The Cast Net

1988

The Mercedes convertible pulled off the highway into the sand-and-oyster shell parking lot at Harry’s Country Store outside Summerville, South Carolina. Men congregated near the building waiting for rides to work or just to pass the summer morning.

The driver of the car, a blond, wearing a red dress, her hair pulled back with a scarf, got out of the car and walked inside the store. The men’s eyes followed her.

As she came back outside with a Coke in hand, a motorized camper pulled up to the gas pump. A man wearing a fishing hat rolled down the window and called out to the blond, Miss, can you tell us how to get to Middleburg Landing?

The woman stepped close to the camper, Yes, continue south for two more miles. The Landing’s on your left.

The man removed his fishing hat and tipped it to the lady. Thank you, much.

She smiled, then went back to her car.

The man turned to his friend behind the wheel of the camper, Did you get a look at her?

Hell, yes. I couldn’t take my eyes off her.

The men watched as the Mercedes merged back onto the highway. The camper driver nodded, That guy in the car with her—that’s one lucky son-of-a-bitch.

Cicadas and crickets sang their lively chant as the heat of the summer day diminished. A slight breeze rippled the surface of the pond as turtles lined up on a partially submerged log waiting for bait fish or an unfortunate frog to come in their direction. About twenty feet from where the turtles huddled, a large bass jumped out of the water before penetrating the murky water once again.

Below the fish’s point of entry rested an object foreign to the pond and its ecosystem—an oil slick formed above it. At first, a steady flow of trapped air had bubbled to the surface, but death-like, had slowed to an occasional trickle. Newly submerged in the pond was an automobile that might have been the color red.

Mills Taylor needed a change. She’d needed a change for years. Maybe it was her Virginia roots pulling her. Maybe it was because New York City had lost its appeal. But when Harry Foster, an old family friend, reached out with a job offer, Mills jumped at it.

Harry had served as an attaché during World War II, assisting the British with war materials, and worked closely with a London-based shipping company, Heath Brothers. He had become lifelong friends with the owner, Ian Heath. Harry explained that, following the war, the Heath family had moved their headquarters to Charleston, South Carolina.

Ian’s sister-in-law, Julia, founded an educational foundation to help underprivileged students secure college scholarships. She ran the foundation until her death. At that point, Julia’s son, Cooper took over the responsibilities. Harry explained, The family’s looking for a new director. I’m afraid Cooper’s suffered a personal tragedy. About six months ago, his wife made a trip into town, but never came home.

No one knows what happened to her?

Harry shook his head. The police have questioned people close to her. They’ve taken a hard look into Cooper’s life.

They think he’s a suspect?

Typically, relatives are suspects unless they have an iron-clad alibi. I’ve known Cooper since he was a boy. Not a chance he would have hurt her, but if it makes you uncomfortable with the prospect—

No. I mean, I’d at least like to speak with Mr. Heath.

I know how hard you work. They could use your help.

Once Mills gave Harry the go-ahead, he organized a lunch. Ian flew in to meet her. She explained that her background was fund-raising and public relations and she’d attended the University of Virginia on scholarship. Ian keenly listened to Mills give details of her life and career. Before lunch was over she offered, I’m sorry about your nephew’s wife.

Yes, we all are. We keep hoping, Ian replied.

Is there a reason a Charlestonian isn’t interested in this job?

Ian sipped his martini before saying, We wanted to hire someone from outside the Charleston area . . . someone who wouldn’t be judgmental.

What do you mean?

We want to hire a director who hasn’t been prejudiced by news reports and other criticisms against my family, someone who’ll approach foundation work with a good attitude. My nephew has worried himself sick over Elise. Ian took two sips of his drink and then asked, Will you give us a chance?

Mills nodded. Yes, sir, I will.

With Harry vouching for you, I know you’ll do a good job.

I welcome the opportunity to help others.

