The porch door was unlocked, as she’d suspected. When she’d lived with her aunt, Linnea never remembered anyone locking doors. People were more trusting on the island than in the city.
“Aunt Cara?” she called out into the quiet, dark house. Only Cara’s canary chirped cheerily at the sound of her voice. For a moment Linnea wondered if she should simply walk in. Did spending a lifetime inside these walls, sharing milestones, being a granddaughter, a niece, give her permission to enter Cara’s house uninvited? She imagined her aunt’s face, heard in her mind Cara’s welcoming Come in!
Walking in felt natural, familiar—the aroma of coffee, the scent of jasmine perfume that was always in the air, the sound of Moutarde chirping in his cage. She flicked on a few lights, then went to plug her phone into the charger. That done, she brought her luggage inside, slipped off her pumps, and dug through the large wicker basket full of sandals. She smiled when she found a pair of her old flip-flops on the bottom. Slipping them on, she went back outdoors. She was eager to see the Atlantic Ocean again after two years of living by the Pacific.
The sky over the sea was darkening to violet, gold, and crimson. The beach house was perched high on a dune overlooking the ocean. When it was built in the 1920s, the charming cottage was oceanfront. Years later, a road had been built through the dunes to create Ocean Boulevard. Developers kept a one-foot width of the right-of-way on the ocean side of the road. Over the years, the shoreline built up more and more sand. Finally the dune was wide enough to allow new houses to be constructed, even closer to the sea. Back in that time, Russell Bennett, a great friend of her grandmother, had purchased lots directly in front of Primrose Cottage and put them into a conservation easement. It was a boon for her grandmother, who subsequently would never lose her view of the ocean. To the left of that land was the lot that Lovie had bequeathed to Cara.
Linnea’s gaze swept the expanse that opened to the sea from the deck of Primrose Cottage, one of the precious few older properties left on Isle of Palms without a house blocking the view. Her gaze came to an abrupt halt and she sucked in a soft gasp of surprise. There on Cara’s lot was the house her father was constructing. It was already completely framed in! Before her eyes she saw her father’s dream becoming a reality.
It was going to be a beautiful house. The design was simple, with classic lowcountry features. The first floor was raised on pilings to keep out the floodwaters, mandatory now. The house was clearly built for a family that would enjoy the ocean breezes. And, she thought with a smile of approval, Palmer had kept his promise to Cara. He’d not obstructed any view of the ocean from her beach house. Not that she would let him. The new house was anchored by a two-story central structure from which a pair of one-story wings extended.
Linnea, having grown up near water, knew that everyone called the side of the house that faced the water, whether river or beach, the front. The back of the house faced the road or driveway. It was confusing for northerners, who called the street side of houses the front.
Her father loved porches. He’d included covered porches that faced the street, and without seeing it, she knew there would be another porch facing the sea.
Linnea felt a flush of pride that Palmer had built such a gracious, elegant house of lowcountry flavor. It was too bad he wouldn’t live in it. He couldn’t afford to. The lot belonged to Cara. It had been given to her by Grandmama Lovie, along with the beach house and all the secrets both held. Cara had confided the truth to her brother two years before, only after he’d committed to AA and begun rebuilding his life.
Palmer’s intention was to sell the house and use the profit to seed his next house. In this way, he would begin his long-cherished dream of building top-quality houses. Likewise, Cara would benefit from her land. Brother and sister would share the profits, and this, Linnea knew, would have pleased Lovie immensely.
She made her way along the narrow beach-access path, her arms swinging at her sides. Seeing her father’s house project left her uplifted. She remembered her father’s low point before she’d left. To witness now what he’d built in the time she was gone, Linnea knew a moment of hope. An If he can do it, so can I feeling.
She climbed to the peak of the dunes, past the sea oats, still green and slim-stalked. The hearty ocean breeze whisked the soft hairs that had fallen around her neck. It swirled and caressed her cheeks. Welcome home, she heard whispered in the wind.
