Chapter Three The Curse

After two weeks of sightseeing, hiking, camping, pub-crawling, and loafing in the chilly air of the Highlands, Mercer and Thomas had returned to the heat and humidity of summertime Florida. It was a rude reentry. The first morning back, they tried to enjoy coffee on the veranda but quickly surrendered to the heat and bugs. Their previous coffee had been on the terrace of a Scottish castle, wrapped in quilts.

But life goes on. It was now already July, and classes started at Ole Miss in late August. The summer was half over.

They were consumed with Lovely’s history of Dark Isle. Mercer wanted it to be her next book but could not decide if it should be fiction or nonfiction. She could easily take the story, otherwise known as “stealing” in the trade and perfectly acceptable, and change the names and as many of the facts as she wanted. She would have complete literary license to create and fabricate. Thomas preferred nonfiction and wanted her to stick to the truth. He had sort of agreed to work as her researcher, though they had a long way to go. Being married would be enough of a challenge. They weren’t sure if they could survive working together.

They went together to the Santa Rosa library and got lost in old newspapers, but didn’t find much about Dark Isle. Lovely’s story spanned over 250 years and had plenty of gaps. They didn’t expect to verify any of it, but they had to dig anyway. Her story also stretched the imagination at times, almost to the point of disbelief.

Since Bruce Cable was the only person they knew who’d ever met Lovely, they were eager to talk to him. Mercer called and suggested lunch, always the best entrée with Bruce, and he responded predictably: Lunch tomorrow! And at his house, which, of course, meant a longer meal with a longer nap to follow, preferably in his hammock. He had someone they needed to meet.

Noelle was in France buying antiques, so Bruce, no slouch in the kitchen, cooked a tomato pie and served it with an arugula salad. They ate on the terrace with ancient ceiling fans swaying and creaking above. Bruce poured ice-cold Chablis and wanted to know all about Scotland.

Steven Mahon arrived fifteen minutes late, with apologies. He had met Mercer at the bookstore but she did not remember him. He had also just reread Lovely’s book and was up to speed. “Bruce says you may want to write the story,” he said.

Mercer frowned at Bruce and wanted to say, Well, Bruce, as always, has a big mouth. But she demurred with “We’ll see. It’s interesting.”

“It’s fascinating,” Steven agreed. “And now the plot is getting really thick.”

Mercer asked Bruce, “Do you think Lovely will talk to me? I’ll have to tell her up front that I’m a writer and I’m thinking of borrowing her story.”

“I have no idea. She’s a pleasant person but very guarded. I always get the impression she distrusts everyone and for that reason doesn’t say much. I can call and find out. As I said, she refuses to talk on the phone.”

“And she’s here, on the island?” Steven asked.

“Yes, lives in The Docks, on the south end, outside the limits of Santa Rosa, an old neighborhood on the bay side where the oyster houses and canneries once operated. Many of the workers were black and they settled around the canneries. A hundred years ago The Docks was a bustling community with its own economy and churches. Even had an elementary school. It’s still there, still busy. A lot of the blacks have scattered and a lot of hippies and artists have moved in. The housing is cheaper.”

“Also known as Voodoo Village,” Mercer said.

“That too. Years ago, when it was all black, white folks knew better than to go there after dark. There were stories about witch doctors and ghosts and such. African curses, rituals, and so on. But it’s different now.”

“So Lovely lives in Voodoo Village?” Steven asked, amused.

“The Docks. I haven’t heard it called Voodoo Village in years. But, yes, she lives there as far as I know. I’ve never seen her house, never been invited. She told me at the bookstore one time that she lives in a small house with her neighbors just down the street. I got the impression they look after her.”

“She has a friend, right?” Mercer asked.

“Yes, Miss Naomi, who is sort of her caretaker. When she visits the store, Miss Naomi is always driving.”

“When did you move here, Bruce?” Thomas asked.

“Over twenty years ago.”

“And you, Steven?”

“Just six years ago. Retirement.”

“So none of us were here when Lovely tried to convince the state to preserve Dark Isle.”

