Page 54 of Easton Island: Old-Fashioned Christmas
Grace’s face turned bright red. “I-I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have mentioned it.”
“If people are talking, I want to know.”
“I heard the boy is Brett’s son,” Grace blurted out.
The secret slipping out was inevitable. Nearly everyone on the island knew the Easton family. Because of the tight-knit community, locals would wonder who the newcomers were—and start talking.
Throw in the fact that there were several other guestsandstaff on hand meant keeping Jeff’s and Tristan’s identities a secret would be nearly impossible.
“It could be true.”
Grace’s hand flew to her mouth. “Seriously?”
“We’ll find out today. The DNA test results will be back sometime this afternoon.”
“What does Elizabeth say about it?”
Morgan shrugged. “On the one hand, she’s excited. On the other hand, if Tristan is my nephew, it adds a whole new layer of family dynamics.”
“No kidding.” Grace studied her friend’s face. “What do you think? I mean, is Tristan a brat who might cause trouble down the road?”
“No, he’s a good kid who has gone through some tough times.” Morgan told her about how his uncle traveled frequently. His mother had died, and he was being shuffled around. “Grandmother is convinced he’s Brett’s son, and after seeing a picture of my brother at Tristan’s age, I have to agree.”
“How did…I mean, I know it’s none of my business, but how did Brett meet Tristan’s mother?”
“She lived in Las Vegas. He met her during a college trip with friends, married her and brought her back to Easton Island.”
Grace made a choking sound. “Was Rhett still alive?”
“Alive and furious. According to Grandmother, he paid her off and threw her out.” Morgan shared the rest of the story of what she knew.
“Wow.” Grace whistled loudly. “Talk about a soap opera.”
“Or family saga,” Morgan quipped. “An art the Eastons and Lockes seem to have a knack for.”
“I hope everything works out.”
“Please don’t tell anyone.”
Grace twisted an invisible key near her lips. “My lips are sealed.” She reached into the bag and removed a box wrapped in an old-fashioned Christmas scene. “Here’s your gift.”
“Thank you. The wrapping paper is beautiful and appropriate for the Christmas we just had.” Morgan carefully removed the gold foil ribbon. She lifted the lid and found it crammed full of packing paper. “It’s heavy.”
“Heavy-duty.”
Digging past the paper, Morgan glimpsed a vintage brass bell, the kind you could mount on the side of the house or a porch post. On the front wasLocke Pointe Bed & Breakfast.Below thename wasEst. 2025.“I love it. I’m going to have Greg hang this today.”
“I knew the minute I saw the bell it would be perfect for your front porch.”
“And every time I ring it, I’ll think of you.” Morgan set the bell back inside the box. “I hope you like my gift.” After refilling their teacups, she darted over to the tree to track down Grace’s gift. She slid the wrapped box onto the coffee table, eagerly anticipating her friend’s reaction as she unwrapped the project Morgan had spent hours working on—a labor of love for a woman who didn’t have a mean bone in her body, who had been nothing but supportive and helped Morgan navigate the daunting world of entrepreneurship.
“Can you guess what it is?”
Grace ran a light hand over the top. “Not a clue. Can I pick it up?”
“Yes, but carefully.”
She lifted the box. “It’s not heavy, so it can’t be the Florida citrus soaps I adore and need to order more of.”
