On Folly Beach

by Karen White

  After crossing over the first bridge, Emmy sat up straighter to take in a better measure of where she was headed. Off in the distance to the left was a large blue water tower with FB in large black letters inside a white oval announcing that she was at least going in the right direction. Traffic slowed as the road narrowed approaching the Folly River Bridge, the docked shrimp boats announcing the proximity to the Atlantic Ocean. A salty breeze filled the car—a new smell that was strange yet oddly familiar, too. Maybe her mother’s childhood memories had been transferred to Emmy during infancy, as if the memory of warm sand between your toes were as tangible a thing as nourishment and security.

  Red-flowered bushes Emmy had never seen before waved from each side of the road like spectators at a welcome parade, easing the tightness in her chest just a little. The Edge of America, she thought, recalling the Folly Beach nickname her mother had told her, an appropriate name for a destination for someone with nowhere else to go.

  Glancing at her map again, she headed straight where Folly Road became Center Street, the only street on the island with a stoplight. In the old days, her mother had explained, if you stayed on Center Street, you’d run right into the ocean. Now, though, a monolithic cement Holiday Inn blocked access and the view, forcing all vehicles to either turn right or left on Ashley Avenue.

  The light turned red and Emmy stopped. Perspiration trickled down her back and forehead, but she still resisted rolling up the window and turning on the air. The voices of the tourists and locals filling the sidewalks, shops, and restaurants, and the sound of blaring music from passing cars was the sound track to her new adventure, and she was afraid she’d miss something—miss a clue telling her that she was doing the right thing.

  She turned left on East Ashley, the holiday weekend traffic heavy on the two-lane street, each side of the road packed with cars parked bumper to bumper. Everyone wore bathing suits, even the babies in strollers, and coolers and surfboards were the ubiquitous accessories as beachgoers unloaded them from cars, trucks, and minivans and lumbered toward the beach accesses.

  Emmy passed old, paint-peeling houses that were nestled side by side with larger and newer beach mansions. Most of the houses, big and small alike, had names like Banana Cabana and Height of Folly posted on painted wooden signs by the driveways. All the houses sat on pilings, their one commonality apparently being a fear of the sea. Entire streets had been taken away by hurricanes in past years, according to Paige. While Emmy was no stranger to tornadoes, she felt a certain dread when she thought about the force of a tornado coupled with the strength of the ocean and wondered if mere pilings would be enough.

  She looked down at the map one last time for the address she’d written at the bottom for the house she’d rented, sight unseen. Not that doing such a thing surprised her anymore; she’d agreed to purchase a business without ever having seen it either, much less even visited the state of South Carolina. Her chest filled with a silent sigh. Mama, what have we done?

  The traffic thinned as she drove toward the east end of the island, and she slowed, checking the house numbers on mailboxes and posts, and even a painted surfboard stuck in the yard, as she passed each one before finally pausing in front of the correct address. Slowly, she turned into the shell-and-sand driveway with two cement tire runners and stopped, staring at the house in front of her through the windshield.

  The house belonged to the son of the bookstore’s owner, Abigail Reynolds. The son was a developer in Atlanta who’d had the house built for his fiancée a couple of years before. Abigail hadn’t elaborated and Emmy was left to speculate that both the son and the fiancée lived in Atlanta and used the house only sporadically, renting it when they weren’t living in it.

  Not that Emmy had been expecting to live in a mansion, but she was relieved that the house in front of her couldn’t by any stretch of the imagination be called a shack, either. It was painted in a bright yellow with two stories sitting atop the pilings, the hip roof sporting a windowed turret on one side. A wide wooden staircase led up to the raised first floor, where the double doors lay nestled under a rounded portico protruding onto a wraparound porch. Bright white rockers sat on the porch, the strong ocean breeze making them wave like a greeting. Several piles of two-by-fours lay in the sparse grass of the front yard; a circular saw and sawhorse sat near them with tufts of sawdust lying in the grass and flitting in the air on the breeze. Emmy frowned at the scene for a moment, trying to remember what, if anything, Abigail had mentioned about any new construction on the house; then she moved her gaze back to the front doors, and her eyes widened.

