Prosperity Island: Diverse coming-of-age story with a Pygmalion twist

By Kate Lott Betz

An arranged marriage ... a false identity ... a fake pregnancy-all for the love of money-or justice?

When seventeen-year-old Harley Jane Reynolds runs away from her group home and gets a job in a bar, she's not expecting to meet William

• Language: English
• Publisher: Prosperity Island: A Novel
• Release date: Jul 23, 2023
• ISBN: 9798218251765

Kate Lott Betz

Kate Lott Betz lives in Charleston, SC, with her husband, children, and dog. When she's not reading or writing, she spends her time watching her kids play soccer, cleaning toilets, fretting about parenting, and volunteering in her church and community. www.katelottbetz.com

Book preview

Prosperity Island

Kate Lott Betz

Copyright © 2021 Kate Lott Betz

All rights reserved

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

Cover design by: Kate Lott Betz

Printed in the United States of America

In honor of Gram, a prolific reader who encouraged me to write out my feelings, and to Grandma, who faced great odds and maintained a sense of humor.

Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

1.

2.

3.

4.

5.

6.

7.

8.

9.

10.

11.

12.

13.

14.

15.

16.

17.

18.

19.

20.

21.

22.

23.

24.

25.

26.

27.

28.

29.

30.

31.

32.

33.

34.

35.

36.

37.

38.

39.

40.

41.

42.

Acknowledgements

About The Author

1.

Rumor had it they’d married for money, and this was true. Some would even say the couple had stolen a little girl right from her father’s backyard. This conjecture was wrong, but the couple had faked a pregnancy to solidify their fortune. They were no Bonnie and Clyde in that they couldn’t be prosecuted in criminal court; however, they were what people figured: wrong for each other. People went on figurin’ a lot around Prosperity Island. Though there was one subject—a person, really—who riddled the minds of the townsfolk more than any other, and that was Mrs. Amelia Prelioux, William’s new bride. See, William Prelioux was the son of the wealthiest, most powerful family in the southeastern United States, good-looking too, and now he was married to an unknown. She wasn’t a Calhoun, a Brevard, a Rutledge, a Kennedy, or any other name of a street, college, or monument. Supposedly, her family was from the upstate of South Carolina and of good standing, albeit no one had heard of her maiden surname, and that’s because she was made up. Yep, Amelia Prelioux was a fraud.

The story of two people falling in love from opposite placements in life is nothing new. But throw in the fact that William and Harley Jane’s hearts belonged to others, that William had invented his wife, and that together they defrauded a town and this love story takes a mysterious turn. Let me begin by telling you about Amelia Genovia Prelioux or Harley Jane Reynolds. She was born in the desert, and I guess you could say her environment prepared her to survive without proper nourishment. Her ancestors of rebels and outlaws had moved to California during the gold rush. They’d lost whatever gold they found and turned to the bootlegging business. When the water dried up, her family bet on the rain. It never came. And that was their ultimate sin, among many: not knowing when to leave a place or a person. Harley Jane was determined not to make the same mistakes. She started working in a dingy bar, the Twisted Cat Lounge, in the middle of the desert in Domingo Valley, California, and this was where she met William.

In truth, their first encounter was lackluster, along with their second and third. William walked into Harley Jane’s bar like an eruption, out of place and shaking earth, for sure, but not for the reasons one might think. Everyone stared at the man in a baseball cap, white button-down shirt, khakis, and leather shoes as he ordered his beer. His southern drawl sent shivers straight down Harley Jane’s spine with its smooth, deep tone. She was attracted to the old-soul gravel in his voice and his contrast of olive skin, ash-colored hair, and blue eyes. He was too old for her, and she loved another, but she thought he had stories to tell based on his sad demeanor, and she could listen through the night.

