The Beach Trees

by Karen White

  “Your hand is always open to give.” She took my hand in both of hers and slowly curled my fingers until they formed a fist. “You must remember to receive, too.” She squeezed my hand between hers before placing it gently on the table, then sliding back her chair. “That’s all you need to know. Thank you for coming. And tell your friends.”

  I wanted to make a glib statement about how twenty-five dollars for five minutes seemed a bit steep, but I couldn’t push the words from my lips. Trey touched my shoulder, reminding me to move. I stood, not bothering to slide my chair under the table, and quickly left the room, eager to leave and escape from Madame Avery’s cool, watchful eyes. I let Trey say good-bye as I stood outside in the cool evening air, taking deep, gulping breaths as if I’d just run a mile.

  “You all right?” he asked.

  I nodded. “It was just stuffy in there, that’s all.”

  He regarded me closely, his eyes warm, but said nothing. “Come on; let’s go meet my dad.”

  I walked quickly toward the truck, eager to leave Madame Avery and her black eyes as far behind me as possible.

  As we drove down Annunciation Street, I saw an old lady walking three poodles, each one with fur dyed in the Mardi Gras colors of green, gold, and purple. I turned to Trey. “What was the name of your dog?”

  “How’d you know I had one?”

  “I saw his framed picture in one of your storage boxes and a leash in Monica’s. A yellow Lab, I think?”

  Trey nodded. “His name was Jax—after Jax beer, which used to be brewed here. First and only dog we ever had. Aimee gave him to Monica and me, but he had to live with Aimee, because our mother didn’t want dog hair everywhere.”

  “And you never got another one?”

  “No. Monica was too devastated when Jax died, so Aimee and I decided to wait before getting another dog. But then Monica left, and I guess I was waiting for her to come home so we could pick out one together.”

  We were silent for a while, listening to Marc Broussard on the radio singing about going home to the delta. “I’m thinking of getting a dog for Beau. Charlie has two cats and Beau’s always talking about them. But there’s something about boys and dogs that I think goes together. What do you think?”

  His cheek creased as he grinned. “I think it’s a great idea. I was actually going to bring it up, but then changed my mind.”

  I looked at him in the dark cab of the truck, passing streetlights illuminating his face in fits and starts. “Why did you change your mind?”

  He shrugged but didn’t look at me. “Because I thought it would make it seem like you were putting down roots, and I know that’s not what you want.”

  I wasn’t sure what to say to that. It wasn’t that he was right, but, I realized, it wasn’t that he was completely wrong, either. “Dogs are pretty portable,” I said.

  “So are little boys,” Trey added quietly as he pulled into a spot at the curb on Camp Street. We walked a block to the corner of Magazine and Napoleon and stood in front of a corner building with THE CLUB MISS MAE’S lit in neon orange over the front door. It was only eight o’clock at night, but there was a young man wearing topsiders and a polo shirt lying on the sidewalk against the building, a bottle of Dixie Beer cradled in his arms.

  “Nice place,” I said.

  “It can be,” Trey replied as he held the door open. “Especially if you’re on a budget and don’t want to spend more than a buck fifty on a drink. Or if you have a hankering for a drink at four o’clock in the morning. Miss Mae’s is open twenty-four-seven—which is nice if you’re in law school and studying until three in the morning.”

  “You come here often, then?” I asked as I stepped into the dark interior, the air heavy with cigarette smoke and stale beer.

  “Not anymore,” he said curtly, and I looked up at him, then followed his gaze to the long bar, where a man in a leather jacket sat with his forearms on the bar. A glass filled with amber liquid sat in front of him, two empty shot glasses next to it.

  We walked toward the bar as my eyes adjusted to the dark, taking in the requisite neon bar signs on the walls, the Foosball table, a jukebox. The place was nearly empty, and I thought it had less to do with it being a weeknight and more to do with the relatively early hour.

  We stopped behind the man at the bar. “Dad?” Trey touched the man’s shoulder.

