The Beach Trees

by Karen White

  “Nothing,” I managed. “I’m here to do what Monica wanted, because she can’t. And that’s all.” I glanced at the dolphins again, at their almost-smiles and their bodies straining forward toward . . . what? Looking down at my watch, I said, “We’d better get back to the truck.”

  Turning my back on Trey and the dead oak tree, I trudged down the side of the road toward the lighthouse, dropping the seashells I’d collected one by one, until my pockets were empty.

  CHAPTER 8

  He who, having lost one ideal, refuses to give his heart and soul to another and nobler, is like a man who declines to build a house on rock because the wind and rain ruined his house on the sand.

  —CONSTANCE NADEN

  Julie

  The ride back to New Orleans in the dark was more silent than the trip to Biloxi. Not even the radio interrupted Trey’s stewing anger over our conversation about the oak trees, or my own uncertainties. As we hurtled through the night, past swamps and deep forests, I pictured all the slithering reptiles outside my window, and not one of them scared me as much as the thought of rebuilding Monica’s house. I just wasn’t sure what frightened me more: failing in my attempt to fulfill somebody else’s dream, or discovering that my detour could be more permanent than I expected.

  My phone rang around seven thirty. It was Nancy Mayer from Mayer and Ryan to let me know that she’d had a generous offer from an anonymous buyer to purchase the portrait. I accepted the offer without much thought, eager to prove to Trey that I could contribute to Beau’s and my living expenses. But I also wanted him to sweat a little longer, so I kept the details of my conversation to myself, letting him guess and waiting for him to ask. He didn’t.

  As we approached the city I stared out my window into the dark, watching as its twinkling lights drew near. New Orleans wore night like a carnival mask, hiding her imperfections under the forgiving and sporadic arcs of light. She was still much of a stranger to me, and I looked forward to getting to know her for myself and not from Monica’s stories or pictures from the evening news.

  I was starving, and I was sure Trey was, too, since we hadn’t eaten since a brief lunch with the people from Kenney-Moise. But Trey and I seemed to be in a contest as to who could be more pissed off with the other, and both of us remained silent and hungry until we pulled onto First Street. This proved nothing more than that New England doggedness had found its match in Southern-bred stubbornness.

  The front door opened, and Aimee stood waiting while Beau, dressed in his LEGO pajamas, threw himself at me, nearly toppling me from the bottom step, where I’d braced myself. “Hey, buddy. I missed you, too.” I picked him up, and as he rested his head on my shoulder I smelled soap and baby shampoo.

  “Kathy gave him a bath, seeing as he was wearing most of the garden—what wasn’t washed off in the fountain, of course. I hope that’s all right.”

  I walked up the rest of the steps. “Of course. Thank you.”

  She stepped back to allow us in. “Beau said he needed you to read to him before bedtime, so I let him stay up until you got back.” Her gaze took in Trey’s closed expression. “From my last phone conversation with Trey, I take it that neither one of you has eaten. I had Kathy make two plates and put them in the warmer in case you wanted something.”

  “Thank you, Aimee. Let me put Beau to bed first, and I’ll be right down.”

  To my surprise, Beau hugged Aimee and kissed her cheek loudly before racing toward the stairs. As if in afterthought, he paused on the balcony and turned around again. “Good night, Uncle Trey.”

  Trey grinned, transforming his face. “Good night, Beau. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  I listened to the patter of Beau’s feet against hardwood as he ran up the rest of the stairs; then I followed, my stomach rumbling loudly.

  When I returned, the foyer was empty but the swinging kitchen door had been propped open. I entered, surprised to find Aimee alone, a glass of white wine in front of her and an untouched glass on the kitchen table across from her. A foil-wrapped plate sat next to it, along with silverware and a cloth napkin.

  “Where’s Trey?” I asked as I pulled out my chair and sat down.

  Aimee didn’t answer right away and I sensed her disapproval. “He took his plate to his study. Said he needed to catch up on some work, since he missed a whole day today.”