Linnea stood for a moment looking out over the expanse of beach and the ocean beyond. No one else walked the sand. The vast sea appeared to match her mood, reflective and shifting to deep purple. Waves rolled in gently, lapping the shoreline. She put her hands on her hips and drank in the immense vista of perpetually moving sea.
Somewhere out there, the turtles were gathering from all points of the continental shelf. Mating was a tempestuous affair as several males might try to breed with just one female, creating the seeds of a new generation. Within weeks a new sea turtle season would begin on the islands as the female turtles came ashore to lay their nests. When she’d lived on the island, their summers had revolved around the nesting season. Linnea was no stranger to the loggerheads. For as long as she could remember, she’d tended turtles with her grandmother, and later Aunt Cara and Emmi and Flo.
Grandmama Lovie had been a shining star in Linnea’s life. When Lovie’s feet were in the sand, she was in her element: happier, freer, expansive. Linnea could identify with that. As much as she loved the city, she too had always felt more at home by the sea. It was her grandmother who’d inspired Linnea to pursue a career in environmental science, despite her father’s objections.
Linnea wasn’t a child with dreams any longer. She was an adult facing adult problems. Cara was getting married again. Her father was building his dream house. Cooper was a rising junior at the University of South Carolina. It seemed everyone was moving on, except for her.
The looming cloud she’d felt when she arrived in Charleston returned, blotting out the joy she’d reveled in moments ago. Her heart physically hurt and cried out for release. Linnea missed her mother, loved her dearly. She needed to confide in someone. But her mother could sometimes ignore reality and shove problems under the rug, out of public view, with a pat phrase and a firmly hoisted smile.
She adored her father. But he’d likely bluster and blame John for breaking his daughter’s heart—and worse, remind her that he’d told her that going to California was a big mistake, how she should get a real job and not waste her time with low-paying nonprofits.
Which was why she’d made the snap decision to come to the beach house and seek advice, honest and not sugar-coated, from her business-minded aunt. Cara was never one to suffer fools and wasn’t afraid to speak plainly. The beach house was always a haven. A house of reason. She could get her bearings here before she confronted her parents.
From the beach she looked up at the cottage on the dune, and sighed. Cara wasn’t home, and the night was falling. It was time to throw in the towel and retreat home. Linnea turned back to the sea for a final look. She crouched and picked up a handful of sand. Countless tiny particles filled her palm; clenching it tight, she brought her fist to her heart.
“Grandmama Lovie,” she said aloud. “I know you’re out there somewhere. Thank you for loving me, and teaching me about the turtles, the ocean. I love this beach and every particle of sand on it. It took me a while to understand, but I belong here. I came back. But I’m at square one again.”
Linnea lowered her hand and let the sand slowly flow from her palm to form a small pile on the beach. Straightening up, she wiped her eyes, then wrapped her arms around her chest and looked seaward.
“Lovie, what do I do now?” she asked.
Her voice was carried away on the breeze.
Chapter Two
The loggerhead reproductive season begins when males and females mate in early spring off the coast. Males do not return ashore, but thirty days after breeding, females bravely return to their natal region under the cloa
k of night.
THE RED VOLVO wagon made its way at an unhurried pace through Charleston’s narrow streets to the westernmost side of the peninsula. The spring rain had left dark, oily puddles in the streets, and crystalline drops glistened on the leaves of the trees. The clouds had cleared, and the sun shone brightly with comfortable warmth.
Cara Rutledge breathed in the sweet-scented air through open windows. She was nearing the Ashley River when she drove past a white stucco wall that had to be a block or more in length. Then she drew up before a pair of imposing wrought-iron gates. They were open, but she let the engine idle as she stared out the windshield. In the distance, framed by the glistening water of the river, was the last surviving plantation house on the Charleston Peninsula, Lowndes Grove. The gracious white stucco-and-wood structure with its five-bay piazza and Doric columns, curved Palladian windows, and waterfront location made up every southern girl’s dream house. And this elegant venue was where Cara Rutledge was scheduled to marry David Wyatt in a late June wedding celebration.
Cara felt her heart pounding in what she thought was a mild panic attack. She leaned her head against the wheel and took a deep breath.
