The Beach Trees

by Karen White

  Her smile faded but she didn’t look away.

  “What’s wrong?”

  She faced me. “Nothing, Julie. You and Trey are doing a wonderful job. It’s just . . . memories. There are so many here. Like ghosts.”

  I listened to the distant murmur of water and the cries of invisible birds and believed that she was right. “Come on. Let’s see if Ray Von is home and then run your errands before we head on over to Carol Sue’s.”

  As I drove the short distance to Ray Von’s house, I sorted through all of the unanswered questions Aimee’s stories had raised, questions avoided so far due to our busy schedules. But I was a guest in her house, at least part of the week, and felt the need to tread carefully.

  “How do you know Dr. King’s family?” I asked.

  “Oh, his parents and I go way back. They’re originally from Biloxi, but Mr. King worked for one of the big oil companies in New Orleans for a long time. When he retired, they moved back down to Biloxi. Walker had a nice dental practice in New Orleans East, but lost it and his house in Katrina. Decided to come back here to be near his parents, which just thrilled them. I suppose he figured that if he had to start over, he might as well start over in Biloxi. Mabel, Walker’s mother, belonged to the Garden District Gardening Society, which is how I know her.”

  “I wonder why he didn’t move away from the area completely. It must be hard to rebuild a dental practice with all new patients.”

  “I suppose he figured this was home.” She didn’t say anything else, as if she believed her answer had explained everything.

  Changing the subject, I said, “You haven’t told me about Gary. Was he okay after his heart attack?”

  She continued to stare out the window and I thought she hadn’t heard me. But then I saw her hands clenched in her lap and knew she had. “For a while, yes. He was upset when I ended up not attending Newcomb College as planned.”

  “Why did you change your mind?”

  She turned to face me. “Because Wes married Lacy.”

  “But I thought . . .” I couldn’t finish.

  “Wes told me that he couldn’t hurt Gary by being with me.”

  There was a moment of silence while I tried to sort through everything. “That was the only reason Wes gave you? And that was enough?”

  She shook her head. “It wasn’t enough, of course. And I suppose the reason didn’t matter to me. The end result was the same.” She waved her hand in the air as if brushing away a fly. “Anyway, it was too painful for me to stay in New Orleans, so I attended Bryn Mawr in Philadelphia instead.”

  “And you married Gary.”

  A soft smiled played on her lips. “Yes. Eventually.”

  “Did Wes and Lacy have any children?”

  “Trey and Monica’s father, Wesley John Guidry the Second. But we called him Johnny from the moment he was born.” A smile illuminated her face. “He was such a sweet boy, and I couldn’t help but love him even though he was Lacy’s son.”

  “But Monica and Trey call you Grandmother.”

  She nodded. “Let’s just say that Lacy wasn’t the maternal type. I practically raised Johnny, and then he went and married someone just like his mother. So I raised Trey and Monica, too. But I didn’t mind. I’d been an only child, and I wasn’t able to have children of my own. They were my family, and I built a home around them, and that’s all that mattered.”

  I pulled onto Ray Von’s street, but drove slowly, not wanting our conversation to end. “But you came back to New Orleans eventually. Why?”

  “I missed it. Philadelphia was never home to me. And I missed Gary.” She smiled to herself, recalling a distant memory.

  “What is it?” I prompted.

  “He gave me a ring from a Cracker Jack box before I left, and gave it to me as an engagement ring. I wore it all through college. And the Mardi Gras beads Wes had given me.” She pressed her hand against her chest and closed her eyes. “We don’t always get to choose where our hearts call home.”

  I slowed the car as we approached Ray Von’s house. “And Xavier? You said he sort of disappeared at the same time as Wes and Mrs. Guidry after the Comus Ball. Did he come back?”

  Aimee kept her gaze focused in front of her. “Ray Von said he’d gone for good, but I didn’t believe her. I kept on thinking I’d seen him in crowds on the street or leaving a building where I’d just been. Like he was watching me. But Ray Von said I must have been imagining it. Maybe I wanted to believe that somebody was looking out for me.” She turned to me in the car and spoke softly. “You understand, don’t you? Only those without mothers understand how truly alone we are.”