William returned each day around noon and ordered a beer and wings, then he wrote on napkins, took phone calls, and alternated his viewing between two televisions. He never went into the lounge where the ladies took off their clothes and didn’t seem interested in getting to know anyone, much less Harley Jane. The big tip he left on the table each night was enough for her, and for him, it seemed—until about a month had gone by, and he left her a note on a napkin that said, See you tomorrow. I’d like to know your real name. William perceived the name she’d given him, Belle, was fictitious and meant to conceal her identity from strangers at the bar.

The next day, Harley Jane wrote her name on a napkin and put it on his table with his usual: a draft beer and roasted garlic wings, with a side of ranch and celery. There’d be no love story without that exchange. But even with the note, there was no thought of love between them at the time. Instead, something like a friendship was forming.

William was intrigued by Harley Jane. He thought she looked too young to be working in a bar with her rounded face, high-waisted jeans, and cutoff band T-shirts. The only thing old about her was her composure and her work ethic. She ran that bar like she’d been working there for twenty years, and that’s why he left her big tips. Plus, he worried about her: Why was such a young girl working in an old, perverted place in the middle of nowhere? He wondered where her parents were and if she had finished high school or dropped out as he had from college. The money he was using to find himself was meant for an MBA from Stanford. You see, William was from Charleston, South Carolina, descended from the first settlers in the city, the French Huguenots. His ancestors had come to America with money, had bought up land along the coastal highway, and had developed it into housing communities. Now the family lived on an island off the coast of South Carolina, aptly named Prosperity. The Prelioux family expected William to get his MBA and eventually take over the Millennium Group, his father’s real estate company. Soon he’d have to return to Stanford or return home with a convincing story. The Valley Motel would suffice until he sorted it out.

William’s plan came into focus while Harley Jane played the part of Belle for her customers. She was trying on a southern accent. From his table, William observed their interactions.

Sir, what can I get ya? she asked and smiled at a customer in a Mavericks ball cap.

A whiskey, said the man.

Harley Jane filled the glass and placed it on the bar top for her customer. Here ya go, darlin’.

William noted the way she said DARlin’. Your accent betrays you, he said when Harley Jane came with his order.

Give me time. I’ll become a southern belle; you’ll see. She changed out the keg and threw away empty bottles.

A scream came from the lounge, and she turned to look. A large man in a black shirt was dragging one of the dancers by the arm. The woman was wearing a see-through bra and cutoff shorts.

Let me go! the dancer shrieked and hit the man in the chest with her free hand.

There was no security during the day. Harley Jane dialed 9-1-1 and left the cordless phone on the bar top.

I paid you, didn’t I? The man pinned the dancer against the wall. Don’t make this difficult.

Harley Jane came out from behind the counter with a broom. Seems the lady’s changed her mind.

The man glanced at her through bloodshot eyes. Well, I didn’t, he said.

He tightened his grip on the dancer’s wrist. She screamed.

Weren’t you in here last night? Harley Jane asked. Yes, that was you. She glanced at his wedding ring. Your wife called and said you weren’t answering your cell phone and to look for the bald man wearing a skull-and-cross-bones shirt, and I handed you the house phone and didn’t mention you were in the lounge. She gestured toward the phone, which was behind her on the bar. Caller ID records every number.

The man blinked and turned back to Harley Jane. You wouldn’t call her. It’d ruin business.

What you’re doing here now ruins lives, a little more important than business, wouldn’t you say? So I’ll need you to leave the staff alone, and you need somethin’ from me too. You need me to keep your ways a secret.

He let go of the dancer, who ran to her dressing room.

You need to mind your damn business, the man said, taking a step in Harley Jane’s direction. He towered over her. I’m a friend of the owner.

She didn’t back down. Way I see it, the owner pays me to keep the peace, not the piece of shit. And if you have a problem with that, I’ve got the sheriff on the line. I’m sure he’d like to chat.

William got up from his table and walked over to the man. How much you pay that fine lady? He said and pulled his wallet from his pocket. He started counting twenties. Will two hundred dollars suit ya?

The man glanced at Harley Jane and huffed. This ain’t over. Then he took the money and left.