Mills packed her Volkswagen, and a week before Christmas, headed to Virginia for the holidays. Her family was excited for her. That is, until Vivien, her older sister, learned that Mills would be working for the Heath family of Charleston, South Carolina. As Mills had already learned, Cooper Heath, an heir to the Heath shipping fortune, was the very same Cooper Heath being investigated in the disappearance of his wife, the pretty, blond, Elise Heath.

Why are you taking this job? Vivien asked.

Do you think Harry would put me in a dangerous situation?

Vivien twisted her hair and answered, No, not for an instant.

The Heaths are doing something important for their community. It would be a shame if they had to give up assisting people who want an education, but can’t afford it. They need help. Harry believes in Cooper’s innocence.

Mills had made her mind up to take the job. When she left Virginia, she felt she’d made the right decision. Harry had been a friend of their father’s, and after their father died of a heart attack, Harry stepped in with financial help.

Mills remembered that Harry once drove four hours to see her ride a float in a Christmas parade. She had been judged the Christmas princess. He stayed long enough to congratulate her, before driving the four hours back home because he couldn’t miss work.

When their father died, the girls were still in high school. His death shaped the girls’ grit and strength, as it had for their mother, Rebecca. She made sacrifices to put the girls through college, and would never consider remarrying.

At twenty-five, Mills was eager for days without taxis and subways and bright lights and cement. She imagined she’d take up watercolors, and maybe even learn to cook grits. Her confidence never wavered, even when she reached Alston Station and found it was more of a village than an actual town. Located in the western portion of Charleston County, the area was sparsely developed and surrounded by marsh and rivers.

The hamlet boasted a single mercantile, a quaint shop named Dawkins’s Market, a post office, a couple of antique stores, a handful of handsome houses, and one church, Edisto All Saints A.M.E. Enormous live oaks, drenched in Spanish moss, lined the sandy streets and filled the yards. Several brick buildings stood empty. Mills thought they must have been used as warehouses during the days of cotton production.

Ian had explained that the town was named after a prominent Southern family, which included a former governor, and was used as a loading post of rice and later for cotton. These staples, Ian said, produced a good deal of Southern wealth and were shipped to Charleston and then to the North or overseas.

She passed over a bridge with a plaque that read Simmons Creek, but it was hard to tell a creek was there, as it was more of a dark-colored marsh than a waterway. Her hiring package included housing in a private cottage on Heath property that bordered the Edisto River. She turned her VW down a tree-lined drive, where she saw an old barn and a horse stable.

The low terrain was thickly overgrown with scrub palms. A large area of fenced-in land appeared on either side of the road. Part of the property was pasture, but a large portion had been plowed and set aside for crops. At the end, surrounded by live oaks, was a raised cottage with a muted, silver-colored roof. In front, a courtyard displayed a fountain with a cherub holding a torch. Water cascaded from the torch into a brick base surrounded by miniature boxwoods.

Mills parked and climbed the steps to the front porch. Old gas lanterns were situated on either side of double doors. For the first time, she felt nervous. She took a deep breath and rang the bell. An older black woman with a round face, graying hair, and a radiant smile appeared on the threshold to greet Mills.

You Miss Taylor?

Yes, ma’am.

I’m Marian Sullivan. Mr. Ian here to see you. Come on in.

In the foyer, Mills glanced around appreciatively at the opulent, West Indies-style setting. In the center of the room was a mahogany table. On it, a delicate hurricane lamp engraved with tropical birds and foliage took center stage. Above it was an ornate crystal chandelier hanging from a plaster ceiling decorated with interlocking laurel branches and acanthus leaves.

Let me take your coat, said Marian.

As Mills removed her coat, she heard her name called from a room off the foyer.

That’s Mr. Ian. He waiting for you in the study. How ‘bout a cup of tea?

I never turn down a cup of tea.

Oh, forgive me, you need to freshen up?

Mills shook her head. I’m fine.

I’ll bring your tea to the study. Come dis way.

