CHAPTER 3                      

South Carolina…

Jake was going home.

He crossed the border into South Carolina, stopped for gas and then continued south on I-95 toward the coast, toward Beaufort and the Lowcountry, toward the family home on the Morgan River.

Six PM and the mid-June sun cast biased shadows across the flat expanse of highway. The driving was effortless and he sang along with the 60’s oldies on 98.5, The River, out of Beaufort.

Ninety minutes later, he motored through downtown Beaufort, fingers tracing the scar on his stomach and recalling fellow writer, Robert Fulghum’s, words: ‘A high school reunion is not a reunion with other people as much as it is a reunion with yourself. Daily, we reunite with self in the mirror. The high school reunion is an invitation to look into a larger mirror’.

He parked and locked the car and walked through the door of Plum’s, a popular sandwich and ice cream bar.

He glanced around and at the eclectic mix of nautical motif and rock and roll memorabilia that still decorated the place: Shrimp nets shrouded the walls and sea shells, starfish and horseshoe crabs sat on worn lobster traps. Plastic Elvis, dressed to the nines, legs askew and head bobbling still occupied center stage atop an old-fashioned Wurlitzer jukebox. 

 “Jake?”

He turned, his mouth turning up at the sight of his old friend. “Hey, Gary.”

Gary Stanton, like his father before him, was the Slaughter family lawyer, the keeper of the keys and the captain of finance and real estate holdings. He was Jake’s age, a close friend throughout high school, but looked ten years older, with a round jovial face, thick gray hair and bushy eyebrows pasted over intelligent brown eyes.

“Good to see you again.” He pumped Jake’s hand. “Been too long, twelve years or so, right? For your folks thirtieth anniversary? You’re still looking good, tan and fit.”

Jake smiled. “You as well, Gary, but like me a bit heavier and a touch of gray.”

Gary spread his arms in a conciliatory gesture. “Goes with the territory. Hell, we’re all just grown-up versions of who we once were, right? You’re going to see that up close and personal at the reunion.”

Jake grinned. “Thanks for all you’ve done while I’ve been away. I mean it.”

“Hey, that’s my job and you’re my friend, Jake. Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

It had been Gary to whom Jake had sent money, a lot of it over the years, and his instructions had been specific: Buy up, using a nom de guerre, waterfront parcels along the rivers in and around the lowcountry and then enlarge and remodel the family’s compound to his parent’s liking. As a result, the Slaughter’s real estate holdings had increased substantially over the past decade.

“Well, Gary said. “Give me a minute to hit the restroom and we’ll be on our way.”

Jake nodded, ordered a cup of coffee and then looked around the restaurant. Teenagers laughed and kissed and hugged in the booths, hands running over faces, through hair and fanning south toward intimacy. He tried to remember the last time he’d felt that young. Part of him envied them, setting off down the road on the great adventure that stretched out before them.

Another part didn’t, for he’d often found that road strewn with speed bumps and hurdles.

“Right, then.” Gary returned. “All set?”

They caught up with each other during the ride out to the Slaughter compound, enjoying the warmth of the late-June evening laughing and joking at shared memories from their youth. Gary didn’t mention Jesse and Jake didn’t ask.

“So, have you heard from your folks, yet?” Gary said.

“Last week. Should roll in around the Fourth of July.”

“Going to be nice having the Slaughter clan home again. How about your sister, Sharon? Still up in Indianapolis, isn’t she? Heard from her?”

“She, Tom and the kids will be here for Thanksgiving.”

They rolled through the gated entry to the compound twenty minutes later.

Gary shut off the car and turned in his seat. “Okay, here are the keys to the beach house. Sarge would have been here, but he’s still up in Charleston and won’t be back until tomorrow. I had the place freshly painted and stocked with a few staples. Oh, and there’s Cabernet and Chardonnay in the cupboard, Sam Adams and Coors longnecks in the fridge and a bottle of twelve-year old Macallan on the kitchen table.”

Jake smiled. “Thanks for everything, Gary.”

“Anytime, my friend. I’ll see you at the reunion, then?”

Jake nodded.

The Slaughter Family compound, located on the northeast tip of Dataw Island, consisted of a five thousand square foot main home, a carriage house, two exquisite guesthouses and three hundred feet of surf, sand and foam bordering the deep blue of the Morgan River and St. Helena Sound.

Then, there was the beach house, Jake’s house. The home in which he’d grown up had been expanded and redesigned over the past ten years, with spacious, open rooms, airy cathedral ceilings and an exquisite floor-to-ceiling flagstone fireplace.     

His eyes lit up as he walked toward it, a lone sentinel on the point of a thin tongue of sand jutting out into the river.

He stopped at the bottom of the steps, regarding the graceful wrap-around porch, and in the dying light saw himself as a child growing up beside the river, complete with its still-life summer scenes of golden marshes and brilliant sunsets. Living here as a child had always turned to boating, shrimping, fishing and relishing the pristine Lowcountry vistas that still captured the hearts of painters and photographers alike.

Beaufort and its surroundings held a special kind of magic for him and he felt inclined to be captured all over again.

He walked up the steps, turned the key, opened the massive oak door and walked in.

The large loft bedroom, as he’d instructed, overlooked the great room and faced a massive stone fireplace. He went upstairs, unpacked, glanced around and smiled. The place looked damn good, just like he’d envisioned. Felt damn good, too.

Downstairs, he poured two fingers of Scotch over a single ice cube, then walked outside, strolled down to the beach and out to the end of the long, wooden dock.

Moonlight glittered on the jet-black water and the air smacked of summer: brine and earth and the tang of ebb tide. He sat down, feet dangling in the tepid water, sipped Scotch and listened to the evenly paced rhythm of his heart. 

The cool evening breeze still whispered only one name: Jesse Cochrane.