Accidental Tryst (Charleston #1)(26)

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.