group of men gathered around a television set as he walked inside. He pulled a six-pack from the cooler, then he grabbed a package of pretzels and headed to the counter.
“Trey Marbury?”
Trey glanced up from his wallet to find the store-owner staring at him. “Hey there, Garland. How’s it going?” He frowned inwardly. His drawl had suddenly reappeared, each word of his greeting sliding into the next.
“Well, well,” Garland crowed, clapping his hands. “Look who we have here, boys. It’s Trey Marbury. We were just talkin’ about you last week. About that game against Marshall. You remember that? You dropped back, Bobby Ray Talbert threw that block and you hurled the ball down the field. It bounced off the defender’s back and into Lanny Freemann’s arms. Belfort wins by three.” The group of men erupted in a cheer, giving each other high fives.
“That was a great game,” Trey said as he tossed a twenty on the counter.
“What are you doin’ back in town?”
“I’m taking care of a few things for my father’s estate.”
The men dropped silent and Garland nodded soberly. “I heard about your dad. I’m real sorry, Trey. He was a good man.”
Trey forced a smile. To most people in town, Clayton Marbury was a good guy, the picture of an upstanding citizen and model family man. He just hadn’t been a loving father to his son. In truth, Trey couldn’t remember his father ever showing an ounce of affection toward him. “Thanks,” he murmured. Trey pushed the money closer to Garland, hoping to make a quick exit.
“He weren’t no cheapwad, either. I never met a more generous guy. Told the funniest stories down at the lodge and could make a mean barbecue. Always threw that big shindig every year on his birthday. Yep, he looked out for his friends, he did.”
“And made life miserable for his enemies,” Trey added.
Garland chuckled. “You’re right about that, son. Though there hasn’t been much to the feud since Wade Parrish and his wife moved out of town three years ago. I think that took all the fight out of your dad. He and your ma left for their place in Arkansas a few months later.” Garland totaled the price of the beer and pretzels, then dropped them both in a bag. “So how long you plannin’ on stayin’ here in Belfort?”
“My mother asked if I’d liquidate the last of the real estate around here and in Charleston. I’ve got to meet with Realtors, get some repairs made to some of the properties. I guess I’ll be here for a few months at least. Just until everything closes. Then I’m headed back home. I mean, back to Chicago.”
Garland nodded. “You got a place here in town?”
“The motor lodge out on Highway 32, though it took a bit of sweet-talking since I have my dog with me. I’m thinking of buying a place and renovating it in my free time. You guys know of any properties I could pick up quick?”
Garland chuckled. “Boy, the apple don’t fall far from the tree. You’re just like your daddy, boy! Clay Marbury was always on the lookout for a good buy. He had the Midas touch, he did.”
Trey had heard just about enough about the great Clayton Marbury II. He grabbed the bag and nodded, a tight smile pasted on his face. “Thanks, Garland. Be seeing you boys.”
The storekeeper scratched his chin. “Now that I think of it, the old Sawyer place is goin’ up for sale. They moved Mrs. Sawyer to an old folks’ home up in Florence, where her daughter lives. The house is fallin’ down, so I reckon you could get a good price for it. My daughter’s a real estate agent. I’ll have her give you a call.”
Trey waved at Garland as he counted out his change. “Keep it,” he said. “Buy the boys a beer on me.”
As Trey backed the Jeep out of the parking lot, he knew it would be a matter of minutes before all the town gossips knew that he was back in Belfort. No doubt, there’d be all kinds of speculation about where he’d been and what he’d been doing these past twelve years. “I should have taken a place in Charleston.” He sighed. “Maybe it’s true—you can’t go home again.”
Trey swung the Jeep back onto Center Street and headed for the old residential section of town. Belfort sat at the junction of two rivers, rivers that emptied into the Atlantic about fifteen miles downstream. Most of the huge white clapboard homes were located on the wide peninsula of land that split the rivers in two, set on streets shaded by centuries-old live oaks and boasting huge lots that backed up on the water.
Trey knew where the Sawyer house was located and headed down Charles Street. As he pulled up in front of it, his gaze drifted to the house next door. This had always been considered Parrish territory, the east side of the historic district. Since the War Between the States, Parrish supporters had lived east of Hamilton Street and Marbury supporters lived west of the dividing line. A person declared their allegiance by where they chose to buy their home. Trey chuckled softly. Buying in enemy territory would have sent his father into an apoplectic fit.
Trey reached over and grabbed a beer, then popped it open and took a long sip. Even if there were still Parrishes living in the house next door, the feud was over now. As the only Marbury heir, he had no intention of continuing the hostilities. And to his recollection, there was only one Parrish heir left and that was Lisbeth Parrish; she’d probably taken off for parts unknown at her first available opportunity.
He hopped out of the Jeep and strolled up to the Sawyer house, the facade looming darkly among the overgrown bushes and trees. Like the house next door, it boasted wide verandas that circled all four sides on both stories, shading the house from the relentless summer sun. He could see the place was badly in need of paint, and the verandas were sagging in spots. But even if it were falling apart inside, a guy didn’t come across a house like this every day. The craftsmanship was incredible, the detailing probably untouched since it had been built in the mid-1800s.
Trey wiped his hand over a dusty window and tried to see inside, making out an old carved mantel and furniture covered with sheets. Suddenly, he’d found a reason to set up housekeeping in Belfort. Smiling, Trey turned back to the street. Hell, he didn’t care what they wanted for the house—he’d pay it. After eight years designing everything from shopping centers to condo complexes, it would be fun to wield a hammer and saw again.
Halfway to his Jeep, Trey turned around. There had always been a secret path around the back of the old Sawyer house, a path that he and his buddies had taken numerous times on a hot summer night. It led through a dense thicket of trees and kudzu to a tiny inlet in the river, a deep pool with a sandy bottom. The high school had built a swimming pool the year after he’d graduated and the spot probably had been long forgotten. A swim might be nice before he headed back to the motel.
He retrieved the rest of the six-pack from the Jeep and then walked past the empty house into the deep backyard. Crickets chirped and unseen night animals rustled as he searched for the entrance to the path. Though the inlet required trespassing on Parrish property, that had never stopped Trey and his friends. If they didn’t get too loud and cleaned up after themselves, they usually went undetected.
As he pushed through the brush, Trey recalled one time when he had been caught, and not by old man Parrish. His memories of that night, just a few days before his eighteenth birthday, were still strangely vivid, for they had represented a turning point in his life. Maybe it had been the setting or the events leading up to the encounter. Or maybe it had been his unbidden reaction that had burned the memory so deeply into his mind.
It
