Chapter 1
�Until fairly recently, the coastal region of islands,
marshes, placid rivers and oak-shaded roads had seen
relatively little change -- but now change is widespread,
often overwhelming and sometimes devastating.�
--The National Trust for Historic Preservation
March is a moody time of year in the Lowcountry. On any
given day, seemingly by whim, the weather is balmy and
sweet-smelling and can lure reluctant smiles from the
hopeful who dream of cool, tart drinks on steamy
afternoons, creamy white magnolia blossoms and scented
offshore breezes. Then overnight, everything can change.
With a sudden gust of cold wind, winter will reach out
with its icy grip to draw a foggy curtain over the gray
marsh.
Mama June Blakely had hoped for an early spring, but she
was well seasoned and had learned to keep an eye on the
sky for dark clouds. A leaden mist hovered close to the
water, so thick that Mama June could barely make out
Blakely�s Bluff, which stretched out into the gray-green
Atlantic Ocean like a defiant fist. A bittersweet smile
eased across her lips. She�d al-ways thought it a fitting
symbol of her family�s turbulent history with the sea.
Perched high on the bluff was a weather-beaten house that
had been in the Blakely family for generations. Bluff
House had withstood countless hurricanes and storms to
remain the bastion of family gatherings long after most of
the old Charleston family�s land holdings were sold off.
Each time Mama June looked at the battered house, waves of
memories crashed against her stony composure. And when the
wind gusted across the marshes, as it did now, she thought
the mist swirled like ghosts dancing on the tips of
cordgrass.
Thunder rumbled, low and threatening. She tugged her
sweater closer to her neck and shifted her gaze to the
lowering skies. Weather moved quickly over the South
Carolina coastline, and a front like that could bring a
quick cloudburst and sudden winds. Worry tugged at her
mouth as she turned on her heel and made her way across
the polished floors of her home, through the large, airy
kitchen, the stocked butler�s pantry, the formal dining
room with glistening crystal and mirrors, the front parlor
appointed with ancestral furniture and straight out to the
front veranda. Gripping the porch railing, she leaned far
forward, squinting as she searched the length of ancient
roadbed bordered by centuries-old oaks.
Her frown lifted when she spotted a broad, snowy-headed
figure walking up the drive, a lanky black dog at his
heels. Mama June leaned against the porch pillar, sighing
in relief. At that pace, she figured Preston would beat
the storm. How many years had she watched and waited for
her husband to come in from the fields? Goodness, could it
really be nearing fifty years?
Preston Blakely wasn�t a large man physically, but his
manner and personality made him imposing to anyone who
knew him. People called him formidable in polite company,
bullheaded in familiar -- and she couldn�t argue. He was
walking with a single-minded purpose, heels digging in the
soft roadbed and arms swinging. His square chin jutted
out, cutting the wind like the mast of a ship.
Lord, what bee was in that man�s britches this time? she
thought with a sorry shake of her head.
On reaching the house, Preston sent the dog to the back
with a jerk of his index finger. �Go on, now. Settle,
Blackjack,� he ordered. Then, raising his head, he caught
Mama June�s gaze.
�Hellfire,� he grumbled louder than the thunder, raising
his arm and shaking a fistful of crumpled papers in the
air. �They�ve gone and done it this time.�
Mama June�s hands tightened on the railing as her husband
came up the porch stairs. �Done what?�
�They done got me by the short hairs,� he said on reaching
the porch.
�Who got you, dear?�
�The banks!� he roared. �The taxes. The whole cussed
economy, that�s who!�
�Sit down a spell, Press, before you pop a valve. Look at
you. You�re sweating under that slicker. It�s too hot for
such a fuss and, I swanny --�she waved her small hand in
the air �-- I don�t know what you�re talking about. Taxes
and banks and short hairs . . .�
�I�m talking about this place!�
�There�s no need to shout. I�m old, not deaf.�
�Then listen to what I�m tellin� you, woman. We�re going
to lose it.�
�What? Lose the land?�
�Yes, ma�am, the land,� he said. �And this house you�re so
fond of. We�ll lose it all.�
�Press,� she replied, striving for calm. �I don�t
understand any of this. How can we lose everything?�
Preston leaned against the railing and looked out over his
land. A cool wind rippled the wild grasses like waves upon
the ocean.
