Restored

Chapter One

Sometime in the Near Future

A popcorn bag … really! Savannah Hartford looked out from under the bench where she’d just dove for cover and saw her best friend, Cara Williams, laughing. “I thought … it was a gunshot.”

“Figures. It’s ’cause you overthink things,” Cara said, arching her well-groomed brows. “This trip’s gonna be an adventure. Nothin’ bad is gonna happen.”

Humiliated, Savannah crawled out of the confined space. Admittedly, she was socially awkward, but diving under a bench in a crowded airport was a bit much, even for her. It also didn’t help that Cara couldn’t stop laughing, which was drawing attention from all the men. Cara was a light-skinned black woman with short, curly hair and a curvaceous body. And although short in stature, she packed a lot of confidence. In comparison, Savannah was tall and slender, with long black hair falling to her waist, complementing her caramel-colored skin. Her hair was naturally curly, but she preferred it straightened. She might have looked like a black supermodel if she possessed even a modicum of confidence. But she was confident about nothing, including this trip.

“C’mon, Savannah, it’s gonna be fun. I can feel it.”

“All I feel is sick,” Savannah grumbled, grabbing her luggage off the baggage carousel. Three months before, she’d been contacted, first by letter and then by phone, about an inheritance of property in Jamaica. The minute she’d heard the news, her distrustful nature kicked in. And when the lawyer offered a free trip to complete the paperwork, she again presumed the worst. Cara had called her a paranoid pessimist, and then she’d invited herself along. Surprisingly, the lawyer agreed and provided two all-paid plane fares to Jamaica, with complimentary lodging.

But speeding over the narrow, winding roads in a Jamaican cab had Savannah’s feelings changing. The lush landscape was erasing her feeling of doom and replacing it with a sense of home. Since her grandmother’s death six months ago, Savannah had felt so out of place. Yet, somehow, this foreign place was comforting, like one of Grandma Nene’s stories.

Grandma Nene had been the best storyteller ever, and her last story had been a doozy. She’d told it in the hospital right before she died. Savannah remembered like it was yesterday.

“You can’t take your sweet time comin’ when death’s approachin’,” Grandma Nene had fussed. “There’s one more story that you need to hear to pass on to your children. You remember the African princess?”

“Yeah, it’s my favorite of all the folklore stories.”

“Folklore! It’s our history!” Grandma Nene had scolded. “Sometimes things are not what they seem. I’ll admit that over the years things have probably been embellished, but the essence of the story is still true. And the African princess’s lover set aside something for her children—your family. I don’t know what it is, but I know it’ll be worth millions and accompanied by a letter.” Even though Grandma Nene was on a morphine drip, she still managed to add a bit of mystery to the story. “The letter’s important, maybe worth more than the money. Don’t be sharing the part ’bout the money till it happens. The rest—definitely share. The stories keep the family alive.”

At the time, Savannah had wanted to laugh. Millions of dollars somehow winding its way through time seemed absurd. And even though the story hadn’t been told with Grandma Nene’s usual fl air, still there was no denying the sincerity in her eyes. Maybe it was time to start believing in folktales. After all, here she was sitting in a cab, racing over narrow Jamaican streets, about to inherit property from a relative that she never knew existed.

The cab stopped in front of a one-story ranch-style villa surrounded by palm trees and low-lying bushes. The roof was triangular shaped and made from bamboo. And although there were villas on either side, the dense foliage provided an illusion of isolation. On cue, a dark-brown, heavyset woman dressed in a gray uniform and white nursing shoes exited the house.