Chapter Seven Old Dunes

Across the Camino River and headed west away from the island, the busy highway was lined with shopping centers, fast food restaurants, car dealerships, car washes, churches, and big-box retailers, the typical American sprawl. Billboards advertised cheap loans, scowling lawyers, and plenty of subdivisions. Construction was in the air. New developments, new “neighborhoods,” new retirement villages were going up seemingly overnight. Realtors’ signs clogged the intersections. Every other truck belonged to a plumber, an electrician, a roofer, or an HVAC specialist advertising a deep concern for your comfort and quality of life.

Off the main highway and near a quiet bay, another bustling development was springing to life. The Old Dunes Yacht and Golf Club had been approved by the county a year earlier, and, as they say in the trade, “the money had hit the ground.” Luxury homes were being built by the water. The 18-hole golf course was half finished. Rows of expensive condos were in the framing phase. A marina with fifty slips for small boats was being assembled. The air buzzed with sounds of hammers, drills, diesel engines, and the shouts and laughter of hundreds of well-paid laborers.

Old Dunes was a new Florida corporation with a registered agent in a law office in Jacksonville. Its front man was a CEO from Orlando who reported to the home office in Houston. In late October, the private company in Texas sold Old Dunes to a Bahamian shell company that in turn flipped it to another faceless entity registered in the tiny Caribbean territory of Montserrat. Such financial gymnastics were nothing unusual for Tidal Breeze. Wilson Larney and his super-aggressive tax lawyers had long since perfected the game of Slip Flip, a barely legal maneuver that involved offshore companies and willing bankers. Whatever profits Tidal Breeze ultimately netted from Old Dunes would remain beyond the reach of the IRS. Indeed, the IRS would never know the identity of the true owner.

The shuffling and filing of papers in faraway places went unnoticed in Camino County. All the proper fees were paid, everything was above the table. Developers bought, sold, and flipped properties with their morning coffee and all was well. A microscopic legal notice might appear in TheRegister or the county weekly, but no one would read it. Old Dunes was just one of many new projects underway in North Florida.

Lenny Salazar, the son of the judge, was thirty-three years old, married with two small children. His family lived in one of the many communities sprawling out from Jacksonville. For the past four years he had worked hard building a company that mass-produced small homes. There was a ton of competition and profit margins were thin. Lenny’s dream was to gradually move up to custom building, which was more lucrative. Unfortunately, it was the same dream of every other small contractor, along with every two-bit builder with a pickup truck and a claw hammer.

Lenny was making money because he was at every job, every day. He arrived early to greet the subs and worked late to clean up the sites. Within the trades, his reputation was growing because he delivered on time and paid his bills. He was attracting better subs, the key to success in the business.

His brick supplier was a sales rep named Joe Root, a veteran in the business. Root had seen a thousand builders come and go with the ups and downs of Florida real estate, and he believed Lenny had the smarts to rise above the competition. He found him on a ladder working with a framing crew and said hello. Root dropped in from time to time to check on his customers. Lenny followed him to the curb and they sat in the shade of the only tree in sight.

Root was saying, “Just got back from Camino, got a big order for eight tons of Florida white. You heard of the Old Dunes project?”

“Maybe,” Lenny replied. There were so many developments.

“High-dollar stuff, million-dollar homes, a golf course, the works. On a bay just off the bridge, near the old Harbortown.”

“I know the area.”

“They’re looking for builders. Company out of Texas, I think. Good reputation so far. All of my bills have been paid on time.”

“Building what?”

“Condos, two to three thousand square feet. Lots of them.”

Lenny was all ears. “Can you get me in?”

“Maybe I know the guy to talk to. Here’s his card.” Root handed over a business card for Donnie Armano, Project Manager, Old Dunes. Address in Jacksonville. A phone number.

Root said, “Let me know and I’ll put in a good word for you. They’re building like crazy and it’s not the run-of-the-mill crap like you got here.”

The conversation quickly shifted to college football. Lenny was a proud graduate of UF. Root was an FSU man. Both teams were struggling but would meet in the season finale. Neither liked the teams at Georgia or Alabama so they trashed both schools for a while.

