“Not the same, Mom. Where was he when I graduated from high school and college, and where is he on Thanksgiving and Christmas? Or my birthday? Do you understand that there’s a hole in my life that no one can fill? Ever?”
“Yes, because I felt the same way when my father died.”
“I guess you probably did. I don’t know. Maybe there’s a part of me that fell for Max because he seemed like he would make me whole and protect me. Absolutely. But I’m just saying that no one should expect me to just get over it or to ever understand why Daddy preferred to spend his last days with Karen instead of us.”
“Beth. He didn’t reject you. He rejected me. He loved you with every bit of his heart.”
“No he didn’t.”
“Yes he did! He left you every dime he ever earned. He didn’t leave Karen the extra buttons from his shirts! And remember, when he was sick, he turned to us. Because he trusted us. He trusted us to take care of him.”
“But he didn’t want to spend his final days with us.”
“No, he didn’t want to spend his final days with me, and listen, he told me that he didn’t want you to see him so sick. He thought he was protecting you from seeing something terrible. Parents like to do that, you know.”
“He did?”
“Yes, he did.”
“You never told me that!”
“I didn’t? Well, wouldn’t you assume that by now anyway?”
“No! I was just a kid!”
“Sometimes I think you’re like already forty.”
“I guess I have mature moments and really stupid ones, as you know.”
“That has very little to do with chronological age.”
“You’re right. Well, listen, maybe he was a lousy husband to you, but I have lots of memories of him being a great father to me.”
“Beth, you seem to have a short memory on the details. I always supported your relationship with him. I can’t help what other people say.”
“You’re right and I know that. Anyway, I did a really, really stupid thing by giving Max all that money. I know that. And I guess some of this is tied up in a daddy thing. But one thing is for sure, nothing like that will ever happen again. I learned my lesson.”
“I sure hope so.”
“I just want to know how I can make things right between us again, Mom. Please! What can I do to make you trust me again?”
“Beth, I completely forgive you for what you did and I think I understand the why of it better now. But that still doesn’t justify forging a document and committing fraud.”
“I know.”
“Trust? Let’s be serious, Beth. That’s just going to take some time. What else can I say? You did a terrible thing! It was criminal! You have to take responsibility for that. It’s just going to take time for me to believe in you completely. I mean, I know that someday I will, but right now I feel very betrayed.”
“So what can I do to speed up the process?”
“You know the old saying, Beth. Actions speak louder than words, right?”
“Yes ma’am.”
“And you know what? I’m sorry that I didn’t do a better job for you to help you deal with your daddy’s death. From here on out, anytime you want to talk about him, I’m ready to listen.”
“Lousy grief counseling doesn’t justify fraud. I still can’t believe that I did this.”
“Me either. So, what about Iowa?”
“Maybe someday, but not for now. I think that now I need to be around you so I can get my head back on straight. I want Uncle Henry to keep all my money from Aunt Sophie and not let me near it.”
“That’s a good idea, Beth. Anyway, I don’t think it’s all that great to be alone.”
“Right? Or that healthy. What about Paris?”
“Well, it’s still in France and it appears that now I have a newspaper to run. And guess what?”
“What?”
“Maggie wants to write a column on food, another one on decorating with found objects, and another one on advice.”
“Holy crap! It shouldn’t surprise me at all.”
“Who’s more qualified to do it?”
“No one!”
“You can cover the community news, the calendars, and if you’re very, very good, I’ll let you handle the police blotter.”
“My favorite! I love to read that, see what kind of varmints are around. You know what, Mom?”
“What?”
“I already miss Aunt Sophie something terrible.”
“I know you do. So do I.”
“Do you think she’ll come back to the house?”
“Who can say? But if I know her? She will if she can.”
“Maybe Livvie can help her.”
When they got home, it was in the cool of the evening. They knocked the sand out of their shoes, put Lola in her crate, and found a place at the table. They had a delicious dinner of flounder, salad, and whatever was left over from Sophie’s funeral lunch.
“Too bad this fried chicken only comes around when someone dies,” Maggie said. “This is the best crust I’ve ever had in my whole life!”
“Ask the church ladies for the recipe for the paper,” Susan said.
“Great idea!”
“Hey, Mom?”
“What, Doodle?”
The fact that her mother called her Doodle relieved her and gave her hope that she had advanced an inch or so, back inside the château’s walls.
“You know what would be really nice?”
“What?”
“If we gave Cecily free advertising for her business. I mean, right? After all she does for us?”
“Why not? Great idea!”
“Now you’re thinking like a Hamilton,” Maggie said. “Tell me, do you think Woody’s coming back soon?”
