Beach House Memories (13 page)

She said, “Yes, Dr. Bennett. You can look at my journals, records, observations, whatever you prefer to call them. I’m a little embarrassed to show them. They represent a great deal of time and effort, and have served my needs, such as they are. But they also include some comments of, well, a more personal nature. Nothing I can’t show you, but . . .” She shrugged and let her arguments go. “There are quite a lot of notes, I warn you.”

“The more the better. Where should I sit?”

Lovie walked to her father’s desk and pulled out the chair. “Why don’t you sit here? You’ll want to spread out the maps and there’s good light.”

“Maps, too?”

Her lips lifted in a smug smile. “A few. We natives do what we can. I’ll fetch the journals.”

While he settled himself in the chair, Lovie went to the cabinet below the bookshelf and pulled out the three journals. She ran her hand tentatively over the soft leather.

After she’d married and inherited the beach house, she’d discovered a manila folder in this same cabinet where her parents kept old papers and photographs. Curious, she’d opened it and discovered an old composition notebook, the kind she’d used to write essays in at school. It was filled with her father’s observations of the loggerhead sea turtle nests he’d discovered and those he’d witnessed hatching. In the folder there was also an assortment of rough sketches of the island’s beach with an
X
marking the location of every nest he’d discovered, season after season. The maps were spotted and wrinkled; he’d obviously carried them with him on the beach, perhaps folded in his pocket. That he’d never told her about this file had stunned Lovie.

The following winter, Michael Simmons passed away. Her father had been her inspiration to begin recording the turtle nests on the Isle of Palms. In the beginning, she’d found comfort in continuing her father’s efforts. On mornings she was tired, ill, or just not in the mood, she remembered her father and forced herself to get up and walk the beach. No day was missed. No details were omitted.

Yet, how would her record of “native observations” measure up to the scientific work of Dr. Bennett, a professional biologist with a Ph.D.? She blew out a plume of air and patted the journals. She would soon find out.

She carried the three journals to Dr. Bennett along with two
manila folders, one filled with her maps, the second her father’s original file.

Dr. Bennett moved aside papers cluttering the desk, making space for the journals. He looked at them, rubbing his hands like a man before a feast. “I’ll just get started, then.”

Lovie scooped up the miscellaneous papers and stood motionless, watching with her breath held, as Dr. Bennett opened the first volume. She didn’t realize her hands were tightening on the papers, crushing them.

“There’s a system,” she said, self-consciously. “At least, one develops as the years pass.” She paused. “I made changes as I figured out what I needed.” She realized she was already making excuses and tightened her lips, willing herself to stop babbling.

“I’m sure I’ll make it out,” he replied absently, head bent over the journal. “It goes back more than ten years,” he exclaimed, surprised.

“Farther, actually. If you include my father’s data.” Something compelled her to add, “But Daddy only recorded what he’d found on the days he walked. It wasn’t every day so his reports aren’t consistent.”

Dr. Bennett looked up from the journals, his gaze speculative. “And yours are?”

Lovie lifted her chin, not appreciating his tone. “Yes. At least in the later years they are. The first year or two I might have missed a few days. If the children were sick, or whatever. As time passed, I began to see I couldn’t miss a day, so I enlisted the help of friends to cover for me when I couldn’t make it out. There weren’t many volunteers, but somehow we made it work.”

“And you’ve been walking the beach, recording your findings, for ten years.” He spoke with a sense of wonder, as though he couldn’t quite believe it.

“That’s right.”

“That’s a long time. What prompted you to begin?”

“What prompted
you
?” she asked. She was beginning to get annoyed by his questioning of her motives.

He smiled good-naturedly. “Fair question. Where do I begin?” He leaned back in the chair, relaxed and at ease. She had the feeling he could be equally comfortable in a grand estate, as the Bennett home likely was in Virginia, or in some hut in South America.

“My father taught me to hunt and fish at a young age, but I was more interested in the turtles, lizards, snakes, and other reptiles I found. My mother was a good sport about all the strange pets I had. We spent summers at our home on Virginia Beach and winter vacations in Bermuda. I guess you could say I spent a lot of time outdoors, especially on the beach. I was always fascinated by wildlife and landscape. It was only natural that I’d study it as a grown-up.” He tilted his head and studied her face with another of his teasing grins. “I’m going to hazard a wild guess and say you loved critters as a child, too.”

