by Karen White
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Epigraph
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CONVERSATION GUIDE
Praise for the Novels of Karen White
On Folly Beach
“Heartwarmingly tender, with a bit of mystery and intrigue, and the feel of the Carolina ocean breezes, On Folly Beach makes the perfect summertime reading choice.”
—The Wichita Falls Times Record News
“If you crave a tale that will have you burning the midnight oil in order to get to the next chapter, then make On Folly Beach one of your must reads this summer.”
—Jackie K. Cooper, The Huffington Post
“Known for her exquisite prose, which delves into the inner core of her characters’ emotions, [White] delivers a superb story.... She has proven her prowess as a storyteller by demonstrating her unique combination of history with intrigue and love in order to create an unforgettable novel. Without a doubt, On Folly Beach is White’s crowning achievement.”
—Fresh Fiction
“On Folly Beach is a terrific book with a thoughtful plot, a dash of history, and the promise of future happiness. It’s the perfect story for an escape from the heat or to stick in your suitcase as you head off for vacation.”
—The Conroe Courier (TX)
“On Folly Beach is a perfect summer read—heck, a perfect read for any time of the year. Karen White knows how to spin a perfectly crafted story and/or mystery, and readers are sure to love this soon-to-be bestseller.”
—The Best Reviews
“Karen White weaves history (some little known), daily living, love, deceit, sorrow, and survival together in On Folly Beach. She bombards the senses with vivid imagery, poignant metaphors, and analogies.... Emmy’s and Heath’s personal battles entwined with the historical characters’ battles mak[e] On Folly Beach compelling. It is a KEEPER!”
—Long and Short Reviews
Written by today’s freshest new talents and selected by New American Library, NAL Accent novels touch on subjects close to a woman’s heart, from friendship to family to finding our place in the world. The Conversation Guides included in each book are intended to enrich the individual reading experience, as well as encourage us to explore these topics together—because books, and life, are meant for sharing.
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“White has a clear, sweet voice, and the ability to mark occasions from multiple viewpoints. Her characters are rich and captivating.”
—RT Book Reviews
The Lost Hours
“Reads as an intricately plotted mystery.... White makes a good case for why new generations should sustain ties with the old—and why certain stories have to be told, no matter how long it takes.”
—The Atlanta Journal-Constitution
“Wonderful phrasing . . . leav[es] readers with a slice of history too haunting to be forgotten.”
—Charleston magazine
“An interesting look at family.... Readers will enjoy this deep Savannah River family drama.”
—The Best Reviews
“Through vivid details and emotionally charged characters, White creates this year’s must-read novel. Without a doubt, The Lost Hours is most definitely a labor of love.”
—Fresh Fiction
The House on Tradd Street
“Engaging. . . . The supernatural elements are not played for scares, but instead refine and reveal Melanie’s true character.... A fun and satisfying read, this series kickoff should hook a wide audience.”
—Publishers Weekly
“The House on Tradd Street has it all, mystery, romance, and the paranormal including ghosts with quirky personalities.”
—BookLoons
“Brilliant and engrossing . . . a rare gem . . . exquisitely told, rich in descriptions, and filled with multifaceted characters.”
—The Book Connection
“Has all the elements that have made Karen White’s books fan favorites: a Southern setting, a deeply emotional tale, and engaging characters.”
—A Romance Review
“Karen White is an extremely talented and colorful writer with tons of imagination. If you are not a believer of paranormal, you will be after reading this novel.”
—Fresh Fiction
“Beautifully written and as lyrical as the tides... speaks directly to the heart and will linger in yours long after you’ve read the final page.”
—Susan Crandall, author of A Kiss in Winter
“Karen White delivers a powerfully emotional blend of family secrets, Lowcountry lore, and love in The Memory of Water—who could ask for more?”
—Barbara Bretton, author of Girls of Summer
Learning to Breathe
“White creates a heartfelt story full of vibrant characters and emotion that leaves the reader satisfied yet hungry for more from this talented author.”
—Booklist
“Karen White has gifted readers with another masterpiece, touching every emotion in her novel Learning to Breathe! White captures the essence of smalltown living and the nuances of family life, making all her characters leap from the pages.... White adds another wonderful story to her fans’ keeper shelves!”
—Reader to Reader Reviews
More Praise for the Novels
of Karen White
“The fresh voice of Karen White intrigues and delights.”
—Sandra Chastain, contributor to At Home in Mossy Creek
“Warmly Southern and deeply moving.”
—New York Times bestselling author Deborah Smith
“[A] sweet book . . . highly recommended.”
—Booklist
“Karen White is one author you won’t forget.... This is a masterpiece in the study of relationships. Brava!”
—Reader to Reader Reviews
“This is not only romance at its best—this is a fully realized view of life at its fullest.”
—Readers & Writers Ink Reviews
“After the Rain is an elegantly enchanting Southern novel.... Fans will recognize the beauty of White’s evocative prose.”
—WordWeaving.com
New American Library Titles by Karen White
Falling Home
On Folly Beach
The Lost Hours
The Memory of Water
Pieces of the Heart
Learning to Breathe
The Color of Light
The Tradd Street Series
The House on Tradd Street
The Girl on Legare Street
NAL Accent
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Published by New American Library,
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First New American Library Printing, May 2011
Copyright © Harley House Books, LLC, 2011
Conversation Guide copyright © Penguin Group (USA), Inc., 2011
All rights reserved
REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA:
White, Karen (Karen S.)
The beach trees / Karen White.
p. cm.
eISBN : 978-1-101-52858-7
1. Self-realization in women—Fiction. 2. Women artists—Fiction. 3. Family secrets—Fiction.
4. Missing persons—Fiction. 5. Biloxi (Miss.)—Fiction. 6. New York (N.Y.)—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3623. H5776B43 2011
813’.6—dc22 2010052283
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.