Marian showed her into the room, and Ian Heath, a distinguished man in his late sixties with thick salt and pepper hair, rose from behind a desk to greet her. His British accent added to his sophistication. He crossed the room ready for a handshake. Good to see you again. How was the trip? he inquired. He reminds me of Cary Grant, Mills thought.

Not as hectic as roads up North.

Good. Have a seat. He motioned with his hand to a chair in front of a desk. As she sat down, Mills noticed several photographs on the shelves behind the desk. In one of them, a handsome man with dark wavy hair had his arm around a golden-haired beauty, but most of the pictures were of the lady. Ian noticed her eyes linger. He turned and picked up a picture. This is a photo of Elise, my nephew’s wife. This is his home.

Mills nodded.

Ian returned the photo to the shelf. Ready to discuss business?

Yes, sir.

Marian appeared in the doorway with a steaming cup of tea. She placed it on the desk in front of Mills. Sorry for the interruption, but here you go, Miss Taylor.

Mills thanked her, then returned her attention to Ian and business. He handed her a file. This is the invitation list for an annual oyster roast that’s held here to benefit the Julia Heath Foundation. I’m afraid we’re behind this year.

Ian opened another file. The names and addresses of students who are involved in the scholarship program and a list of potential donors are enclosed. Handing her a sheet of paper, Ian declared, This is the contact information for Dr. Frances Warren with the Charleston County School District. Her assistance is invaluable to our mission. I think you’ll enjoy working with her.

I look forward to it.

He removed a photo and handed it to Mills. The picture was of a small, white building in a state of decay. Hard to believe it now, but this was once a schoolhouse near Alston Station. The foundation has been supporting the restoration. Local folks volunteer to work on it. He flipped the photo over. Address is on the back. Ian stood up from behind the desk. Would you like to see the cottage?

Yes, I would.

Come with me into the foyer. I’ll get your coat.

Mills moved toward the living room off the foyer. First, she admired a baby grand piano, and then she lifted her eyes to the painting of a middle-aged lady over the fireplace. Approaching footfalls brought her attention back to the business at hand.

Here you are, Ian said, as he helped Mills with her coat.

Who is the lady in the painting?

Ian peered into the living room. My brother’s wife, Julia.

She was very attractive.

A lovely person, in many ways. Ian opened the front door. Shall we?

They descended the steps and Ian led her down a pathway to a swimming pool. Water’s a little cold right now, but come summertime you’re welcome to use it.

Thank you.

This way. If this is too isolated for you, other living arrangements can be made, in town perhaps.

About fifty feet farther, a small cottage presented itself. Like the larger house, it had a raised foundation with a lengthy set of steps that led to a porch. They climbed the stairs and opened the screen door. Her eyes focused on a set of French doors. She crossed the porch and opened them. Stepping inside, Mills glanced up at exposed beams that spanned either side of the cathedral ceiling. Upholstered furniture was casually arranged around the fireplace. At the rear of the cottage was a door that opened to the bedroom. Inside she saw a wooden, four-poster bed with mosquito netting over the top of a canopy.

Mills returned to the living area. Mr. Heath, I’ll take it.

I’m glad you like it. Do you need any help moving your things in?

No, sir. I just have my clothes and some artwork.

Ian walked to the double doors and stopped. Mills, just to let you know, you may run into Cooper from time to time. He’s not been himself since the disappearance. When you have questions, give me a call. I don’t think we need to bother him with anything extra right now.

Yes, sir. I will.

In a day or two, check in with me. I’d like to know how plans for the oyster roast are coming. And one more thing . . .

Yes, sir?

Glad to have you aboard. He gave her a gentle salute and left.

Mills placed a phone call to her mother to let her know she was safe and sound. After the conversation, she feasted her eyes on the various rooms, as she surveyed the small home.

In the bedroom, her reflection caught in the mirror. Her hazel eyes looked back at her, and she took a hair tie from her pocket and put her dark hair in a ponytail. She stood in front of the mirror for a moment more and then went to move her car. As she grabbed an armful of clothes, a deep voice from behind her said, Hey there, Miss Taylor, let me help you with that.

