Anger flickered briefly in the desolate blue eyes. “That, too. But mainly because of things you don’t know.”
“What things, Jade? That’s what I’m trying to find out. Tell me what things.”
She shook her head. For the time being, her stubbornness appeared impenetrable. Swearing beneath his breath, Dillon stepped aside and let her precede him to the exit.
* * *
It was midafternoon by the time Jade reached the outskirts of Palmetto. She noticed in her rearview mirror that Dillon was still following her. He hadn’t let more than one car get between them at any point during the trip from Savannah. He took the cutoff right behind her.
The winding country road was banked on either side by dense forests. It eventually came to a dead end at an abandoned plantation house. The For Sale sign had been there so long it was nearly obscured by the tall grass growing around its stake. The elements had faded the lettering. The house itself was architecturally impressive, though it had fallen into disrepair. Paint was peeling off the Corinthian columns. Window shutters were loose or missing altogether. A portion of the roof had been ripped off by the last hurricane to move ashore.
The surrounding live oak trees had escaped damage, however. From their branches, trailing moss hung motionless in the humid heat, unless it was relieved by a breath of coastal breeze. Birds twittered among the stately pines and drank at a lichen-covered stonework fountain. Crepe myrtles were so burdened with ruffled fuchsia blossoms that the branches bobbed like the heads of old maids stealing naps.
Jade got out of her Cherokee. “Nice place,” Dillon remarked drolly as he alighted from his pickup.
“Isn’t it wonderful? I’m thinking of buying it.”
Undaunted by his lack of enthusi
asm, Jade moved toward the house and carefully picked her way up the steps to the veranda. It wrapped around three sides of the house. Her footsteps echoed hollowly as she walked along it, peering into window casements. Those that still had glass were grimy with salt spray. The beach was only half a mile away.
“You can’t be serious,” Dillon said, moving up onto the veranda with her.
“I am.”
“Isn’t it a little large for the three of you?”
“It’s not for us. I want to buy it for GSS.”
He gave a harsh laugh. “First a piss-poor farm and now a derelict Tara. I hope George Stein didn’t give you carte blanche with the company checkbook.”
Taking no offense, she left the veranda and ventured to the eastern side of the house, where once there had been a formal flower garden. The crushed seashell paths were now choked with weeds and, in the flower beds, wild grass grew where carefully cultivated plants once had.
On the far side of the garden there was another live oak. A swing hung suspended from one of its branches. The ropes attaching it to the tree were bigger around than her wrists. The knots beneath the plank seat were larger than her knees. Gingerly, she sat down in the seat and gave the swing a desultory push with the toe of her sandal.
Tilting her head back, she closed her eyes and let the dappled sunlight spill across her face. She breathed deeply of the sultry air, which was heavily scented with honeysuckle and gardenia.
“You’ve been here before.”
She opened her eyes. Dillon, standing with both hands in the rear pockets of his jeans, was watching her. His hazel eyes looked more green than usual, reflecting the verdant branches of the tree.
“Several times. I wasn’t kidding when I said I want to buy it. I’d like for this to be a company playground, sort of a corporate bed-and-breakfast facility.”
“I thought you were scouting out property for an annex.”
“This would be in addition to that. Think how wonderful it would be to entertain clients and upper-echelon executives here. I picked up a floor plan from the realtor and sent it to Hank.” Dillon had met Hank in New York. They had conferred on the TexTile plant.
“I told him I’d like for the house to be modernized without compromising on the Southern grace and charm. If we get the foreign markets we hope to, we could bring their reps here for formal dinners. Maybe transport them by horse-drawn buggies and serve them mint juleps on the veranda. They’d eat it up.”
He moved behind her, placed his hands above hers on the ropes, and began pushing the swing, not too vigorously, but enough to let the wind sift through her hair.
“Have you bounced this brainstorm off ol’ George yet?”
“Not yet. I want Hank to do some watercolor sketches first.”
“You and Hank seem to be pretty thick.”
“We’ve been friends since college.”