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This book is dedicated to the residents of the Gulf Coast and New Orleans who know better than most why we rebuild.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
A huge thanks to my alma mater, Tulane University, and to my dear friends and New Orleans natives, Nancy Mayer Mencke and Lynda Ryan Casanova, for showing me the Crescent City and all of its beauty and some of its secrets. Thanks also to my father, William Lloyd Sconiers, Biloxi High School Class of 1950, for many things but especially for his stories of growing up in Biloxi, Mississippi, and for teaching me the correct pronunciation of “Tchoutacabouffa.”
To friend and home builder, Julie Kenney of Kenney-Moise, Inc., for taking pictures of the gulf in winter and describing flora and fauna longdistance—not to mention telling me about the ins and outs of beach house construction—my undying gratitude.
And, of course, thank you to Wendy Wax and Susan Crandall, for all of your wonderful insights and critiques, and for reading this book as fast as I could write it!
When I have seen by Time’s fell hand defaced
The rich proud cost of outworn buried age;
When sometime lofty towers I see down-razed,
And brass eternal slave to mortal rage;
When I have seen the hungry ocean gain
Advantage on the kingdom of the shore,
And the firm soil win of the watery main,
Increasing store with loss, and loss with store;
When I have seen such interchange of state,
Or state itself confounded to decay;
Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate,
That Time will come and take my love away.
This thought is as a death, which cannot choose
But weep to have that which it fears to lose.
—William Shakespeare, Sonnet 64
CHAPTER 1
The little reed, bending to the force of the wind, soon stood upright again when the storm had passed over.
—AESOP
Julie
SEPTEMBER 2010
Death and loss, they plague you. So do memories. Like the Mississippi’s incessant slap against the levees, they creep up with deceptive sweetness before grabbing your heart and pulling it under. At least, that’s what Monica told me. Monica had been the one with the memories of the great muddy river that cradled the Crescent City, and of the sparkling water of the gulf and the bright white house that sat before it.
My own family settled in Massachusetts about one hundred years after the Pilgrims, and my sturdy New England upbringing left me unprepared and a little in awe of Monica, with her strange accent that curled some words and mispronounced others, that was neither Southern or Northern but a strange combination of both. Her stories of her childhood were seasoned with the dips and waves of her accent, almost making me forget that Monica had abruptly turned her back on these places that existed so vividly in her memories, and never gone back. Like me, Monica was a self-imposed orphan living and working in New York City, both of us trying very hard to pretend that we belonged there.
I leaned forward in the minivan’s driver’s seat and glanced in the rearview mirror at Beau, Monica’s motherless little boy, and the fear and anxiety that had been dogging me took hold again. In the last two months I had gone from being a workaholic at a reputable auction house, with no other responsibilities except for my monthly rent and utilities, to the broke, unemployed guardian of a five-year-old boy, possessor of a dilapidated minivan, and apparently the owner of a beach house in Biloxi, Mississippi, with the improbable name of River Song. Despite almost a lifetime spent collecting things, I was at a loss to explain my recent acquisitions.
Beau stirred, and I found myself hoping that he would remain asleep for at least another hour. Although we’d stopped overnight in Montgomery, Alabama, listening for endless hours to Disney music was more of a strain on my already raw nerves. For nearly twenty hours we’d been traveling south in a van built during the Reagan administration, through towns and scenery that made me think I’d taken a wrong turn and stumbled into a foreign country. After recalling some of the stories Monica had told me about growing up in the South, I realized that I probably had.
“Mama?”
I looked into the rearview mirror and into greenish blue eyes so much like his mother’s, offset by remarkably long and dark eyelashes. Monica said the lashes were from all the Tabasco sauce Louisiana mothers put in their baby’s bottles to get them used to hot food. The memory made me smile until Beau looked back at me, his eyes repeating his question.
“No, sweetheart. Your mama isn’t here. Remember what we talked about? She’s in heaven, watching over you like an angel, and she wants me to take care of you now.”
His face registered acceptance, and I looked away before he could see what a fraud I really was. I knew less about Monica’s Catholic heaven and angels than I did about raising young children. There was something about this whole experience that was like on-the-job training for a career I’d never wanted.
Beau lifted his left thumb to his mouth, a new habit started shortly after his mother died. In his right hand he held Monica’s red knit hat that he placed against his
cheek, and began to softly scratch a hole into the knit. It had become his constant companion, along with the dozens of Matchbox cars and LEGOs he managed to secrete in his pockets, backpack and pillowcase. Although just barely five, he’d seemed to regress to almost three-year-old behavior since his mother’s death, and I didn’t know the first thing about how to fix it. Letting him keep his mother’s hat had simply seemed a necessity.
“ Julie?”
My eyes met his again in the rearview mirror.
“I need to go pee-pee.”
I glanced over at the portable GPS that I’d purchased secondhand on eBay. We were in a place called D’Iberville, Mississippi, only about thirty minutes from our final destination. I could picture the beach house Monica had described so clearly in my mind: the wide porch, the rocking chairs, the columns that had always made me think of welcoming arms. My foot pressed heavier on the gas pedal. “Can you hold it just a little longer, Beau? We’re almost there.”
Scrunching his eyebrows together, he nodded and began to scratch his mother’s hat in earnest.
Focusing again on the road in front of me, I began noticing the signs for the Biloxi casinos: Beau Rivage, Isle of Capri, Treasure Bay. None of Monica’s stories had included mention of the casinos, leaving me to wonder if it were because they’d been built after Monica left, or because they were as alien to the Gulf Coast as their names.