�Remember when we were reassessed a few months past?� When
she nodded, he continued. �Well, here�s what they say this
property is worth now. And here�s how much they say we�ve
got to pay. Go on,� he said, waving the papers before
her. �Read it and weep.�
Mama June reached out to retrieve the crumpled papers and
gingerly unfolded them. Her mouth slipped open in a soft
gasp. �But . . . this can�t be right. It�s three times as
much as before.�
�Four times as much.�
�We can�t afford that. We�ll appeal. They can�t force us
to accept this.�
�They can and they will.�
�There are lots of folks round here that won�t stand for
it,� Mama June said, hearing aloud the indignation she
felt stirring in her breast. �This can�t just be happening
to us.�
�That�s true enough. It�s happening all over. And there�s
nothing any of us can do. Folks keep coming from the north
in a steady stream.� He shrugged. �And they all want to
live along the water for the beautiful views. Trouble is,
there�s only so much property to go around. So property
values just keep climbing and developers, like my own
sweet, avaricious sister, are licking their chomps just
biding their time. They�ll wrestle away any and every acre
of earth so they can turn around and plow it over with
cement.� He raked his thick, short white hair with his
fingers. �Hell, I knew it was coming -- we all did. I
reckon I just didn�t think it would be so quick.�
He gave a rueful smile. �Kinda like a hurricane, eh?
Well,� he said with resignation, �looks like we
miscalculated on this one. Just like we did with Hugo.�
�We�ve always managed to hang on before. Through the war,
the gas crisis, the bad economy, even Hurricane Hugo.�
�I know it. I�ve done my best�God knows I�ve fought the
good fight. But I�m old now. And I�m worn out. I don�t
have it in me to fight them anymore.�
Mama June stepped forward to rest her hand on his drooping
shoulder, alarmed to her core to see her usual bear of a
husband so defeated. She was about to offer some
platitude, to say �don�t worry, we�ll be fine,� when she
felt his shoulders cord up again beneath her palms. He
exploded in renewed fury.
�Maybe if that no-good son of ours had stayed home we
wouldn�t be in this mess."
Mama June dropped her hand and wrapped her arms around
herself. �Let�s don�t start in on Morgan . . .�
�Don�t you go defending him,� he said, whirling around to
face her. �Not to me! He�s my son, dammit. He should be
here, helping his father run this plantation. It�s too
much for one man. I need his ideas, his energy. Is it too
much to ask my only son to take his father�s place?�
�He needs to take his own place in the world,� she
countered softly, even as she felt herself harden against
her husband. This was an all-too-familiar argument.
�The hell with the world! It�s Sweetgrass that needs him.
It�s his duty. His heritage! A Blakely has run Sweetgrass
Plantation for eight generations, and though there may
only be a few hundred acres left, by God, Sweetgrass is
still in Blakely hands.�
�He�s got his own land,� she reminded him.
�His own land?� Preston�s eyes widened with
incredulity. �You mean those few measly acres in the wilds
of Montana that he hides out in when he�s not out breaking
some laws?�
�Oh, for pity�s sake. He�s not doing any such thing. He�s
protesting!�
�And for what? To protect some bison? Hell,� he said with
a snort. �Bison . . . He grew up calling them buffalo like
the rest of us.�
�He�s trying to protect them.�
�He�s playing around. He�s not working that land. He�s not
working, period.�
�Stop, Press.� His angry words were shredding her
composure like razors.
�Worthless,� he muttered, ignoring her.
She turned and began walking away. �I can�t listen to
this . . .�
�What did I bother working for all these years?� he called
after her. �That�s what I want to know. I have no one to
pass this all down to.�
She stopped and faced him with a cold stare. �You have
your daughter.�
Preston scoffed and brushed away the suggestion with a
sweep of his hand.
�You can�t keep brushing Nan aside.�
�Didn�t she do just that to us when she sold off her land?�
�Her husband . . .�
�That weasel! He only married her for her land.�
�What a thing to say!� She�d thought as much herself but
had never granted it voice. �Lest you forget, I sold my
land when I married you.�
�That wasn�t the same thing at all, and you know it.�
�I know no such thing.�
�See, there you go. You always take their sides over mine.�
�I do no --�
�I�m your husband! I should be your first concern. For
once! I�ve worked all these years like a bull in the
harness to keep this land intact, to keep hold of this
house with all those antiques you love so much.�
�Don�t even . . .�
�All of this.� His arm swept out in a grand gesture. �I�ve
sweated from dawn to dusk. I�ve spilled blood. I�ve given
my heart and soul to this place. My dreams. My youth. And
now�� He stopped, clamping his lips tight and looking out
at the land with desperation shining moistly in his eyes.�
And now it�s gone.�
�Good!� she replied with heart.