Harley Jane turned to William. Who are you, throwing money like it’s sand?

Glad you dropped the accent. He put his wallet away. Gutsy move, savvy even, but you coulda been hurt.

And? She walked behind the counter and put the phone to her ear. You there? .. No, he left. . .. Yes, I have his information. . .. Okay, I’ll give it to them when they get here. She hung up the phone, took her rag, and cleaned the counter in circles.

William sat on a stool at the bar top. You really had them on the line?

Of course. I’m no fool. That man would have had my neck if I was bluffing.

A girl like you shouldn’t be here, he said, his skin aglow from the billiard light overhead.

I’m a woman, not a girl. I’ve been paying my way long enough to get that title. Harley Jane plopped her rag on the bar. And you’re here, aren’t you?

He arched his back while sitting on the stool and put his hands on his thighs. But I’m not stuck. I’m passin’ through.

"And you’re proud of that fact, right. I have to be here. She began cleaning the counter again. What’s your excuse?"

He noticed her painted nails. They were bright red, matching the writing on her Jane’s Addiction shirt. "No one has to be anywhere."

She threw the rag in the extra-deep stainless-steel sink. That’s like the most privileged thing I’ve ever heard anyone say. But I’ll play along, rich boy. Where should I be?

I prefer ‘magnate’ to ‘rich boy.’ And I don’t know where you should be, Harley Jane, but I’d sure like to help you with your accent.

Tryin’ it out for the tips. She leaned her hip on the counter. Thought men might pay more for a southern belle.

He grinned in delight. Well, then, Harley Jane, let a gentleman help you perfect your game. He got up from his seat and tipped the bill of his baseball cap like he was a cowboy. I’ll be seein’ you.

Her magnetism drew him in, but her ability to navigate complex situations convinced him Harley Jane was the one who could help execute his plan. So he named her Amelia, although she wasn’t yet aware of this rechristening. He thought the name fit her delicate features, big green eyes, and light skin. Not so much for her band T-shirts, but her wardrobe could change.

Interestingly, in a little over a month, William decided that this young woman had what he needed. It was as if she were the last piece to the puzzle he’d been working on for several years. He could overthrow his father’s rule and gain his family’s kingdom with her by his side.

He spent the subsequent month priming Harley Jane for the big ask. He’d pop the question two months from the day he’d met her, and she’d agree to become Mrs. Amelia Prelioux. She’d also agree to pretend to be five years older than she was to create the illusion of a college-educated woman and thus a suitable wife. Her pretend age was also to reduce any noise in his community regarding William’s ability to use sound judgment and not rob the cradle. She trusted William, and she needed money. She also believed the desert had trapped her family in poverty and kept them from opportunities. To Harley Jane, becoming Amelia meant a new life, new hopes, and new dreams.

Her training began right away. Dialect. Etiquette. Posture. Fashion.

They would say I do at a justice of the peace in Las Vegas and then again on the Turks and Caicos Islands, a family affair that only William’s side of the family attended. But it was the social media postings that made their marriage public knowledge. William changed his Facebook account to WilliamAmeliaPrelioux and posted their destination wedding pictures for his two thousand closest friends to see that the most eligible bachelor on Prosperity Island was off the market.

2.

The walk to their car felt like one thousand years in hell. Amelia likened it to the stretch of concrete her father walked daily in his prison block. She never wanted to be like him, yet here she was, agreeing to become a professional liar. Was this how her father’s criminal streak had started, in desperation? She tapped her gel-set nails on the center armrest of her and her husband’s new Mercedes-Benz SUV, a gift from his parents.

Following their wedding, she and William stayed at the Prelioux lake house while they waited for their condo on the beach to be finished—another wedding gift to the couple from the Prelioux family. This meant Amelia had a few more weeks to prepare for her role as William’s new wife before being introduced to his friends, but now her time was up. They passed through the dense Doar Forest and came to a clearing where the blue sky met the gossamer suspensions of the singular bridge to Prosperity Island. Amelia gazed out her window at the crystalline shimmer of the royal blue water. She was mesmerized by the vastness of the sea. Each time she visited the ocean, a feeling of life came over her like the water could wash over her and make her someone new, someone clean.

