Beach House Memories (45 page)

“Right. So he couldn’t follow the Sirens’ call. He suffered and cried out to be released, but of course the crew couldn’t hear him. The ship gradually passed, and in time the song of the Sirens faded away. Odysseus lived to return home.”

“So, my sweet friend, you’re tying yourself to the mast.”

“In a matter of speaking. I have come to terms with my decision to stay, but I don’t trust myself not to hear the song of my heart. Even now, I want to run to the beach house. It’s irrational, I know, I’ve made my decision.” She shrugged. “But there it is.”

They shared a look of understanding.

A knock sounded on the door, and Vivian walked in carrying a tray with a steaming pot of tea and two slices of cake. “I made you a coconut cake, Miss Lovie. It’s your favorite. Come sit and have a piece with Miss Florence. Don’t make me have to take away another pot of cold tea.”

“I’d love a cup,” Flo said, walking over to the piecrust table set beside the fireplace. A small fire burned, warming the room against the cold winds that seeped into the old house. She poked
at the logs a bit with the fire iron and watched the red sparks jump and crackle before she took a seat on one of the slipper chairs beside the table.

“Lovie, come on, honey. Sit by the fire with me. It’s toasty here, and it’s the least you can do after I came all this way in this weather to see you. Oh, Vivian? You wouldn’t have a little something stronger? Brandy, perhaps?” She acknowledged Vivian’s wink of complicity before Vivian left the room.

Lovie reluctantly joined Flo at the table. She sat woodenly in her chair and stared disconsolately at the cake. Vivian’s coconut cake was legendary. She’d learned it from her mother, who learned it from her mother. It was whispered that Vivian’s mother had sold the recipe to a Charleston restaurateur and the restaurant had since become famous for it.

“She’s been bringing me my favorite foods all day,” Lovie said.

“What a dear, she is. If I had any money, I’d pay her the world to come cook for me. Don’t you dare hurt her feelings. This cake is the devil to make. Eat some.”

Flo poured two cups of the steaming fragrant orange spice tea. She put liberal amounts of milk and sugar in both and set one cup in front of Lovie along with a piece of cake.

“Eat,” Flo ordered, and shoved her plate of cake toward her.

Lovie pushed the plate away. “I can’t. I’ll be sick.”

“How long has it been since you’ve eaten?”

“My stomach is in knots.” She sighed and said, as though it were a great concession, “I’ll drink the tea.”

“Lovie, you have to eat.”

“Flo, stop pestering me. I’ll eat later. I just can’t.” Her composure broke and she brought her hands to her face. “I’m dying inside. I just have to make it through this night. After this, the decision is sealed. I’ll eat then. I’ll go on, like I know I have to. But tonight, just let me be.”

“Sure, honey,” Flo said, and, dropping her fork, leaned back in her chair. “I admire your strength, Lovie. I know how deeply you loved Russell. I’ve never known a love like that and doubt I ever will. But watching you go through this hell, I think I might just hold myself lucky. You know, I admire your ability to be so rational.”

“Rational?” Lovie cried. “If I’m doing the right thing, why does it still hurt so badly?”

“Oh, honey, it’s going to hurt for a long, long time.” Flo reached out across the table to take her friend’s hand. “But I’ll be here with you, every step of the way. I’ll tie you to the mast and release you when the danger’s past. I’m here. You’re not alone.”

Twenty-four

M
emorial Day weekend arrived, and though the calendar said May, everyone knew that summer had come to the Lowcountry. The rains of March had fed the greening salt marshes. By April, flowers blanketed the landscape in pastels, and as May approached, the loggerheads were gathering in their tempestuous affairs offshore. Everywhere there were signs of renewal and rebirth.