  Slowly opening her car door, she exited without taking her eyes off the doors, not really sure if she was seeing clearly. She removed her sunglasses and squinted in the bright light, feeling the brunt of the South Carolina sun for the first time like a heavy slap on her bare shoulders.

  Ignoring the heat, she trudged across the lawn and up the front steps to what had caught her attention. The doors had been stained a dark cherry, but inset in the wood were two large windows nearly as long as each door, each bearing one half of the etched depiction of a bottle tree. Emmy studied the willowy stems and random bottle shapes for a long moment, making sure she was actually seeing what she thought she was, feeling the familiar pinpricks against the back of her neck.

  The heat seemed to hit her again, and spots danced in front of her eyes. Leaning forward she pressed her forehead against the cool glass to see inside, and saw instead a reflection in the glass that wasn’t hers. It was an old woman, with two long braids but the image was gone as soon as Emmy realized she was seeing it. With a stifled gasp, she pulled back and blinked before pressing her forehead against the glass again. All she saw this time through the glass was a large, sparsely furnished room but one that was blessedly empty.

  Emmy stumbled to one of the rockers and sat down, allowing the breeze to wash over her. It must have been a shadowed reflection of a passing cloud she’d seen. Either that or the heat was playing tricks on her mind. She closed her eyes as a strong breeze lifted her hair, cooling her neck and cheeks as relief coursed through her at the logical explanation of the reflection in the window. She felt foolish. She was used to heat in the summer, and even humidity. But it was more than that, and she knew it just as she’d known Ben was gone all those months ago. It was a feeling that this place was expecting her and that she was supposed to be here.

  Feeling better she stood and looked over the railing, noticing for the first time that she had a view of the ocean through the empty space between the two houses across the street. She was too far to hear it, but she could see the ripples of waves outlined by sun and shadow, see the line at the edge of the world where the ocean met the sky.

  She felt a tug somewhere near her heart, as if this strange new place meant something to her, as if the pull of the ocean was one more thing she’d been born with and she’d always known this place. It didn’t matter that she’d never seen an ocean before; she already knew what it meant to be able to see the ocean from your front door.

  Slowly, she walked down the steps and began looking for a path that would lead her to the back of the house. Abigail had told Emmy that her son had picked a spot between the Folly River and the ocean as the perfect spot for his house but that she’d let Emmy figure out the reasons why by herself. Abigail had left a key in the lockbox on the back door, and Emmy had memorized the combination from saying it aloud many times on the long trip from Indiana.

  She passed under the house, where there was space for two cars to park in tandem, and emerged into a grassy clearing, where wooden steps led up to a screened porch and, presumably, the back door. Slapping her leg as something bit her, she began to hurry up the steps, pausing on the landing to unlatch the screen door. Another strong breeze ripped the door from her hand, causing her to look up to see a darkening sky. Her gaze dropped to the view from the back of the house, the expanse of lawn giving way to tall, spider-leg-like grass and what looked like a wide wooden do
ck leading into the middle of it. Shades of browns, greens, and yellows lay like a spotted cat, leading to deeper water and a clear view of a lighthouse in the distance. The lighthouse appeared stranded in the middle of the sea, its rust and white stripes leading up to a darkened light.

  The back of Emmy’s neck prickled again as she grabbed the door more firmly this time but stopped as a familiar sound crept across the lawn toward her. The door banged shut again as Emmy realized she’d let go of it, her legs already leading her back down the steps toward the sound of wind through the glass lips of empty bottles.

  She found herself in the middle of the yard and closed her eyes to listen for a moment, then followed the sound to a hidden corner behind a large palmetto tree. The bottle tree stood as tall as Emmy, its metal trunk as thick as her arm. Delicate branches reached out toward the sky in no apparent pattern, their randomness adding to its beauty. Bottles in rainbow hues sat perched on each limb, affixed permanently on their branches, allowing the wind to visit without disruption.