Amelia caught her reflection in the side mirror, fidgeted with her hands, and turned to William. I don’t know if we can pull this off. She touched her necklace. You can’t slap pearls on my neck, call me a lady, and expect me to become one. They’ll never accept me.

He smiled at her like a gardener pleased with his perfectly pruned hedges. You were always a lady. You simply needed a new name, some clothes, and some coachin’.

William explained that the on-ramp to the bridge—which locals called the Glass Bridge—was the beginning of the masquerade. What appeared to be glass was a polypropylene exterior over concrete and steel, and like this bridge, William told her, Prosperity’s residents were trying to be something they were not. So why would he and Amelia not join their masked ball?

She nodded in agreement even though she was consumed with guilt and anxiety. If their plan failed, she was thousands of miles from the only place she knew of as home and the one person she thought of as her family—who wasn’t a biological relative but an old boyfriend. Amelia knew the odds were against her; they’d always been. She squared her shoulders, straightened her back, and took a deep breath.

They arrived at the entrance to Boone Hall Plantation, where the League of Women was holding their event. The bent and arched fingers of live oaks lined the gravel and dirt road leading to the parking lot, where Amelia stepped out of the car, smoothed her white silk dress, and tightened her skinny black belt. She looked nothing like her former self. After weeks under William’s instruction, she could, with poise and confidence, don an oval hat pinned to the crown of her head. One tall black goose feather and two medium-size white feathers were fastened to her hat by a diamond-encrusted brooch. She’d never worn anything on her head except a knit cap in winter, and she wasn’t used to the clips pinching at her scalp or the splayed goose feathers that moved with the breeze and tickled her ear. Unfortunately, the contoured headpiece went along with the English garden party theme of the fundraiser. Otherwise, Amelia would’ve happily discarded the fancy hat.

From a distance, she resembled a model on the cover of New South magazine, but she was about to be tested by the most critical onlookers of her life, and she was no good at tests. Survival, yes. Exams, no. Her dead grandmother’s words circled in her mind: Money don’t make class, girl. How you treat others—that’s class.

She put on her oversize sunglasses and followed her husband down a sidewalk through a garden. The heat and humidity of a summer’s day in coastal South Carolina could fry an egg, and the shade from the blossoming crepe myrtles was a relief to her perspiring skin.

With each step—her striped Manolos squeezing her toes into a point and their spiked heels digging into the cracks of the sidewalk—Amelia became ever more uneasy about what she was about to do. And if she couldn’t pull off the relaxed style of a southern lady in heels, how could she pull off the perfect accent and word choice she’d been taught?

Her anxiety wasn’t without cause. Before this day, William’s family had met her, and in some ways, they had been an easy audience, given that they had been displeased with William’s past choices. However, no one else on the island knew who she was or where she came from. They knew only that she had captured their most eligible bachelor.

Accordingly, there was great interest, and heads would surely turn when they saw her on William’s arm. Amelia’s job was to convince Prosperity’s high society that she belonged, albeit belonging on Prosperity Island was a fickle prospect, especially for a woman who struggled to know the difference between an authentic Louis Vuitton and a knockoff version. But what Amelia lacked in fashion sense, Harley Jane made up for in commonsense and determination. Becoming Amelia was the best opportunity Harley Jane had been given yet in her young life, and she wasn’t going to screw it up. Whether she was accepted or rejected by these people, there was no going back, and there was never any going home. She had to make this work.

Not fifty yards in front of them, a group of women in Easter-egg-colored dresses stood across from men in coordinating pastel suits. Amelia crossed her arms over her rib cage, her shoulders shrinking. William hooked his hand around her waist and tugged her behind a magnolia tree. Once they were out of sight, he uncrossed her arms. You gotta put those hands to your side. Then he gathered up a fragrant flower and handed it to her. Stay open, like this flower. Keep it in sight to remember.