After Root drove off, Lenny called Donnie Armano with Old Dunes. He threw in Joe Root’s name and Donnie could not have been nicer. That afternoon, Lenny left the subdivision early, drove thirty minutes to Old Dunes, and had an off-duty beer with Armano in his comfortable trailer office. They shook hands on a deal. A week later they signed contracts. Two weeks later Lenny’s foundation crew arrived on-site to prepare the first slab.

He worked hard to temper his excitement and enthusiasm. His little company was taking a huge leap upward and he was not about to screw up the opportunity. With a bit of luck to go along with his formidable work ethic, he just might be developing his own projects in a few years.

Mercer and her twelve students were enjoying a class outdoors in The Grove at Ole Miss, under the shade of two-hundred-year-old oaks, on a perfect fall day. The temperature was in the sixties. The golden leaves were falling. Scattered about were other classes with professors who had also succumbed to the weather and abandoned the buildings. They took over picnic tables, gazebos, stages, a pavilion, and lounged about under the old trees. The Grove was bracing for another football weekend when 20,000 fans would crowd into it for another epic party. Ole Miss might lose on the scoreboard but it never lost the pregame tailgate.

The literary challenge of the day was to look around at the setting, as peaceful and lovely as it was, and create a plot with serious conflict in less than 1,000 words. A beginning and an ending were required. Mercer wanted serious drama, perhaps even some violence. She was tired of the boring navel-gazing and self-pity that dominated their fiction.

As they pecked away on their laptops, Mercer studied hers. Diane was in the courtroom in Santa Rosa, preparing for Lovely’s deposition. Mercer wanted to be there. And Thomas was home from his submarine-hunting adventures and wanted to spend time with his bride. He had not found the Russian sub but was getting closer, in his opinion.

Mercer was at 18,000 words, stalled again, and seriously considering deleting everything she had already written. Thomas was reading it that morning and she did not look forward to his comments.

At ten o’clock, eleven in Santa Rosa, Diane emailed: “Lovely’s here and we’re getting ready. So long for now. Will check in when it’s over.”

She walked into the courtroom smiling, adorned from neck to toe in a bright red flowing robe. The mandatory turban was lime green and somehow wrapped into a tight cone that spiraled upward from the top of her head.

No judge in Florida allowed hats or caps in courtrooms, and Steven Mahon was already thinking about the trial. He planned to discuss her attire with Judge Salazar long before it started. What could be the harm in allowing Lovely to wear one of her many turbans during the trial? In his forty-plus years as a bare-knuckle litigator he had never had a fight over headwear.

He’d worry about that later.

He directed Lovely to a chair at a long table that had been arranged in front of the bench. Normally, he would have introduced his client to the opposing attorneys, but she had made it clear she did not want to meet them. They had told lies about her and her island and she would not be nice. She assumed her seat at the end of the table, nodded politely at the court reporter next to her, and glared at the enemy lawyers. A court clerk offered coffee from a large pot. Judge Salazar entered, without a robe, and said hello to everyone.

Beyond the bar and seated in the front row was Sid Larramore of TheRegister. Depositions are not usually open to the public, and Judge Salazar did not approve of his presence. They knew each other well and spent a few moments in whispered conversation. Sid smiled and nodded and reluctantly left the courtroom. A deputy was posted in the hallway outside to keep away unwanted visitors.

Diane sat alone in the jury box and worked on her laptop. She was tracking yet another old ghost from The Docks, the alleged son of a fisherman who spent his life on the shrimp boats and got his photo on the front page in 1951. She had been through every edition of TheRegister since it began ninety years earlier, and she knew more about the history of the island’s people, black and white, than the lady who ran the historical society. But she had yet to find the kid called Carp. They had to find either him or another witness who could walk into that very courtroom in a few months and verify Lovely’s story that she routinely visited the island for years. The issue of abandonment was looming larger and larger.

