events—Camille’s fashion design company had expanded globally and they were now in Rome where her first international show was about to take place. And, as if that weren’t enough, Camille was seven months pregnant with their first child. Hence the reason Max was here in Hilton Head, South Carolina, looking over the faltering Sandy Pines Resort.
Pulling up his email he saw the one from his mother and had to smile.
Alma Donovan was another big part of the reason he was here and not Adam. It was her connection to this particular land in Hilton Head that first alerted Max and Adam to the prospect. The land northeast of US 278, or William Hilton Parkway, nestled along Broad Creek, between the Wexford and Long Cove Plantations, had belonged to Alma’s great-great-grandfather, Eustis Johnson. It was said that the money Eustis earned as a result of being one of the first black soldiers in the Union troop during the Civil War had allowed him to buy the land on Hilton Head Island, the island that once consisted almost entirely of African-Americans with deep historic roots. Hilton Head began its transformation into an almost all-white, upscale golf, tennis and shopping mecca in the late 1950s. Therefore, the land had gone from owner to owner, mostly staying within the Johnson family. It was with the passing of Alma’s third cousin that it had finally fallen into Alma’s name. And she wanted her son to make something of their legacy, something she and the rest of the Johnsons could be proud of.
So far, Max wasn’t impressed with what was being called the Sandy Pines Resort. He’d only been here two days but his first impression was that the previous owner had tried to compete with the existing gated communities around Hilton Head and failed dismally. Probably because of money.
Nina, Max’s assistant at his office back in Las Vegas, had done some research prior to his departure and emailed him all the information on the island he needed. Bypassing his mother’s email, he pulled up Nina’s and opened some of the files she’d sent. Hilton Head’s transformation was due partly to money—that wasn’t surprising. Developers with high ideas and deep pockets had invaded the all-but-forgotten island, getting a return on their investment that probably surpassed their wildest dreams.
The question for Max was did Donovan Investments repeat what had been working for so long on this prosperous island? Or should they do what they always did—break all the rules to come out on top?
That put him back to the meeting he had just before leaving Vegas. The one that Alma called with him and Adam.
“I want you boys to do this right,” she’d said the moment they both sat down at the conference table in their office.
She’d worn a business suit, which was usually what his mother wore; whether it be pants or a skirt, she was always ready for business. You’d never guess she’d been a housewife most of her fifty-five years. She had earned a BA in Business a year before marrying Everette Donovan. But since Everette was a third partner, along with two of his brothers, in this generation of the Donovan oil legacy, there had been no need for Alma to take her degree further. Or at least that’s what Everette first thought. After settling into marriage and having two sons, Max and Benjamin, separated by two years, Alma began to work a little here and there at home. Her work consisted mainly of helping Everette with his business dealings. After Max and Ben finished college and moved out of their family home in Nevada she’d teamed up with her sister-in-law, Beverly Donovan, making sure the Donovan name still had clout in the area of philanthropy. Between the two of them they had several charities going, along with their own foundation for women. And now, so it seemed, another pet project for Alma.
“You’re good at what you do, there’s no doubt about that or I wouldn’t trust this to you. But I want you to know exactly what I envision before you go any further.”
Adam tossed Max a questioning look that Max knew better than to return. When his mother was about business there was no playing involved. Adam, for whatever reason, acted like he’d forgotten that.
“So tell us about this project, Mom,” he’d said in his most professional voice, pulling out his legal pad and pen, prepared to take notes. That’s what he would have done at any other meeting, only this wasn’t any other meeting. Very rarely did he and Adam have clients come to them with a property they wanted to refurbish and keep. So he was all ears to his mother’s plan. At least for the moment.
“You’ve been to the island before, Max. Your father and I took you and Ben a couple of times when you were younger. That’s when Aunt Jocenda had the place. Then her crazy twin sister got it after Jocenda died in that plane crash. Jessa was always a bit touched but her parents never wanted to admit it.”
“So there was a crazy woman running this … what? A bed-and-breakfast on Hilton Head Island?” Adam questioned. “That sounds like a plot point in a horror novel.” He chuckled.
“You’re still the most playful of Beverly’s boys,” Alma said with a half grin. “I thought when Camille married you, you’d settle it down a little. I guess she hasn’t gotten that far yet.”
Adam was already shaking his head. “Camille loves to laugh. I like to oblige her when I can. But seriously, Aunt Alma, what is it you think we can do with this place? And why us? If you already own the property you could just hire contractors to refurbish the place for you. Then you could hire staff to run it, make an income off it for yourself. You don’t really need to get us involved.” He shrugged.
“Oh, but I do,” she said, pulling out a folder full of old photos. “This is what the house looked like when I was a little girl.”
Adam took a few pictures then slid some to Max. He looked down at what struck him as a house right out of history. Big, palatial, like an old Southern plantation. Wraparound porch, miles of grass, big magnolia trees lining the walkway. He was instantly taken back to a time and place before he was born, when African Americans didn’t have the right to read, much less own a house of this magnitude.
“And you say your great-great-grandfather, Eustis, owned this house and this land. Was this documented?” he asked.
“Of course it was documented, Maxwell. Don’t act like we’re thieves or liars. Because we’re not. I come from much more dignified stock than that.”
Justly scorned, Max nodded. “Okay, so the land is legally yours now. Does the house still look like this?”
“Somewhat, but not really. Jessa had the idea that she could change the house into a resort like the other big ones down in Hilton Head now, but she failed. Just like she failed in everything else she did.”
“Because she didn’t have enough money,” Adam guessed.
“That and because she didn’t have a lick of sense. You can’t run a resort if half the occupants are no-good drunks out to use you for the little bit you have. Jessa was always being used. I suspect because everybody could see she didn’t have it all going on upstairs,” Alma said, tapping a finger against her temple. “Anyway, that’s all done. The good Lord saw fit to carry Jessa on home with the rest of her family. Now, it’s in my hands and I’m so thankful that I’ve been blessed enough in my lifetime to be able to do it right.”
“You want to keep it as a resort?” Max asked, thinking he could see where his mother was going with this.
“That’s right.” Alma nodded. “But I want it to look like this again,” she said, pointing to the pictures in front of them.
“There’s acres and acres of land here, Aunt Alma. Do you want to build on some additions? Increase the number of guests that can be accommodated?”
“No,
