Beach House Memories (29 page)

It’d been years since she bodysurfed, but Russell gave her pointers—how to spot the right wave, when to kick off. He was always there to lend his hand and help her back up, and she relished his lavish praise. While they waited for the waves, he told her stories of waves he’d surfed around the world, and she could imagine him, young and tanned with long blond hair, riding the big ones.

“Here comes one,” he called out.

Lovie glanced over her shoulder to see a wave building behind her. She pointed her arms out in front of her.

“Go!” he called.

Lovie began stroking the water, pushing hard when the wave caught her, and she felt herself lifted forward, sailing on the crest. She stopped stroking and rode the wave, flying again, free.

But it was short-lived. When the wave reached the shoreline, it gracelessly sent her skidding along the scratchy sand. Laughing, she swallowed some seawater and began coughing. Russell
was there in a flash, taking hold of her waist and helping her to stand.

“I’m all right,” she choked out. “Swallowed water.”

Russell patted her back while she coughed again. His smile was tender. “Better?”

She nodded and took a few clear breaths. She realized his hands were still at her waist and her palms lay flat against his bare chest. She became aware of the few inches between them as she stared at his wet skin, watching his chest rise and fall beneath her fingertips.

He pressed her closer. She let her hands slide around his back even as his slid around hers. She laid her cheek on his chest and felt him kiss the top of her head. Her breasts pressed against him and her lips tasted salt on his skin. She closed her eyes and knew this was a point of decision. Like the wave, she could step back in retreat, or roll forward and ride the wave.

His head lowered and she knew in that moment that this was a force of nature. She didn’t want to stop. She wanted to feel his lips on hers.
Just a kiss
, she told herself.
He’s leaving soon. Who could it hurt? Just one kiss
. . . Lovie tilted her head back, so slowly it felt like seconds passed with each degree, and looking up she saw his eyes, those startling blue eyes, looking into hers with a hunger and desire that ignited her own.

His mouth sought hers, and she felt the coolness of his lips, trembling, seeking. At the touch of his tongue, her breath caught in her throat and she felt a rush of her blood. She lifted her arms around his neck and pressed her breasts against him as his hands roamed under her shirt to her skin and held her tight. The waves crashed against their legs, rocking them, as the kiss deepened. All thoughts vanished in white light save for the reality that she was kissing Russell and it felt so good, so right.

They separated slowly, both still caught up in the tempest of emotions that had spilled over in that kiss. They pressed their
foreheads together, breathing hard. Lovie took a step back, feeling his hands slowly, reluctantly slide from her arms.

She hated to pull away, but an inner alarm had gone off and she obediently heeded it. She didn’t know she could feel suddenly so cold under the beating sun, but outside his arms she began to shiver.

“Let’s get you dry,” Russell said, taking her hand. He led her out from the water to the sand where their backpacks lay. He rummaged through them both, pulling out the small hand towels and handing one to her. He used his palms to flatten back his hair against his head and the towel to rub his arms, belly, and legs, while keeping his gaze on her. Lovie dried what she could with her shorts and T-shirt clinging to her body like a second skin. She reached up to tug out the elastic from her braid, and using her fingers as a comb, she undid the braid and smoothed her hair under the sun.

They both were silent as they made the trip back through the forest. Over the past month they’d traversed the same trail so many times the road was easier to cross, but it was still bumpy and full of ruts. The Jeep broke through the shade into the sun once they reached Palm Boulevard, and the heat of the late morning sun bore down on them in the open-topped vehicle.

The gold bug was waiting for her in Russell’s driveway. Russell put the Jeep into park and left it running as they sat a moment, each waiting for the other to speak.

“I better get changed,” she said, and moved to open the door.

Russell shot out his hand and held it over hers. “Olivia,” he began.

She couldn’t meet his gaze. “Yes?”

“I don’t want you to think that the kiss . . . that it didn’t mean anything.”