After Judge Salazar had made her rounds she said, “I will be in my office if there is an issue. As agreed, you will go until twelve-thirty, then break for lunch, then resume at two p.m. After that, the deposition will continue as long as Ms. Jackson wants it to. If you do not finish today, we will resume at ten in the morning.”

Steven was being overly cautious because of his client’s age. He had warned the other lawyers that she might tire easily, and that he would not tolerate rough questioning or even badgering. Not that he was worried. Four months into the lawsuit he knew his opponents well enough to know that they were pros who played by the rules.

Finally, when everyone was in place, and the coffee was poured, and the door was secured, and the witness was ready to the point of looking bored, Steven said, “Okay, I guess we can get started.”

Lovely took a deep breath and stared at her audience. Steven Mahon, close by; next to him was Mayes Barrow, then Monty Martin from Miami. Across the table sat three lawyers from the Florida Attorney General’s office. Behind the lawyers were various paralegals and assistants. Miss Naomi sat in the front row. Quite the audience.

The witness was sworn to tell the truth. Steven made a few preliminary comments and turned her over to Mayes Barrow, who began with an earnest smile, “Miss Jackson, when were you born?”

“April the seventh, 1940.”

“And where?”

“On Dark Isle, just over yonder.”

“Do you have a birth certificate?”

“No.”

“May I ask why not?”

“I was a baby. I wasn’t in charge of the paperwork.”

The answer was so beautiful, everyone had to enjoy it. The ice wasn’t just broken—it was thoroughly melted. The enemy lawyers got the first hint that they might have their hands full with this witness.

Mayes, a good sport, collected himself and said, “Okay, who was your mother?”

“Ruth Jackson.”

“How many children did she have?”

“Two. I was the first. Then there was a little brother who died when he was about three years old. I don’t remember him. Name was Malachi.”

“Do you know when your mother was born?”

“I do.”

“When was that?”

“She was born in 1916. The third day of January.”

“Where was she born?”

“Same place the rest of ’em was born.”

“Where?”

“On Dark Isle.”

“When did she die?”

“Nineteen seventy-one, fourteenth of June.”

“You seem pretty certain about these dates.”

“What’s your mama’s birthday?”

Mayes smiled, took another one on the chin, and reminded himself to stick to the questions. “Right, well, now, so she was only forty-two when she died.”

“That’s right.”

“Where did she die?”

“Here in Santa Rosa, at the hospital.”

“May I ask the cause of her death?”

“You’re asking me if you can ask me a question?”

“No, sorry. What was the cause of Ruth’s death?”

“She caught cancer.”

“Where were you living when she died?”

“Down in The Docks, same place I live now. Round the corner with a friend who took us in when we left the island.”

“And when did you leave the island?”

“When I was fifteen. Summer of 1955.”

“And why did you leave the island?”

Lovely paused for a moment and looked down at her robe. Without looking up she said, “We were the last two. Everybody else had died. Life was just too hard and we couldn’t live there anymore. One day Jimmy Ray Bone came out to the island, he had a boat and checked on us now and then, and he said it was time for us to leave, said he’d found a place for us to stay in town, said he was tired of checking on us and everybody who knew us thought it was time to let go of the island. And so me and Mama got our clothes and things together, wasn’t much, and he helped us pack up and load it all in his boat. And then he waited while we went up to the cemetery and said goodbye to our people. It was terrible, after so many years. We were upset and crying and Mama began speaking in tongues but I could understand. She was saying goodbye to her parents and grandparents and all the way back to Nalla, one of my great-grandmothers. They were all buried there, still are.” She stopped, looked up, and said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Barrow. I wasn’t answering your question.”

Her lawyer had told her more than once that she should not volunteer anything. Answer the questions directly, if possible, but give them nothing extra. If you don’t understand the question, say nothing. Steven would step in and clear things up.

“That’s okay,” Mayes said. “You did answer it. Let’s talk about your father.”

The genealogy consumed the first two hours. Without notes, Lovely recalled the names of many of her ancestors, along with the approximate spans of their lives. She could not remember all the dates of their births and deaths, but then who could?