  I stopped the car at the curb behind a navy blue Lincoln. Ray Von stood at the passenger door, preparing to get in. A middle-aged woman, who I assumed to be another member of the Ladies Auxiliary, sat behind the wheel and waved as I got out of my car and approached.

  “Hello, Ray Von. I was hoping we’d catch you at home. Are you on your way out?”

  “Yes.” She watched as Aimee opened her door and pulled herself up on the doorframe. “Sorry I can’t stay to chat.”

  “Have you had a chance to look for the note yet?”

  I watched as she furrowed her eyebrows as if trying to recall what I was talking about. “I haven’t found it yet. But like I said before, there’s nothing in it besides what I already told you.”

  Aimee stood by the side of the car, not moving but steadily watching Ray Von. “Xavier’s doing well, Ray Von. Got the garden all ready for winter.”

  Ray Von’s expression didn’t change, but her eyes seemed to shift to a darker green. “Did you tell her yet?”

  Almost imperceptibly, Aimee shook her head.

  “Tell me yet about what?” I asked.

  Ray Von lifted her chin. “I’m only saying this because of Monica. Because of how much she wanted to know the truth.”

  “The truth about what?” I asked, my voice rising with frustration.

  Aimee shook her head again, but Ray Von ignored her. “Have you told her yet about the man Caroline Guidry left with that night?”

  I jerked my head around to face Aimee, whose skin had suddenly paled.

  “I’ve got to go,” Ray Von said as she slid into the waiting Lincoln.

  I walked around the car and helped Aimee into her seat before closing the door. In silence I buckled my seat belt and started the car. “What did she mean, Miss Aimee? Did Wes know the man his mother left with?”

  After a moment, she nodded. “I didn’t tell you because of Monica. I didn’t want you to think badly of her. She was always so sensitive to any perceived slight, to any wrong. I didn’t want you to know . . .” She stopped and took a deep breath before speaking again. “I didn’t want you to know that Monica might have had her own reasons for finding you in New York.”

  A cold drop of dread slid down my neck. “What was his name?” I asked, believing I already knew.

  Quietly, she answered. “Abe Holt.”

  CHAPTER 19

  And your ancient ruins shall be rebuilt; you shall raise up the foundations of many generations; you shall be called the repairer of the breach, the restorer of streets to dwell in.

  —ISAIAH 58:12

  Julie

  In those early months Beau and I spent on the Gulf Coast I learned to look at life as a series of befores and afters. For me, the line of demarcation was the day Chelsea disappeared and I lost my childhood. In the months I spent as a docent in the museum and as a new resident of Biloxi, I learned that in the Gulf Coast the line between before and after became Camille in 1969 that demolished the coast, toppled houses and businesses alike, killing one hundred and thirty-two people. In 2005, the line became Hurricane Katrina. It took the lives of nearly two thousand people, one hundred and seventy on the Gulf Coast, and created more havoc than could be seen in the flattened houses and flooded stadiums, or in news footage of stray dogs and orange paint on doors.

  But, as I was beginning to learn, that was only on the ou
tside, the only part the rest of the world bothered to see. As I watched new businesses open, and houses rebuilt, or even a ruin bulldozed, I was allowed to peek beneath that devastated surface to see a resilience and determination I knew I didn’t possess.

  Hurricane season ended in November, and although it wasn’t officially acknowledged, I imagined I heard a collective sigh of relief. I’d started my job at the museum, and even though I did little more than lead tours of schoolchildren and give people directions to the bathroom, I was content with this temporary stop in my life. The museum itself, designed by Frank Gehry, was an architectural marvel and was built, in the architect’s words, as a place that would dance among the trees. The three buildings that made up the first phase of the campus were created with soaring walls and tall metal pods nestled between ancient oaks. Looking at them from a distance, where it was hard to distinguish them as buildings, I believed that he’d fulfilled his promise.