  I took off the foil, my stomach grumbling even more loudly when I smelled the fried chicken, sweet corn, and mashed potatoes swimming in gravy. “Where does Trey work? I know he went to Tulane undergrad, but that’s all Monica told me.”

  “He went to Tulane law and then worked for my husband’s firm for a while after law school, but then formed his own practice with two other partners.”

  I nodded, my mouth too full of chicken for me to respond right away. Finally, I asked, “How is he going to find the time to restore the house in Biloxi and work?”

  “Trey has always been good about getting things done. Especially when he’s motivated. He’ll find a way to get it done as quickly as possible, if it means that you’ll be leaving when it’s done.”

  I quirked an eyebrow.

  “I’m just telling you what he told me. I’m taking it that things didn’t go well in Biloxi today.”

  I took a bite of potato and washed it down with a sip of wine. “Actually, the talk with the builders went very well. I brought a painting that Monica had done of River Song, and they said that it would take a lot of the guesswork out of starting from scratch. Plus, they still had the plans from when it was rebuilt after Camille, and Trey was able to fill in any missing pieces, so they’ve got a great place to start. I just find it very hard to work with somebody who doesn’t want me there, and I have to admit that I didn’t make it easy for him. I made the mistake of telling him that people who rebuild in hurricane zones are ‘egotistical and shortsighted.’”I grimaced at the memory. “He didn’t appreciate my opinion.”

  Aimee sat back in her chair, her hands cradling the bottom of her glass in her lap, her expression unreadable. “No, I don’t imagine he would have.”

  When she didn’t say anything else, I added, “They’re saying they could have it all done in seven to nine months, depending on the weather and other factors that we can’t control. Trey wants to use new hurricane-resistant materials, and there aren’t a lot of suppliers, so we might be at the mercy of their time line.”

  A sharp tap on the back door leading out into the yard startled me, but Aimee was already rising from her chair. “That’s just Xavier stopping by for his check.”

  I stood, too, and faced the door.

  Aimee grabbed an envelope from the counter before opening the door. Xavier stood outside and out of sight at first, and I felt myself relaxing. And then Aimee invited him into the kitchen, and I could see his face in the yellow glow of the chandelier, his scars seeming to undulate in the uneven light from the overhead fixture.

  “Julie Holt, this is Xavier Williams. You met his mother, Ray Von, already.”

  I forced myself to move forward and even held out my hand, which he ignored. Slowly, I lowered it to my side. “It’s nice to meet you.” He carried with him the scent of the garden: of the moist earth and green, growing things. I hadn’t expected that.

  He remained silent, his one good eye beneath a gray, grizzled eyebrow focused on me.

  Aimee continued. “She was a good friend of Monica’s. And Julie’s the one who brought Beau to us.”

  Xavier nodded as he neatly folded the envelope Aimee had given him into compact rectangles before shoving it in his back pocket. “Thank you, Miss Aimee. I’ll be back next week and start getting your garden ready for fall.”

  His voice surprised me, too. It was light and melodic, his diction as precise as his mother’s. With a quick good-bye, he slipped outside the back door and disappeared soundlessly into the yard.

  I gathered my nearly empty plate, then rinsed it in the sink before placing it into the dishwasher.

  “Looks can be de
ceiving, Julie.” I faced Aimee as she poured more wine into both of our glasses. “He was burned as a young boy, and as a result people have shunned him all of his life. It’s made him painfully shy, but he’s a good person.”

  Feeling chastised, I sat down at the table. “I know. I’m sorry. You’d think after living in the city for so long nothing would shock me.” I picked up my glass and took a sip of wine. “Monica said that his mother, Ray Von, used to work for you?”

  “Eventually. She worked for my mother-in-law before Caroline was married. Caroline’s the one who educated her, taught her how to speak like she’d gone to an English boarding school. In nineteen fifty, the Duke and Duchess of Windsor came to New Orleans for Mardi Gras and Caroline thought she’d be in town to be presented to them. I was told that she and Ray Von spent months practicing their accents for that, and that Ray Von never stopped practicing. Unfortunately, Caroline didn’t make it back to New Orleans until later that summer and missed that Mardi Gras season completely.”

