Chapter 2 - The Social Register of Charleston
The high-ceilinged drawing room of the Charleston house on Meeting Street smelled of polished mahogany, beeswax, and my sister’s expensive French perfume.
Vanessa sat on the velvet chaise lounge, her black silk dress perfectly draped, her fingers toyed with our mother’s pearl necklace. Beside her sat her husband, Richard, a junior partner at a local real estate firm who wore his gold Rolex like a shield.
"Evelyn," Vanessa said, her voice dripping with a false, honeyed sympathy that made my skin crawl. "I’m glad you finally called. Richard and I were starting to worry about you out there on Route 17. Have you managed to clear out the old hay, or are you still sleeping in the dirt?"
Richard chuckled, a dry, grating sound. "If you need a loan to hire a junk removal service, Evelyn, you only have to ask. Of course, we’d have to structure it as a formal lien against the acreage, but family is family."
I sat in the armchair opposite them, wearing my work boots and the same faded denim jacket I had worn to clean the barn. I had not washed the dust from my hands. I wanted to remember the smell of the earth that had bought my freedom.
"I didn't come here for a loan, Vanessa," I said, setting my leather satchel on the glass coffee table.
Vanessa sighed, her expression turning into one of practiced, weary annoyance. "Evelyn, please. Don't start about the will. I know it’s hard for you to accept that Mom and Dad saw things for what they were. I was the one who married into the right circles. I was the one who kept up the family name. You... you were always content playing the martyr, driving that awful truck and fixing their pipes."
"I loved them, Vanessa," I said quietly. "I didn't do it for the inheritance."
"And that is exactly why you got what you deserved," she snapped, her pearls clinking against her collarbone. "The barn. A pile of rotten pine and a field of weeds. So, what is this about? Richard and I have a dinner at the Yacht Club in an hour."
I reached into my satchel and pulled out a thick, blue folder. I slid it across the glass table, directly in front of her husband.
"Richard," I said. "You might want to take a look at that before you put on your blue blazer."
Richard frowned, his hand moving lazily to pick up the document. As his eyes scanned the first page, his lazy posture vanished. He sat up straight, his jaw tightening, the color slowly draining from his sun-reddened face.
"What is this?" he muttered, flipping through the pages with increasing speed. "Where did you get this, Evelyn? This is... this can't be legal."
"What is it, sweetie?" Vanessa asked, her brow furrowing as she leaned over to look at the papers. "Is she trying to dispute the probate? Mr. Harlan said the will was ironclad."
"The will is ironclad, Vanessa," I said, leaning back in the chair. "And so is the land registry. Your house—this beautiful, historic house on Meeting Street—is built on Lot 4B of the Carter Estate. Under the municipal charter of 1884, the land is leased from the primary holder of the Oakwood Forestry Trust."
"So what?" Vanessa scoffed. "Dad owned Oakwood. It’s part of the estate."
"No," Richard whispered, his voice cracking as he looked at his wife. "Vanessa... Oakwood wasn't listed in the probate inventory. It’s a private trust. And according to these corporate filings... Evelyn is the sole trustee."
Vanessa’s hand froze on her pearls. She looked from her husband to me, her eyes narrowing in confusion. "What does that mean? Evelyn doesn't own this house. I have the deed!"
"You own the bricks, Vanessa," I said, my voice dropping into a calm, cold register that sounded exactly like our father's. "You own the roof and the paint on the walls. But I own the dirt beneath it. And according to the lease agreement signed by our parents in 1994, the ground rent for this property is subject to a triennial review based on current market values."
I pulled a second document from my bag.
"The lease was up for review last month. My father didn't renew it because he was waiting for the trust to pass to me. As the new trustee, I am adjusting the ground rent for Lot 4B to reflect the current commercial valuation of the historic district."
"You can't do that!" Vanessa shrieked, standing up so fast her champagne glass rattled on the side table. "This is my house! You’re jealous! You’ve always been jealous of my life!"
"The new rent is twelve thousand dollars a month, Vanessa," I said, ignoring her outburst. "Due on the first of every month. And because your husband’s firm has its primary office on the commercial parcel on East Bay Street—which is also owned by the Oakwood Trust—I have also decided to review their commercial lease."
Richard’s face went from pale to a sickly, greenish grey. "Evelyn... please. Our firm... we’ve been there for ten years. We have a grandfathered rate."
"You had a grandfathered rate with my father," I said, standing up and picking up my satchel. "But my father is gone. And as Vanessa so kindly pointed out... I am just a trashy girl from Route 17 who doesn't understand the high society of Charleston. I’m just looking at the numbers."
May you like
I walked toward the double doors of the drawing room, then paused, looking back at my sister, whose hands were shaking so hard she had dropped her pearls.
"I expect the first payment by Friday, Vanessa," I said. "Otherwise, I’ll have to begin eviction proceedings against your house. And I hear the barn on Route 17 has plenty of room for storage."