Preston spun around to look at her. �What�d you say?�
�You heard me. I said good. Good riddance!� she cried out
with a strained voice. She saw the pale blue of his eyes
swimming with pain and shock at her outburst. But rather
than take it back or soften the words, as she ordinarily
might have done, she felt years of anguish burst forth
with a volcanic gush.
�All you think about is the loss of this land!� she cried,
thrusting the papers into the paunch of his belly. �What
about your family? What about that loss? You haven�t
spoken with your son in years. Your daughter feels like a
pariah. They don�t come around anymore. You�ve driven our
children away. But you don�t care about that, do you? You
didn�t fight to keep the family, did you? All you care
about is this piece of earth. Well, it won�t be long
before we�ll die and be buried on this precious land. But
who will mourn our passing? I ask you, Preston, will our
children weep when we�re gone?�
His face went still before he swung his head away,
averting his gaze.
She took a breath to gather her strength and stepped
closer to her husband, narrowing the distance. Pounding
her breast with her fist, emphasizing each word, she said
in a voice betrayed by a shaky timbre, �This land has
stolen my children from me. And that is a far greater loss
to me. Good riddance, I say. I despise this land!�
�You don�t mean that.� Preston�s voice was low and husky.
She took a long, sweeping glance at the landscape she�d
called home for close to five decades. The roiling line of
clouds rolled overhead like the closing of a curtain. Then
she met his gaze and held it.
�I surely do. From the day I first stepped foot on it, all
this land ever brought me was utter and complete
heartbreak.�
They stood face-to-face, silently recollecting the wide
swath of years cut low by that statement.
Around them the storm broke. Fat drops of rain splattered
loudly on the dry ground in gaining crescendo. With each
gust of wind the grasses swayed and shook, rattling like
castanets. Then the sky opened up and the heavens cried.
The roof provided no shelter from the torrents of rain,
and both felt the lash of water that whipped through the
air.
Mama June doubted the rain hid from Preston the tears
coursing a trail down her cheeks. Yet he did not move to
console her or offer any word of either argument or
comfort. Her shoulders slumped and she retreated inside
the house.
Preston stood rock still and watched her go. He was
unmoving as he listened to his wife�s tread on the stairs,
knowing she made her way to her bedroom. She would likely
cloister herself for hours, perhaps for the rest of the
evening, shutting him out.
Same as always.
He wouldn�t go after her, wouldn�t try to talk things
through lest the words dredged up the past. She couldn�t
handle that, and he didn�t know if he could anymore,
either. Besides, it wasn�t worth the risk of her
retreating to a place far more inaccessible than her
bedroom.
He sighed heavily, her name slipping through his
lips. �Mary June . . .�
He�d spoken harshly and was sorry for it. She was delicate
when it came to matters of the family. He�d always tried
to shelter her from bad news. But this . . . He squeezed
the papers once more in his fist. This had hit too hard.
He couldn�t bear this alone. Hellfire, he�d needed someone
to share this burden with, and who better than his wife?
She was his wife, wasn�t she?
He cast a final glance up toward her room, where she was
crying, and knew a sudden pain, as if the lightning in the
sky just shot through his heart.
�To hell with it!� he cried, drawing back his hand and
throwing the cursed papers into the storm.
The wind caught the papers, hurtling them toward the marsh
faster than a Cooper�s hawk. They landed, tangled in the
tall grasses, beaten by the rain. Lightning flashed in the
blackening sky, and by the time he heard the rumble of
thunder, he was in the house, reaching for the snifter of
brandy.
The storm passed quickly on its march from the mainland to
the sea. Now the air was fresh and the pastel pinks of the
sunset had deepened to a rich ocher. Preston sat on the
porch, his clothes damp and his skin cold, staring out at
the purpling sky while the brandy did its work. Usually
Mama June sat rocking beside him in a companionable
silence. He felt her absence deeply.
�At least you�re here, aren�t you, boy?� he said, reaching
down to pat the black Labrador retriever curled at his
feet. Blackjack, who had sneaked back onto the porch the
moment Mama June left, raised his dark, melting eyes and
gazed at Preston with devotion while his tail thumped with
affection. �Good ol� dog.�
With a heavy sigh he turned his gaze back to the westward
slide of the sun. In the years past, he used to relish
these waning hours of the day, just rocking and watching
the sun set over Sweetgrass, knowing that, at least for
one more day, he�d kept the Blakely heritage intact. The
plantation once consisted of 1300 acres, yet over the span
of three hundred years, one thousand of those acres were
sold off. He�d always felt it was his duty as the last
remaining Blakely male to try to hold on to what was left
so that a Blakely would always have a place to call home.