Mills wheeled around to meet a tall, middle-aged black man dressed in khaki work clothes. She craned her neck to look up at him. A scar creased his forehead. I’m Charles Sullivan. I run Cooper’s farm. You met my mother, Marian, this afternoon. She takes care of the house.

Hello, Mills said with a smile.

Charles leaned into the VW and took out some clothes Mills had hung inside. You just show me where you want these things to go.

When the car was unloaded, Mills shook Charles’s hand. Thank you for your help.

Glad to. Did Mr. Heath show you the way to the river?

No, he didn’t.

He tilted his head. C’mon. Follow me.

They started down a wide path bordered by lush greenery on either side. Mills noticed movement in a group of azaleas bushes. A yellow Labrador retriever presented himself from beneath the shrubbery and joined them on the pathway. Charles whistled, and the dog came to him. He turned to Mills. Meet Sam. He’s Cooper’s dog and a fine bird hunter.

Mills rubbed the dog’s ears, and the threesome continued their stroll. The Edisto River came into view, along with a boathouse, a large dock with a pier system, and a boat on a lift. The boat was crimson red.

Charles proceeded to the boathouse and opened a door. Take a look inside, he suggested. She peeked in and saw a den area with a table and chairs in the center. Mounted on the walls were numerous pieces of fishing equipment, fish mounts, and photographs. On one wall hung a hand-woven, cast net stained the shade of pluff mud, the dark mud found in marshes along the coast. Two kayaks rested in a corner.

Charles pointed to the kayaks. You welcome to use the kayaks anytime you want. C’mon, I’ll show you the dock.

They ambled onto the pier. Mills asked, What makes the river so dark?

I always heard the Edisto Indians prayed over the water to make it black to scare away the white man, but it didn’t work. Really, it’s tannins from the trees. As the leaves break down, they dye the water.

Mills nodded and then focused her eyes on a Boston Whaler on a boat lift near the boathouse named the Miss Elise. Charles motioned with his hand to the Whaler. Cooper don’t use it too much anymore, but they’ve been many a fish caught from her deck.

Mills smiled. The house is a long way from the river.

The folks who built it musta known a thing or two about hurricanes and flooding. Storm surge from a hurricane can rise twenty feet or more. The fireplaces at the house go deep into the ground to anchor it if high winds come.

Mills glanced around the waterway. Sure is beautiful here.

Yes, ma’am, it sure is. You ready to head back up?

If it’s okay with you, I’d like to stay down here for a little while. It’s so peaceful.

All right. We glad to have you here.

Mills smiled and nodded. Her eyes followed Charles as he walked away, but then he turned around. Miss Taylor, I think you’re probably aware of the disappearance of Cooper’s wife, Elise. Story’s been in the national news.

I know about it.

It’s been a mighty bad time ‘round here since that happen.

Mills nodded.

Charles stared at his feet for a moment and then looked back at her. Just let us know if you need anything. He patted Sam. C’mon boy, let’s go to the house. The dog followed him up the path.

Mills sat by the waterway until the sun began to set. A cool January breeze blew off the river, as she made her way back. When Mills neared her cottage, two men came around the row of camellias. She halted in place. The man in the lead greeted her with a smile. He was over six feet, with black curly hair and dark eyes that sparkled as he said, Miss Taylor, I presume. I’m a friend of this guy, he gestured to the man behind him and continued, I’m Britton Smith, and he owns this place . . . he’s Cooper Heath.

She recognized Cooper as the man in the photo she’d seen behind the desk.

Hello. Mills first shook Britton’s hand. When she took Cooper’s hand, his blue eyes darted to the ground and then to the surrounding landscape before he looked her in the eyes.

Wood duck’s on the menu for tonight. I told Cooper I’d be chef. Join us if you’d like.

I’ve never had wild duck before.

Britton glanced at his watch. See you at seven then. You’re in for a treat.

