13
Trystan
I leave the hotel and before I realize it, find myself following Emmy's instructions. Charleston has barely woken up, and the humidity has yet to rise. Before long I'm entering what I hope is the small cobblestone alleyway Emmy mentioned in her email. Instinct tells me these were the streets between the main fancy houses and where the horses were kept, similar to the mews houses in London.
Every ten meters or so there's a gate into a courtyard where a small carriage house or old stable can be found. Many of them have been clearly turned into residences, albeit tiny, some galleries and the like. I notice the blue awning not too far ahead, but my surroundings have me captivated. I don't miss London, I never have. It's not that it's so reminiscent of a place I don't miss. And it's eons away from even the most charming parts of the Village in New York, but something about this place feels . . . right.
I shrug off the feeling and head inside the breakfast shop, breathing in the scent of freshly baked bread. It's small, every square inch has been properly utilized. There are barn wood floors and corrugated tin. It's industrial in a rustic way. There are only seven tables inside, most can only fit two people. A man with slicked back dark hair with a white apron wrapped around his wiry frame is taking an order from a hipster couple in the corner. Other than them, I have my pick of tables. I choose a small table in the far right corner. The menu is a card presented on a small chopping board held in place by an elastic band, and there are only five breakfast items available.
"You must be Trystan," an accented voice says to me.
I look up, startled. "Armand, I presume?" He's of indeterminate age. His dark hair has some gray threading through it. His skin is olive, his descent of unknown origin. To me he could just as easily be Native-American as he could be Middle-Eastern or Greek. He's good-looking though, and something about that annoys me.
He grins and gives me a slow perusal from my messy post-shower hair, down to my beaten-in chukka boots that cost four hundred dollars to make them look old. "Well," he says.
"Well, what?" I counter.
He makes a tsk sound.
I lift an eyebrow in return.
"Hmm," he says. "Bien. Now, what can I get you?"
Weird.
After my rich dinner last night, I feel I should go little on the lighter side for breakfast. I order homemade gluten-free granola (nod to Emmy) with Greek yoghurt, local honey, bananas and blueberries, fresh orange juice, and an espresso. Armand hums with what I hope is approval then walks back behind the counter.
I wonder if there's a place like this near me in New York—simple, stylish, cozy—that I simply haven't ever bothered to notice, and I resolve to find one. The closest I can think of is perhaps something in Chelsea Market.
When my food comes I take out Emmy's phone and snap a picture. I'm not sure why I do it, and I definitely don't send it to her. Maybe just proof I took her advice.
I open my laptop and spend the next hour making sure I'm as knowledgeable as possible about Montgomery Homes & Facilities before Isabel Montgomery tries to argue I'm unable to run it.
With about forty-five more minutes to kill before the meeting at Mr. Ravenel's office, I pay my check, wave at Armand, and decide to walk around the city. Some of the first horse-drawn carriage tours of the day have started up, and on almost every street corner I hear snippets of Charleston history. This famous person lived here, slaves were traded there, this used to be a church and now it's a restaurant, this pink house is four hundred years old, Blackbeard used to frequent that pub. If I ever come back to this place, I know I'd be fascinated by some of the stories. I almost studied history at university, but at the last minute chose economics. I'd loved these stories as a child the few years my mother tried to come home to the family. Right now, though, it does something to me inside, like opening up an emotional trash can lid that really should stay closed.
I grab the earbuds I keep in the outside pocket of my laptop bag, and I wonder what kind of music Emmy has on her phone. She has Spotify, but I'm disappointed to see it's the free version that needs Wi-Fi. I go over to her purchased music selection and scan it with a sinking stomach. It's a potpourri of girl power: Taylor Swift, P!nk, Katy Perry. I sigh and hit shuffle, making sure to turn it down more than usual so no one can overhear. By the time I take the last few steps to Mr. Ravenel's office, timed to be one minute late in order to avoid any small talk, I'm ready to take on the world and think most men suck. It makes me think of my reaction to the messages Emmy received from that dating app. No wonder the women are so pissed off in these songs. I resolve to make sure Dorothy knows she can wear trousers to work if she feels like it. In all the time she's worked for me she's come to work in a knee-length skirt, hose, and low sensible heels. She reminded me of one of my school teachers back in England, which was exactly why I'd hired her.
