Chapter 9 - The Restoration
By late March, coastal Georgia had exploded into full, glorious spring. The azaleas along Habersham Street were blooming in violent shades of crimson, fuchsia, and white, their heavy scent hanging in the warm afternoon air alongside the smell of fresh cedar sawdust and marine-grade varnish.
The Frost House was no longer a tomb of dark, locked secrets.
Every single window was wide open, letting the salt breeze flow through the high ceilings. The old, rotted veranda railings had been replaced with hand-turned heart-cypress spindles matching the original 1898 architectural drawings Marcus had retrieved from the city archives.
In the front yard, three young women—former Marine corporals who had recently transitioned out of active duty and into the Savannah architectural restoration apprenticeships—were working on the wrought-iron fence, scraping off decades of rust with wire brushes and applying coats of gloss-black rust preventative.
I stood on the second-story balcony, wearing canvas work pants, steel-toed boots, and a faded Marine Corps physical training shirt, my hair tied back in a bandana.
My phone buzzed against the railing.
It was Marcus Thorne.
“Avery,” Marcus said, his voice coming through crisp and clear over the sound of an orbital sander running downstairs. “Just got the final report from the federal clerk in Brunswick. Greg Vance’s sentencing hearing concluded thirty minutes ago.”
I leaned against the freshly primed railing, looking down at the street. “What did the judge give him?”
“Thirty-six months at the federal minimum-security camp in Montgomery,” Marcus replied. “Plus full restitution of ninety-two thousand dollars to the victims of his unregistered notary scheme. His commercial license has been permanently revoked, and the court placed a federal tax lien against his home in Richmond Hill.”
“And Kelsey?”
“Kelsey filed for divorce last week,” Marcus said. “She moved into a rental duplex outside Pooler with the boys. From what her attorney told me, she’s working thirty hours a week at a regional medical billing office. She hasn't spoken to your mother since the grand jury testimony was unsealed.”
“And Diane?”
“Your mother is doing her community service,” Marcus chuckled, a dry, satisfied sound. “Three days a week at the Chatham County Animal Shelter, cleaning kennels and sorting pet food. The social circles she spent thirty years cultivating have completely closed their doors. The country club terminated their membership for non-payment of dues in January.”
I looked out over the canopy of live oaks toward the river.
There was no joy in hearing about their ruin, but there was no pity either. They had built their entire lives on the assumption that cruelty was free if you disguised it as family loyalty, and that strength was something you could steal from people who were too quiet to fight back. They had gambled everything on my silence, and the house had simply called their bet.
“How’s the foundation looking, Avery?” Marcus asked.
“The foundation is solid, Marcus,” I said, looking down into the front courtyard where the old magnolia tree was putting out fresh green leaves. “We have four veterans moving into the second-floor suites on the fifteenth of next month. The VA grant cleared the municipal board yesterday morning. The Frost House is officially back in service.”
May you like
“I’ll bring a bottle of good bourbon for the ribbon-cutting,” Marcus said.
“Make it sweet tea, Marcus,” I smiled. “Grandma Evelyn never let bourbon on the front porch before five o'clock.”
