On Folly Beach

by Karen White

  The yellow sundress fit her perfectly, although she felt self-conscious exposing so much of her shoulders and back. She’d decided to complete the outfit with a pair of flip-flops she’d purchased from one of the tourist shops near the Holiday Inn. She’d left the hat behind, thinking she wouldn’t be needing it for sun protection at five o’clock in the evening. Looking up through the windshield at the still-burning sun, she began to doubt her decision.

  She finally found a spot in front of what she could only describe as a cement box on stilts, possibly a remnant of Folly’s past when it was known as the poor man’s beach. Most of the older structures had been removed by Hugo, but perhaps this owner had a strong nostalgia for the way things used to be.

  As she crossed Center Street to reach Taco Boy, she was nearly run over by a Lincoln Navigator driven by a harried mom on her cell phone trying to make the yellow light. Emmy turned her head to read the license plate, knowing already it would be from out of state. “Damned tourist,” she muttered to herself, stopping in the middle of the street and nearly getting run over again as she recognized the irony of her remark.

  People spilled out of the popular eatery onto the sidewalk, waiting for a table. The combined scents of beer and cigarettes mixed with suntan lotion and perfume, making her wrinkle her nose at the foreignness of it all. It wasn’t that it didn’t get hot in Indiana, or that people didn’t smoke or wear perfume; it was just that everything seemed more here: more hot, more pungent. Or maybe it was the simple addition of suntan lotion that reminded her of how very far from home she really was.

  Emmy stood next to a group of long-haired, bushy-bearded, and tattooed men wearing Harley T-shirts chatting with what looked to Emmy like a group of soccer moms on a girlfriends’ night out. Standing on her tiptoes, she peered through the crowd, hoping to recognize somebody and not relishing making her way through all the people.

  She felt a hand on her arm. “Emmy.”

  Turning, she found herself looking into Heath’s smiling brown eyes. “Hang on to me, and I’ll lead you to the table. We got a nice big one on the patio.”

  She grabbed his arm and allowed him to lead her into the restaurant, then directly out again onto the patio eating area, which seemed more like part of the sidewalk despite the partitioning because of all the people milling around outside.

  They stopped in front of two square tables that had been pulled together to accommodate seven chairs, three of which remained empty. She recognized Abigail and Lizzie, and was introduced to Lizzie’s husband, Joe, who looked like a younger version of Jimmy Buffett with a loud Hawaiian shirt but with more hair. When Heath introduced the man at the end of the table as his father, John, she found herself staring. She wasn’t sure if it was because nobody had mentioned that he was in a wheelchair or because she had expected to see him as a small boy in a black-and-white photo holding a small American flag.

  She held out her hand and felt it clasped in a firm handshake; then she looked into deep-set eyes that called to mind the colors of the marsh outside her window. They were a mixture of brown, green, and gold—an unusual combination that was as arresting as the eyes were beautiful.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she said as she took the empty seat on one side of him. Abigail sat on her left and Lizzie across the table. Heath seated himself in the empty chair at the foot of the table; the remaining vacant chair next to him was presumably for Lulu. Emmy knew it was uncharitable for her to think so, but she was glad Lulu was as far from her as possible.

  “Abigail tells me that you lost your husband in Afghanistan.”

  Emmy’s mouth went dry as she faced Heath’s father.

  John placed his hand on top of hers. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to blind-side you. But I wanted you to know that I might understand more than most. I was in Vietnam.” He patted the arms of his wheelchair. “It’s the reason I get to ride this fine set of wheels.” Squeezing her hand, he leaned closer to her and with a somber voice he said, “I appreciate your sacrifice and honor your bravery.”

  Bravery. Lulu had used the same word, and it still sat uncomfortably on Emmy’s shoulders, especially coming from a veteran in a wheelchair. Bravery was facing enemy fire or parachuting behind enemy lines. Or staying behind with a fallen soldier so he wouldn’t die alone. That was real bravery. Being left behind was hard; but it wasn’t brave.

  She looked into John’s unusual eyes as he squeezed her hand, and she felt his sincerity. For a brief moment, just as she had while standing with Lulu in the bottle-tree garden, she could almost believe that a glimmer of truth hid behind the word.