Her memory was remarkable and Mr. Barrow asked if she had refreshed it with notes of any type. She explained that she once had some notebooks and diaries, and she had used them when she wrote her book, but they had been misplaced, or lost.

For lunch, Bruce hosted her, Miss Naomi, and Steven and Diane in the upstairs café at Bay Books. He gave them a corner table and left them alone so they could debrief. Steven whispered that Lovely was a fine witness so far—collected, certain, and believable. But she was showing signs of fatigue.

Back in the old days, a deposition was “taken” by a court reporter using either the really old method of rapid shorthand or the more modern stenographic machine. Once it was taken, the court reporter would then translate the language into a readable form by typing every word. Lawyers would sometimes wait weeks to get a copy of the deposition or a court proceeding.

Nowadays, though, the technology was so advanced that the voices of the witnesses and the lawyers were captured and printed in real time. A deposition was not official until reviewed and signed by the witness, but it was not unusual for a lawyer to get an unofficial copy of, say, a 100-page depo emailed to him by the court reporter within hours of the testimony.

Diane had a copy before 5:00 p.m. the day of Lovely’s deposition, and though she was technically not supposed to share it with anyone until it became official, she sent it to Mercer anyway. Late that night they compared notes. The more they talked, the more they worried. There were plenty of discrepancies between Lovely’s book and her deposition; wrong dates, names, and events.

Steven and Diane had urged Lovely to reread her book to refresh her memory, but they did not know whether she had. Evidently not. She had self-published the book ten years earlier, at least fifty years after leaving the island as a young teenager, and her memory was obviously clouded. But what eighty-year-old could recall the names of her great-great-great-ancestors without notes? Lovely had tried, but there were too many mistakes.

Late in her deposition, Lovely described the cemetery where the dead were buried on Dark Isle. It was a big square area on the “high ground” and enclosed with a fence of heavy logs lashed together with ropes and vines. There were many graves there, some dating back to the 1700s. Where else were the people supposed to be buried, she asked? Since there were no rocks or stones on the island, the only markers were small wooden crosses with the names carved into them. Over time, these faded and rotted and disappeared, but the bones were still in the ground. As a child she had watched the men build a simple casket for her grandfather and cried as it was lowered into the ground. She knew exactly where it was located. Every person on the island attended each burial, even the small children. She and the others were taught about death from early on. In Africa, death was not to be feared and the dead often rose again as spirits, even ghosts.

At trial, the state, along with Tidal Breeze, would attempt to discredit her story and claim that there was simply no proof of anything she had said in either her book or her lawsuit. There was no record of anyone ever having lived on Dark Isle. No proof of a settlement, buildings, roads, cemetery, of anything, other than the suspicious stories of an old woman.

In their view, Lovely was an opportunist being used by others to litigate a false claim. The attorneys for Tidal Breeze had made enough off-the-record comments for Steven Mahon to know that they suspected he and his organization had latched on to Lovely’s claims as the easiest way to block the resort.

By the time Mercer read the deposition for the second time, she had a knot in her stomach. There were too many conflicts between what Lovely wrote and what she was now remembering. At trial, the lawyers would pick her apart.

One advantage to teaching creative writing was the avoidance of final exams. If Mercer so chose, and she always did, she could require one last short story of, say, 3,000 words to be turned in before December 1. After then, she had little to do but read the damned things and give grades. On December 2, she and Thomas left Oxford for a month’s holiday at the beach. She was still determined to paint the cottage and save the $20,000, but her husband seemed to be hedging.

Thomas really couldn’t see himself on a ladder, on the wrong end of a paintbrush, in the sun, for a month. He’d had little experience with contract labor, if that’s what it was called, and had been scheming of ways to avoid the work. He had yet to find the Russian submarine, but there were some records at the Naval Institute in Annapolis that might need to be reviewed. His article had gotten off to a slow start and things had not picked up.