“You okay?” asked Emmi.
Cara turned to see her best friend leaning forward in the passenger seat, her bright-green eyes, creases deep at the corners, studying her with concern. Emmi’s red hair seemed to get a deeper flaming hue every year. It was pulled back in a clasp, revealing every soft freckle on her face. She wore a floral wraparound dress and makeup, a change from her Turtle Team T-shirt, for Cara’s meeting with the wedding planner. They were here to firm up final details and write a big check. Cara was pretty sure Emmi was more excited about the wedding plans than she was.
“I’m kind of panicking. The date is getting closer.” Cara shook her head in doubt. “I’m feeling…” She took a breath. “Trapped.”
“What? Why?”
“All this.” She indicated the venue, then added in a rush “It’s so not me.”
“What’s not you? You’re the bride, aren’t you?”
“I’m not a blushing bride,” Cara snorted. “Far from it. I’m fifty-five years old.”
“I know exactly how old you are. We’re the same age,” Emmi fired back. “You make it sound ancient. That’s not old.”
Cara sighed again. It wasn’t about age. It was more about maturity. At this point in her life she knew what she wanted, and more, who she wanted in her life. Cara didn’t doubt her desire to marry David. She loved him. Her love was hard-won after a long period of mourning for her first husband, Brett. She hadn’t known she could feel this way again. It wasn’t the act of marriage that had her quaking in her boots; it was the big, fancy wedding festivity. She didn’t believe she needed a party to make that point. And she certainly didn’t feel the need to waste a great deal of money on a party she didn’t particularly want.
Cara had grown up a Rutledge in Charleston, the daughter of a prestigious family. Nonetheless she’d fled Charleston and the South at age eighteen for points north. She’d had no one to depend on but herself to make her way in the world. Her choice, granted, but it had been a steep learning curve requiring hard work, determination, frugality, and an edge of fear. All lessons she never forgot.
It hadn’t been easy. She’d started work as a receptionist at a premier advertising firm in Chicago and gone to college for seven years at night to get her degree, all while assiduously working toward advancement during that time. She was promoted to a director of accounts by age forty. She’d been proud of that. She hadn’t asked for a dime from her parents, nor did her father offer one. Yet when she’d earned that promotion, there were no hearty congratulations from her parents. They were, she remembered, silent on the subject. Other than her mother asking, hopefully, if she had a beau, and whether she’d given any thought to getting married.
When she’d told friends of her engagement to David, however, she was met with exclamations of joy and jubilee. Some grew misty-eyed, squeezed her hands and told her she “deserved” this. As if getting a husband were equivalent to bagging a Big Five game trophy. To her mind, she’d deserved her promotions. Finding love once, she viewed as a blessing. Twice, a miracle.
“You know what I meant,” Cara said. “I didn’t grow up dreaming about my wedding. You were the one who browsed through wedding magazines, circling her favorite dresses, or table settings or bouquets. I read novels, the business section of the newspapers, did crossword puzzles. If I circled anything, it was books I wanted to read from the book review.”
“You were a nerd.”
“Proud of it,” she replied, and they both laughed.
“Look,” Emmi began in earnest, “you didn’t have a big wedding with Brett. This time you can do it proper.”
“I thought we did do it proper,” Cara replied with slight irritation. “I wore a white dress.”
“You got married at a justice of the peace. You didn’t even invite me.” She frowned. “And we’d been friends forever.”
Cara would never hear the end of that decision. Emmi had been deeply hurt. But it was what she and Brett had wanted. Cara’s mother had passed, and Brett would have had to invite his whole boisterous family if he’d invited even one of them. As Brett had put it, “I’m just happy to catch this slippery fish. Now all I want to do is reel her in.”
“Well, stop complaining,” Cara replied. “You’re invited to this one. You’re even a bridesmaid.”
“Yes, I am,” Emmi said with pleasure. Then with a smirk, “The matron of honor.” She huffed.
“But…” Cara felt like cringing. “Isn’t it a bit frivolous, even silly, for a woman my age to be having a big wedding? Aren’t we both kind of old to put on long dresses and parade down an aisle carrying flowers?”