  It was just like the one in her mother’s garden and her homesick-ness hit Emmy with the suddenness of a clap of thunder. Reaching up, she touched a green bottle, amazed to feel it solid and real beneath her fingertips, as if to assure herself that this figment of home wasn’t just in her imagination. Emmy walked around the tree, admiring its artistry, stopping when she’d gone three-quarters of the way around. Staring at a wide-lipped amber-colored bottle that had been placed nearly perpendicular to the branch, she saw something that seemed to have been caught inside.

  Leaning closer, she gingerly pushed on the bottle watching as its position on the branch allowed it to move. She ducked beneath it to peer inside, and spotted a rolled-up piece of paper. Her well-honed curiosity regarding old writings and their histories overrode the twinge of conscience as she managed to roll the piece of paper to the edge of the bottle lip before plucking it out of its prison.

  The paper was damp, but not yellowed, telling her although it had been in the bottle for a while, it wasn’t that old. Her academic curiosity now firmly swatted away her conscience as she unrolled the piece of paper to reveal a single sentence written in bold, spidery strokes: Come back to me.

  “You’re trespassing.”

  Emmy dropped the note in surprise as she turned toward the woman’s voice. “I’m sorry.” She stooped to pick up the paper, hoping the old woman couldn’t see too clearly through the thick glasses she wore perched on her pert nose. Holding the paper low, Emmy began to roll it up as she spoke. “Actually, I’m Emmy Hamilton. I’m renting this house for a few months.”

  “Exactly. You’re renting the house, not this tree. So you’re trespassing.” The woman’s sharp hazel eyes followed Emmy’s hand as she moved to return the note to the bottle. “I suppose you never heard about curiosity and the cat.”

  Emmy fumbled with the rolled piece of paper, and it fell to the ground again. “Oh,” she said for lack of anything better before she squatted and retrieved the note. “I’m sorry. I really didn’t mean to pry.”

  “Really? Then what do you call messing with other people’s things?”

  As Emmy stood there searching for an answer, she got a better look at her interrogator. The woman was short, probably no taller than five feet, and probably somewhere in her seventies. Her long hair was more gray than brown and worn in two braids, which fell over her shoulders. She wore a sleeveless white blouse tucked into the top of a pair of elastic-waisted jean shorts. Ugly brown sandals covered small, squat feet devoid of toenail polish. But that detail, Emmy noted, went with the rest of the woman, who was adorned with neither jewelry nor makeup.

  Emmy swallowed, embarrassed and angry at the same time yet also somehow relieved that she was still capable of feeling something other than just grief. “Look Ms. . . . ?” When the woman didn’t interject her name, Emmy continued. “You’re right. I was prying. I suppose it’s my nature—I sort of specialize in old documents, so any stray piece of paper always seems to snag my attention. I’m sorry. But as I mentioned, I’m renting the house, which, I assume, includes the grounds, so I don’t think I can rightly be called a trespasser.”

  Without a word, the old woman turned around and began to walk away toward the driveway. Emmy hurried after her. “Wait. Are you Abigail?”

  “Nope.”

  Emmy paused, confused for a moment. She hadn’t thought Abigail had sounded that old. “Are you her son’s fiancée, then?”

  The old woman let out a loud harrumph, which could have been a laugh, and kept on walking.

  Feeling winded from the unaccustomed exertion, Emmy finally caught up with the stranger in the driveway. She stopped while the woman kept walking, a stray thought solidifying in her head. “Wait . . . please. The bottle tree makes noise, but none of the other ones I’ve seen do except for the one my mother has in her backyard. Are you the artist who made them?”

  The woman stopped and slowly turned around, but didn’t say anything, as if waiting for Emmy to say something else.

  Emmy continued. “The sound reminds me of the ocean, although until today I’d never even seen the ocean before. It’s like a song, isn’t it? Sad and haunting, but full of memories, too. And possibilities. Is that what you want people to hear?”