Lovie got an early start to beat the holiday traffic, loaded food and children into her shiny new Dodge station wagon with its faux wood paneling, new-leather smell, and a radio that worked, and headed out of Charleston toward her beach house. It was a lovely car, but Lovie couldn’t wait to get behind the wheel of the Gold Bug once she was back on the island. Vivian was meeting her there and Stratton was coming later. Lovie couldn’t wait another minute to get to the beach. Her fingers danced on the steering wheel to the music of ABBA blaring from the radio as she said a prayer and crossed the ludicrously narrow two-lane Grace Bridge over the Cooper River. Once in Mount Pleasant, she looked in the rearview mirror and smiled to see Palmer and
Cara talking sleepily but amiably about their plans for the day. They were already in their swimsuits.

When she reached the Ben Sawyer Bridge, the swing bridge was fully open and a short line of cars waited in a queue. The man in the car in front of her was anxiously tapping the outside of his window, but Lovie put the car in neutral, rolled down her window, and took a moment to soak in the view of the tall white sailboat mast that leisurely sailed through the bridge. She was at the precipice of the islands, and at the sight of the mighty Intracoastal Waterway sparkling in the early morning sun, she felt the weight of the city begin to ease from her shoulders.

It took awhile for the boat to sail through, and though the kids in the back grumbled, Lovie was content to watch the bridge slowly swing closed and to follow the sailboat’s unhurried journey along the waterway. When at last the bridge closed, she crossed onto Sullivan’s Island, past the quaint cottages, some already festooned with fern palms and cheery red geraniums on their porches. It was still early, but already cars were parked in front, here for the weekend. At last she crossed the final bridge over Breach Inlet onto the Isle of Palms, and moments later, she was home.

The children bolted from the car, their towels flailing in the air behind them like brilliantly colored flags.

“Don’t you bother about a thing,” Vivian called to her as she climbed from the driver’s seat of her sedan. “You go on and open up the house and let some of that nice breeze in.” She sniffed the air and scrunched up her face. “I surely hope that sulfur smell don’t last long.”

Lovie laughed. It was a rare sound these days, and it bubbled from her throat with surprise. “Vivian, that’s just the pluff mud! The perfume of the islands.”

“Perfume? That what you call it?” Vivian smirked.

“Oh, Viv, it
is
good to be home.”

Vivian looked at her face and smiled. “I can see you’re going to do real good here. I’m going to cook up some shrimp and grits for dinner and maybe some banana pie for dessert. How does that sound?”

“Like heaven,” Lovie replied.

The Isle of Palms was a kind of heaven for her. She felt her strength recharging by the minute. She needed that strength now, she thought, as she stood at the door, one hand resting on the warm metal of the knob, the other holding the key at the lock. She’d imagined this moment since March 15, feared what she might—or might not—discover when she entered the closed-up house. The question that had plagued her since the Ides of March hammered her brain now:
Had Russell come to the beach house on that fateful night? Would there be some letter, some sign to her that he’d waited for her?

She unlocked the door and walked into the stale and steamy room. Her gaze swept across the dimly lit room. It was undisturbed and as quiet as the grave. Lovie went from window to window, opening the shutters in a seasonal ritual to the summer wind. Feeling the fresh air, she walked around the room, her sharp gaze scanning the pine floors and her fingers trailing over the cabbage rose chintz sofa and chairs, the wood coffee table, her pristine desk, the white mantel with its silver-framed photographs, the bookcase. She thought she might find a folded note propped up on the mantel or a shelf, or some small token that she’d recognize as his, some sign so she would know that he’d come for her.

She went into her bedroom and with more urgency searched the top of the bureaus, even the crisp matelassé spread on her bed. Nothing. In the kitchen, she searched the counters, the table, losing faith. She even went to Cara’s and Palmer’s rooms. She found nothing, not a piece of furniture moved or a pillow disturbed, no sign.

Then she stopped short with a new thought. But of course he wouldn’t have left a note indoors! How silly of her to think he could get inside. With hope beating in her heart, she hurried to the French doors and pushed them open to the porch. She searched with an edge of desperation the wicker table and chairs and knelt before the straw baskets and her trusty red bucket and emptied out the dusty turtle team gear, sand-crusted sandals, and a thin layer of sand and dead bugs. As a last resort, she even checked the corners of the floor, thinking that a small scrap of paper could have been scattered by a strong wind.