Sounds good. I’ll be there.

Mills eyed the two men as they strolled away. Cooper turned back and gave her a slight smile before continuing on the path.

Mills knocked on the front door of Cooper’s house just before seven. Marian answered the door and invited her in. Everybody in the kitchen. Come dis way.

Mills followed her through the foyer to the back of the house. The kitchen was designed with honey-colored oak. A collection of sea-grass baskets decorated shelves.

A middle-aged woman stood beside Charles. As Mills approached, she extended her hand. Hi, Miss Taylor, I’m Elizabeth, Charles’s wife. I dropped by to meet you, but I got supper on the stove and I told these two, she gestured to Charles and Marian, we’d have my famous venison stew for supper.

Marian picked up her purse. See y’all tomorrow.

Congratulations on the job, Elizabeth offered as she ambled toward the kitchen door.

Good night, Cooper, Charles said.

Good night, Cooper responded as he watched them depart.

Britton turned the sizzling contents of a cast iron frying pan with a spatula, and asked, Cooper, could you get me some black pepper?

Mills watched Cooper as he went into his pantry. She couldn’t help but notice that the items on the shelves were neatly arranged. He removed a container from a shelf and then took it to Britton. Here you go, Cooper said.

Britton sprinkled pepper on the dish and then glanced over his shoulder at her. Just a few minutes on the duck breasts. Wine’s on the island beside the glasses. Help yourself.

Mills moved to the island, but before she could pick up the bottle, Cooper took it and poured her a glass of red wine. It’s a merlot. I hope you like it.

She lifted the glass and sipped the wine. Very good.

Britton took the smoking pan from the stove and placed it on a cutting board in the center of the kitchen table. Baked potatoes and a salad were already on each plate.

Cherry and wine sauce in the gravy boat, Britton declared. They sat down and started to eat.

Mills held up a bite of duck breast on her fork. Boy, what I’ve been missing. This is great.

Britton sipped his wine. Glad you like it . . . So why’d you leave the Big Apple?

I’ve dodged more taxis and weathered more snow and sleet than any one Virginian should. I’ve been trying to cast my net outside the city ever since I moved there. I never liked city life, but, after college, I was offered a job. It was a good one, so I took it. She ate another bite and then asked Britton, What do you do for a living?

I’m a harbor pilot.

And what does a harbor pilot do?

I assist in the navigation of commercial ships traveling in and out of the Port of Charleston.

I bet that gets exciting.

Bad weather can lead to edgy moments.

Mills turned to Cooper. Your Uncle Ian asked that I get started right away on preparations for the oyster roast.

It’s always a big event for the foundation, Cooper replied. I appreciate your help with it.

You’re welcome.

For the rest of the meal they discussed event plans and the students involved in the scholarship program. As Mills took her last bite of duck, she asked, Who plays the piano? I noticed it in the living room.

Cooper nodded. I do.

I’m a big fan. I’d love to hear you play.

No time like the present. Britton, leave the plates. I’ll clean up.

Nothin’ doing. You go ahead. Your music will accompany my dishwashing.

Cooper and Mills moved into the living room, and he motioned to a chair near the piano. She sat down in a cane-backed chair, as Cooper seated himself on the piano bench. He played Gershwin’s Summertime, and then, Solitude. Mills could hear Billy Holiday’s voice accompany his soulful rendition. She watched his attractive hands move across the keyboard and noticed the gold wedding band on his left ring finger. The sound of Holiday’s voice faded as she realized she was listening to Cooper’s voice. His voice trailed, and then abruptly stopped.

Startled out of her satisfying reverie, she gazed at Cooper. I enjoyed the songs.

Thanks. We need to get some shut-eye. Britton and I are going duck hunting early tomorrow morning. Cooper lowered the keyboard cover. I appreciate your taking on the foundation work for my family. This was always very important to my mother.