Thankfully, the rains set in as soon as they arrived on Camino Island, and painting was out of the question. The cottage had not been decorated for Christmas in many years, and Mercer insisted they put up a tree, a few lights, and some garlands. They hosted Myra, Leigh, Bruce, and Noelle for a long dinner party, and two nights later went to one at the fine home of Amy Slater. They visited the bookstore every day and drank lattes as they read Mercer’s final batch of stories from her students.

When the skies cleared, she announced it was time to start painting the cottage. She dragged Thomas to the hardware store and spent two hours choosing the right color. “Why not just keep it white?” he asked more than once, and when he finally got the hard frown he shut up and found some rat traps to study. She eventually settled on “chalk blue,” which, in his opinion, looked very white, but he let it pass. She bought six gallons from stock and ordered six more. The salesman said two coats would be needed because of the salt air, and Thomas wondered how often he had used that line to sell more paint. But again, he bit his tongue and began hauling supplies to the car: paint, brushes, rollers, roller pans, extension poles, sandpaper, a sander, caulk, caulking gun, scrapers, drop cloths, and two stepladders. He had never used such tools and materials and doubted his wife had either.

The bill for their first load was almost $3,000, and Thomas asked himself, again, if it was really cheaper to do it themselves.

The following morning they woke early to clear skies and temps in the fifties. Perfect for painting, according to Mercer, who finally admitted that her only experience with a brush was touching up a crappy apartment she once had in Chapel Hill. Now, though, she had somehow become an expert. She decided they would start on the front side facing the street and away from the morning sun. Thomas just grunted and began fetching supplies.

The island was decorated for Christmas and the cooler temperatures helped the holiday spirit. When the weatherman in Jacksonville predicted a slight chance of flurries in two days, the entire island went wild and braced for a blizzard. Grocery stores were packed with frantic people afraid they might miss a meal. A retired couple from Minnesota unpacked their old snowblower, called a reporter from The Register, and got themselves on the front page.

Bay Books hosted an afternoon party each Christmas Eve, with plenty of drinks and food for all ages. Santa was there taking requests, posing for photos, and worrying about hustling off to get ready for his big night. The kids were giddy as they grabbed one book after another for their mothers to buy. Bruce, Noelle, and the staff wore festive sweaters and elf caps and worked the crowd. With snow on the way and the first white Christmas in history virtually guaranteed, the customers were bundled in layers suitable for skiing in Vermont.

Were they really in Florida?

The highlight was a 4:00 p.m. reading upstairs in the café where the autographing parties took place. Bruce shoved all the tables to the walls and packed in two hundred chairs. Three local writers and two high school students read original holiday stories.

Mercer, the best known of the bunch and the crowd’s favorite, read a story she had been writing for many years. It was called “Almost a White Christmas,” and she promised it was true. In the story, she spent each summer on the island with her beloved grandmother, Tessa, who lived there year-round, and alone, except when Mercer was visiting. For various reasons, her childhood was not always pleasant, and when she was in school she dreamed of the next summer with Tessa. Without a doubt her happiest moments as a kid were on the beach with her grandmother. One Christmas, her mother was ill and hospitalized and the house was quite gloomy. Mercer and her sister prevailed upon their father to drive them to Camino Island for the holidays. Tessa welcomed them warmly and they immediately began decorating a tree and going through the usual rituals. Two days before Christmas, the weather turned cold and windy, and, suddenly, there was a chance of snow, something Tessa, a longtime resident, had never experienced on the island.

“Just like now,” Mercer said, teasing her audience. Now in Santa Rosa it was forty-five degrees and windy, with the chance of snow fading quickly, but no one believed it.

Back to her story. On Christmas Eve, Tessa took the girls to church for the early evening service. When they came out, they looked to the dark sky and saw no snow. At bedtime, they read stories, opened gifts, and even put out cookies and milk for Santa. Early Christmas morning, they peeked out the window, praying for a blanket of snow, but saw none.

