outside of school—had set
up Big Brother/Big Sister programs, completed a fundraiser to renovate a
community center in one of the worst neighborhoods in Annapolis, sponsored
parenting classes, tutoring, rec. league basketball, and music programs through
the center, and gave generously of her time and resources to a women’s shelter
on West Street—no, Anne couldn’t have known.
Meg took a deep breath and tried to think. She
paced around the villa trying to decide if she should leave the island
early. Howard told her to stay put until
he learned more, but now she really felt like she was running away from her
problems. She looked over at the picture
of Eden and the
abolitionist pamphlet on the table. If
she did stay, she could work on selling the property.
Without thinking, Meg pulled out her cell phone
and stared at it through her tears. She opened it, scrolled down the list of
saved numbers to her father’s name, and hit call .
After four rings, his cheerful voice answered and
told her to leave a message.
Meg dropped the phone and ran to the bathroom to
get sick.
The
phone in the villa rang.
“Meghan Owen?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Desmond Foxwell. I am with Grand Star Resorts. How are you this morning?”
“I’ve been better.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. We actually met last night—at Miss June’s?”
Meg thought over last night’s introductions. This was not a Nevisian—he had a British
accent. There were a group of British
people at the next table. Meg had
assumed they were tourists. Two of them
were men. One was about sixty, the other
about forty. Yes, he was introduced as
Desi. Thick black hair, blue eyes,
good-looking. Meg had thought he was
pretentious and hadn’t spent much time speaking to him—though now, in
retrospect, she remembered him spending a lot of time looking at her last
night.
“Yes, I remember.”
“I have a business proposition for you. Would you be willing to meet with me this
evening for dinner?”
Grand Star Resorts—had he overheard her talking
about the land she owned last night? Did
he want to buy it? In her thoughts, she
suppressed the conversation she had at Miss June’s about outside investors and
echoes of slavery. She didn’t feel good about it, but everything had changed.
“Where would you like to meet?” asked Meg.
“The Overlook at The Plantation Inn, say 7:30 ?”
“I’ll be there.”
Meg
had made an appointment at the Museum
of Nevis History to
search the archives before hearing of the recent drama concerning her family. Since she had a lot of time before dinner, she
intended to keep her appointment. Meg got into her jeep and drove to the small
building in Charlestown. A plaque on the building announced that it
was the birthplace of Alexander Hamilton. Meg climbed the gray stone steps to the green shuttered door and pushed
it open.
The museum could be found on the
bottom floor of the Government House of Assembly. The building smelled stale and ancient, and
Meg again wondered at the ability of air to remain in a place for centuries in
spite of its natural flow.
The Museum was empty when Meg
entered. Archive cabinets and artifacts
lined the walls, and classical piano music played from an old radio behind an
empty desk. Meg cleared her throat, and
a tired looking man of about sixty emerged from a side door.
“Miss Owen?”
“Meg, yes. We spoke on the phone.”
“Yes, you are wanting to look
through the archive collection.”
“I am. Are you Mr. Edmead.”
“Yes, please call me Drew. If you’ll sign our visitors’ book and take a
look around, I’ll be right with you.”
Drew went to his desk and made some
notes in a
up Big Brother/Big Sister programs, completed a fundraiser to renovate a
community center in one of the worst neighborhoods in Annapolis, sponsored
parenting classes, tutoring, rec. league basketball, and music programs through
the center, and gave generously of her time and resources to a women’s shelter
on West Street—no, Anne couldn’t have known.
Meg took a deep breath and tried to think. She
paced around the villa trying to decide if she should leave the island
early. Howard told her to stay put until
he learned more, but now she really felt like she was running away from her
problems. She looked over at the picture
of Eden and the
abolitionist pamphlet on the table. If
she did stay, she could work on selling the property.
Without thinking, Meg pulled out her cell phone
and stared at it through her tears. She opened it, scrolled down the list of
saved numbers to her father’s name, and hit call .
After four rings, his cheerful voice answered and
told her to leave a message.
Meg dropped the phone and ran to the bathroom to
get sick.
The
phone in the villa rang.
“Meghan Owen?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Desmond Foxwell. I am with Grand Star Resorts. How are you this morning?”
“I’ve been better.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. We actually met last night—at Miss June’s?”
Meg thought over last night’s introductions. This was not a Nevisian—he had a British
accent. There were a group of British
people at the next table. Meg had
assumed they were tourists. Two of them
were men. One was about sixty, the other
about forty. Yes, he was introduced as
Desi. Thick black hair, blue eyes,
good-looking. Meg had thought he was
pretentious and hadn’t spent much time speaking to him—though now, in
retrospect, she remembered him spending a lot of time looking at her last
night.
“Yes, I remember.”
“I have a business proposition for you. Would you be willing to meet with me this
evening for dinner?”
Grand Star Resorts—had he overheard her talking
about the land she owned last night? Did
he want to buy it? In her thoughts, she
suppressed the conversation she had at Miss June’s about outside investors and
echoes of slavery. She didn’t feel good about it, but everything had changed.
“Where would you like to meet?” asked Meg.
“The Overlook at The Plantation Inn, say 7:30 ?”
“I’ll be there.”
Meg
had made an appointment at the Museum
of Nevis History to
search the archives before hearing of the recent drama concerning her family. Since she had a lot of time before dinner, she
intended to keep her appointment. Meg got into her jeep and drove to the small
building in Charlestown. A plaque on the building announced that it
was the birthplace of Alexander Hamilton. Meg climbed the gray stone steps to the green shuttered door and pushed
it open.
The museum could be found on the
bottom floor of the Government House of Assembly. The building smelled stale and ancient, and
Meg again wondered at the ability of air to remain in a place for centuries in
spite of its natural flow.
The Museum was empty when Meg
entered. Archive cabinets and artifacts
lined the walls, and classical piano music played from an old radio behind an
empty desk. Meg cleared her throat, and
a tired looking man of about sixty emerged from a side door.
“Miss Owen?”
“Meg, yes. We spoke on the phone.”
“Yes, you are wanting to look
through the archive collection.”
“I am. Are you Mr. Edmead.”
“Yes, please call me Drew. If you’ll sign our visitors’ book and take a
look around, I’ll be right with you.”
Drew went to his desk and made some
notes in a
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