  “What a shame, after all that work. Why did she miss it?”

  Aimee’s eyes avoided mine. “Her husband didn’t think she was ready to mix with society yet. Caroline had had some kind of a . . . breakdown, I guess you’d call it today. That’s why she moved to Atlanta with the boys. Her parents were there and the best doctors.” She smiled. “But she was back in New Orleans that summer.”

  I drained my glass. “You said that you and Monica loved River Song, because it made you feel safe. Why did you need to feel safe?”

  Her eyes settled on me. “Are you ready to hear more of the story?”

  I nodded and watched as she emptied the bottle into our glasses.

  Aimee

  SUMMER 1950

  Cigarette smoke invaded the early-morning air as I stepped onto my grandmother’s front porch. It seemed to sit on the thick humidity, lingering in the trees and bushes. I walked next door on the cracked sidewalk past our stiff and formal gardens to the Guidry house. Pushing open the gate, I saw what my grandmother called the “garish display of color.” Climbing hydrangea drooped haphazardly off of trellises, while large clay pots exhibited their gaudy offerings of forget-me-nots and verbena in the shade of the fountain. The bronze little boy peed happily in the burbling fountain. A lime green gecko crept up the side of the newly patched cement of the shallow basin, lifting his head and examining his surroundings. I let the gate close, the iron clanging in the hushed atmosphere of the front garden. Startled, the gecko scurried into one of the clay pots.

  “Good morning, Aimee.”

  Mrs. Guidry sat at a small wrought-iron table on the porch. She blew smoke out through her nose, and I watched it expand and evaporate as it reached the ceiling. I wondered what Grandmother would say about that, seeing as how I’d had to listen again and again to her lectures regarding the evils of smoking and how only a certain class of women would even consider doing it.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Guidry,” I said as I climbed the steps. Her eyes were red rimmed and puffy, with dark circles marring the delicate skin under them, her beauty hibernating under stale makeup. She took a long drag from a cigarette and closed her eyes. I caught a whiff of alcohol clinging to her silk robe, and her hand shook as she took another puff. Her alligator brooch was pinned to the collar of the robe, which didn’t surprise me. I don’t think I’d ever seen her without it.

  Mrs. Guidry had changed in the short time since I had met her at the beginning of the summer. The pink bloom of her skin had faded, her posture drooping slightly, like one of those delicate flowers left out in the hot sun too long. But she was still beautiful to me.

  She opened her eyes to slits and looked at me, offering a gentle smile. The only time I ever saw her smile was either at me or at one of her boys. “Sit down, Aimee. Let’s have us some girl chat.”

  I had never seen her like this. She was always well-groomed and burning with vibrant energy. But this morning she was wilted, frayed around the edges. I sat gingerly on the edge of a cushioned chair opposite her, the fabric moist on my bare legs from the pressing humidity. Although I’d had a tongue-lashing from my grandmother and a gentle scolding from Mr. Guidry regarding what I’d done to Gary on the levee, Mrs. Guidry had yet to say anything to me, and I wondered if she’d been waiting for an opportunity like this to get me alone. I swallowed thickly, and waited.

  She continued to regard me through half-open eyes. “Seeing as how you are without a mother, I was hoping I might give you a little bit of motherly advice.”

  Curious, I slid back in my chair, feeling the damp chill of the wrought iron on my bare arms. She leaned forward and stabbed out her cigarette in the crystal ashtray. Her eyes were dark, muddy pools, without focus. She seemed to stare through me, seeing something I couldn’t. Leaning over, she took my hand. I flinched at the iciness of her touch.

  She picked up my hand and turned it over slowly. Gary had told me that his mother liked to tell people’s fortunes by looking at their palms, and I felt a tremor of excitement as she examined my upturned hand. A long red fingernail, something else I knew my grandmother wouldn’t approve of, traced the lines of my palm as Mrs. Guidry silently studied my pale skin. Finally, she gave my hand a squeeze and placed it on my lap.