He glanced away from her, not making eye contact. I think you know about my wife’s disappearance. Every time I walk in a store or the bank, I can feel people staring at me. Some give me the stink eye and some just pity me . . . I’m afraid the community is divided as to whether I’m a hapless victim with a missing wife or the villain who made her disappear. Cooper stopped speaking and locked eyes with Mills. I promise you, I had nothing to do with her disappearance. God is my witness.

I’m sorry about your wife.

Cooper rubbed the back of his neck. I don’t want you to trouble yourself if you encounter people who have their suspicions about me.

I appreciate you forewarning me, Mr. Heath.

Please call me Cooper.

In that case, call me Mills.

He rose from the piano bench. If you need anything, just let me know.

Britton stuck his head into the living room. Hey, Mills, I’ll walk you to your cottage . . . almost done with the dishes. On Sunday, I’m going to ride one of Cooper’s horses. You want to go?

I’ve never been on horseback.

I’ll give you your first lesson. Cooper has a docile beast named Ginger that I think you’ll be fine with. I’ll show you the ruins of an old plantation house.

I’d like that. Mills beamed at Britton, and then she glanced at Cooper. His eyes were cast down to the floor. He slowly looked up at her and smiled ever so slightly.

Mills rose from her seat. She studied Julia’s portrait. Her focus drifted down to the fireplace, where a cane was propped against one side. Mills moved to the hearth, and admired the handle, which was carved into a woman’s face.

Is it okay to pick this up? Mills asked.

Sure. It was carved during the Civil War by a relative of mine, George Camp.

Amazing craftsmanship, Mills commented, as she ran her fingers over the handle.

Saturday morning, Mills made her way to the riverfront with her sketchbook in hand. She wrapped her scarf tightly around her neck and sat down to watch seagulls dive into the water after baitfish. The air was filled with the smell of the marsh and pluff mud. She inhaled, holding her breath before releasing it.

As she began to sketch a palmetto tree, she noticed two boys fishing from a dented johnboat floating in her direction with the current. The boys methodically cast their fly rod lines back and forth into clock positions, from ten o’clock to two o’clock. Their fishing lines sailed through the air with a metronome-like rhythm, until one of them snagged a medium-sized fish not far from where she sat.

The two continued to move with the current, and were around a bend in the river within a few moments. Mills included the fly-fishing duo in her sketch and finished the drawing. She thought she’d like to place her illustration on the oyster roast invitations.

As she closed her sketchbook, a rustling noise came from the direction of the boathouse. Mills turned to see Cooper and his dog enter the small structure. She waved to him, but he was oblivious to her presence. After several minutes, he charged out of the boathouse and raced toward the river. His flushed face was twisted into a scowl.

In his right hand, he held a small package. Cooper abruptly halted. He stuffed the object into his coat. Ah—Mills, I didn’t realize you were here.

Hello, yes, I was working on sketches.

His eyes darted back and forth from her to the Edisto. I apologize. I was looking for something in the boathouse. Excuse me. He waved and then hurried up the path in the direction of his house.

She felt a cold chill.

Mills noticed the door to the boathouse was ajar. She pushed it open, then peeked inside. Several drawers in storage bins that lined the west-facing wall were pulled out. One was on the floor. Its contents, fishing lures, weights, and spools of line, were strewn about.

Photographs on one wall caught her attention, but the sunlight reflecting off a window made the photographs impossible to see. She approached the pictures. Several were of Cooper and his wife holding up catches. Clearly these were happy times. Obviously, there was a time they’d been very much in love. Britton was in several shots. A third man appeared in a number as well. He was a blond with intense blue eyes.

Mills sidestepped along the wall to a series of photos of two teenage boys who looked enough alike to be brothers. She thought the younger of the two was Cooper. One photo showed the two teenage boys with a man and woman. Mills thought of the painting over the fireplace in Cooper’s home and realized the woman was Julia.

She went to the wall where a cast net hung. The net was woven with such artistry that Mills thought its interlocking strands of nylon resembled a spider’s web. Lead weights, shaped round balls, dangled from the fringes. Mills lightly touched one. A net like this is heavy enough to drown a person.