Her cheeks burned as she wondered what that kiss could possibly mean to him. Or more, if he could imagine what it had
meant to her. She wasn’t like Flo, unattached and free to kiss or make love when she chose. Even if she was, she had always been a one-man woman. She’d kissed many boys, of course. She wasn’t a prude. But Stratton had been her only lover. Yet this kiss was so much more than making out on a date or the good-night kiss one received at the door. This kiss had felt to her as though it had reached back through the ages, to former lives, to reunite them. She had felt she belonged in his arms. After years of feeling alone, Russell’s kiss had made her feel she belonged to someone again. To him.

“I don’t,” she replied, then lifted her gaze. He was looking at her with an expectant expression. “It’s just that we’ve crossed some line. I don’t know if we can go back.”

“I don’t want to go back,” he replied, squeezing her hand. “If you only knew how many nights I’ve been tortured, wanting to kiss you, not daring to cross that line. What happened today . . . I’ll never regret it.”

She didn’t know how she was supposed to react. “I don’t know what we’re supposed to do next.”

As if sensing her unease, he let go of her hand and turned off the engine. “I think we’re supposed to get out of these wet clothes,” he said. “Do you want to come in? I can lend you a T-shirt.”

She shook her head and turned to the door. She didn’t trust herself to go inside his house, to his room. “No. I really need to get home and check on the kids. And get out of these clothes. I’m sure I look a mess.”

“Olivia . . . You look beautiful.”

She laughed shortly and smoothed her damp hair from her face with her palms. “I’m sure.”

His smile contradicted her. “We don’t need to check the nests tonight. Nothing is due to happen for a couple of days. I have an idea. Would you like to have dinner?”

Lovie looked out the window, wrestling with her answer. Was it proper for her to go out to dinner with him? Could they act as colleagues, after what happened today? Or was this a step toward a new relationship, something deeper and more personal? She looked up into his eyes and suddenly realized that she wanted to go that step farther, to know him better. And she wanted him to know her.

“Yes,” she replied. “I’d like that very much.”

Lovie strolled through the living room, took a sip of her wine, and listened to the sultry voice of Carole King fill the room. She hummed, going over in her mind the conversations with Russell, the sensations, the kiss. She ambled back to her room, sipping wine, feeling it flow through her veins, making her feel like she was floating.
What a week it has been
. And tonight she and Russell were going to dinner.

That’s all it was, she reminded herself. She told herself it was just two friends sharing a meal, though her body believed it was so much more. Her senses were working overtime.

It was just after six, and both Palmer and Cara were spending the night at friends’ houses. All afternoon she’d thought of little but tonight. She’d leisurely soaked in a perfumed tub, shaved her legs, and even painted her toenails. Now she had to choose something to wear, pulling out from her closet dress after dress. The green silk was too formal. Her favorite little black dress was too sexy. She wanted something casual, not too datelike, but pretty. She pulled out a long black-and-white paisley peasant skirt and, smiling with inspiration, went to her bureau for a white tank top festooned with delicate colored ribbons. It slid over her body like water.

She looked in the mirror and stared at her reflection. Her skin was glowing and her blue eyes appeared brighter with
anticipation. She reached up her arms to plait her hair in her usual French braid, then thought again. With a faint, indulgent smile, she let her hair fall from her fingers to spread across her shoulders. Then she picked up her brush and stroked it till it gleamed like polished gold. Humming to the music, she took a small pink tea rose from the vase of flowers and slipped it behind her ear. Who says I can’t be a hippie, she thought with a coquettish swish of her hips.

She spritzed lightly with Joy and put aquamarine studs in her ears. As she did so, the large diamond on her hand caught the light like a prism. It was a magnificent, classic six-prong Tiffany diamond that had belonged to Marietta Rutledge, Stratton’s grandmother. She remembered the night Stratton had put the ring on her finger.

Lovie had met Stratton through a mutual friend while she was at the all-women’s college and he was at the nearby all-male college. A common joke at the time was that the girls went to Converse but majored in Wofford. Stratton was a few years older, handsome with his dark looks, well connected, and considered a good catch by the women who were working hard for their Mrs. degree.

Stratton and Lovie dated for two years while her mother wrung her hands, placing his photograph in a prominent place in the house. The summer after Stratton graduated, he drove north to Aiken to have dinner with Lovie and her parents. Dee Dee’s eyes had been especially bright that evening as she welcomed Stratton into their historic home on Park Avenue. Lovie was proud of the ten-bedroom home on five acres in town and knew that Stratton had taken in each attribute, the quality of the furniture, and the signatures on the paintings. For her own part, Lovie was considered a good catch as well.