  Something flickered in the woman’s eyes, but she gave no other indication that she’d heard anything Emmy said. “I’m Lulu O’Shea. My nephew owns this house.” She spoke through thinned, tight lips, as if they were used to having words pried out of them. Before Emmy could ask her anything else, Lulu turned without another word and started walking away.

  Come back to me. Remembering the rolled-up note, Emmy again jogged toward the older woman, who was walking faster than any septuagenarian had a right to. “Wait. Is that your note in the bottle?” Emmy didn’t think it was, since the writing was definitely that of a male, but she wasn’t ready for Lulu to leave, either.

  In answer, Lulu called over her shoulder, “Don’t you go scratching those wood floors in the house. They’re Brazilian cherry, and my nephew went to a lot of trouble to get them here.”

  Breathing heavily, Emmy watched the woman’s departing back before a large dog pulling a teenager on a skateboard down the street captured her attention. The boy flashed her a peace sign as he sped by, leaving her alone except for the noise of the wheels on asphalt.

  A fat raindrop hit her on the top of her head as she opened her trunk, and by the time she’d reached the back steps with her suitcases, she was completely soaked by the sudden downpour. “Welcome to Folly Beach,” she said under her breath as she struggled up the steps to the screen door, managing to thrust it open and throw herself and her suitcases onto the covered porch. She listened to the patter of the rain on the marsh, feeling more lonely than she’d ever felt in her life, and realizing that she’d forgotten the combination for the lockbox.

  She slid to the floor, not even bothering to find a chair, and rested her forehead on her knees, and wondered how long it would be before the rain stopped and she could shove her suitcases back into the trunk and leave this place far behind.

  CHAPTER 5

  FOLLY BEACH, SOUTH CAROLINA

  January 1942

  Lulu sat on the edge of her bed and watched as Maggie got dressed for her date with Mr. Nowak. She called him that, even in her head, though she’d only ever thought of Jim as just Jim. There was something grown-up about Mr. Nowak, and she couldn’t even picture him as a little boy. He was nice and all; he just wasn’t Jim.

  Lulu wondered why Maggie had suggested Andre’s even though it had been Maggie’s favorite place for fried shrimp ever since Maggie was little and their parents had taken her there for special occasions. But Lulu knew, too, that it had been the first place Jim had taken Maggie, and she couldn’t understand why Maggie would ever want to go there with somebody else. Lulu thought maybe it had just popped out of Maggie before she had had time to think, the way Lulu sometimes still announced to the world that she needed to go to the bathroom before
realizing she’d said it out loud.

  Still, as Lulu watched Maggie choose her second-best church dress instead of her best—which she’d worn when she’d gone with Jim—she figured that maybe Maggie hadn’t forgotten after all.

  “Have you seen Cat?” Maggie asked as she stared at herself in the mirror with her head tilted in the way she did when she couldn’t decide about something.

  “She’s been in her room since we got home. I think she’s pouting.”

  Maggie raised an eyebrow at Lulu but didn’t argue. “She has such good taste. I’d really like her opinion.”

  Lulu imitated her sister’s tilted head, wondering if a person really did see things differently when not looking straight at it. She saw the Maggie she loved with all of her heart, the sister she’d always thought was beautiful. But now, with her head to the side, she saw the Maggie that Cat probably saw when she called Maggie a frumpy housewife. “You need dark red lipstick like Cat. It’ll make you look prettier.”

  Maggie screwed up her face as she stared at her reflection. “I don’t have any.” She seemed to think for a moment. “I guess I could go ask Cat if I could borrow hers.”

  Their eyes met in the mirror, and as Lulu noticed how the gray dress fit too loosely over her sister’s body, and how the fabric looked more like a bedspread than something somebody should wear on a date, she had an idea. As she slid off the chenille bedspread, she said, “I’ll go ask.”

  She crept across the hallway and gently turned the doorknob of her old bedroom to peer inside. The curtains were drawn against the dying light of day, and Cat lay under the bedcovers on her back with a black silk mask over her eyes.