Mama switched off the TV and glared at Michael. “We need to get him out of there and bring him home to his real family.”
“I’m working on it. I’ve hired a lawyer, and I have some other irons in the fire.”
She gave a firm nod, causing her white curls to shake. “Good. We need to take care of family, especially after the time we’ve had. So many dead, so many lost.” She narrowed her eyes. “You’re the only one in your generation who’s not in a grave or a cell. The little ones deserve a better future, especially Simon. He could be the leader of that generation.”
“I see the same promise in him, Mama. We’ll make a Willard out of him. Count on it.”
Her faded brown eyes grew vague, and she seemed to wander in the past for a moment. “Tell me, why isn’t he a Willard now? Why wasn’t Jess a Willard? Why did she keep that name?”
Painful memories tried to surface, but Michael pushed them down. “She was biding her time, making connections. The Legare name was better for that.”
“Yes, I suppose so. And Jess loved her sister.”
More ripples of agony in the dark waters of his past. “Half sister.” He changed the subject. “I talked to David’s lawyer today. He thinks he’ll be able to plead David down to accessory to trafficking stolen goods and get him out for time served.”
Her face wrinkled into a smile. “Good, good. I’ll makeshrimp and grits to celebrate when he gets out. Your brother always loses weight on jail food.”
“I’m sure he’ll appreciate it. Your shrimp and grits is fantastic.”
“Deke loves it too.” Her brow furrowed. “But he’s not getting out soon, is he?”
Michael sighed. “No, he’s not. I talked to his lawyer too. The prosecution has a recording of him bragging to a jailhouse snitch about calling the hit on Beckett Harrison. Between that and the other stuff they have on Deke, he’s probably getting life without parole.”
“Oh.” She sagged back in her ratty armchair, looking very small and withered. “Poor boy. Poor, poor boy. That’ll be hard for him. He always loved the outdoors so much. He is a talker, though. How’s he taking it?”
“Not well. It’s only just starting to sink in, I think. He’s feeling pretty down. He says he’s talking to the prison chaplain, which helps some.”
Mama’s eyes were suddenly sharp. “Talking to the chaplain? Is that still Tim Kramer?”
“Yes.”
Her mouth set in a hard line. “Deke’s not thinking of doing anything stupid, is he?”
Kramer’s favorite verse was “The truth will set you free,” and he was a firm believer in the healing power of confession. Prosecutors and cops loved him. “Don’t worry about Deke. He’ll never turn on family. He’s a Willard.”
Savannah smiled at the astounding figures in TGU’s bank accounts and pulled up a list of long-overdue maintenance projects on her computer. She’d been working on a plan for her vision of the future, and her goals didn’t seem out of reach now. She’d even been able to fully fund the scholarships, including one for Hez’s favorite student, Ed Hernandez. It seemed impossible that she’d attained the position of university president at only thirty-five years old.
The azaleas flowering on the other side of her office window were a sweet reminder that beauty and life still existed in the midst of grief and change. It wasn’t just the turnaround in money that signaled new life for the university—applications for next year had surged as well, and reporters were clamoring for interviews on what she had planned. With the influx of money, the school’s college ranking would get a nice boost, and she intended to be prepared.
The first order of business was to finish Legare Hall, the half-built embarrassment her father had started two decades ago but never had the money to complete. It loomed above Tupelo Pond, a mossy marble mess that every campus visitor drove past. It was like the set for a horror movie—hardly the impression Savannah wanted to make on prospective students and professors.
The plans drafted by her father’s architect were impressive—and expensive—but she didn’t intend to use them. Her father had wanted a majestic, Gothic-style building with a luxurious office suite for himself and a cavernous, mahogany-floored grand foyer he could use for entertaining. The academic function of the building seemed to have been an afterthought. An early version of the plans identified internal rooms as labs andclassrooms, but later versions labeled them as a library or storage space—probably because cost had become an issue and shelves were cheaper to install than lab benches or desks.
The corner of one of Great-Grandfather Luc’s leather journals peeked out from under a stack of papers, and she pulled it free. An initial glance through this one over a month ago had revealed notes about a hall he’d intended to build, but she hadn’t studied it closely. She flipped through the pages, relishing the feel of the quality paper and the faint scent of fine leather. Her fingers paused in the middle of the pages at the sketched floor plans and facade of a building. While it bore some resemblance to the plans her father had sent over, the more historic lines and design of the grand hall appealed to her. The cost would likely be lower, which would leave money for other upgrades.
The door opened and Hez, dressed in khaki slacks and a blue shirt, appeared in the doorway. “Got a minute?”
She closed the journal and eyed the two University Grounds beverages in his hands. “How’d you know I didn’t get my drink this morning?” She stood and stepped to the side of the desk.
He entered and shut the door behind him. “I spotted you sprinting for the office after I dropped Simon off at school this morning in my Uber ride. You had your bag and no coffee.” He set the drinks on her desk and pulled her into his arms. “I can’t wait until we can wake up together again. I missed you this morning.”
Letting go of all other thoughts, she relaxed into his embrace and kissed him, relishing the tenderness encircling her. When he finally released her, she opened her eyes and traced his strong jawline with her finger. “That was a prettyimpressive rescue for a thirty-seven-year-old guy.” He seemed to have fully recovered from the near-drowning incident, and his brain injury was healing well too. Not being able to drive still chafed at him, though.
“You’re forgetting your iced mocha,” he said with a smile tugging his lips.
“You’re good at making me forget everything.”
He snagged a lock of her hair and wound it around his finger. “It’s my favorite thing to do.” His hand fell back to his side.