Everyone is already seated at the conference room table when I arrive. I greet Mr. Ravenel's receptionist, noting she's wearing a pantsuit today. Why am I so focused on women's apparel all of a sudden? "How long have they been in there?" I ask.
"They just sat down. Can I bring you coffee?"
"No, I'm good. Thanks." I smile tightly and head into the proverbial ring, avoiding the searing gaze of Isabel Montgomery.
"Let us begin." Mr. Ravenel stands and closes the door behind me and then pulls his chair in closer to the table and peers at each of us over the frames of his spectacles. "The reason for allowing an overnight reprieve was to allow any knee jerk reactions to the news yesterday to be processed before getting to the limitations and stipulations of the disbursements set out in the will. This was at the request of the late Mr. Montgomery."
He gives Isabel a meaningful glance. "At the time of the drawing up of the last will and testament of the late Mr. Montgomery, he was found to be of sound mind and had the blessing of his family physician. In addition, I personally asked that he see a mental health professional too, in order that there be absolutely no concern about his mental capacity." I feel sure the glance Ravenel gave Isabel was because she has already been calling the will into question. "Especially given that these stipulations are rather . . . unorthodox."
When I leave two hours later, shell-shocked and three times richer than when I walked in the door, I simply stand on the sidewalk. I'm not shell-shocked by the valuation of what I'm now worth, I'm shell-shocked by the stipulations that go along with it. Someone walks into my back and I stumble forward, waking from my shock.
"Sorry. Oh hey, Trystan." It's Beau. The two of us face each other on the street outside the law office. He looks as stunned as I feel. Damn, but my grandfather was a twisted son of a bitch.
"You want to grab some lunch?" Beau asks.
"Sure." I shrug.
"I've been living out at the house on Awendaw. I don't know what's good around here anymore. Let's walk and see what we find."
"I know someone who will," I say and pull out the phone. The need to connect with Emmy at this moment is overwhelming. Someone completely removed from the weird shit in my life right now.
Breakfast was great. Lunch?
Thankfully, she responds right away.
Emmy: Are you close to Market Street?
"Are we close to Market Street," I ask Beau.
He nods and points to the left and we cross the road.
Yes.
Emmy: Great. Head to 5Church. If you have any awkward silences you can just look up.
I frown. That was a weird thing to say, but I go with it. It's like she knows I'm about to have lunch with my cousin for the first time in approximately eighteen years. Awkward, indeed.
"5Church," I tell Beau and give him the address she sends in her next text.
Opposite the old slave trading market pavilions, which now sell sweetgrass baskets and bric-a-brac, and squeezed between two five-story buildings, is an old red brick church with a modern tempered-glass door. "Here we are, I guess." I lead the way up the stairs and inside.
We both stop and stare. Inside it's dim. There's a bar running the whole length of one side. The light fixtures are pendants covered with a curl of white feathers like a folded angel wing. But the most arresting sight is the massive, intact, stained-glass window soaring the entire height of the back wall and streaming fractured prisms of light into the room.
"Wow," says Beau. "I never even knew this was here." Then he points up to the ceiling, and I follow with my gaze. Lines and lines of text are painstakingly painted in row after row. There's not an inch of space without words. I read a few sentences here and there; it seems familiar. Every now and again a word is pulled out and written in supersize.
"What is that?" I ask squinting, though I recognize it the second the question leaves my lips.
"The entire text of The Art of War by Sun Tzu," the hostess at the stand responds. "Lunch for two?"
I nod and we follow her to a booth on the wall opposite the bar. Of course it is. The only book I've read cover to cover several times over. One of my economics professors assigned it as part of his course in mergers and acquisitions; it has served me well.
My phone buzzes as we sit down, and I pull it back out of my pocket.
Emmy: I wish I could see your reaction right now.
I grin.
Stunned. But with that introduction the food better be good.
Emmy: Ye of little faith. And you're in a church!
"Your girlfriend?" asks Beau, nodding to the phone.
I jerk my head up. "Oh, no. Just someone who knows the best places to eat in Charleston. I don't know her." I shake my head as if it's nothing, but Beau's still looking at me quizzically, and I decide if we're about to rebuild our relationship I may as well share. "Actually, it's kind of a funny story." I proceed to tell him the entire phone switching debacle. I leave out the fact we talked on the phone for over half an hour last night.
