Beach House Memories (39 page)

“Mama, why were you holding his hands?” Palmer asked, and he looked her straight in the eyes.

She saw the man in him now, and yet he was still a boy. Looking at his tear-stained face, his shaggy blond hair, Lovie knew she was talking to the boy. She’d talk to him about this again someday . . . maybe. For now, however, she didn’t think an untested thirteen-year-old could possibly understand the complications of her relationship with Russell, or his father, for that matter.

“Dr. Bennett and I are dear friends,” she told him. “We were saying good-bye and you saw us at a tender moment. There’s nothing wrong with sentiment. You’ll understand that better when you get older.”

Palmer narrowed his eyes slightly, considering her answer.
Then his face relaxed, and seeing this, Lovie felt her whole body uncoil with relief. He’d accepted her answer. It was enough for now.

“Okay,” he said.

To her ears, he was eloquent. She ruffled his hair and leaned back against the pillows, trying not to moan with the sharp pain. Once she was settled, she closed her eyes, feeling her energy ebb. “You go on, now, and make sure you’re all packed. We’re going home soon. And Palmer?” She pried open an eye and turned her head to see him.

“Don’t say anything to your father. Let me deal with him.”

Palmer nodded, his relief palpable, and hurried out the door.

Vivian stepped into the room a moment later, her eyes roaming over Lovie’s face.

“Everything okay in here?” she asked.

Lovie took a labored breath. “I could use a pain pill,” she said softly. “Then I’m getting up. It’s time to go.”

Sea Turtle Journal

September 1, 1974

Final entry. 88 nests, 60 false crawls, 2 nest predations, 9 sea turtle strandings.

The Sea Turtle Project headed by Dr. Russell Bennett is completed. Dr. Bennett has delivered his final report and departed. Final nests on the island are in God’s hands.

Twenty

T
hat night, Lovie awoke with a start. She opened her eyes, momentarily stunned and confused, not sure where she was. She felt afraid. Blinking, she remembered she was sleeping in the yellow guest room of her house on Tradd Street. Yes, she thought with a breath. She’d been here three days. Yet she felt anxious, in danger. She turned her head on the pillow and gasped, clutching the blanket.

A lone figure stood at the side of the bed. It was Stratton. Instinctively she ducked her head and raised her arm in a protective gesture.

“Lovie, it’s me,” Stratton said quietly. “I won’t hurt you.”

Lovie lowered her arm but still clutched her blanket higher up her chest. Stratton was staring down at her, slump shouldered. Her eyes acclimated to the dim light, and she saw him raise his fingers to the bridge of his nose and his shoulders shake.

“I’m so sorry,” he said in a broken voice. “I don’t know what came over me. I was so angry. I just . . . lost control.”

“I know,” she murmured, not knowing what else to say. She was moved by his tears but felt no pity for him.

Stratton dropped to his knees by the bed. “Can you ever forgive me?”

“I don’t know,” she replied honestly.

He lowered his head. “I’ll make it up to you. I swear, I will.”

“All I want is your promise never to raise your hand to me again.”

“You have my word.”

“Your promise,” she urged.

“You have my promise. I will never hit you again. I never could. Lovie, I never would have hit you in the first place if—”

“Stop, please. I can’t talk about that now,” she interrupted him. “Please, Stratton. I’m so tired and my brain is woozy from the medicine. We have to talk. But not now.”

“All right,” he agreed. “I just came in to . . . I don’t know. To look at you. To see how bad it was. I’m so sorry.”

She felt the mattress shift as he pressed his weight upon it and rose to a stand.

“Good night, Lovie. I love you.”

She turned to her side and let the medicine do its work dousing the pain.

For ten days, Lovie slept in the guest room on the pretense that, injured as she was, she couldn’t be jostled. Stratton knew the true reason she slept in a separate bedroom. And Vivian, of course. But Cara accepted the excuse without question, and Palmer remained aloof. Lovie was most troubled about her son’s moodiness. She’d catch glimpses of him as he walked by, peeking in. When she called to him, he disappeared.

Thanks to the miracle of phone trees and car pools, Lovie was able to coordinate all the myriad details of sending her children off to begin a new school year like a wounded general at central command. Her bed was littered with schedules and
memos and newsletters that had been sent to parents during the summer. In her usual competent manner, she’d ordered all the school uniforms before leaving for the summer and they were waiting for the children in boxes when they’d returned to Charleston. This year, however, she withdrew from all her committees, boards, and church groups. Her accident injuries made for a convenient excuse. In truth, she no longer had the heart.

Vivian temporarily moved into the maid’s quarters to manage the house during Lovie’s recuperation. There was a tacit understanding between the women that she was also there should Lovie need her, for whatever reason. Vivian helped the children get dressed for school, packed their lunches, and prepared dinners, though once word went out that Lovie had fallen and broken her ribs, food started arriving every hour from neighbors, church members, and friends.

Lovie had never felt so fragile. Most days she felt as though her life was spinning out of control and she was a passive observer. Ensconced in the yellow-trellised bedroom, Lovie felt like a guest in her own home. In the mornings she lay huddled under the covers as boisterous noises of a fresh day echoed up the stairwell. Listening to the high-pitched “good-byes” and slamming of the door as Palmer and Cara scurried out to their rides to Porter-Gaud and Ashley Hall, she rested her cheek against her pillow and smiled, filled with longing for them.

In contrast, when she heard the roar of Stratton’s Mercedes as it took off down the street, she sighed with relief.
He’s gone
, she’d think, and the tension in her body eased. At such moments Lovie realized how much she still feared him and his presence in the house. At night when she closed her eyes, sometimes she’d still see his fist coming toward her.