Bruce shook his head and said, “I’ve never heard that story.”

“We found it this morning in the archives at the library. The story is dated in March of 1990. She claimed to be the owner of the island, the last descendant of the slaves, and she wanted to give it to the state of Florida if it would promise to protect it. Evidently, the state had little interest in doing so. It wasn’t much of a story.”

But Steven especially liked it. “That could be important evidence. It tends to prove that she was in fact the owner of the island. You see the problem here, right? A rather huge problem. In her own book, Lovely admits she left the island when she was fifteen years old. If we can believe that she was born in 1940, then she left in 1955. And she writes that she was the last person to leave. Everybody else was dead. Tidal Breeze will no doubt use her own words to drill home the point that the island was deserted then and has been so for decades now.”

“How can she prove she was born there?”

“With no paperwork, no records, it will be difficult. She needs a lawyer, Bruce, and soon.”

“Don’t we all? I doubt she can afford one.”

“What about a pro bono lawyer?” Mercer asked.

Steven laughed and said, “That’s my specialty, right? Clients who can’t pay.”

“It’s called a nonprofit for a reason,” Bruce added.

“It has to be pro bono,” Steven said. “No one can afford the fees it’ll take to fight Tidal Breeze. I can do it to a point, but I’ll have to find some help. Right now the first step is to talk to the client. That’s up to you, Bruce.”

“Okay, I’ll give it a try. But no guarantees.”

Mercer said, “There are some interesting stories about Dark Isle in the archives. Have you heard the one about the LSD boys?”

Bruce shrugged as if he hadn’t a clue. “No.”

“The story was dated May of 1970. These three teenage boys sailed out to Dark Isle to smoke pot. Figured they would have plenty of privacy. One took along some LSD, which I gather was rather new to the area in 1970. All three were tripping out and began making noises that attracted two large panthers. At first the kids thought they were just hallucinating, but when they realized the panthers were real, they jumped in the water and tried to escape. Two were rescued by a fisherman. The third one was never found, thus the headline and big story. His father was a well-known dentist on the island.”

Thomas added, “They claimed they heard people screaming from the bush, but the police were skeptical. It was never clear what the boys really heard and saw. They were in another world.”

They ate for a moment, savored the story, and sipped wine.

Thomas said, “And in 1933, during the Depression, there was a WPA project to record the oral histories of surviving slaves. There were still a few around then, and these two grad students were being paid by the government to find them. They knew about Dark Isle and decided to go find some descendants of former slaves. They were warned to stay away but insisted. When no one would take them to the island they rented a boat and went out anyway. They were never heard from again.”

“Come on,” Bruce said.

“I’m not making this up. It’s in the newspaper, front-page headlines. November 1933.”

“Was there a search party or something?” Steven asked.

“I don’t know, but the sheriff is quoted saying he wasn’t going out there looking for anybody. Said only fools and folks working for the federal government would set foot on Dark Isle.”

Mercer and Thomas were enjoying the tag team. She took another sip of wine and said, “Right after the Second World War, a military plane was working the coast, taking aerial photos of everything. The navy was looking for a place to build a submarine base. The plane made a pass over Dark Isle and something happened.”

“Must have flown too low,” Thomas added.

“It crashed on the beach, killed the three men on board.”

Steven held up his hands and said, “Okay, I get the message. I’m not going anywhere near that island.”

Miss Naomi Reed welcomed her two granddaughters, hugged their mom goodbye, and got them seated at the kitchen table with bowls of their favorite sugar cereal. She had not been raised on such junk food, but her upbringing was not important. Kids nowadays ate all kinds of bad food because it was sweet and delicious. Almost all of the grandmothers Naomi knew had given up on healthy diets for their young ones. They had lost all the food fights. The kids were already getting chubby. Let their parents worry about that.

Or their mother. Their father was seldom home. He drove a truck for a big corporation and the more he drove, the more money he made. Naomi was happy to keep the girls during the summer months. It was free babysitting for her daughter and precious time for Naomi.