  Trey and I fell into a workable relationship—I was the eyes of the project, texting photos of the site and any details up close for his inspection. On the days I was in Biloxi, I would visit the building site and bring snacks and ice water for the workers. It was a good excuse to linger longer than necessary as I checked to make sure that Monica’s house was as she’d remembered it.

  For his part, Trey was on the phone to the builder on a nearly daily basis discussing elevations, shipment of Hardie siding, and whether or not resistance to one-hundred-and-fifty-mile-per-hour winds would be enough.

  As if by unspoken agreement, we met in his office on Sunday and Wednesday evenings—since I worked in Biloxi Thursday through Sunday—comparing notes and making lists. Any alterations from the original house plans were met with strong objections from me, but I was usually overruled with assurances from Trey that all changes were for safety and durability.

  A grudging respect began to grow between the two of us as our initial mutual distrust dissipated. Instead of viewing the other as an adversary, we started to see instead a willing partner in our bid to fulfill the dream of a girl we had both loved and lost. We never spoke of this connection, but it was there as the walls were raised and ceilings drywalled on River Song, hovering over everything we touched and oversaw, as present as a ghost.

  My relationship with Aimee changed, too. I wasn’t angry that she’d withheld the information about Mrs. Guidry and my great-grandfather. I even understood that she’d done it to protect my memory of Monica. I was enjoying listening to Aimee’s stories about her growing up with Gary and Wes, and of Monica’s first eighteen years. But I had a lingering doubt that she was telling me everything, leaving me to wonder if we’d ever be able to put any pieces together if she kept so many behind her back.

  Despite the uncertainties, I’d gotten in the habit of searching the Internet for Abe Holt as often as I searched the missing persons sites, hoping to find some mention of Caroline Guidry, much as I imagined Monica must have done after she’d somehow managed to find out the identity of the person with whom Caroline had left the ball. It was surprising, yet inevitable, to find my name, and those of other family members, but not one mentioning Caroline, or even suggesting a mistress or lover or any woman associated with Abe Holt except for his first wife and my great-grandmother.

  I was at an impasse, no closer to finding out why Monica had left or why she’d befriended me, and River Song with its new walls and steel roof straps still an empty shell. If it hadn’t been for Beau’s gradual return to boyhood, I would almost say that this detour had been a colossal waste of time. To justify my time spent, I expanded my Internet search for Chelsea into international sites, and subscribed to several online newspapers from major cities throughout the country, just in case Detective Kobylt had missed something.

  On a sunny Sunday afternoon at the end of January, Trey showed up after work to pick me up to bring Beau and me back to New Orleans. The van had a leaky head gasket and would be in the repair shop until Trey returned us to Biloxi on Wednesday evening. He was smiling, which made me immediately suspicious. My curiosity was further aroused when I saw that not only was Beau not in the truck, but that Trey had also stowed a kayak in the truck bed.

  “Where’s Beau?” I asked as I tossed my purse on the floor of the passenger seat and then climbed in.

  “He and Charlie wanted to go see a movie, so Carol Sue took them as a treat for being so good today—which I took to mean less rolling in the dirt than usual. I figured now would be as good a time as any to show you the real Biloxi.”

  “Why would you figure that?”

  “Because last week you mentioned how it seemed the new condos and casinos outnumbered houses now. Which makes me think you haven’t seen much beyond your street, River Song, Carol Sue’s house, and the Ohr museum.”

  I didn’t answer him, mostly because he was right. “I just hope that your tour doesn’t include that kayak.”

  “Of course it does. You really need to experience the water, but since it’s too cold right now to swim, the next-best thing would be to get you in a boat.”

  I glanced through the truck’s window toward the endless water of the sound, interrupted by the barrier islands before heading into the great Gulf of Mexico and the unknown. It scared me, made me think of all that I didn’t know, of all the possibilities I couldn’t face. “That thing in the back of your truck is not exactly a ‘boat.’ Besides, I need to get back to New Orleans.”