  “Thank you,” she managed, keeping her eyes focused on their hands, and feeling somehow relieved that she’d survived another mention of Ben without bursting into tears or having to endure another extended conversation about the war. The other members of the Reynolds family were talking about other things—a reminder that life did indeed exist beyond the walls of her grief.

  John patted her hand, then pulled his away. He turned toward the others at the table and cleared his throat. “Anybody thirsty?” he asked as he signaled for the waitress, who’d just turned from the neighboring table. “We’d like a pitcher of frozen margaritas all around and iced water for the pregnant lady, please.”

  The group nibbled chips and salsa while chatting easily about the store, the quality of fishing from the pier, the anticipated end of the tourist invasion, and the heat. Emmy found herself relaxing, due in part, she was sure, to the strength of the margarita she sipped. The Reynolds clan—with the exception of Lulu—was easy to like and to get to know. She found herself wondering if her mother had stayed on Folly if their family would be like this, if their conversations would be open and free, not halting like skipping stones on a river, avoiding the areas that would drown all words.

  She turned to Heath’s mother. “I’m curious, Abigail. You know so much about me, yet I’ve known you for over a month now, and I’m just finding out that your children are twins, and your husband is a Vietnam War vet. Why is that?”

  Abigail took a long sip from her margarita. “I guess it’s because I’ve lived in the same place for so long I just assume everybody knows everything about me already. As for me knowing so much about you, remember I had all that time on the phone with your mama before you even got here. Sort of a head start, I guess.” She eyed Emmy over the edge of her glass.

  There was a commotion near the front of the restaurant, and everyone turned their heads to watch as a loud and irate Jolene greeted everyone she saw as she was led by Lulu to their table on the patio.

  Heath stood and waited for them to approach. Jolene wore a slim skirt and a halter top with high heels, looking even more gorgeous than when Emmy had first met her. She was weaving on her feet and relying on Lulu to keep her upright.

  Heath pulled out his chair and indicated for Lulu to bring her over to it, but Jolene held up her hand. “No, I didn’t come to intrude. Just wanted to say hi and to thank Ms. Hamilton here for offering me the job as webmistress for Folly’s Finds.” She fumbled in her purse and pulled out an elegant card case. After she dropped it twice, Heath took it from her, opened it, and gave a card to Emmy.

  Emmy glanced at it without really seeing it, feeling almost as embarrassed as Lulu looked. Frowning and avoiding Emmy’s eyes, Lulu said, “I told her only that she was in consideration. I thought it would . . . help things.”

  Jolene twisted her mouth in a look of exaggerated concentration. “I don’t remember that.” Leaning over, she tapped a manicured fingernail on the card lying on the table in front of Emmy. “Call me. We can do lunch and discuss your site.”

  She stumbled and Heath moved to catch her. “I’m going to take you home now before you break your leg.”

  “To our house?”

  “It’s not our house anymore, remember? I’m taking you back to my parents’.”

  Closing her eyes, she rested her head against his shoulder and allowed him to lead her back through the crowd. “
I’ll catch up with y’all later,” he called back right as Jolene reached over and squeezed his butt.

  Lulu stood abruptly. “I’m going to the ladies’ room. And don’t get me one of those damned fancy Mexican drinks. Get me a beer.”

  Emmy waited until Lulu was out of earshot before leaning toward Abigail. “Why is Lulu such a fan of Jolene’s?”

  Abigail watched as Lulu barreled her way through the crowd. “I asked her that same question when she defended Jolene right after she broke the engagement. All she told me was that Jolene reminded her of somebody she’d once known—somebody she owed an unpaid debt.” Abigail shrugged and returned her gaze to Emmy. “It’s all right. Jolene doesn’t have too many fans, so I can’t begrudge her Lulu.”

  Emmy nodded and took another sip from her margarita, remembering Lulu’s calling her brave, and Lulu’s face softening when Emmy had given her Maggie’s book, and Peter’s inscription Be good and stay sweet. She stared down into the bottom of her glass, and wondered what might have happened in Lulu O’Shea’s life to make her into the woman full of contradictions she was today.