She told them to stay in the house when they finished eating. As she did seven days a week, she left her modest home, walked off the porch and down the front sidewalk to a street called Rigg Road. It was a mix of asphalt and gravel, same as most streets in The Docks. She spoke to her neighbor across the street and waved at a kid on a bike.

This was her neighborhood, and each morning she asked God’s help in guiding her to make it a better place. Two houses down, she turned in to a gravel alley, one barely wide enough for a small car, though she had never seen a vehicle going to Lovely’s place. It was a small four-room home that had been built decades earlier for storage. Lovely had painted it bright yellow, her favorite color. The trim changed every three or four years. Now it was a royal blue, same as the boards on the narrow steps. Baskets of flowers—petunias, lilies, roses—hung in small clusters around the porch.

Naomi called out, “Say, Lovely, are you alive in there, girl?”

The reply came through the screen door. “Alive and kicking. Working on another lovely day.” Naomi walked through the door and the two clasped hands. “Thanks so much for coming. Would you like coffee?”

“Of course.”

Seven days a week she arrived at 8:00 a.m. The coffee was not only brewed but already poured and mixed with a little cream. They sat on the dusty sofa and took a drink.

“How are your girls?” Lovely asked.

“Bright and beautiful as always.”

“I’d like to see them today.”

“We’ll go in a moment if you want.”

Lovely had miscarried at the age of eighteen. After that, her husband lost interest in her and went to live in Jacksonville. After he died, she never remarried and, having no kids or grandchildren of her own, enjoyed doting on Naomi’s granddaughters.

Then it was on to the weather, followed by a summary of the ailments currently afflicting their neighbors. Naomi grew more serious and said, “Mr. Cable from the bookstore called again yesterday, said he would like to see you.”

“He’s such a nice man.”

“Yes he is.”

“Did he say he’s sold some more of my books?”

“Didn’t mention that.”

“Why is he calling?”

“I don’t know, but he did say there were some people who wanted to meet you. Said there was something about Dark Isle.”

One of their rituals was to read the island’s newspaper together three times a week. They especially enjoyed the church news and obituaries. They had read the stories about the proposed development. “Tidal Breeze” was already a dirty word.

Gertrude lived two streets over and had been dying of cancer for years. Her illness had become so protracted that many in the village suspected she wasn’t really that sick. Nevertheless, she was continually talked about and prayed over by her friends.

To move away from the unpleasantness of Dark Isle, Lovely asked about Gertrude and they spent a few worrisome minutes on that, which led to an update on Abe Croft, their former minister, who was nearing one hundred years old and definitely dying.

Miss Naomi said, “I need to check on the girls. Won’t you stop by for lunch?”

“I’d like that. Thank you. And tell Mr. Cable I’ll see him in the morning, if that’s okay with you.”

“Wonderful. The girls will be excited. They love the bookstore.”

Lovely’s two black cats eased into the room and eyed Naomi suspiciously. They kept their distance and perched themselves on a windowsill while watching the women. They didn’t tolerate guests in the house and Naomi loathed them as well. It was time for her to leave.

“Thank you for the coffee. I’ll call Mr. Cable and arrange a meeting.”

Both women stood and walked through the screen door and onto the porch. They hugged tightly and said goodbye as if they might never see each other again.

At dusk the heat began to break and Lovely needed her walk. As usual, she’d spent most of her day with her plants. She tended her flower beds in the front yard, and around back she grew more vegetables than she could ever consume. When the sun was high and she needed to rest, she retired to the front porch where she sat beside a window fan and read books from the library. And napped. At eighty, her naps were getting longer.

But so were her walks. Her favorite was a stroll through the streets to the harbor where the old canneries sat idle and neglected. She had worked there as a young woman, shucking oysters for ten cents an hour. She walked past two shrimp-packing plants that still ran all day and night and paid a lot more. At the end of the pier she gazed at the still water and enjoyed an orange sunset. In the distance the bridge to the mainland was busy with vehicles coming and going. Below it the Camino River moved slowly. When she was a child there was no bridge, only a ferry.

