Free The Weekenders by Mary Kay Andrews Page A

he had no way of knowing that a causeway had been built to link Sea Island to the mainland. And he’d overlooked the fact that Howard Coffin’s project was served by the Central Georgia Railroad, meaning potential homebuyers and resort guests could arrive by rail or car, whereas Belle Isle, located five nautical miles off the coast of North Carolina, was accessible only by ferryboat.
    While younger brother James, married with a growing family, stayed and ran the timber business from their offices in Wilmington, bachelor Charles moved to the island and set about building his new empire.
    He hired a young architect, picked a prime building lot on the protected bay side of the island, on a bluff, and began construction of a residence meant to set the tone for the other homes intended for the resort. Lumber for the house was sourced from a small stand of longleaf pines and cedars in the island’s interior.
    The resulting house was a beauty—a Gilded Age mash-up of gambrel roofs, dormers, porches, and verandahs, all clad in soft gray cedar shingles and sporting sixty-four windows, each with its own set of distinctive shutters featuring pine-tree silhouette cutouts. It had two stories, projecting wings from either side, marble baths, high ceilings, a billiard room, library, and even a small putting green next to the carriage house. Six months after the house was completed, during a particularly cold and blustery winter, Charles fell ill from pneumonia and died.
    Which was how James Thomas, J.T., came to own Shutters, and how his oldest granddaughter, Evelyn Rose Riley Nolan, came into possession of the drafty but beautiful island landmark.
    *   *   *
    Riley’s heart always did a little flutter kick whenever she caught sight of the old house. Spotting the lighthouse from the ferry was a game she and Billy had invented as young children, but the first glimpse of the elegant gray-shingled mansion was her private prize.
    The house was lit up, and the front porch light shone through the full darkness as Billy pulled the golf cart under the porte cochere. “Oh good,” he told Riley in a hushed voice. “Mama’s not back from the beach party yet.”
    Together they shepherded a sleepy Maggy into the house. Riley found a bowl of tomatoes on the kitchen counter and a plastic tub of pimento cheese from the Mercantile in the refrigerator. While Maggy dutifully pinpricked her finger to test her blood sugar, Riley fixed a dinner of pimento cheese sandwiches and poured herself a large glass of wine.
    She took a sip and grimaced. Evelyn Nolan drank gin, not wine, which meant that the house wine at Shutters was whatever cheap, vinegary jug wine she found on sale at the Harris Teeter in Southpoint.
    â€œOkay,” Billy said, sinking down onto a chair at the Formica dinette table. “You’re all unloaded. I put your suitcases in your rooms.”
    â€œIs Uncle Scott here?” Maggy asked, cramming a handful of potato chips into her mouth and chewing vigorously.
    â€œRight here,” Scott said, strolling into the kitchen with a wriggling pug under each arm. He set Ollie and Banksy down on the linoleum floor and helped himself to a potato chip from Maggy’s plate.
    Billy and Scott lived a short golf cart ride away in the island’s former firehouse, which they’d completely restored.
    â€œHey, shug,” he said, reaching across the table and squeezing Riley’s hand in his.
    Scott Moriatakis had been born and raised in San Francisco, but he’d managed to acquire an authentic-sounding Southern accent soon after meeting Billy Nolan. He was a full head taller than his partner, with streaks of gray at his temples and a neatly trimmed goatee that set off his olive skin. He was barefoot and dressed in a bright turquoise T-shirt and coral-colored skinny jeans.
    â€œWhen did you get in?” Riley asked, nibbling at her sandwich.
    â€œDay before