Over pancakes and sausage, Tessa said that, according to the old-timers on the island, a measurable snowfall happened about once every fifty years, and there had never been a white Christmas. The girls were disappointed, but they lived in Memphis and were accustomed to mild winters. After breakfast, they bundled up and followed Tessa down the boardwalk to the beach. She had to check on turtle eggs. When they arrived, they saw something unusual. The ocean was at high tide with strong winds pushing the waves onto the beach. Long ridges of thick, white foam from the surf covered the sand and blew into the first row of dunes. The wind whipped the foam into small clouds and swirls as it covered the beach. The girls squealed as they kicked the foam and tried in vain to grab it. As far as they could see in both directions, the beach was covered with foam.

Tessa stopped, spread her arms, and said, “Look, girls, it’s almost a white Christmas after all.”

The turtle eggs would have to wait. They hustled back to the cottage where Tessa got her camera.

Thomas handed Mercer an enlarged black and white photo of her and her sister knee-deep in what appeared to be snow. She showed it to the audience and said, “Christmas Day 1997. Believe it or not, that’s our beach just down the road.”

The audience admired the photo and passed it around. Bruce cracked, “How long did the snow last?”

“About two hours,” Mercer said and everyone laughed.

She said, “Now, I have proof that there was a big snowstorm here many years ago. In fact, a young girl who lived in this area back then is still with us and she told me the snow was almost up to her knees.”

She paused and looked around. It was obvious no one believed her. She motioned for Lovely to leave her seat in the front row and join her at the front. Mercer said, “Folks, this is Lovely Jackson, who lives in The Docks. Some of you know her because she published a book about her life ten years ago. She has a story for you.”

Lovely smiled and looked around calmly as if she appeared onstage every night. “Thank you, Mercer, for inviting me, and thank you, Bruce Cable, for hosting this fine party.” She spoke slowly, eloquently, with every syllable getting its due. She looked from face to face, carefully making eye contact with everyone. She smiled at Diane, seated in the third row.

“I was born on Dark Isle in 1940, so that means I’m eighty years old, probably the oldest person in the room. When I was about five, a big storm blew over the island. It was wintertime and, as you know, it occasionally gets cold here. We didn’t have radios, never heard of televisions in 1945. There was no electricity on my island. So, we had never heard of a weather forecast, we simply didn’t worry about the weather. We just took things as they came. Late one afternoon, it was really cold, and it started snowing. My parents, who were about thirty years old, had never seen snow. We were all excited, same way we are now, just waiting for it to start, but this snow was serious. It got heavier and heavier, the snowflakes bigger and bigger. Soon the ground was covered and it began to pile up. We were very poor and never wore shoes, so we had no choice but to go inside where our parents and grandparents were tending the fireplace and making dinner. My grandfather was named Odell Jackson, and he told us the story of his first and only snow. It happened when he was about fifteen years old, so somewhere around 1890. It snowed just enough to cover the ground, and the next morning the sun was out. The snow melted fast. He didn’t like snow, none of my people did, because they were descendants of African slaves and there is no snow over there.”

The crowd sat silent and absorbed every word. Mercer was amazed at Lovely’s presence and poise. It was doubtful she had ever spoken to such a large audience, yet she was at ease, unruffled, and completely unintimidated.

She continued, “The next morning when we got up and looked out the window we were amazed at the snow. It had stopped falling and the sky was clear, but everything was covered in a beautiful white layer, like a big thick cloud had settled on the island. We stepped outside. It was still very cold. As I said, I was a little girl, only five years old, so the snow was almost up to my knees. It was probably the biggest snow ever around here.”

She smiled at Mercer, nodded to the audience, and said, “Thank you for listening to my story. And thank you for inviting me here. May you have a Merry Christmas.”

An eager ten-year-old boy raised his hand and Lovely smiled at him. “Did Santa Claus come that year?” he asked.

Lovely chuckled and flashed a broad smile. “Well, we didn’t have a Santa Claus over there on Dark Isle. Though it’s not too far from here, it was a different world. It was settled by former slaves, most of them from the plantations of Georgia. They had learned the English language and some of them were Christians, so we had a little Christmas ceremony each year in our chapel. But, as I said, we were very poor and didn’t give gifts and things like that.”

The children looked at each other in disbelief. Mercer stepped forward and said, “If you want to know the rest of Lovely’s story, I suggest you read her book. It’s a fascinating history of her life on her island.”