That weekend she’d felt like an actress playing a role in a well-rehearsed play. Everyone knew his or her part. Her father
was making an unusual effort for Stratton, walking him through the home, pointing out the personal photographs of Lovie growing up with a tenderness that bordered on nostalgic. Dee Dee had set the table with their best china and silver, insisted that Lovie get her hair done at the beauty parlor and that she buy a new dress. When Stratton led Lovie out on the veranda and pulled a small black box from the pocket of his blue blazer, she wasn’t surprised. His proposal was expected. As was her answer.

That was fifteen years ago. Was she happy that night? she asked herself. She did say yes. She turned off the bathroom light and walked slowly through the hall past the black-framed photos of her family. She stopped before her wedding photograph and looked at their faces. Who were those young people? She no longer knew the naïve, smiling bride in that photograph.

Feeling the weight of memories, Lovie tugged the rose from her hair and tossed it away before closing up the house.

Her new VW sat in the driveway where the old Buick had been parked. It had all happened so fast she could hardly believe the car was really hers. Russell had driven her to the bank for a cashier’s check, then they’d driven back to meet the owner in the parking lot, and the deal was done. It was the first car she’d bought entirely on her own, with her own money.

She’d decided to name her car the Gold Bug after the story by Edgar Allan Poe. The snazzy ragtop took up a fraction of the space the station wagon had. Her high heels tapped the wood steps as she hurried down to her new car. She had to fuss for a while to finally get the convertible top down, but at last she managed. She felt moist by the time she fired the engine. The darling little car started right up and made an amusing diesel-like
blump-blump
noise rather than the Buick’s low growl or the purr of Stratton’s Mercedes. She patted the dash with affection and pulled out of the driveway.

When she arrived at Russell’s house, she hit the horn. The
nasal
beep
made her laugh. The front door opened promptly, and she smiled, knowing that he’d been waiting.

“Olivia!” he said, smiling as he stepped out. He waved and locked the door.

It was the first time Lovie had seen him wearing anything other than beach wear. Tonight he wore beige trousers and a crisp white shirt that appeared to gleam against his dark tan. Over his arm he carried a navy blazer. When he turned to face her again, his face lit up with a smile. Her heart skipped and she felt again the girlish rush she’d scolded herself not to feel and worried that all her good intentions were in jeopardy.

Russell slid into the car, tucking his long legs into the small space. He was still wearing his sandals, she noted. He turned, and she could almost feel his gaze as it lingered over her dress, her earrings, her face.

“So this is how a Turtle Lady dresses off the beach, huh? You look beautiful.”

Lovie sensed a new tension in the air between them. “Why, thank you, sir. I was thinking the same about you. But I suppose our praise has to be qualified by the fact that we always see each other in sweaty, sandy clothes.”

He chuckled as he buckled up. “Then let me say that you look especially cute tonight in your glittering new car.”

“I do, don’t I?” she replied with a tilt of her chin. “Russell, meet the Gold Bug.”

Understanding dawned and he laughed with appreciation. “Olivia, that’s perfect. Poe wrote ‘The Gold-Bug’ while he was living on Sullivan’s Island, didn’t he?”

Lovie nodded. “I pulled the book from my shelf last night and read the story again. I don’t think I’d read it since high school. Typical Poe, creepy, dire, and pure genius. The description of the bug was perfect. Shiny gold, heavy, two black eyes, antennae.” She laughed again. “That’s my car.”

“I thought perhaps we could head to the city?” Russell suggested. “I hardly ever get there. Someone recommended the Colony House.”

Lovie paused, awash in anxiety. This was a favorite restaurant that friends of Stratton would likely be dining at. In fact, there were not many restaurants in Charleston where she wouldn’t be recognized by a friend of hers or some crony of Stratton’s. Like the Isle of Palms, Charleston was really one small town. Everyone knew each other and their extended family members as well. When it came to a local married woman having dinner out with a man not her husband, was any town different?