Page 18 of Share with Me

Chapter Seven

Brinley droveDad’s Bugatti onto Tenth Street and made the turns she knew well in the area. It was dark and there were no streetlights. She didn’t like that but here they were now. She wondered whether she could reach into her purse fast enough for her pepper spray.

Then again, there was nothing to worry about. St. Simon’s Island had always been laid-back and safe. Hardly any crimes ever happened around here. But with the mass presence of the newly rich buying up cottages on Sea Island and spending their time on St. Simon’s and Jekyll, crime was bound to rise. Dad had told them that the islands wanted to raise property taxes so they could expand the police force and fire department. Nothing new, really. They had expanded once in 2004 when the thirtieth G8 Summit was held on Sea Island with fortress-like security.

Brinley hit the gas pedal.

“Oooh, please slow down.” Yun’s hand was on her forehead.

The speedometer said Brinley was going thirty-five miles per hour, well within the speed limit of forty this side of town. She wondered how she could petition for streetlights to be built in the area.

As she was thinking, the GPS said, “Your destination is on the right.”

Yun McMillan lived one block from the beach and three doors down from the house that Dad and Brinley had salvaged from foreclosure two years before. They’d renovated it and rented it out. It was a lovely cottage from the thirties, but they’d opened up the inside space and added a spectacular deck to bring in the outdoors. Dad was into outdoor fireplaces and kitchens. Each house that he and Brinley had bought and redone under Brooks Renovations had reflected Dad’s mood at that point in life.

With his stroke, Dad would be hard-pressed to continue the pet project. Brinley’s remaining brother, Dillon, ran the worldwide headquarters of Brooks Investments, and truly, he didn’t need Brinley anymore to bring in sales or to run the marketing department. Dillon could handle it, even without Dad. So maybe Brinley could take over this renovation business after all.

“Here we are.” Yun McMillan’s voice was fatigued.

Brinley coasted on the driveway and cut off the engine in front of the porch. When she turned off the headlights, they were sitting in darkness. She flicked on the headlights again.

“That’s kind of you, Brinley. Our porch lights are broken.” Yun struggled to get out of the car.

“Hold on.” Brinley went to her, helped her out of the car and up the rickety steps onto the porch. The floorboards rattled and creaked, and Brinley thought she was going to fall through.

How could anyone live here?

Yun’s keys jingled from her hand. Brinley glanced all around for shadows as Yun patiently reached for the keyhole. The headlights were bright, but when Yun stood in front of the door, she blocked most of it from the keyhole. Brinley turned on the flashlight app on her iPhone to help Yun see enough to get the key into the front door.

Yun flicked on the living room lights.

Brinley surveyed the room. It was all fifties furniture. Maybe even forties. Sparse, dusty, vintage. Old things were everywhere. Brinley spotted an old upright piano. Her eyes lit up. The wood was dark honey. She was sure it was Brazilian rosewood with its rich burls and rings. The piano legs were ornately carved. There was a pair of fretwork on the top above the keyboard.

The fallboard was down, covering what should be keys underneath, but if this piano was what Brinley suspected, there should be a decal on the fallboard.

“Go on.” Yun seemed to know what Brinley wanted to do.

Brinley lifted the fallboard. There they were. Old words she was pleased to see.

Steinway & Sons.

Brinley knelt down on the old oak floor and peered under the keyboard to confirm. Sure enough. Inscribed on the fretwork above the pedals were the initials “S&S.”

“I haven’t seen a prettier Victorian upright,” she said.

“Why, yes.” Yun took off her coat and hung it on the coat rack in the coast closet. Then she reached for her walker. “I like old things.”

“I do too.” Brinley was all over the piano. “What year was this made?”

“Take a guess.”

“Late 1800s?”

“Very good. You do know your pianos. It was built in 1877.”

Brinley sat down on the piano stool. It felt original. “Fully restored?”

“Yes. That’s what the second mortgage—oh dear. I wasn’t supposed to tell anyone. My Otto said not to.”

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