  He turned around and his face was pale under the fluorescent lights, his dark hair threaded with gray. He smiled with an achingly familiar smile as he slid from his chair and stumbled. Trey grabbed his arm and held him steady before the man embraced him tightly. They were about the same height and build, yet it didn’t seem like Trey had any problem propping up the older man.

  Johnny turned to me, his face so much like Trey’s but fuller, the skin creased with lines caused by more than just age. “And you must be the girl who brought Monica’s little boy to us.”

  “This is Julie Holt, Dad. Remember? She’s Beau’s guardian, and part owner of River Song.”

  He nodded as Trey helped him back on his stool.

  I reached out my hand to shake his. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Guidry.”

  He took my hand, but instead of shaking it, he raised it to his lips and kissed the back of it. The three-day stubble on his chin tickled my skin, and his blue eyes sparkled as they regarded me. “Call me Johnny. Everybody does.” Still holding my hand, he looked over at Trey. “You didn’t tell me she was such a looker.”

  Trey took my arm, forcing his father to release his grasp, and settled me onto another stool. He dumped the to-go bag from Domilise’s on the bar. “Brought you dinner, since I figured you hadn’t gotten around to eating yet. This might soak up some of the booze.”

  Johnny eyed him with amusement. “I hope it’s none of that fried crap. You know how health-conscious I am.”

  Ignoring him, Trey asked, “How’s Deidre?” He pulled a third stool between me and his father and sat down.

  Johnny waved his hand, a gold ring on his pinkie. “No idea. Haven’t seen her in a few months. I’m seeing Clarissa now.”

  Trey raised his eyebrows. “Well, if Deidre doesn’t mind you dating other women while you’re still married to her, stay married. It would be a lot cheaper than another divorce.”

  Johnny lifted his glass. “Amen to that,” he said, and took another sip.

  I looked on in stunned fascination. Trey and Monica were nothing like their father, except for the thick, wavy hair and straight noses. But as I watched Trey and Johnny interact, it occurred to me how much influence Aimee Guidry had had over her grandchildren, and how strong she must have been for Trey and Monica to have turned out as well as they had.

  A bartender approached, and Trey ordered a Dixie beer for both of us, despite my request for a Coke. He leaned over and, speaking quietly, said, “You’ll need the beer when talking with Johnny. I always do.”

  I raised my eyebrows, but let it go at that. Johnny lifted a finger and the bartender placed an ice cube in his glass, then added two shots from a Jack Daniel’s bottle.

  Trey took a swig from his beer. Plopping the bottle down on the scarred wooden bar top, he said, “So, Dad, what did you want to tell me in person that you couldn’t tell me over the phone?”

  “Nothing much. I just wanted to meet the beautiful Julie. The way you and Aimee have described her to me, I thought she’d have a halo and wings.” He looked up at me and winked. “Just didn’t expect her to be so gorgeous, too.”

  Trey leaned forward to block Johnny’s view of me. “That’s enough, Dad. Why don’t you tell me why you felt the need to drag us here on a Wednesday night?”

  Trey sat back on his stool as Johnny took a small sip from his glass. “Just wanted to know why you’ve developed this sudden interest in old family history, that’s all.”

  I could tell from the belligerent look on Trey’s face that I was going to need to intervene. Placing my hand on Trey’s arm, I interjected, “Because Aimee, Trey, and I think that the
re might be some connection between Monica’s running away and Caroline Guidry’s disappearance. We know that Monica had done some research into the family of the artist who’d painted the portrait before she left. The artist, Abe Holt, was my great-grandfather. The rumor after Caroline disappeared was that she ran away with Abe Holt.”

  He nodded slowly, his bloodshot eyes sharp. “But what about Aimee’s mother? Why would you be digging that up? It’s got nothing to do with Monica.”

  “Probably not,” Trey said. “But while we were trying to find police records it made sense to see if we could turn up anything. For Aimee. She’s lived all these years not knowing, and I think it would give her some peace to finally have an answer.”

  Johnny nursed his glass for a long moment. “Why are you doing this? None of this will bring Monica back.”

  “No,” I said. “It won’t. But we feel we need to know, to understand what drove her away. Beau will want to know when he’s older.”