And far away, or as far as she could see at that moment, there was a dark speck of land. Dark Isle, the place of her birth, the resting place of her people, sacred ground for her. She owned it, as her people had for many years. They had fought off the white men with spears and clubs and then guns. They had shed tears and blood and never surrendered.

It was no surprise that the white men were back now, threatening once again. It would be her last stand. She was too old to fight much longer. And, if they were successful now, and they flattened and paved the island and threw up buildings, there would be nothing left for her, nothing to keep fighting for.

The fight would not be fair. They had the power and the money.

She had nothing but the curse. Nalla’s curse.

After a rigorous day of loafing on the beach, the newlyweds retired to the shade of their porch and a glass of lemonade. The July sun was still white hot and had scattered most of the beachcombers. It was time for either a nap or a swim in a pool. Mercer’s cottage had no pool, so she settled on the notion of a nap. Thomas, after a month of matrimonial bliss, was worried that being married might cause him to gain weight. They were certainly burning their share of calories around the house and they ate and drank as little as possible. Most of his married buddies, though, had gradually chubbed-up over the years. Mercer assured him he looked just fine. Nevertheless, he had bought a new dirt bike and enjoyed riding in the surf at low tide. He said he’d be back in an hour.

She dozed for moment, then had a thought. Nalla’s story was fixed in her mind and hard to shake. At random times, Mercer would remember a scene and practically stop in her tracks. She was working on a book proposal to send to her agent but it was far from finished. In fact, she still wasn’t sure how and where to begin. Thomas had convinced her to tell the real story and stay away from fiction. The truth was fascinating enough, and the twist of a corporate land grab made it so compelling it was almost irresistible.

One scene haunted her.

Nalla and the other women and children were fed and clothed. One of the men was Joseph, who was slightly older and seemed to command the respect of the others. He was also from the Kongo and spoke Bantu.

Nalla told their story of the slave ship and the storm. The capture, kidnapping, and voyage across the ocean were experiences they knew well. How could they forget?

Nalla had plenty of questions of her own. Joseph explained that they, the only inhabitants of the island, were runaway slaves from Georgia, where slavery was legal. They were now in Florida, Spanish soil where slavery had not been legalized and runaways were safe. Nalla and the others from the Venus had been lucky enough to wash ashore on Spanish territory.

Will the white men find us here?

It’s possible, Joseph said. The men who own the ship will most likely come looking for survivors. However, the Spanish don’t like the British and they skirmish all the time along the border. Joseph spoke to a young man, one with a rifle. He pointed to it and explained that if the slave hunters set foot on their island there would be a bloody fight. They, the former slaves, were not going back. They would fight to the end and would die on their island.

Joseph had been captured and sold when he was seventeen years old. He came ashore in Savannah and was sold to a family that owned a large plantation where they grew rice, peanuts, and cotton. He lived and worked there for almost twenty years and learned to read and write and speak English. Compared to most owners, the master was a fair man who wanted his slaves to become Christians. He allowed an older slave to teach the children the basics. The overseer, though, was a cruel man who enjoyed using the whip. All the slaves in Georgia, especially in the southern part, dreamed of escaping to Florida. Joseph saw an opportunity and ran away. That was about ten years ago. He made it to the island, their island, and was welcomed by the others. There were about fifty then. Now, the number had doubled.

Joseph waved his hand at his people. You are welcome here.

There was a commotion at the trail. Half a dozen African men appeared and were dragging three white men, all of them dirty and bloodied. They were bound at the wrists with their hands behind them and a bamboo pole rammed between their bent elbows.

“We found them,” one of the Africans said. “Hiding in the woods near the water. They are from the ship.” The people surrounded the white men and waited for Joseph to inspect them. A boy handed him a heavy stick.

The men were unshaven, filthy, and shoeless. Their ragged clothes were stained with blood. Cuts, knots, and insect bites covered their arms and legs. “Stand up,” Joseph said. They awkwardly struggled to their feet.

Nalla inched forward in the crowd for a closer look at the man in the middle. It was the one they called Monk, her rapist. She covered her mouth with her hands and gawked in disbelief. He saw her, made eye contact, then looked away.