  Despite the disturbance and Lulu’s usual reticence to speak, they managed to have an enjoyable dinner. Lizzie and Abigail did a great job of carrying the conversation and bringing others into it, even Lulu, so that nobody was allowed to be left out. To her surprise, Emmy enjoyed herself. She was embarrassed to admit, even to herself, that she’d spent every night since she’d arrived alone with her microwaved dinners. It was almost as if she were planning not to like it here, to prove her mother wrong and finally show that the best part of Emmy’s life had already happened.

  Despite Emmy’s protests, Mr. Reynolds paid for everyone’s dinner, and as he was signing the bill, Abigail slid her chair back from the table. “Oh, before I forget.” She pulled her large purse off the back of her chair. “I found those photos I told you about. Only one of them is marked with Peter’s name, but the other ones look like the same person. I stuck in a few others that I thought you might be interested in seeing, too.” She handed Emmy a large brown envelope. “Keep them for however long you need them.”

  Lulu also slid her chair back from the table. “I gotta go. Thanks for the dinner.”

  John smiled up at her from his wheelchair. “Got to go polish your broom?”

  She snorted in his direction, but as she turned to leave, Emmy was sure she saw Lulu’s cheek twitch.

  Turning back to Abigail, Emmy took the envelope. “Thanks, I appreciate it. And next time you’re near the house, please stop by—I wanted to ask you about several of the framed photos in the house. Heath said you’d know more about them than he would.”

  “I’d be happy to, although I’m not sure if I can offer much more. I married into the family, remember, and my husband is an only child.

  He’s also male, which means that studying his family tree wasn’t a priority for him. Considering how near we are to Charleston, where they practically worship their bloodlines, it always struck me as odd that John would be so ignorant about his.” She shrugged. “I asked him why once, and he said Maggie never really talked much about it, only that her mother and father died when she was still pretty young and that she practically raised Lulu.”

  Emmy thought for a moment. “I suppose I’ll most likely end up asking Lulu, but I’d like to try you first.”

  “Lulu doesn’t like talking about the past—that’s for sure. Maybe John can offer some coaxing if you need it.” She reached over and kissed her husband on the cheek. “He’s her favorite, you know. She used to treat him like a doll when he was born, dressing him up in baby-doll clothes until he was old enough to fight back. Turned out all right in spite of it. Didn’t you, sweetheart?”

  “Yes, dear.” He grinned, and allowed himself to be wheeled from the table, the crowd parting at his approach.

  Once outside, Lizzie clapped her hands like a little child. “Let’s go to the pier and do some shagging.” She turned to Joe. “Honey, can you run to the car and get our fold-up chairs? We’ll need somewhere to rest after cutting some rug.”

  Emmy held up her hand. “Don’t worry about getting one for me. I’m not much of a dancer, and I’ve got work to do at home, so . . .”

  “Oh, come on, Emmy,” Lizzie cajoled. “It will be fun whether you dance or not. There’ll be tons of people talking and dancing and a lot just watching.”

  Emmy shook her head but was spared from speaking by Abigail. “I think Emmy’s trying to say that after all our yammering over dinner, she needs a little bit of quiet alone time.”

  Lizzie looked genuinely disappointed. “I understand. I really do. I’ve been jabbering at you all night long as if I’ve known you forever, and you must be plain sick of hearing my voice. And I’m sorry. It’s a nasty habit I got from my mother, so you’ve been doubly tortured for one night, and you are free to go.”

  With an appreciative look, Emmy said, “Thank you for being so understanding. But would you please let me take a rain check?”

  Joe came back with folding chairs under each arm. “Be careful what you wish for, Emmy. Lizzie won’t let you forget it.”

  “Good,” Emmy said, surprising herself. It had been too long since she’d allowed any kind of friendship in her life. Her high school and college friends had drifted away once she’d met Ben, and after his death, she’d felt years older than them, too far removed from their lives of husbands, children, and mortgages to care enough to resurrect their old friendships.

