The signature was real. Three weeks before the wedding, Douglas had handed me a stack of forms he said were for the reception hall deposit, and I had signed the last page without reading closely. That page had been quietly attached to a power of attorney. Gary Thornton was Bernice’s nephew, a notary at a small bank, who stamped it as if I had stood in front of him. When I refused to sign in my kitchen, they used their backup plan.

My attorney, Joan Mercado, moved fast. By noon the next day, she had filed to revoke the power of attorney, notified the county, and warned my property management company not to accept any instructions except mine. Howard reported Gary to the state notary commission. It turned out Douglas owed nearly $240,000 from a failed car dealership, and his mother had found my cottages through public property records.

When I confronted Douglas, he didn’t deny it. He said his mother had promised it would be temporary, that I’d never even notice. He never once asked whether I was all right. I packed his suitcase myself. Joan filed for an annulment on the grounds of fraud, and it was granted in February. Gary lost his notary commission and was charged, along with Bernice, for forgery and attempted theft. Douglas testified against them both to avoid charges himself.

I still spent Christmas at the largest cottage on Tybee. I just didn’t spend it with a husband. My sister flew in, and we sat on the screened porch eating lemon pie, listening to the ocean three streets away. Howard Nash sent me a Christmas card. I had once believed keeping the cottages secret was a small, harmless surprise. Now I know it was the only reason I still owned them. Some instincts are worth trusting.