During the first two weeks, a loose pattern of lethargy developed, a far cry from the busy, organized schedule that was normal for her. From eight each morning until three in the
afternoon, Lovie knew the only peace she had since leaving the beach house. During these few hours she’d let down her guard and let her mind wander to thoughts of Russell and the time they spent together. She visualized herself back on the beach with Russell at her side. She imagined the sound of the waves, the warmth of the sun, and the taste of his lips. With him, she’d been completely, totally happy.

Flo had been right. She had kept herself busy, satisfying the expectations of a good wife and a good mother. Lovie had set high standards for herself in this arena. But what about the expectations for
herself
? This past summer, she’d found respect in the eyes of the community. And in the eyes of Russell Bennett. She’d only ever found derision in Stratton’s eyes. For the first time she was proud of her achievements, not as a wife and mother but as herself. Olivia Rutledge. Remembering, Lovie couldn’t continue living again with the fear and oppression she felt now. God help her and her children, but she couldn’t.

Thoughts of divorce had taken root that horrible night she’d sat alone in the hospital while the doctor tended her wounds. She’d wanted to talk to Russell about them, but she couldn’t contact him. She couldn’t call him on the phone, couldn’t write him a letter. She had been the grand designer of the conditions of the promise and they’d sworn to abide by them.
There must be no contact until the six months are over. None at all. No pressure of any kind
. Lovie didn’t know how she could wait that long.

Each day that passed, she felt a little stronger, a little surer of her decision. With time, the bruises on her face healed and she looked and felt more herself. She could dress herself using only her right hand as long as she didn’t choose anything with lots of buttons and wore slip-on shoes. She began rising early in the mornings to help her children get off for school, discussed menus with Vivian, and managed important appointments.

In early October, Lovie was in the kitchen with Vivian
packing her children’s lunches for tomorrow when Stratton strode into the kitchen. Lovie froze with her hand reaching for an apple.

Stratton cleared his throat nervously. “Lovie, if you don’t mind. Will you join me in the library?” He turned and walked away, fully expecting her to join him.

Lovie and Vivian shared a commiserating glance. Lovie was calm as she untied the apron from around her waist and set it over the back of a chair. “I guess I can finish these later.”

“Go on. Don’t worry about these lunches. I’ll finish them up and go on to my room. The children are in their rooms,” Vivian added, assuring her of this salient fact.

Lovie nodded, nervously clasped her hands, and went to join her husband in the library. The handsome walnut-paneled room was a man’s room. Old and rare books lined the shelves, and on the walls hung paintings of hunting scenes, both loves of Stratton’s. This is where he retired to at the day’s end to pay bills, read, or play solitaire for all she knew. He went into his office after dinner and closed the door, and she wouldn’t see him for hours. Tonight, however, the door was wide open.

Stratton was sitting behind his large desk in his wide burgundy leather chair. His suit jacket and tie lay over a spare chair and he’d unbuttoned the constricting top buttons of his shirt. He’d gained weight in Europe, especially around his waist and neck. She thought his loud print shirt with its long pointed collar hideous but no doubt fashionable.

He waved her in when she paused at the entrance, her stomach clenching at the sight of the crystal highball glass filled with brown liquid in his hand. She stood in the doorway and hated the thought that she might want to run. No number of apologies or kindnesses would ever remove the memory of his beating from her mind.

“Care for a drink? I have sherry . . .”

“No, thank you.”

He lifted his glass, took another sip, and then leaned back in his chair. “Come in, Lovie. Sit down.”

Lovie was grateful for the new granny dresses with their long flowing lines, scooped necks, and flared sleeves. She’d ordered several, all made of soft floral fabric, so she could walk around the house without the constriction of waists, belts, or zippers against her slowly healing ribs. Sitting was still an accomplishment; rising from a chair more so with the help of only one hand. She slowly eased herself onto one of a pair of tapestry Belter chairs that had been in Stratton’s family for more than one hundred years. She let her elbows rest on the elaborately carved arms and clasped her hands in her lap and looked at her husband.

He smiled. “It’s great to see you up and around again. You look beautiful tonight.”

“Thank you. I’m getting better. But I’m still quite tired.”

“Are you still taking the pain medication?”

She shook her head, thinking how awkward this was, talking across a desk with her stomach in knots. They were speaking like strangers conducting a polite interview. “No. I’m just taking aspirin when I need it. Sometimes I find a nap and a cup of herbal tea do more for me than any pill.” She looked at her hands. “I realize I spend a great deal of time resting in my room . . .”

“As long as you get well.” He coughed and stood from the chair to walk around to the front of the desk. He leaned against it, half sitting. “You are feeling better? Your bones are healed?”

“Not quite.”

“But your face is. You look good, beautiful. More yourself.”

Lovie looked at her hands.

“I never meant to hurt you.”

“You struck me.” She said the words softly, still looking down.

“Yes, but I didn’t realize how hard. You fell over the desk. That’s what broke your bones. I’d never—”

“Okay. I know,” she cut him off. She couldn’t bear to listen to him rationalize away his guilt like this.

He stared at her, blank faced, and then drank from his glass. The chink of ice cubes made her skin crawl.

He cleared his throat again and looked at the ice he swirled in his glass. It was the Waterford pattern that she’d chosen before their wedding. “Lovie, it’s been six weeks. We should start discussing when you are coming back to
our
room.”

Lovie held her breath to conceal the shudder. “I’m still not healed.”

“I’ll be careful. Lovie, I miss you.”

“Stratton . . .”

He came from the desk and took the seat beside her. Reaching out, he held her hand in his. She knew these hands so well, she thought, looking at them. The same hands that had caressed her and that had beaten her. She saw the gold band and thought,
In good times and bad
. Her throat constricted with the words she knew she had to say. She looked up at his face. He looked older, tired.