“Oh yeah,” Beth said.
“You sound mighty confident about that,” Simon said.
“I put sand in his shoes,” Beth said.
“And once you’ve got Sullivans Island sand in your shoes?” Grant said.
“Your heart will ache to return,” Beth said, finishing the old saying. “Strange but true,” Simon said.
Later, when Cecily left, Grant and Simon decided to go down to Dunleavy’s to check the temperature of the beer. Beth was upstairs working on an article about Max Mitchell’s ponzi scheme. Susan and Maggie drifted out to the porch. They sat for a while, rehashing Susan’s talk with Beth, Sophie’s funeral, and all the things that had happened in the few weeks that had passed since Susan had left for Paris. About an hour went by and soon they heard Beth’s footsteps coming down the stairs. She stopped at the screen door.
“Y’all want anything? I’m going to the kitchen to get a Coke.”
“No, we’re good, sweetheart.”
“Thanks, Doodle.”
A few seconds later they heard her screaming for them.
“Mom! Aunt Maggie! Come quickly! Hurry!”
Susan and Maggie jumped up from their rockers and found Beth in the living room, staring into the mirror.
“Look!”
On the other side of the glass, there stood Livvie in a housedress and an apron. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a handful of something and threw it into the air around her. Hundreds of butterflies, of every color there is in the world, swirled and fluttered all over the inside of the mirror, from top to bottom.
“Merciful Mother of God!” Maggie cried out. “Livvie! What does it mean?”
“It’s Aunt Sophie,” Beth said. “She’s all right.”
“My goodness!” Susan said.
“What do butterflies have to do with Sophie?” Maggie said.
“Uh…” Beth said, and told her Sophie’s secret.
“You couldn’t pay me to get a tattoo,” Maggie said. “Nasty.”
“We know that,” Susan said with a laugh. “Would you just look at this?”
“Livvie!” Beth said. “Is everything all right?”
Livvie just smiled, nodded her he
ad, and faded away. They stood there until the last butterfly had disappeared.
“This house drives me insane,” Beth said.
“Don’t say that,” Maggie said. “You know insanity runs in the family.”
“I think it’s cool,” Susan said.
Maggie cut her eyes at Susan in a suspicious look and Beth faced her mother with her eyebrow finally in a perfect arch.
“Okay,” Susan added, “sometimes it’s cool. Not all the time…”
Maggie, Grant, and Simon returned to California, making all the preparations to return to the Lowcountry. To their great sorrow, Allison’s condition remained unchanged but there were new drugs in the works, drugs that Grant and Simon told them all might be of great help in bringing Allison around.
With them gone for a while, Beth and her mother had the time to cocoon and compare notes. The Island Gamble was calmer and you could hear the walls sigh from time to time, relieved to have its family searching for resolutions. The slamming and the thumps were gone. Beth and Susan were grateful for the peace. It had been years since Susan had examined the great heartaches of her life, and once Beth started talking about hers, it was all she could do to stop for a breath. Over and over, they would remark to each other that the pain of losing their fathers at a young age was almost unbearable; they had grown up to love the wrong men, had their hearts broken, and their confidence shaken to the core. But with each passing day and on the turn of each tide, they found new strength and faith in each other, something that could not be bought with all the riches of the world. Night after night, in the arms of the Island Gamble, over the sounds of the sea and the smells of salt and jasmine, they laughed and cried, healing each other with compassion, and in that journey, rediscovered the most important asset they shared, the love they had for each other, for every family member, and always for Sullivans Island.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Everywhere I go, people tell me their stories about Sullivans Island. Perhaps they spent their childhoods there, vacationed there, fell in love there, or raised their own children there. Maybe they had only one meal there, or took a walk on the beach. It doesn’t matter how brief the experience may have been, their eyes light up with the glow of a perfect memory, and I want to thank them first, most especially Reavis Davis of Sullivans Island for her wonderful memories and Kay White of Columbia for her terrific stories from Pell Pozaro. I cannot begin to tell you how much I enjoyed reading them. They brought back my childhood so vividly I could almost smell the plough mud! Many thanks.
Important things happen on Sullivans Island, lives are changed forever by events you never forget. And you may say that all islands are like that, or that people’s lives are changed by events that happen anywhere and the location is immaterial. Anyone who’s been to Sullivans Island is snickering right about now because we who know the island know better. It’s a magical place, a tiny enchanted sandbar. So if you’ve told me your story, you might find a slice of it in these pages and I thank you for sharing so generously.