  After a long moment, Trey spoke quietly. “Aimee and I need to know that it wasn’t because of us. It’s the thing that haunts us both, not knowing that. To constantly wonder.” Trey slid his beer across the bar and signaled to the bartender to bring another.

  Johnny slammed his drink down. “And if you know, then you’ll know who to blame, and what good will that do?”

  Trey shook his head. “I’m not looking for blame, only understanding. I loved my sister, and she was trying to tell us something with her disappearance. Whatever her reasons, I don’t blame her or anyone else. I want to know so I can say good-bye to her.”

  I looked at Trey as if seeing him for the first time, his skin smooth under the bar lighting, his eyes distant, and I had the strange urge to put my arms around him, to lay my head on his shoulder to show him that I understood the need to know, to understand that in the vagaries of the world there are times when there is no blame, and in its stead only circumstances and unexplained absences. I suspected that he’d known this all along; it was how he got out of bed each morning.

  “So what did you find out from the old records?” Johnny asked.

  Trey began peeling the label off of his beer, reminding me to take a sip of my own. “The same thing you probably already found out. That everything was lost during Katrina.”

  Johnny nodded, but didn’t look at either of us. “So that’s that.”

  “Not exactly.” Trey studied his fingers as they slowly and methodically pulled strips off the Dixie beer label. “I spoke to Mom today—her twice-yearly phone call to see how I’m doing—and we got to talking about how I had been trying to find those old case files. And she said the most interesting thing to me.”

  I frowned. He hadn’t mentioned any of this to me, and I wondered if it was because he wanted to surprise his father, or because he hadn’t wanted me to know in advance.

  “Careful what you say, son. Family is family.”

  “I know. Which is why I need to bring this out in the open.”

  “Do you want me to leave?” I asked, starting to stand.

  Trey put his hand on my arm. “No. You’re Beau’s guardian and part of this family now. Unless you want to leave.”

  I settled back on my stool, my eyes steady as they met his. “No.”

  I watched as a tic began in Johnny’s jaw, just like Trey when he was angry. I looked back at my warm beer bottle, trying not to laugh at the irony.

  “So what was so interesting?” Johnny asked.

  “Mom told me that after Monica left, you went digging into those same case files, and you found that Aimee’s mother’s file was missing completely and Caroline’s file held only a couple of pages of noninformation. Like somebody had been messing around with them.”

  Johnny drained his glass. “What about it?”

  “So it made me wonder. Why would Monica’s disappearance send you into those files?”

  “Same reason as you, I guess. I was curious. My only daughter had run away and took that painting of my grandmother. I thought there might be a connection.”

  Trey and I exchanged a glance. “We were interested because of Julie’s connection to the artist. We didn’t think there was a connection with Caroline’s disappearance. Why would you?”

  Johnny shook his head slowly. “Don’t do this, Trey. You should let the dead rest.”

  “Why would you make that connection?” Trey demanded again.

  Johnny swiveled on his stool and glared at his son. “Because when my mother died, she told me something.”

  “Lacy?” I asked.

  “Yes. My beautiful mother, Lacy. Did you know that I was in the car wreck that killed her?”

  I shook my head. Trey and Monica never talked about Lacy. I hadn’t even known she was dead.

  Johnny continued. “I wasn’t driving. She was. Everybody thought she’d died right away, but she didn’t.”

  Trey tensed on the stool next to me, his hand squeezing his empty beer bottle.

  “She lived long enough to tell me something I didn’t want to hear.”

  A loud group of college students burst into the room, but their laughter seemed distant and faint, as if the only voice in the room were Johnny’s.

  “What did she say, Dad?”

  Johnny looked at us, one after the other. “She told me to ask my father to tell me why he’d married her, to tell me everything. That all the secrets were like a curse on the family.”

  “And did you?” I asked quietly.

  He shook his head. “No.” His gaze met mine, his eyes piercing. “Have you ever wanted the truth so badly that it blinds you to everything else?”

  Air left my lungs as Trey’s hand crept into mine and stayed there.