Lovie chuckled and thought to herself that this gentle teasing was part of his personality. Part of his boyish charm.

“At last! I’ve cajoled a smile from Mrs. Rutledge.”

“All right, yes,” she conceded. “I’ve always collected a weird assortment of critters and shells. But turtles . . . There’s something about them. They’re so charismatic. I only really got to know them when I was ten years old. That’s when my parents bought this house. We lived farther north in Aiken but spent summers here. My father loved the loggerheads and I loved him, so . . .” Lovie felt a sudden pang of longing for her father. She missed him, even after all these years.

Lovie didn’t want to talk more about herself. It didn’t seem fair, given how forthcoming he’d been, but she’d already shared more than she’d intended. She stepped back from the desk. “I won’t delay you any longer, Dr. Bennett. The rain will stop and your clothes will be dry before you know it. I’ll leave you to
read, and if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to make a few phone calls and track down my runaway daughter.”

An hour later, Lovie sat straight in the side chair, her legs crossed, her foot tapping, and clutching a glass of ice water. The humidity from the storm made the room feel like a steam bath. A bead of sweat formed at her upper lip and her T-shirt clung to damp spots in all the wrong places. She glanced up at the ceiling fan that whirled noisily at high speed but offered only minimal relief. She was glad Cara and Emmi had gone over to Miranda’s house. It would have been intolerable if those two were here, snooping around with their big eyes and ears trained on the handsome man in Stratton’s bathrobe. No, she wouldn’t want that tidbit of information floating around the island.

Across the room, Russell Bennett sat hunched over a notebook, elbows on the table and his long legs bent. He hadn’t accepted her offer of a cold drink and didn’t appear the least uncomfortable on this steamy day. Not a drop of sweat trickled down his brow, even though she felt like a lawn sprinkler. Not to sweat in that terry robe—he couldn’t be human, she thought.

Lovie heard the high
ding
of the dryer and sprang to her feet, glad to have something to do. The laundry room in the cottage was little more than a large pantry closet that opened to the kitchen. She pulled out Dr. Bennett’s brown shirt and trousers, feeling the act was somehow intimate, at the very least strange, to be handling another man’s laundry. She noticed that the quality of the cotton was very good and that though the cuffs were slightly frayed, likely from his fieldwork, they bore the initials RDB in subtle dark brown thread. Even his socks were a cashmere blend. Someone dressed him well, she thought, and credited his wife. If they were Stratton’s clothes, she wouldn’t think of not ironing them. She’d be shamed to send her husband out in public wearing wrinkled clothes or missing buttons. But
Dr. Bennett was not her husband and he could very well iron his own clothes. Besides, unlike Stratton, who found a loose thread distracting, Dr. Bennett struck her as the type who wouldn’t even notice that the shirt and trousers were terribly wrinkled.

But at least they were dry, Lovie thought as she hung them on hangers. She’d volunteered to help with the turtle project, not be his personal maid. She carried the clothes to the living room.

“Your clothes are dry,” she told him, holding the hangers in the air.

Dr. Bennett looked up, distracted. “What? Oh, good. Good. Just set them anywhere. I’ll get to them in a minute.” With that, he went back to his work.

Spoken like a man accustomed to being taken care of, Lovie thought, irked by the subservient role he’d just placed her in. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw that he was engrossed with her sketch of the beach erosion that occurred on the island the previous year. He was comparing it against sketches of the dunes made earlier. If he’d bother to ask her questions, she could talk at length about the serious erosion of the beach and the patterns of accretion.

Rubbing her hands together, Lovie’s gaze aimlessly swept the room, the clock. To anyone walking it at that moment, it looked like a peaceful, companionable scene. It was four o’clock on a rainy afternoon, the room was cozy, softly lighted, a man worked at the desk, a woman was doing laundry, and ceiling fans whirled. In reality it was anything but peaceful.

Lovie felt her impatience rising up in her throat, choking her. She couldn’t sit in the stifling room just waiting for him to finish for one moment longer. She felt as though she were waiting for the results of an exam or, worse, her thesis. Those pages held more than a record of events. She’d given this project her all—her best ideas, her best efforts, her best years. In her heart of
hearts, she felt if her work didn’t measure up, then somehow
she
didn’t measure up. She didn’t sign up for this.

