Huntley. Copies of the garden club book describing the hydrangeas in my grandmother's garden were overlaid with images of the burned-out house. There were articles and documents and notes. So many notes. Most of them ending with a question mark.

Logan had looked over the accumulation of information one day and thrown her arms out wide, encompassing the whole table. “We shall call it the Wall of Discovery.” That kid cracked me up.

I called Florence every other day and left a message. She never answered and hadn't called me back. And even though nothing actually supported this theory, I felt like I was wearing her down. There were still a few million things I wanted to ask her.

Communication breakdown was an ongoing theme in my life at the moment. Leo and I had transitioned from frequent phone calls to infrequent texts. He was busy at work, as always, but this felt different. I couldn't tell if he was sensing that something was off with me and it was self-preservation on his part, or if he just didn't want to bother anymore. Whenever I broached the subject he conveniently had to take another call or board a plane. I was wondering if he was booking flights just to get out of speaking with me.

Logan got home from work one afternoon, dropped her wet towel on an upholstered chair, and then headed straight to the kitchen. She seemed different here, after just a couple of weeks. She was calmer than I had seen her in a long time. And she hadn't straightened her hair once since we moved into the lake house. Logan would come home from her job at the marina with her hair tousled and sun streaked with blond, no makeup, cheeks pink from the sun, and not try to fix it or hide it. She seemed happy with who she was, a rarity for a teenage girl, and she was mirroring how being here made me feel about myself. I followed her and asked, “What're you doing?”

Logan's entire upper body was in the refrigerator searching for provisions. “Looking for food. I'm starved.” She was always starved. She pulled the lanyard holding her marina employee badge from her neck and tossed it on the counter.

The few times Elliott and I had gone to the marina for gas, I had made a point to stay in the boat with a hat pulled low over my face. “Do you ever see Emory at the marina?”

“No, not really. I'm like on the other side by the pool with the kids. He's off, you know, running the planet and kicking everyone's ass in his office.”

“Your mother is going to be so pleased with all of the colorful language you've acquired from me this summer.”

She was ignoring me, as usual. “Livie, can I borrow your blue sundress?”

“Sure.” I followed her into my room. “I keep thinking about what Buddy said about Emory. How he stole from Mom. I think he meant Mom's land. But how can you steal land?”

Logan said, “Ask the Lenape.”

“The who?”

She changed into the sundress leaving her shorts and T-shirt on my floor. “The native Americans who had Manhattan stolen from them.”

“Smartass. The Indians didn't think a person could even own land, so technically they were the ones ripping off the settlers.”

“That's what I mean. There're like a million different ways you can steal something. It's all about perception.”

Logan grabbed my wrist and peeked at my watch. She obviously had somewhere else to be soon. I understood why Georgia complained about hardly ever spending any time with Logan anymore. I asked, “Date with Graham?”

She nodded. “You know, Graham told me that Elliott's mom is like super pissed about him breaking up with Amy because of some new girl in town.”

I threw my head in my hands. “What? They were having problems before we even met.”

“Well, he told his mom and dad he had to break up with her when he met you.”

For some reason that made me incredibly uncomfortable and also in some really awful petty way a little giddy. “That's not what I want to hear, Lo.”

“But it's true.”

“Oh sweetie, you may be too young to understand this, but the truth is often overrated.” Who knew what other tidbits of gossip Logan had garnered from Graham.

She pulled her hair into a ponytail and met my eyes in the mirror. “Is that why you haven't told Elliott about Leo?”

I fell heavily on the edge of the bed. I didn't know how to explain the way I was compartmentalizing Elliott and Leo, two separate parts of my world, to myself let alone to her. And I certainly hadn't figured out how to talk to either one of them about it. But why had I so deliberately lied to Elliott about my situation?

I answered her. “I don't want to hurt him.”

“Who? Elliott or Leo?”

“Both.”

She gave me the same look that Georgia would have given me in that situation, disbelief tinged with disapproval. “Someone's gonna be hurt, and really angry.”

For some reason I had decided that I needed to talk to Leo first and explain everything to him before I could discuss any of it with Elliott. It had made sense at the beginning, weeks ago. But Leo wouldn't talk to me on the phone about anything; he was always pushing me off. And now it had been so long. So much time had passed. So many things had happened with Elliott. I had no idea what to do anymore.

Logan had lost interest in my mental anguish and was digging through my closet for sandals.

She asked, “What're you doing tonight?”

I answered, distractedly. “Elliott.” I began backpedaling immediately. “No, not doing. I mean Elliott's coming over for dinner. I don't mean that—”

Logan held her hands up to stop my babbling. “I got it. I'll be home by ten.”