She picked up the fishing equipment on the floor and returned the drawer to the storage bin. When she left, she made certain the door was shut and then strolled back toward her cottage. As she approached the courtyard behind the main house, she noticed Cooper speaking to a man who wore a khaki coat. His hair was thick, white, and curly. She quietly passed by.

That afternoon, she drove into Charleston and spent a number of hours exploring the downtown streets. She wasn’t far from the corner of Queen and King Streets when she noticed a wrought iron gate leading to a pathway for the Unitarian Church. She went down the lane and entered one of the most fascinating churchyards she’d ever seen. Many of the graves were covered with paperwhites, which concealed the weathered names on the markers.

A man wearing a handsome tweed blazer and beret came past her on the path. He looked at her, and Mills met his gaze with a smile. He slowed his pace and said, You have a nice smile.

Thank you. As she departed the churchyard, she noticed he’d turned around. His eyes focused on her as if he recognized her.

Mills carefully maneuvered on the cemetery’s path back to King Street, just as the initial blast of an ambulance’s siren sounded from one of the hospitals, blocks away. She felt her stomach muscles tighten into a knot. In a flashback, she remembered the most beautiful snowfall she’d ever seen. That year, her sister, Vivien, had pounded her with snow balls, and they caught enormous flakes on their tongues. But, suddenly there was the sound of an ambulance along with its red rotating light which was nearly obscured in the driving snow. Mills dropped the hat she held for a snow man, and the girls charged toward the house . . .

Her thoughts returned to the present as a group of teenagers noisily passed by on King Street. She wiped sweat from her forehead and continued her walk. When she left Charleston in the direction of Edisto, she decided to explore and ended up at a charming village named Rockville, at the end of a roadway on Wadmalaw Island.

She parked at a church named Grace Chapel and was captivated by the community of waterfront homes. An attractive white-boarded building, the Sea Island Yacht Club caught her eye. As she stood in the sandy lot near the club, a man who was about to launch a powerboat noticed her and called out, Can I help you?

I’m exploring. I’ve just moved to Charleston.

I’m Joshua White. Welcome. He offered her a Coke from his cooler, which she gladly accepted. Joshua appeared to be in his mid-forties with dark, tanned skin and graying temples. Would you like to see the inside? he asked.

She nodded, and he politely showed her the club, which was classically designed with hardwood floors and fireplaces on either side of the expansive meeting room. Ceiling beams spanned the width of the building.

I apologize, but I have a guest waiting for me. He took a business card from his wallet and gave it to her. Call me. I’ll take you to lunch.

She thanked him for his kindness and watched as he joined a young woman with blond hair and lovely features. Examining his business card, she read that he was an attorney in Charleston. As she began walking back to the chapel, she encountered several well-behaved Labrador retrievers and decided the Lab must be the pedigree of choice in these parts.

On the way home, she stopped by the old schoolhouse that the Heath Foundation was helping to restore. Situated on a rural, sandy lane, the building was surrounded by a grove of live oak trees and the thick vegetation of scrub palms. A sign—Freedom Road Schoolhouse Restoration in Progress—stood in front of the property. The schoolhouse was in a sad state with broken windows and rot damage to its fragile frame.

Stacks of fresh lumber lay in the schoolyard. Mills climbed a set of three steps and peered into a front window. Water damage had caused sections of the walls to collapse, leaving only the wooden support beams, darkened by years of neglect. She shook her head.

Mills arrived home at dusk. Wagging his tail, Sam came to greet her. Together, they walked down to the river. The scene was beautiful, the last light of a cold winter’s day, red sky, and a few clouds made their way across the heavens. Church bells from Alston Station sounded in the distance. As they started back up the darkened lane, Sam’s ears picked up.

Crossing their path, about fifty feet in front of them, were five deer. Sam took off in hot pursuit and disappeared into the thicket. Mills quickened her pace while calling the dog’s name. She