  Not that I’d expected him to, but he didn’t stop the truck. “Why? Got a hot date?”

  “Maybe.” It was hard to keep a straight face. I stared out the windshield seeing the winding ribbon of sand and the undulating water beside the road, wondering what lurked beneath the waves.

  “You’ve got about two hours to kill before Beau’s done, so you might as well enjoy yourself.”

  I looked down at my skirt and blouse, and saw another escape route. “I’m not really dressed to go kayaking.”

  He glanced at the rear seat. “Carol Sue said you’d say that. You’re about the same size, so she threw some things in a bag for you. We’ll stop off at McDonald’s and you can change in the restroom.”

  Resigned, I let out a deep breath, an odd thread of excitement twisting through my fear. “Great,” I said. “You’ve thought of everything.” I forced myself to unclench my jaw, remembering the times Beau had gone out in a boat with Trey, and how he was already talking about learning how to water-ski. And he was only five years old. I suddenly felt very, very old.

  We had almost driven past it before I realized we were about to pass another Katrina tree. I watched for them now, as they’d become for me more than just the landscape of this strange new place, but more like a kind of touchstone. They were damaged, yet ethereal and compelling, and I felt the need to learn from them, to understand their secrets.

  The truck seemed to move in slow motion as we passed the tree. The bottom of its trunk was short and slim like a human wrist, its limbs the open fingers of a hand, each digit a different seabird with neck stretched long, wings back, diving for something I couldn’t see. I turned my head as we passed by it, wondering what it was about the reclaimed tree that made my heart hurt and my fingers tingle. I shifted in my seat, ignoring the water so close to the truck, and said, “I guess I can stand anything for two hours.”

  I heard the grin in his voice as he spoke. “Don’t let your enthusiasm get the best of you, Julie.”

  I smiled, too, but turned my face to the window to hide it.

  After a quick pit stop for me to change clothes, Trey parked the truck and I helped him carry the kayak to the end of a dock near the marina. He handed me a bright orange life vest and put one on himself, showing me how to tighten the straps and then checking mine to make sure I’d done it right.

  I watched his fingers, long and lean like Monica’s, and wondered if he, too, had the heart of an artist, but one hidden behind his stern lawyer persona. I lifted my head and found myself studying the shade of his hair, still sun-bleached, although we
were presumably in the middle of winter. His cheeks and chin showed blond stubble; his skin was lightly tanned. He looked up, his greenish blue eyes widening as he caught me staring. Stepping back, he appraised me from head to toe. “Neon orange suits you. You should wear it more often.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  Effortlessly, he lowered himself into the kayak, then asked me to hand him the oars. Still standing on the dock, I said, “Why don’t I watch you from here?”

  “Coward,” he said with a smile. “Now get in the boat.”

  He showed me how and held the boat steady against the dock as I found myself a secure seated position in front of him, his jeans-clad legs on either side of me. Small waves lapped at the side of the kayak, heavy with the scent of salt and plants and fish I couldn’t see.

  “You do know how to swim, right?”

  I shook my head. “No. We didn’t live close to the ocean, and we didn’t belong to the community pool. It was always something my father said we should do. But both of my parents worked and . . .” I stopped, the memories of my family always like a bruise I didn’t want to touch.

  As if understanding, Trey changed the subject. “I don’t have lights on the kayak, so we’ve got to be back before sunset, but that should give us plenty of time to get out there and back.”

  I shielded my eyes with my flattened hand. “Where exactly is ‘there’?”

  “Deer Island.” He pointed to a nearby mass of land, close enough that I could see the trees. “It’s only about a quarter of a mile away. There used to be a bunch of houses and docks on the island, but Camille did a massive redecoration. Now it’s owned by the state as a kind of nature preserve. Kids used to swim from Biloxi across the sound to the island. Don’t know if they still do.”

  “Did you?” I asked, remembering the wild boy of Monica’s stories, the boy who’d make a zip line out of anything he could find to propel him as quickly as possible into the water.