She walked swiftly across the room to the porch. The rain was little more than a drizzle now, so she pushed open the doors and stepped out into the fresh breezes that blew in from the ocean. She held on to the railing and inhaled gulps of the moist air while gazing on the low-lying clouds that moved farther out to sea like an armada.

A short while later, Dr. Bennett joined her on the windward porch. “That breeze is welcome,” he said, coming to stand beside her.

She turned her head to see that he was now properly dressed again in his wrinkled shirt and trousers. Oddly, they suited him. He looked all the more the naturalist in his element.

“I thought I was the only one feeling the heat,” she said with sarcasm.

“If I did, I didn’t notice. I was too engrossed in your records.”

Lovie closed her eyes a second, bolstering her resolve, then turned to lean against the railing. She crossed her arms, wary. “And . . . ?”

“Mrs. Rutledge, what you have there is a wonder. Absolutely astonishing. I didn’t know what to expect, but I certainly didn’t expect this.”

Lovie released the breath she’d been holding in a soft laugh. A small smile eased across her face, and she felt a flood of satisfaction. She had to hear more. “How do you mean?”

“I mean I am truly amazed at the level of thoroughness and perspicacity you’ve shown in your records. You clearly show a grasp of the nesting habits of the loggerhead on Isle of Palms, and also of anthropogenic activities. I’ve never stumbled on anything like these before.”

“I never thought . . .” she stammered. “They were just . . .”
She laughed lightly, flustered by the praise. “I don’t know what to say. I’m so glad,” she said, meaning it. Her relief made her giddy. “I wish my father could hear you say this.”

“Ah, yes, well . . . To be honest, your father’s notes are not, as you said yourself, consistent. I’m afraid they won’t be of much help.”

“He only did it for his own curiosity and pleasure,” she replied, feeling the need to defend her father.

“No criticism meant. Just that, in terms of methodology, Mrs. Rutledge, your observations provide a remarkably consistent record of the sea turtle population on this island for the past ten years. Through your system of patrolling the island’s beaches, you’ve established, conclusively, that on the Isle of Palms the loggerhead sea turtles are in decline. That’s astounding. Well done, Mrs. Rutledge!”

“Not the whole island,” she corrected. “Just the southern end, from Breach Inlet up to the maritime forest.”

“True, but it’s actually better that you were consistent in one area than willy-nilly all over the island.”

Lovie’s lips twitched. Hearing the word
willy-nilly
from this scientist’s lips was amusing. Still, hearing her work described as following scientific methodology and that her findings were astounding made her stand straighter with pride.

“First, let’s get out of the way that you should publish your findings.”

“
Publish?
”

“Of course. Your data is important information on the regularity of nesting on this island. Second, you’ve just single-handedly shot this project into high gear,” he continued. “I’ll wager no one knows this island or the turtles here as well as you do.”

“I’d accept that wager,” she replied, confident in that knowledge.

His blue eyes narrowed as his lips twisted in a wry grin. “I can see why they call you the Turtle Lady.”

Lovie held back her smile, amused. “I’m going to assume you mean that as a compliment.”

He smiled openly then, and his sincerity surprised her. “I do. I really do.”

In his wrinkled shirt, under the brightening sky, with his tan making his eyes seem to shine, Lovie felt a frisson of physical attraction that flustered her. She wondered if he felt it, too, because they both looked away and stepped back a pace.

“Thank you, Dr. Bennett,” she replied with a curt nod of her head. “I appreciate that.”

“I’m still wondering why,” he said.

“Why what?”

“You didn’t answer me earlier. Why do you do it? What compelled you to keep these records, all on your own, so consistently—I dare say obsessively—all these years?”

Lovie’s mind flashed back to that single turtle whose gaze she’d met so many years before, and all the turtles she’d encountered since. One female after another. One hatchling after another. She’d responded not as merely an observer but also as a woman. How could she explain the depth of her emotions, something as ephemeral as having felt a bond with a wild animal, to this scientist? She decided she wouldn’t. It was too personal.