“Where are you from?” Joseph demanded, toying with the stick.

“Virginia,” one of them said.

“So you know English. You are colonists.”

Two of them nodded. Monk stared at his gnarly feet.

Nalla stepped forward, took the stick from Joseph, and clubbed Monk three times on the head, each blow drawing blood and painful grunts. The villagers were startled by the attack. Then she hit him again and again and he fell to the ground. Loosa, another woman from the ship, stepped forward, took the stick from Nalla, and began beating one of the other two. Nalla whispered to Joseph and explained that the men had repeatedly raped them on the ship. It was time for revenge.

Joseph explained this to the others. Some of the other women began crying because they too had suffered the same assaults on their voyages over.

Joseph began barking commands. Ropes made of aged tree vines and slumber grass were wrapped around the ankles of the three captives. They were hung by their feet from the same branch of elm tree in the center of the village. The younger mothers took the children to their homes.

Nalla began chanting in an unknown tongue and walking in tiny steps in circles around the men. Everyone else backed away. They recognized what was happening and gave her plenty of room. She began an odd little dance on her toes as she swayed and chanted and bounced around the men. Her eyes were closed and she was in another world.

A witch doctor stepped from the crowd and placed a wooden bowl and long knife on the ground. He said something to her and she nodded as if to say thanks. She continued her ritual, her dance, her curse. The voodoo was in her blood, passed down from her mother and grandmothers.

The three white men, upside down, were suffering intensely and watching Nalla as best they could. When it was time, she placed the wooden bowl under Monk’s head, who squirmed but had no place to go. She held the knife high for all to see and kissed it. Then she squatted, grabbed his mangy hair, spat a curse in her African tongue, and sliced his throat.

When the bowl was filled with his blood, she lifted it and followed the witch doctor out of the village and back to the beach. With Joseph and the rest behind them and watching from a distance, she walked along the surf, dipping the bowl and leaving a trail of blood in the sand.

When the bowl was empty, the curse was complete. Woe to any white man who ventured onto their island.

By morning the other two were dead. Joseph ordered them cut down and dragged to the small dock hidden from the ocean. Using a boat they had confiscated from the last slave traders who’d paid a visit, they took the bodies out to sea and dumped them without ceremony.

The island had no place for a white man, dead or alive.

The meeting was sure to be one of the more unusual ones in the history of Bay Books. Bruce tidied up his office, cleared away the debris from his desk, and straightened all of his first editions on the shelves. He had hundreds of them, but never enough.

Mercer and Thomas arrived first and took seats at the wine-tasting table Noelle had found in the village of Ménerbes, in Provence. Most of his furniture had been selected by his wife and came from the South of France. Her store next door was packed with fine antiques, so many that she often displayed the extras at the bookstore. It was not at all unusual for her to sell a beautiful table Bruce was using to display his bestsellers.

Steven Mahon was next and coffee was poured. Bruce cautioned them that the meeting might not go as planned. According to Miss Naomi, Lovely was hesitant about discussing important matters. “And, I’m not sure she really trusts white people,” Bruce said.

“Can’t blame her for that,” Steven quipped.

“No, I’m serious. Several years ago Miss Naomi tried to convince her to prepare a will. Lovely has no blood heirs, supposedly, and no one knows what happens to Dark Isle when she dies.”

“Could be a real mess,” Steven said.

“No doubt. But she wouldn’t do a will because there’s not a black lawyer on the island.”

“That’s been a problem all over the South,” Steven said. “It goes back generations, and it’s the reason a lot of land owned by blacks has been foreclosed. No last will and testament, too many distant heirs, no clear title, so the land gets sold for unpaid taxes.”

Thomas looked at Steven and asked, “You think she’ll trust you?”

“What? Look at this face. The glow of complete honesty.”

“Sorry I brought it up,” Bruce mumbled as he stood. “They’re here.”

The kids’ section of Bay Books took up half the ground floor and always had customers. Busy moms could drop off their kids for story time or just to browse and forget about them for an hour or so. The staff was always ready to read to the little ones and gently shove new releases to the older ones. Other than bestsellers, the kids’ section was the most profitable in the store.