I plopped onto the couch waiting for Elliott and let my eyes drift to the Wall of Discovery. I stared at an old map of the Rutledge and Jones properties, which was tacked next to a current map of the marina and golf course. I could see it now: the marina and golf course complex wasn't just in the same area as the old Rutledge and Jones properties. It
was
the old Rutledge and Jones properties.

I had spent the last decade dealing in real estate and due diligence. It would be an easy project for me to figure out how those two distinct parcels of land became one piece of property that was now owned by Emory Bryant.

Elliott showed up at the house with fish for dinner. Whole fish with eyeballs and fins and tails and everything. I grimaced. “I don't know how to make it go from that”—I pointed at the head—“to the kind of fish you can eat.”

He laughed. I wasn't trying to be funny. “This
is
the kind of fish you eat. Don't worry. I'll clean them.”

He went to work in the kitchen hacking the heads off of those poor dead things and ripping their bellies open. I said, “Remind me not to piss you off.”

He held up a bloody hand. “You're hopeless. Come here. I'll show you what to do.”

“Eww, no way. I'm not ever doing that. I'll make drinks; you slaughter dinner.”

“Deal.”

Elliott had woken up in the predawn morning to go fishing with his dad. Elliott and his father were very close. I think it was one of the things that brought him back to Tillman. His father had been suffering from heart disease and was on his second stent. I knew that spending as much time with his father as he could was important to Elliott and I hated to think that I knew how it all would end.

I wondered what his father looked like. Did he have the same green eyes as Elliott? Or the same hair that was always falling in his face? Or that cute lopsided smile that came out when he thought I was doing something charming and/or stupid?

Elliott threw that lopsided smile at me now as I finished my argument trying to convince him that Emory had something to hide from me, which would explain why he acted so strange every time he saw me.

If Emory had done something illegal, or possibly simply improper, to obtain the land then he may have been worried that we could make a legitimate claim to it. I could tell by the look on Elliott's face that he wasn't buying my theory, but I couldn't think of any other reason for the reaction that my arrival in town had received from Emory.

I walked through it logically, spelling it out to Elliott. My mother would have been the sole heir to the Rutledge estate. George and Oliver would most likely have been the sole heirs to the Jones estate. When Oliver and George died, the Jones estate would have gone to my mother, as George's widow. So Janie Jones would have, at one time, been the sole owner of the entire piece of property.

Elliott offered up logic. “Maybe Emory bought it from her.”

I wasn't buying it. “Then why did he say he never met her? And why did Buddy say that Emory stole from her? None of it makes sense. But if Emory never legally bought the land then upon my mother's death it would go to me and Georgia.”

We had finished dinner and were sitting on the couch. Elliott was twisting a strand of my hair around and around, hypnotizing himself with it. He was exhausted from getting up so early and was having a hard time keeping his eyes open.

I was fully alert with a rush of energy at the moment, now that I had some new string to pull in the unraveling of the mystery of Janie. How had I been down here all this time and never done any due diligence on the property?

I was trying to think of possibilities in my mind and explain them to Elliott. The scenario I kept returning to was a foreclosure resulting in a tax sale. I rarely had to deal with anything like foreclosures or tax sales at work. We were a multi-million-dollar international construction firm. Mostly I dealt with building codes and standards, but I had been around a long time. I knew enough, and a lot of those arbitrary details were popping into my brain. I was going from memory, but I believed Georgia was a nonjudicial foreclosure state, meaning they don't necessarily have any court supervision in the sale of the foreclosed property.

Elliott's eyes were closed. His voice was faint. “Are you actually speaking Greek right now? I have no idea what you're saying.”

I just kept thinking aloud. “If there was a foreclosure against the property then there could be a case for wrongful foreclosure or maybe improper notice. He would know that. It could be making him nervous. But this would all have had to take place so long ago; surely the statutory right of redemption time period would have long since passed.”

“Yep, Greek.”

“I'm calling him.” I sat up. “Emory. I'm calling him.”

I thought Elliott would try to stop me, or tell me I was being silly. But instead he pulled out his cell phone and scrolled to Emory's number.

After an awkward preamble of pleasantries I asked him how and when exactly he bought the land. He hedged and gave me a vague nonanswer.

“Emory, I do this for a living. I'm a researcher and this is all public record so I can find out tomorrow or you can just tell me tonight.”

Emory blew out a breath, which I could hear very clearly on my end of the phone. He said, “I bought it at a tax lien sale on the courthouse steps in nineteen seventy-four.”

I could picture it in my mind's eye. Some lawyer out there on the courthouse steps in a polyester suit with white patent leather shoes reading out the exact conditions of the property's lien, or “crying out” the sale, as eager sharks circled the bloody mess.