Page 75 of The Romance Adventure

I look for the controller to turn off the television and ask, “Let’s talk about painting. If you could paint anything, what would it be?”

At that exact moment, a reporter says the name Gavin Norris. My gaze snaps to the TV. He says that Gavin was found dead in an alleyway outside a club last night. “His brother Daxel, also involved in the ongoing investment fraud scheme, was not available for comment.”

Isla gasps.

This is quite a development and I should be on the phone with the legal team, but I whip my head in Isla’s direction.

“Everything okay?” I ask, giving her a chance to confess.

“Yeah. Sorry, there was a big wave and the wind, a tree.” She points and then fidgets nervously.

“Isla, is there something you want to tell me…?”

“No, it’s fine. But I should head back to Beans & Books. My sister is probably wondering where I am.”

I can’t help but fear that she’s not the only one, yet the fact that she won’t trust me enough to confess that she knows those guys makes me suspicious.

Isla is quiet on the ride into town and gives me a quick kiss on the cheek before scuttling into the bookstore.

The queen on the chessboard closes in on me. I haven’t puzzled out what she could possibly want, other than money, but if that’s the case, she’s playing well. Dare I say expert level?

Isla had me fooled.

My thoughts darken as I cruise over to the resort, where work is on pause because of the bad weather. A sleek black sedan winds down the road. I narrow my eyes, but the rain drives down too hard and the windows are too dark for me to see the driver or any passengers. When I glance in the rearview mirror, the license plate says, The Man.

“Glandman,” I hiss. What was he doing poking around up here? If I know anything about his intentions, they’re always good for him, bad for everyone else.

A staggering thought makes me swerve. I took a survey class in college when determining my direction in law. My knowledge of wills and trusts is rusty, but it’s very likely he received a copy of Chip’s will since he was named as a potential recipient, should my brothers and I renege on our grandfather’s wishes.

Isla commented that the will could’ve been code, and, of course, I’ve given it thought. The old man couldn’t speak straight whether in Brazilian Portuguese or English. It was maddening. Getting dessert after dinner on Sunday was a scavenger hunt of riddles, puzzles, and solving mysteries.

He told us he wanted to teach us to earn everything in life, especially the extras. All I earned was the family Bible and a book of matches, along with a major renovation project.

“Whoop-de-doo.”

If I were interested in a multi-million-dollar rehab, I could’ve taken one on myself at a property with fewer memories and associations.

I suppose I could go check out the Mermaid’s Chest, see if it’s still standing. Coming to a stop, I do a search on my phone, but the results say the old tavern closed years ago due to storm damage. Guess I won’t go over there to find pearls of wisdom haunting the two barstools Chip and I occupied all those years ago.

As I loop the road that winds around the Driftwood, I near the Frigate, the name for the house where Chip lived. Although CJ said he had been staying in the Brigantine when he passed. My brothers and I lived in a building called the Schooner, a smaller boat.

I’m sure they’re equally thrilled about their inheritances. Magnus got a pocket knife and a pillow. Chip left Ryan a journal and a pen with a plume. I wouldn’t be surprised if the guy forgot how to do anything with his hands except throw a football. That leaves CJ with the sextant and the Salty Skeleton, whatever that is.

I get out and explore the main building, the Galleon.

Not only did Chip supposedly seek treasure from sunken ships, he salvaged the boats themselves, including the bells, masts, canons, and wheels, among other things—all of which he used to construct this building, along with vast quantities of driftwood. It’s like a Disney film set dream, only it’s real life.

Even though the Galleon has seen severe storm damage, as I look around and up—at the main mast that reaches toward the stained-glass ceiling—I never quite appreciated the clever architecture. It’s like I’m on a boat, but lucky for this guy—who didn’t inherit the Almeida or the McGregor sea legs—I’m on solid ground.

Skepticism replaces the curiosity, weaving an infinity loop in my mind. That was the thing about Chip: he always kept us guessing. No straight answers. Only winding roads that doubled back and clues without maps.

He never said, Sorry, boys, your parents are dead.

Instead, he alluded to them being gone for a very long time. He used analogies and symbolism. Some might argue that, because of our various ages, he was trying to soften the blow. However, not having a definitive answer and hearing the harsh but black-and-white truth made living the reality without Mom and Dad even harder for me.

I exit the building, wondering what the point of it all was. Chip wasn’t cruel, intending to hurt me. He was eccentric, caught up in his quest, and we were just members of the crew—at least it felt that way.

But the personalization in the will suggests he did know us, maybe in ways we don’t even know ourselves. At least not yet.