  Johnny continued. “I’m not that strong. I wanted to know, but I was afraid of what I might find.” He raised his glass. “Good ol’ JD made it so that I wouldn’t have to think about it.”

  “Until Monica left.”

  He nodded. “Yes. My only daughter ran away without saying good-bye, and it forced me to remember what my mother had said about secrets.”

  “I don’t understand,” I said.

  Trey stood, bringing me up with him. “So after you found out about the missing files, you went to see Wes. To finally ask him what Lacy was talking about.”

  “Yep. And that’s when I saw that the portrait was missing, and I figured that whatever I was trying to find out, Monica had figured out on her own. But it was too late to ask Wes about it.”

  “Because he’d had his stroke,” said Trey.

  Johnny nodded. “And then the dementia. Sometimes I wonder how lucky he is not to have to remember any of the bad stuff.”

  I stared at him, confused. “Wes? Wes is who Aimee visits in the nursing home?”

  Johnny looked at me oddly. “Why wouldn’t she? He’s her husband.”

  I shook my head, not understanding. “But I thought she married Gary.”

  Trey put his hand on my arm. “Hold on, Julie. Aimee will want to tell you herself.”

  I glanced between the two men, suddenly eager to leave.

  As if reading my mind, Johnny stood, gripping the counter tightly to hold himself steady. He looked at Trey. “You’re a smart boy, son; I’m sure you can take it from here. There’s just one more question you need to ask yourself.”

  Trey stared back at his father, a small crease between his eyebrows. Finally, he said, “Wes was the last one to look at those files. Aimee told us that he’d gone to see if he could find anything and he said there wasn’t any new information. He didn’t mention that one was missing. He must have been the one to take them. But why? And what did Monica discover?”

  Johnny tapped his forefinger against his forehead, his gold pinkie ring twinkling. “Just like your old man, Trey.” Then he fell back onto his stool and signaled the bartender again. But I saw something in his eyes, something sad and desolate that belied his offhandedness. It made me think of Monica and how well she’d hidden her hurt from me, and it was suddenly obvious from
whom she’d learned how.

  “I’ll see you around, Dad.” Trey turned to leave.

  “Good-bye, Johnny,” I said, still focused on his sad eyes, Trey already tugging me toward the door. We’d almost reached it when I stopped. “Just a second.” I dug into my wallet and pulled out Beau’s preschool photograph, the one of him with the Thomas the Tank Engine sweater his mother had found in a consignment shop. I placed it on the bar and slid it over to Johnny.

  “This is Beau. You should come see him. He looks just like Monica and I think he’s the most wonderful little boy in the world. He’s sweet, and smart, and funny....” I stopped, realizing I sounded like a used-car salesman. “You should come see him,” I finished.

  He picked up the photograph and blinked rapidly as he looked at his grandson for the first time. I touched his forearm, wishing there were more I could say.

  “I loved my daughter, Julie. Despite what you might think or have heard, I loved her. And I will mourn her until the day I die.” He looked up at me, his eyes wet. “Can I keep this?”

  “Of course.” I squeezed his hand, then left, suddenly feeling exhausted. I stepped out of the bar into the cool February evening, gulping air like I’d been held underwater for a very long time. I was disoriented and turned until I found Trey, and he put his hands on my shoulders, steadying me.

  “Thanks for doing that, Julie. For sharing Beau with him. I don’t think I could have.” Then, before I realized what was happening, or maybe because I wanted him to, Trey leaned down and pressed his lips against mine. I felt like I was underwater again, but this time I didn’t need air to breathe or legs to stand, because I was breaking up through the surface, seeing the tall pine trees and the old oaks on Deer Island. And I felt Trey’s warmth pressed against me, fluid and sleek, and when my eyes closed again, I saw the Katrina tree with the pod of dolphins, their hard bodies stretching into the sky.

  CHAPTER 22

  Eye: The roughly circular area of comparatively light winds that encompasses the center of a severe tropical cyclone. The eye is either completely or partially surrounded by the eyewall cloud.