Thinking about this used to bring him a bone-deep
satisfaction.
Tonight, he felt no satisfaction in anything. Tonight, he
felt that all his efforts had been in vain.
Mama June�s words had cut him to the quick. They�d
extinguished the flicker of hope he�d harbored deep in his
heart that someday, in the not-too-distant future, his
prodigal son would return. Though he�d told no one, night
after night he�d see that dream in the hallucinatory hues
of the sunsets. In that dream he would be just like that
father in the Bible he�d read about. He�d see his son
coming up the road and go running out of the house to
greet him with outstretched arms. He�d call for a feast to
be held, for music to be played, for riches to be shared --
all to celebrate his beloved son�s return home after
years of fruitless wandering. In his dream he would smile
at Mama June and quote, �My son was lost but now is found.�
Preston�s frown deepened. Tonight he couldn�t see his
dream in the shadows of the sunset. His rays of hope had
extinguished along with the sinking sun, and all that was
left was this cold, dark silence. He felt as if he were
already dead and put in the earth. Mama June�s words came
back to him: Will our children weep when we�re gone?
They would not, he concluded bitterly. Then he downed his
drink.
Gripping the sides of the chair, he pulled himself out,
tottering as a wave of dizziness swept over him. Too much
brandy, he thought as he plodded across the porch. Inside,
the warmth of the house enveloped him. Glancing up at the
tall clock, he realized with surprise that he�d been
sitting out on the porch for several hours. It was no
wonder he was chilled to the bone. He moved closer to the
staircase and cocked his ear, straining to hear sounds
from Mama June�s bedroom. All was quiet. She must have
fallen asleep, he thought, resigned to the fact that he
would not likely be getting a hot meal for dinner this
night.
Truth was, he wasn�t hungry, anyway. All that fighting and
drinking made his gut feel off. Besides, he was feeling
too restless to eat. He never could settle down after a
quarrel with Mama June. Couldn�t rest until they�d made
peace. That woman had his soul in her hands and he
wondered if she even knew it. Some days, it seemed that
she hardly even knew he was here.
He felt his aloneness acutely tonight. It was thrumming in
his brain with a pulselike rhythm. He removed his slicker,
letting it lie on the back of a chair, and wandered
restlessly. His damp feet dragged and his blurry eyes
barely took in the rooms as he meandered. His mind was
fixed on Mama June�s words.
I despise this land!
Could she have really meant that?
From the day I first stepped foot on it, all this land
ever brought me was utter and complete heartbreak.
For him, the day Mary June Clark first stepped her tiny
foot on Sweetgrass land was forever etched in his mind.
His boyish heart had never known such infatuation, and
later, much later, that youthful adoration had matured
into a man�s utter and complete devotion.
He�d never heard her speak so plainly. She usually kept
strong opinions to herself, never wanting to make another
person feel uncomfortable. But those words . . . it was as
if they had all bubbled up from some deep, dank well. Very
deep, he thought with a grimace. What was it that Faulkner
had said? The past is never dead. It isn�t even past. It
nearly broke his heart to think that his life�s efforts
had been for naught. No man could bear that.
During one circuit of the house he poured himself another
drink. After another, he headed toward the small mahogany
desk in the foyer and dug out Mama June�s blue address
book. His eyes struggled with the letters and he fumbled
for his reading glasses, an indignity of old age to which
he�d never become reconciled. After a brief search through
her feathery script, he picked up the phone and dialed the
number in Montana.
His heart beat hard in his chest as he waited. Steadying
himself against the wall, he listened to the phone ring
once, twice, then two more times. At last he heard a click
and the dreaded pause of a machine.
Hi. This is Morgan. I can�t come to the phone right now.
Leave a brief message and I�ll call you back.
Preston was unprepared for the impact of his son�s voice
after so many years of silence. He fumbled with the phone
cord a moment, his tongue feeling unusually thick in his
mouth. When the beep sounded he skipped a beat, then
blurted,�Uh, Morgan, it�s your dad. I, uh . . .� Preston
felt a sudden confusion and struggled to put his thoughts
to words. He gripped the phone tight while his heart
pounded. �I called to . . . to talk to you. Anyway, I --�
This was going badly. He had to end it.
�Well, goodbye, son.