  But there was something warm and genuine in Lizzie, and her entire family—with the exception of Lulu, and even Heath sometimes—that made Emmy long for the girlhood friendships she’d once cherished.

  She turned back to Lizzie. “Good luck next week. Everything will be fine.”

  Still smiling, Lizzie wrinkled her brow. “You sound like you really know that for sure.”

  Emmy shrugged. “I’m not psychic or anything. It’s just sometimes I . . . know things. I get this little buzzing in my head, and most of the time, I know what it’s trying to tell me—like in this case. Other times, I just feel stupid because I have no idea what I’m supposed to know.”

  Lizzie gave her another hug. “You can’t imagine how thankful I am to hear you say that. Thank you. I don’t feel quite as anxious now.”

  “You’re welcome. Glad I could help.”

  Joe leaned over. “Guess you couldn’t tell us if they’ll be good sleepers, huh?”

  They all laughed, and Emmy said, “Nope, sorry. You’re going to have to figure that out on your own.”

  John wheeled his chair over to their group. “When my mother was pregnant, the doctor prescribed beer for her. Said it was good for the baby’s health. And all I can say is that I turned out fine.”

  “According to you and who else?” Abigail grabbed the handles on the back of his chair. “Come on, let’s go do some dancing and leave Emmy alone.”

  They said their good-byes, and Emmy stood on the sidewalk watching them leave, one part of her wishing that she was going with them and the other part of her wanting nothing more than to dig into the stacks of books in her living room that she’d had very little time to go through. In the handful that she’d flipped through over the past few weeks, she’d found only three short, cryptic notes, all saying the same thing: When? It had been nearly impossible to determine who had written them with only a few characters to judge, but Emmy thought that one had been written by the woman and the remaining two by the man.

  Sooner or later, she’d have to approach Lulu, and she dreaded it. For now, the elusive story of the unknown man and woman played out in the margins of the old books was Emmy’s alone. She felt protective of them, and if she wanted to look closer, she was indebted to them for pulling her out of the shadowed existence she’d been in since Ben’s death. And they had brought her to Folly’s Finds in an indirect way. As much as she loved the store, even she couldn’t deny that the two clandestine lovers were what kept her getting out of bed every morning, keepin
g her grief contained. She couldn’t tell anyone, least of all her mother, that she still felt Ben’s loss the way she imagined trees missed the rain. Folly’s Finds and the people she’d met since moving to Folly were only a Band-Aid that hid the hurt and loneliness she felt every time she rolled over at night and found the space empty. Sooner or later she was going to have to rip it off and allow herself to let Ben go. But that would take a lot more bravery than she had, regardless of what John Reynolds and Lulu told her.

  THE SUN HAD DIPPED LOW in the sky by the time Emmy made her way back to the house, the orange glow turning the tips of the marsh grass golden. She stood on the back porch, watching the shades of color shift like those on a chameleon, wondering what the true color of the marsh was. The lighthouse stood sentry in the distance, abandoned on its spit of land, caressed at each high tide by the same ocean that threatened its existence.

  She’d yet to venture onto the dock to see the marsh up close. Like the ocean, it was an enigma to her, a place full of strange smells and sounds that at the same time seemed so familiar. She resisted the pull to move forward, content for now to view it only from a distance.

  Despite the mugginess of the late-summer evening, she left open the French door leading to the screened porch, wanting to hear the night sounds of the marsh as a backdrop to the hidden notes between two lovers.

  After grabbing her laptop, she settled herself between the stacks of books, then pulled the first book off the top and began her methodical examination. She’d gone through an entire stack and was halfway down the second one before she found something. In a copy of Edith Wharton’s The Age of Innocence, on the last page of the book and written in a woman’s handwriting, were Shakespeare’s words: “My love is as a fever, longing still

  For that which longer nurseth the disease.”

  Oh, darling—this is wrong! But I must see you. Tell me when.

  The ink was smeared, the paper warped as if it had been touched by water. Or tears. With renewed enthusiasm, she reached for the next book, a collection of poems by A. A. Milne entitled When We Were Very Young. It was an old copy, but in her enthusiasm to find more notes, she didn’t bother to study the copyright page to determine if it might be a first edition.