Page 168 of The High Tide Club
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“This really sucks,” Lizzie said as they trudged toward the chauffeur’s cottage.
“Totally. I don’t blame Felicia for being outraged. I feel like burning down the house too. I don’t see how Josephine was able to live with all the pain she caused all those years,” Brooke said.
“I guess, at the end, she thought her money would absolve her of all her sins,” Lizzie said.
As they approached the cottage, they spied C. D. on the porch, sitting on a wooden kitchen chair. His right arm was in a sling, and as they grew closer, they smelled the acrid smoke from his cigarillo.
He was awkwardly pawing through the contents of a rusted red metal tackle box with his left hand. “Hey,” he said. “Excuse me for not standing up.”
“How are you feeling, C. D.?” Brooke asked.
“Still kicking,” he said. “How about you?”
“Better. The headaches from the concussion are gone, and my face seems to be healing.”
“Glad to hear it.” He touched his shoulder. “I did a tour in Vietnam, came home and worked on the docks, and been thrown out of just about every bar onthis coast, and this is the first time I’ve ever been shot. Some folks would say I was overdue.” He studied the two women’s serious expressions. “You just come over here to check up on me?”
“I brought you something,” Brooke said, holding out the envelope. “The sheriff found this in Gabe’s car. After the shooting.”
“You mean after you killed the son of a bitch? Best day’s work you ever did.” He took the envelope, glanced at the return address, then handed it back. “Can’t open it with my bum arm. It’s the DNA report from the lab, right? I reckon you already know what it says.”
“I do,” Brooke admitted.
“And?”
“There is no DNA match between you and Josephine. I’m sorry, C. D. She wasn’t your mother.”
He reached for the cigarillo and took a puff, letting the ash drop unnoticed onto his lap. “Well, shit. And that’s 100 percent?”
“They say 99 percent in the report, because it’s scientifically impossible for anything to be 100 percent,” Brooke said.
He looked past them, out at the barn, and then the green lawn that sloped gently down toward the road to the beach, the landscape dotted with huge moss-draped live oaks.
“I guess you and your mama own all this now. Y’all will be wanting me to move along. Right? I mean, I ain’t no good to nobody with my arm like this.”
“You can stay put. We’ve hired a new lawyer—an honest one this time—to handle the estate. You can stay as long as you like.”
“Okay.” His nod was as close as he’d come to saying thanks. He pulled himself up by his good arm, went into the cottage, and came out holding a bottle of beer. “Open that for me, if you would.”
Brooke obliged, and he knocked half the beer back in a single long gulp, setting the bottle on the porch rail and letting out a beery belch.
“Back to being an orphan again. It was nice for a while, you know, letting myself believe I might own a piece of this. I ain’t ever really owned anything before, except a truck or a boat, stuff like that.”
“I’m truly sorry. I know it’s not enough, but my mom wanted you to knowshe intends to honor all the bequests Josephine made for her employees here on the island.”
“How much?”
“Twenty-five thousand. You won’t get the money right away, because the estate will be probated, but she’ll continue to pay your salary, the same as she will with Louette and Shug.”
“Guess that’s better than nothing, but why’s she paying me to sit on my can on this porch? Docs can’t tell me yet how long I’ll be laid up.”
“Consider it worker’s comp,” Brooke said. “And before I forget, if you’re interested, Josephine’s service is Saturday, at 6:30P.M., at the AME Church.”
“I can give you a ride if you want,” Lizzie offered.
C. D. finished off the beer and belched again. “I’ll let you know how I feel.”