Miss Naomi’s granddaughters loved the place and were excited to visit.

They were lost in books by the time she and Lovely entered Bruce’s office and said hello. He introduced them to Mercer, Thomas, and Steven, and offered coffee. They politely declined and took seats at the table.

Lovely was stunning. She wore a bright yellow robe that flowed almost to the floor. On her head was a tall turban-style wrap that set high and was a mix of loud colors. Her necklace was a row of large shark’s teeth.

Miss Naomi was stylish too, dressed for church or some gathering, but no match for her friend. Mercer guessed her age to be around sixty-five. Lovely claimed 1940 as her birth year, making her eighty, but she looked younger than Miss Naomi. Her eyes were a lighter shade, still brown but not dark. There was distant white blood in the family.

Around the table they struggled with the small talk. Bruce carried the ball and asked what the girls liked to read. Thankfully, Miss Naomi was a chatterbox and she and Bruce went back and forth. Steven, the lawyer, was hesitant to jump in. He was there to meet a potential client for a case he didn’t really want, and there was an excellent chance the prospective client had no use for him. At some point, Mercer would be forced to tell Lovely that she wanted to write a book about her and her island, but she wasn’t sure how to broach that subject.

Lovely sat regally in the leather chair and offered a tight smile, as if it was difficult. She seemed to be taking in everyone and everything and debating whether or not she liked what she was seeing. Her eyes glowed with a fierceness that did not spread to the rest of her face.

When Bruce began to flail, Mercer said, “I just read your book, Ms. Jackson. It’s a great story.”

The smile widened and she said, “Please call me Lovely. Everybody else does, including children. Jackson was the name given to my ancestors. They didn’t ask for it, didn’t like it, but they had no choice. For years I’ve thought about changing my name but, I’m told, that would force me to go to court.”

“Court” was the opening Steven needed, but the timing seemed bad. He let it pass.

Lovely said, “I’m so glad you enjoyed my book.” A careful voice, rich with a soft Southern accent. Mercer was floored when she said, “And I enjoyed yours. Tessa. I knew her, your grandmother, but not well. I met her once. I remember when she died. Just awful. I’m so sorry.”

“Thank you,” Mercer said. It seemed odd receiving condolences from a person whose family had suffered as much as Lovely’s, but that was ancient history now. Or was it?

Mercer continued, “If possible, I’d like to talk to you about writing your story. I find it fascinating.”

“But I’ve already written it. And we’ve sold how many copies, Bruce?”

Twenty-seven to be exact, but he wasn’t about to embarrass her. “Don’t know for sure. I’ll have to check.”

Lovely smiled again and said, “Not very many. Stories about old slaves are a dime a dozen.”

Mercer said, “Maybe, but the story is not over. Your island is about to be in the center of another storm.”

“Yes, so they say. Naomi and I have read every word in the newspaper. I don’t know why they can’t just leave us alone. The island is mine. My ancestors are buried there. I would live there if I could, but I was forced to leave many years ago. You know the story. It’s in my book.”

“I do. But I’d like to tell the rest of the story.”

“Is there a happy ending?” she asked with a smile.

“I don’t know. Maybe Steven could answer that.”

Lovely glared at Steven and the smile vanished. She had been warned that a lawyer might be present. He made eye contact, could not maintain it, glanced away, and said, “I’m not your typical lawyer, Lovely. I don’t get paid. I work for a nonprofit foundation based here on the island, and we try to protect the environment. The developer who wants your island will hire a thousand lawyers if it has to, and it will be a tough case to win. My nonprofit is willing to go to court and fight to keep these bad guys away from Dark Isle.”

“You need my permission?”

“Not really. We can join any effort to stop developers and protect natural areas, but it would be nice to have you sign a contract and hire us to protect your rights.”

“So I would have to pay you?”

“There would be a small fee up front.”

“How much?”

“I don’t know, say five dollars.”