After the party, Mercer, Thomas, and Diane retired to a wine bar two blocks down Main Street. Diane didn’t want to go home to Tennessee for the holidays and was hanging around the island. Mercer had invited her to dinner later in the evening at her cottage where she had a pot of gumbo on the stove.

Thomas bought a bottle of wine from the bar and poured three glasses.

Diane said, “We may have a problem.”

“The snowstorm,” Mercer said.

“Yes. A great story but I’m not sure it holds up. Snow around here is a big deal, right? According to TheRegister, the last measurable snowfall here was in 1997. There was a photo of it on the front page. The story went on to recap the other major snowfalls on Camino Island. The record was set in 1932—eight years before Lovely says she was born. The weather bureau officially recorded it at five inches, probably not up to the knees of a child. Of course, it was front-page news then as well, and TheRegister had this great photo of the drifts along the east wall of the train depot. Renfrow’s Café still has the photo enlarged on its back wall, near the kitchen. It’s also included in several of the local history books.”

Mercer said, “And I don’t recall this story in Lovely’s memoir.”

“Another problem. It’s not there, not that it has to be. As the author, the memoirist, she can include anything or nothing. There are no rules, right?”

“I suppose.”

“But, you’d think she would have included such a good story.”

Thomas said, “Maybe she forgot it.”

“Yes, and that would be okay, except Lovely is forgetting a lot of things. I’ve studied her deposition, word for word, and compared it to her memoir. I have flowcharts, spreadsheets, and timelines, and so far I’ve found at least a dozen inconsistencies, or discrepancies, or whatever you want to call them. Names, dates, events.”

“Are you doubting her story?” Mercer asked.

“Some of it, yes. Plus, she’s eighty and slipping. It’s only natural. The problem, and it’s rather significant, is that the lawyers on the other side will find, if they haven’t already done so, the same inconsistencies. And, Lovely can’t produce the notes she relied on when she wrote the damned book. Her memoir could really hurt her case.”

Mercer asked, “You don’t doubt her history on Dark Isle, do you?”

“No. That part of the story is believable, if the judge wants to believe it. The problem is that she admits she left, or abandoned, the island in 1955. And so far we have been unable to find anyone to verify her story that she returned periodically to tend to the graves.”

Thomas said, “To me, as the non-lawyer, the biggest problem is that she did nothing for almost seventy years until the developers showed up and wanted the island. Suddenly she ran to court claiming ownership. Why didn’t she do that decades ago if she was so concerned with the property?”

“Maybe she wasn’t threatened,” Mercer said.

“Maybe, but why does she care now? I’m not being cruel, but her days on this earth are numbered. She has a nice, quiet life in The Docks. Why should she care what happens to the island?”

Diane said, “Well, her people are buried there.”

“Are you sure? If they were, they’re probably gone now. What Leo didn’t level it washed out to sea.”

Mercer’s eyebrows were raised and aimed at her husband. “Don’t you care what happens to the island?”

“Of course I do. I don’t want it developed. I’d like to see it preserved as it is, with maybe a memorial to the slaves.”

Diane said, “Right. Fat chance of that these days here in Florida.”

All three took a sip and a deep breath. Another group of revelers rolled in from the street and a gush of cold air filled the wine bar. Thomas, from Ohio, wearing sandals with no socks, was amused at the excitement over the “cold weather” and chance of snow.

When things were somewhat quieter, Diane said to Mercer, “We’ve both spent hours with Lovely, yet I haven’t picked up a single clue as to her notes. Not long ago she said she used them to write her memoir. Now, though, she can’t find them. Has she mentioned them to you?”

“No. I’ve asked twice and got nothing. How important are they?”

“Don’t know until we see them. She got spooked when she realized that they might be turned over to the other side. I even said something to Miss Naomi once and she claims to know nothing about the notes.”

“Are you sure you want to see them?” Thomas asked.