She leaned against the porch railing, breathing out. She wished she could just be resigned. Lovie hadn’t realized how much hope she’d been harboring that she would find a message from Russell. Even a briefly penned note that told her farewell would be something. She felt her disappointment as a heaviness on her chest. The air felt too thin, too warm. From inside she felt an anger bubbling, not only against Russell but also against herself. This was
her
beach house.
Her
refuge. Her teeth clenched in anger at the man who had stolen from her the joy that she used to feel when she stepped into this cottage.

“You okay, Miss Lovie?” Vivian called from the house.

Lovie pulled up and took a deep breath, and turned to face Vivian, her eyes flashing. “Just catching my breath.”

“I found these in the mailbox,” Vivian said, her eyes dark with concern. She handed Lovie a stack of mail.

“Thanks,” she replied briskly, taking them in hand. She felt herself slipping into the vortex of self-pity again and needed to snap out of it. Quickly sifting through the pile, she saw the usual junk mail and advertising circulars. But the long white envelope caught her attention. The return address was the South Carolina Wildlife and Marine Resources Department. Curious, she set the other mail on the table and tore open the letter.

She gasped in surprise. Could it be, she wondered? Reading
quickly, she realized it truly was a letter granting approval for her to continue her project on the Isle of Palms and Sullivan’s Island. She had to report all her findings and direct all questions to the new coordinator of marine turtles, Sally Hopkins. Lovie quickly looked at the second sheet. There was her formal permit, and one for Florence Prescott as well.

Lovie burst into a grin. Russell hadn’t forgotten. He’d secured her permit, as he’d promised. She brought the papers to her chest. It may not have been the note she’d been looking for, but it was something.

“Good news?” Vivian asked.

“Yes,” Lovie replied, grinning and feeling her energy rallying. “Surprising news.” She felt the sun’s warmth on her face, amazed at how quickly a day could switch from gloomy to bright. She was here at the beach house. There was work to be done to open the house and start the summer.

And the turtles were coming to lay their eggs. The first nests might already be on the beach. The possibility stirred her blood to action. “I’m fine!” Lovie said, turning with a smile on her face to face Vivian. “I’m home now. Let’s unload the cars and get this day rolling.”

Within three days, Lovie had marshaled together the volunteers for the turtle team. She didn’t get the full forty, but twenty-seven on board were more than she’d ever had on her own before. All the summer residents wouldn’t arrive for another week or so when schools in the north closed. At the meeting, the team decided they didn’t have enough volunteers to cover Sullivan’s Island, but they’d continue the northern end of Isle of Palms. Last summer they’d discovered there were too many nests up there to overlook. Lovie divvied up the island into sections to patrol,
passed out schedules, and begged everyone to try to recruit more volunteers.

The first week of June, a tropical depression kept the coast cool and wet. Lovie was so proud of her volunteers as they donned slickers and made their rounds. The island’s first three nests were located. The sun came back out, and with it came the tourists. By mid-June, the beaches exploded with colorful towels and umbrellas. The sea turtles kicked into high gear, too. Lovie and Flo were out checking the reported tracks most mornings now. By the summer solstice, there wasn’t a stretch of beach that Lovie had not walked, and she’d faithfully recorded all her observations in her notebook.

The only spot she refused to go to was her and Russell’s dune. She avoided so much as looking at it. When she had to walk past it, she deliberately kept her eyes on the ocean, turning her back to the memories sequestered behind the now soft green sea oats. She refused to surrender to her memories.

One morning in late June, Lovie was called out to check tracks near the Isle of Palms pier. It was a humid morning with thick cumulus clouds. With only one call, Lovie decided to walk the mile to the pier rather than drive. Sidestepping the large number of jellyfish scattering the beach, she walked briskly, enjoying the chance to stretch her legs. The pier jutted far out on high pilings into the ocean. Approaching, she saw Flo standing in the shade under the pilings, fanning herself with her hat.