When I get done he slumps back against the high-backed bench seat. "And I thought my life just took a turn for the weird and wonderful. You have me beat."
I rub my hand over my jaw. "I wouldn't say that. So do you have a girlfriend? Are you even close to doing what he wants?"
"Getting married? Hell, no. I haven't ever gone past a tenth date to my knowledge."
"Ten. That's not bad. I draw a line at three. Four if we haven't . . . you know." I feel terrible saying that out loud. But it's the truth. I date women so I can have sex. I don't do relationships and commitments.
There's no judgement on Beau's face. "I should rein it back to four. Getting all the way to ten gets you in all sorts of trouble. Lots of women around here are looking to trap a Montgomery. Though," he looks up at the stained-glass window and crosses himself, "thankfully, I've been careful."
I give a mock shudder. "So how's your mom doing, by the way?" Beau's parents split up the same summer my mother managed to make herself persona non grata with the Montgomery family again.
Beau smiles. "Fine. Remarried. Lives out near Summerville."
"Good, that's good. Send her my regards, will you? She was always kind to me."
The waitress brings our drinks, and I order the soup and salad of the day. Something with goat cheese, but I'm too distracted by our recent meeting to pay much attention to the menu.
"Are you okay with not being involved with Montgomery Homes & Facilities?" I decide to cut to the chase with Beau. "I mean I thought I got a read that you were happy with the way it played out. Until today, obviously," I add.
"I never wanted to be involved, no. Of course, I would have done it for the family. But I think it's in the best hands now."
"What about your father? Uncle Robert? He looked ready to commit murder. Do I need to be worried?"
Beau looks at me seriously. "He's pretty upset. But to be honest, I think it's more about what people might think of him being passed over, that he might lose his social standing or at worst not be able to maintain his lifestyle." He lifts a shoulder and then drops it. "It's not about any sense of ambition. I doubt he could name half the operations we own. He’ll still be a good source of information for you though."
I nod. "And Isabel? Was she more interested in the day to day?"
"I don't know, to tell you the truth. But I think it's more of the same feelings my father is having." He raises his hands to his mouth and widens his eyes. "What will the people at the club say?" he mimics.
"Ah."
"So what about you?" Beau asks. "I must admit, I didn't see that coming. It's like Grandfather is forcing us all back together in a way he was never able to when he was alive. So are you going to do it? Do you want to? Yesterday you weren't sure."
"I don't think I have a choice. My ego wouldn't let me walk even if my head tells me to run the other way. I have to hand it to the guy, he sure was a creative thinker."
"That's putting it mildly."
"So?" I grin and volley straight back to him. "Who are you going to marry in order to get your inheritance?"
The waitress comes back to top off our iced tea at that exact moment. She pauses mid pour and steps back looking Beau up and down. "Well honey, I'm available if you're stuck," she says with a wink.
Beau's skin color deepens about fifteen shades as he glares at me, and I crack up laughing. "Uh, thanks," he mumbles, not quite looking at her.
"He'll keep you in mind," I tell her.
"See that he does. Your food will be right out."
"Thanks."
We both watch her walk away.
"She's cute," I say. "You could do worse."
"Probably. What in the hell was Grandfather thinking putting that stipulation on me? Why not you?"
"Me? Never. Anyway, I hardly got off scot-free." I grimace. "It just so happens I'm about to sell my company in New York. I wasn't sure what I was going to work on next, but it sure as shit didn't involve anything to do with the Montgomerys. No offense. I'm sure Grandfather knew if he added in a marriage stipulation to that bombshell, I'd walk."
"Well, I for one am glad. It'll be good to have you back here more." Beau brushes his hair off his forehead. "You can help me narrow down my prospect list."
Emmy pops into my head.
"Sure," I say. Emmy is single. Nice. Beautiful. Funny.
I open my mouth then immediately close it.
"You okay?" Beau asks, looking concerned by whatever he sees on my expression.
"Yeah." I sigh. "No. I don't know. Nothing. I'm fine."
There's an awkward pause. I look up at the ceiling.
"Today sure was a lot to take in," Beau says, relieving me of clarifying my comment.
Our food arrives, saving me from adding anything else. I pull out Emmy's phone, take a picture and start to text it to her. I stop myself and put my phone away. Beau is grinning at me.
"Shut up," I say.
He raises his eyebrows. "Didn't say a word."