Emmi shrugged one shoulder. “Maybe, back in the day. It used to be that if you were over forty”—she put her hand over her mouth to feign a secret—“much less fifty, you got married in a quiet little ceremony in a tasteful little suit. Preferably blue. But things have changed. You deserve whatever kind of wedding you want. Every woman does. Regardless of age.” Emmi waved her hand, conceding a point. “Naturally, you want to be sensitive about things. Like your dress—which you still haven’t purchased.” She made a face. “I’m just saying. Ticktock.”
“I know, I know.”
“And for sure you don’t want to show up in a Cinderella carriage or have smoke effects or switch the music from Pachelbel to ‘Baby Got Back.’ ”
Cara burst out laughing. She could always count on Emmi to lighten her mood.
“If anyone is going to get twitters from the back row, it’s me,” Emmi added. “I’m the sorry old divorced woman walking down the aisle.” She pointed her finger. “And there’s no way I’m going to catch your bouquet.”
“I won’t throw one. I promise.”
“Well, thank God for small mercies.”
Emmi looked at her hands, a bit large, tan, and freckled. Her nails were short and polished a spring pink. She wore no rings, but her gold pendulum earrings dangled. For a moment, she grew reflective. When she turned her gaze back to Cara, her tone was serious.
“Cara, who cares how old we are? We’re forever young, right? If you were one hundred years old, I’d still tell you to go for it. David wants you to have this wedding. He’s so excited he’s busting his buttons. If I didn’t love you so much, I’d be jealous. I think it’s terribly romantic.”
“I think a quiet wedding with just David and me can be every bit as romantic.”
“That ship has sailed, my friend. You already announced your engagement to the world. You’ve made the public declaration. Besides, it’s all arranged.” Emmi gestured toward the big house in the distance. “It’s too late to back out now. Money’s been put down.” She paused for emphasis. “And now, we’re done talking. We are going inside to finalize the food, the flowers, the wine, the timeline, the tents, the number of chandeliers.… And don’t forget, I got my dress.”
Emmi was thrilled with all the details of this grand wedding. Cara looked at her friend, saw the hope for love still shining in her eyes, and it moved her. She hoped Emmi would find love again someday. Tom Peterson, her childhood love, had broken her heart after years of marriage. When he’d asked for a divorce, it seemed to have come out of nowhere. Emmi had been shaken to the core. She’d lost direction, her identity. It had taken Emmi a long time to recover. But she had. Now Emmi was strong and independent… but lonely. Especially since Cara had found David. Emmi had not been as fortunate. She’d dated a long stream of men over the years, some of them nice, but never one who had staying power. Cara had worried that a big wedding would be shoving her happiness in Emmi’s face; but quite the contrary, Emmi was all for it. Emmi was conservative in politics and loved glitter and romance. Cara was conservative in dress and freethinking. But they were sisters of the heart.
“Cara, don’t be selfish. Weddings are social events. You are celebrating announcing your commitment to the world.”
“That’s just it. I’m not making a commitment to the world. I’m making a commitment to David. My husband-to-be. To one person.”
Emmi raised a brow. “And that one person wants to invite his family and friends.”
Cara tapped her fingers with budding irritation and ground out, “I just feel forced into this—this huge event.” Her voice rose. “That I don’t even want!”
Emmi hesitated; her brows gathered. “I didn’t realize you were so angry.”
“I don’t know if I’m angry… just frustrated. Em, you’ve known me my whole life. I’m not into parties or big events. I’m more private. And now I’m having this enormous shindig and must walk down the aisle in a wedding gown. With all those eyes on me.”
“Then why did you say yes to all this?” Emmi asked with a hint of exasperation. “You could’ve stopped it before we got to this point.”
Cara looked down at her slim, French-manicured hand where it lay on her navy pencil skirt, over which she wore a crisp white shirt. Her only jewelry was the impressive diamond on her ring finger and small diamond studs in her ears.
On Ocean Boulevard Page 2