  Sitting back, she reached for her gold cigarette case.

  I couldn’t hold back my curiosity. “Did you see anything?” My voice sounded hesitant.

  She tapped the end of a cigarette against the closed case. She looked at me without smiling. “Yes, I did.” A matching gold lighter appeared from the pocket of her robe. Her long, elegant fingers flicked it and held it to the end of the cigarette. She took a deep drag and leaned her head against the back of the chair.

  “You have beautiful hands, Aimee. Delicate, but strong. Like your mother’s. Like you. You’ll need to be strong.” Her voice dropped to a whisper as she lifted her head to look at me. “Do you sing, Aimee? Your mother had the most beautiful voice. She could have been something if she hadn’t married and had you.”

  I remembered my mother’s singing. She sang in the garden, and in the kitchen, and to me. It had been the unnatural silence of the house after her death that I think eventually unnerved my father enough to make us move away. Even now, when I fall asleep, I imagine I can still hear her singing. But I’d never thought that her being married to my father and being my mother had been a sacrifice. I blinked at Mrs. Guidry, not understanding.

  Suddenly, she sat up, crushed the cigarette in the ashtray, and leaned toward me to grab each wrist. “Be careful with your heart. You will have a choice to make, but you are destined to love only once. Choose wisely.” She squeezed my wrists, causing numbness in my fingers, but the vehemence in her eyes wouldn’t let me pull away.

  “Be happy, Aimee. Without happiness in your heart, you have nothing.” Her eyes were wide and bright, tears pooling at the bottom but not yet spilling over.

  I leaned forward. Nobody ever spoke about my mother, as if she’d never existed. As if my memory of the coppery smell of blood and my mother’s cold skin were a nightmare from which I’d never completely awakened. “Tell me about her, Mrs. Guidry. Tell me about my mother.”

  The front door opened and Mr. Guidry strode out onto the porch. Mrs. Guidry released my arms abruptly, shrinking back in her chair.

  Nodding in my direction, Mr. Guidry leaned over his wife. His voice was soft, but I could tell he was angry. “What are you doing out here? You’re not even dressed.”

  Her chin dropped to her chest.

  He turned to me. “I’m sorry, Aimee. Has she said anything to upset you? She gets confused sometimes and says things that . . . don’t make any sense.”

  I shook my head, desperate to leave.

  “She needs to rest. She had a bad night.” He took her by both elbows and lifted her from the chair. She seemed to droop in his grasp, her head bowed and the dark hair falling over her face. He guided her inside the house without a backward glance.

  I continued to sit on the porch
, rubbing my wrists. A movement at the door caught my attention, and I saw a woman in her early thirties staring at me with open curiosity. Her skin was the color of café au lait, creamy and smooth, her green eyes brilliant against her darker skin. From her expression, it appeared she knew who I was. I was sure I had never seen her before. I stood to leave but heard a deep voice coming from inside.

  “Aimee.” Wes appeared where the woman had been. I was embarrassed by the scene I had just witnessed and tried to escape from the porch.

  “Don’t go.” He touched my elbow and led me off the front porch toward the fountain. His wet hair was combed off his forehead and he smelled of soap. We stopped behind the statue, and I suddenly remembered that he had seen me in only my unmentionables and jeans. I felt the blood rush to my cheeks, so I turned my head, only to find myself staring directly at the peeing part of the little statue.

  Sensing my discomfort, he touched my elbow again and led me out the front gate. Instead of turning right to go to my house, we turned left, our pace leisurely.

  “I’m sorry you had to see my mother that way. She’s . . . ill. We were hoping she was well enough to return to New Orleans, but I suppose we were just being optimistic. She was in a home for delicate women up in Atlanta—that’s where our grandparents live. But she kept wanting to come back to New Orleans. There’s something about this place....”

  We stepped carefully over the cracks in the sidewalk where large roots from towering oaks protruded from between the flagstones like arms from underground monsters. I waited for him to continue, but he changed the subject. “I hope she didn’t say anything to scare you.”