She touched the magnolia petals, soft and white, and peeked around the tree. Another large group of people walked the winding path around a brick house. She glanced back at William and sighed.

He took her open hand in his. Half of gaining trust comes from the way you hold your hands. Keep them open, and people will be open to you. Hide them, and people will think you’re keepin’ secrets.

Amelia nodded and then placed the flower in her pocketbook for safekeeping. I wouldn’t want anyone to think that, now would I? She raised her eyebrows above the top of her thick-rimmed sunglasses. Then the corners of her mouth turned down. I don’t think I can do this.

William put his hands in his pockets and leaned against the tree. Darlin’, not now. Not when I’ve done so much work to get you here.

"You’ve done so much? Amelia took a step back and removed her sunglasses. I’m the one who spent countless hours talking into that awful voice recorder on my phone."

And I’ve critiqued every recording. He smiled wide. It’s been a delight—not sayin’ it hasn’t been.

His smile and genteel way weren’t enough to calm the pressure she felt inside her body. Even if I get the accent and words right, they’re never gonna believe I came from money. She put her back to the tree. They’ll wear me for dinner and eat me for dessert.

He stood up straight and stepped toward her with a grin. See? You said that with the perfect inflection and a smooth twang. You’re ready.

She put her sunglasses back on. "William Bordeaux

Prelioux—"

Yes, Mrs. Prelioux?

If we pull this off, I’ll love you forever.

Well, let’s get to it. They linked arms and continued the path.

Amelia saw a grand white tent around the back of the brick colonial house with double porches. The house rested on a sprawling field of lush green grass and acted as a kind of frame around the most beautiful landscape she’d ever seen. There was a river with tall, wispy grass along the edges. Ducks swirled around in the low tide, casting their bills beneath the surface to retrieve food. She wanted to feed the ducklings or do anything else besides go inside that tent.

She played with the silver bracelet her grandmother had given her as she got closer. She straightened her posture and adjusted the black strap of her purse over her shoulder before walking under the canvas covering. She removed her sunglasses and slid them into her bag. There were five rows of four tables each, set up in a chevron pattern. The tables were covered in white linens and surrounded by straight-backed natural-wood chairs with large sage-green tulle bows on the backs. Centerpieces of purple iris, long-stemmed ivory calla lily, snapdragon, larkspur, and bells of Ireland were the quintessence of clean and manicured. The arrangements were tall and full and would make it hard for attendees to see who was sitting across from them. Amelia thought this could work to her advantage.

William led her to a table at the center of the tent. The glimmer of light shining on the crystal captured Amelia’s eye. She followed the tendril of sparkling glow to the top of the canopy, where an elegant chandelier hung. You’d think this was a royal party, not a fundraiser for trees.

If you’re gonna do it, do it up. He pulled out a chair for her to sit in and gestured to a guy near the food table, where miniature chalkboard nameplates neatly organized hors d’oeuvres and desserts. You wait here. I’ll get us some food.

She nodded, brought out her magnolia flower from her purse, and sat down, her tailored dress compressing her ribs. She set the flower next to the program on the table. She read the details imprinted on the piece of soft vellum overlaying Murasaki purple cardstock. The host for the day’s event was the League of Women, and the discussion was on the Chinese tallow, an invasive tree species along the coastal border.

After hanging her purse on the back of her chair, she removed her magnolia flower and placed it on the table next to her.

The new Mrs. Prelioux, I presume? It took Amelia a few seconds to remember she was the new missus. Then, she stood and turned to see a woman dressed in a black dress that flowed over her tall hourglass figure. The woman wore a cocktail hat with black netting that veiled her sky-blue eyes. Her hair was full of textured waves that draped over her shoulders. Amelia had seen this woman before in a picture William had shown her of his first