Everyone needed a laugh and enjoyed one. Steven felt like he was on a roll and kept going, “The first step is to beat them to the courthouse and file a lawsuit to get a good title. It’s called an action to quiet a title. Legal jargon. That will start a big fight in the court and it will drag on for some time. You will be named as the plaintiff, another legal term, which means you’re the person bringing the lawsuit.”

Steven had an easy manner and talked like a layman. Bruce had never seen him in action before but had heard that he was smooth in the courtroom. He’d also found old articles that described some of his Sierra Club brawls. In his day, he had owned the courtroom.

“And there’s no way around this?” Lovely asked.

“I’m afraid not if you want to keep your island and protect it. This company, Tidal Breeze, has a long history of big developments, primarily in Florida. It plays hardball and usually wins. Unfortunately for you, and I suppose for all of us who want to preserve nature, the company has now discovered Dark Isle and is coming after it.”

“Why?”

“Because they smell money, and lots of it. This is just what they do.”

Lovely looked at Bruce, a man she trusted because he had never wanted anything from her. It was the other way around. They met when she came to his store and needed his advice about selling her self-published book. He showed her respect, spent time with her, and cautioned that such books were hard to sell. He put hers in the front window, under the “Local Authors” section, and treated her like a real writer.

“What do you think about it, Bruce?” she asked.

“It depends on how hard you’re willing to fight. Lawsuits are no fun, regardless of how strong you believe in your case.”

“If you were in my shoes?”

“I’d pay Steven here the five dollars and tell him to start the war over the title. And I would spend time with Mercer and let her describe the book she wants to write.”

She looked at Steven and said, “I’m an old woman without much time left. I don’t want to spend my final days all knotted up in a court fight. How long will this take?”

Steven smiled and scratched his gray beard. “There are two issues here, both equally important. The first is who owns Dark Isle. That will be a local fight in the courthouse just down the street and it should take about a year. If you win, the company, Tidal Breeze, will appeal to the state Supreme Court. That’s another year or so. If you lose, then we’ll appeal. So in about two years we should know who has the title to the property, who’s the true owner. If it’s you, then everything is finished, no more court fights. However, if you lose and Tidal Breeze gets title to the island, then the bigger fight will be over its development. That will be in federal court and could easily take five to ten years. But you will not be a party to that litigation.”

Her shoulders sagged and she suddenly seemed tired and older. She shook her head and said, “I just don’t understand all this. How can someone else claim our island? It’s mine because I’m the last one of my people. Nobody ever wanted Dark Isle. Nobody built schools or roads or even put in electricity. Nobody cared about us. So, we took care of ourselves and we certainly took care of our island. It was the only home we knew. Now, all the rightful owners are gone but me. Everybody else has passed. I’m the true owner of my island and it’s wrong for somebody else to say otherwise.”

Her eyes were moist and her voice cracked. The room was perfectly still.

Steven, the trial lawyer, suppressed a smile as he envisioned her in a courtroom, explaining her views on ownership to a judge. Mercer, the writer, wanted to start scribbling to capture every word.

Finally, Thomas said, “May I ask a question?”

“Of course,” Steven said.

“Do you expect Tidal Breeze to file a lawsuit to clear the title?”

“Yes, certainly. In fact, I’m surprised the company has not already done so. I know it has filed some preliminary notices with the Department of Natural Resources and, immediately, there was a question about ownership. The company has been snooping around the island for at least a year or so.”

Bruce asked, “Is there an advantage in being the first to file a lawsuit?”

“Perhaps a slight advantage, but all interested parties will have plenty of time to jump in.”

“And it has to be decided by a court in this county?”

“Yes, same as all title disputes. The company can’t run to federal court or anywhere else.”

“And you know the local judges?”

“Sure, but it won’t matter. Tidal Breeze will hire a bunch of local lawyers to get in the way. We have good judges here and they’ll do what’s right.”

Lovely folded her hands in her lap and looked at Miss Naomi, who said, “Well, we certainly have a lot to think about, don’t we? I’m sure the girls have picked out ten books each.”

“I sure hope so,” Bruce quipped.