Trent Turner, Edisto is the only notation for that day.
Edisto? Is that what happened when she disappeared? Somehow, she thought she was going to the cottage on Edisto Island to…meet someone? Maybe she had a dream overnight and woke up believing it was real? Perhaps she was reliving some event from the past?
Who is Trent Turner?
I leaf through more pages.
There’s no mention of May Crandall among Grandma Judy’s social engagements over the past months. Yet, somehow, May gave me the impression they’d seen each other recently.
The farther back I go, the clearer the handwriting becomes. I feel myself sinking into the familiar routines around which I once shadowed my grandmother—events for the Federation Women’s Club, the library board, the DAR, the Garden Club in the spring. It’s painful to realize that seven months ago, before her rapid downward spiral, she was still functioning reasonably well, still keeping up her social calendar, though a friend or two had mentioned to my parents that Judy has been having some lapses.
I leaf through more pages, wondering, remembering, thinking about this watershed year. Life can turn on a dime. The appointment book reinforces my new awareness of this. We plan our days, but we don’t control them.
My grandmother’s January notes begin with a single line scrawled haphazardly in the margin just before New Year’s Day. Edisto and Trent Turner, she’d written again. There’s a phone number jotted underneath.
Maybe she was talking to someone about having work done on the cottage? That’s hard to imagine. My dad’s personal secretary has been handling Grandma Judy’s affairs since my grandfather died seven years ago. If there were any arrangements to be made, she would have taken care of them.
There’s one way to find out, I guess.
I grab my cell and dial the number.
The phone rings once, twice.
I start wondering what I’m going to say if someone answers. Ummm…I’m not sure why I’m calling. I found your name in an old notebook at my grandmother’s house, and…
And…what?
A machine picks up. “Turner Real Estate. This is Trent. There’s no one here to answer the phone right now, but if you’ll leave a message…”
Real estate? I’m gobsmacked. Was Grandma Judy thinking about selling the Edisto place? That’s hard to fathom. The cottage has been in her family since before she married my grandfather. She loves it.
My parents would’ve told me if we were letting go of the place. There must be another explanation, but since I have no way of knowing, I return to my browsing.
In the closet, I find the rest of her appointment books stored in a well-worn barrister bookcase, right where they’ve always been. They’re neatly arranged in order from the year she married my grandfather to the present. Just for fun, I take out the oldest one. The milky leather cover is dry and crazed with brown cracks so that it looks like a piece of antique china. Inside, the handwriting is loopy and girlish. Notations about sorority parties, college exams, bridal showers, china patterns, and date nights with my grandfather fill the pages.
In one of the margins, she has practiced signing her soon-to-be married name, the flourishes on the letters testifying to the giddiness of first love.
Visited Harold’s parents at Drayden Hill, one entry says. Horseback riding. Took a few fences. Harold said not to tell his mother. She wants us in one piece for the wedding. I have found my prince. Not the slightest bit of doubt.
Emotion gathers in my throat. It’s bittersweet.
Not the slightest bit of doubt.
Did she really feel that way? Did she really just…know it was right when she met my grandfather? Should Elliot and I have experienced some sort of…lightning bolt moment, rather than the relaxed drift from childhood adventures to adult friendship to dating to engagement because, after six years of dating, it seems like it’s time? Is there something wrong with us because we haven’t tumbled in headfirst, because we’re not in a rush?
My cellphone rings, and I grab it, wanting it to be him.
The voice on the other end is male and friendly, but it isn’t Elliot’s.
“Hello, this is Trent Turner. I had a call from this number. Sorry I missed you. What can I help you with?”
“Oh…oh…” Every possible icebreaker flies from my mind, and I blurt out, “I found your name in my grandmother’s date book.”
Papers shuffle in the background. “Did we have an appointment set up here on Edisto? To look at a cottage or something? Or is this about a rental?”