“I don’t know. Steven and I go back and forth. If we see them, then we have to produce them for Tidal Breeze. What if they’re filled with inconsistencies? What if they conflict with her memoir, or her deposition? There’s a good chance the notes could really muddy the water.”

When the bottle was empty they agreed they should leave before drinking more. They gathered again at Mercer’s cottage where the pot of gumbo was waiting on the stove. Mercer turned on the burner and sliced and buttered a baguette as Diane tossed the salad and Thomas selected another wine.

Midnight was the goal but they didn’t make it. At eleven, Thomas walked onto the patio to check the snowfall and saw none. He and Mercer retired to the bedroom while Diane disappeared under a quilt on the couch.

By midmorning the skies were clear, the sun was out, Santa had come and gone, and things were back to normal in North Florida.

Judge Lydia Salazar lived alone in a gated community seven miles west of Camino Island, on the mainland by a small lake that not too many years earlier had been somewhat rural. Now, though, the roads were congested. Her neighbors were complaining, but seriously, weren’t they all part of the problem?

She was fifty-seven and had been elected in a close race seven years earlier. Reelection was around the corner and she was dreading another campaign. Like most sitting judges, she now believed that electing judges was a bad idea. She preferred to be appointed, one four-year term after another. Elections, though, were not going away and she spent little time fretting over the next one. Her docket was busy. She enjoyed her work and was well regarded by the lawyers who came before her.

Her first husband was long gone and she didn’t miss him at all. Her son, Lenny, was only thirty minutes away and she saw him and his family often, especially now that he and his wife, Alissa, had produced two children. Judge Salazar was still amazed at how swiftly she had been consumed by the two little people who now dominated her thoughts. When they arrived for Christmas lunch, their grandmother Sally, as she was affectionately nicknamed, was waiting with another round of gifts and toys. Within minutes her den was destroyed, with paper, wrappings, and boxes everywhere. Sally was on the floor in the middle of it all, having a ball and reliving the days when her own kids were lost in Christmas magic. When she could corral them, she read stories by the tree, fed them gingerbread cookies, and found more gifts to open.

Over hot cider, the adults watched the kids and talked about the weather. The snow had come closer than anyone expected. Scattered flurries had been reported in southern Georgia, close enough to give them hope for next year. Alissa was from Maryland and missed an occasional snowfall but had no desire to return there. She taught school and was taking a couple years off to raise the kids. Their finances had been tight, but there was good news. Lenny had finally found traction in the building boom and maybe, just maybe, he had his first big break.

Lydia had seen something in the newspaper or online about Old Dunes, but thought nothing of it. Another development was hardly headline-worthy in their world. For her, the big news was that Lenny had signed contracts to build at least eight upscale condos in the second phase of Old Dunes. The massive development just might keep him busy for years as he built his company. They were so optimistic about their future, they were already talking about moving closer to the job sites.

And closer to Sally!

After a long lunch of turkey, creamed potatoes, and stuffing, they loaded the kids into their car seats, and with Sally sitting on the rear bench between them drove a few miles east toward the coast. The entrance to Old Dunes was blocked by a gate, but Lenny had an electronic pass, which he waved at a sensor. The streets had been paved for several months. The curbs and gutters were finished. Dozens of buildings were in various phases of being framed—apartments, condos, zero-lot-line homes, vast mansions, a central square lined with stores for the future, the harbor and marina. Lenny pointed here and there and relished being so involved with such an impressive project. He proudly stopped in front of the first condo he was building, a sprawling townhome that would hit the market for almost a million bucks. There would be plenty of them, he was certain.

With both kids napping beside her, Sally couldn’t help but be impressed. Her son had struggled mightily to get his little construction business off the ground. Now, he was building million-dollar homes. And she could spend more time with her grandkids.

Having made so little progress with the painting, Mercer was reluctant to waste another day, even though it was Christmas. Thomas balked and threatened a strike. His cell phone said forty-eight degrees, two shy of the threshold. Instead of bickering, they agreed to go for a long walk and enjoy the afternoon.

Warmer days were coming. They’d get it painted sooner or later. Why hurry? They were on beach time, right?