To my agent and great friend Larry Kirshbaum, the grandest of all gentlemen in New York, huge love and thanks for his excellent counsel, friendship, and patience. And to Susanna Einstein of LJK Literary Management, many thanks for your friendship, and for obvious reasons I’d like to borrow your name from time to time, if that’s okay with you.
To my editor, Carrie Feron, whose patience alone is going to jettison her through the pearly gates straight to the throne next to the Blessed Mother—no time soon please—and whose vision and excellent editorial work is why this story hangs together and whose good humor has been the savior of us all, I bow and scrape. And to Lola, her precious pooch, thanks for being Beth’s dog too!
And to the über Jedis at William Morrow and Avon: Brian Murray, Michael Morrison, Liate Stehlik, Adrienne DiPietro, Tessa Woodward, Lynn Grady, Tavia Kowalchuk, Seale Ballenger, Ben Bruton, Virginia Stanley, Bobby Brinson, Jamie Brickhouse, Rachel Bressler, Michael Brennan, Carl Lennertz, Carla Parker, Michael Morris, Michael Spradlin, Brian Grogan, and my new friends in California, Gabe Barillas and Deb Murphy (many thanks for your incredible hospitality), thank you one and all for your wonderful, generous support—love and kisses to you!
To Pamela Redmond Satran, Mary Jane Clark, Debbie Galant, Deborah Davis, Benilde Little, Christina Baker Kline, and Liza Dawson, my New Jersey faves, huge thanks for your friendship and wit.
To Jack Alterman for this gorgeous cover of our beloved island on which this story unfolds, and for my author photo too.
To my dear friend Buzzy Porter, thanks for being so great at every turn and for everything you do. See ya this summer at Chick-fil-A!
Oh, Debbie Zammit? We’re still alive! I’m sending you tons of love and megatons of thanks for keeping me on track, for your meticulous scrutiny, for your crazy humor, and most of all for the tuna salad. I love ya, Miss Deb, for everything!
To Ann Del Mastro, Mary Allen, George Zur, and Kevin Sherry—the Franks adore you all and deeply appreciate all you do to keep our wheels turning.
To Penn Sicre, my friend of so many years it’s almost unbelievable, many thanks for your faith.
I curtsy to my cousin Charles “Comar” Blanchard of Mount Pleasant, South Carolina, for about a million reasons and he knows them all better than I do!
To the real people who appear as characters in these pages—Mary Ellen Way, Drew Harris, Billy Condon, Robert Klotz, Alan Palmer, Jessie Jacobs, Bridget Welch, Mike Coker, Hailey Nagel from the very cool Allure Salon in Charleston, Chief Dan Howard, Judge Steve Steinert, Barbara Farlie, Brigitte Miklaszewski, Dr. George Durst, Vicki Crafton, her fabulous husband Tom Warner and their precious dog Mac—if your character acts out of character, the fault is mine, not yours, or you could tell the curious that you were just acting. In any case, I hope you all get a kick out of seeing your names in print. I send you all much love and thanks!
To three of the finest gentlemen to whom Sullivans Island has ever played home: Marshall Stith and Larry Dodds, and Everett Presson, many thanks for your advice, for your unfailing friendship, and for helping to fill in the blanks. Love y’all forever!
And to the booksellers across the land—and I mean every last one of them—especially Patti Morrison, Larry Morey, Rachel Carnes, and every single sainted soul from Barnes & Noble in Mount Pleasant, South Carolina; Tom Warner and Vicki Crafton of Litchfield Books in Pawleys Island, South Carolina; Jennifer McCurry of Waldenbooks in Charleston; Margot Sage-El of Watchung Booksellers in Montclair, New Jersey; Frazer Dobson and Sally Brewster of Park Road Books in Charlotte, North Carolina; and Jacquie Lee of Books-A-Million—how can I ever thank you for the many ways you have changed my life and my family’s life for the better. I owe you so much and I thank you profusely for it all.
And to the ones who suffer most when it’s deadline time or the muse won’t speak, my wonderful husband, Peter, and our glorious children, Victoria and William, I love you with all my heart, and at the end of the day you are who matters most in my life.
Finally, to my readers, to whom I owe the greatest debt. I send you so many sincere thanks for reading my stories, sending along so many nice emails, and for coming out to book signings in all kinds of weather, especially when there are so many demands on your time. You’re the reason I continue to write, and I hope someday you’ll all come to Sullivans Island and get some of that magical sand in your shoes!
I love you all!
About the Author
New York Times bestselling author DOROTHEA BENTON FRANK was born and raised on Sullivans Island, South Carolina. She and her husband, Peter, divide their time between the New York area and South Carolina.
www.dotfrank.com
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Also by DOROTHEA BENTON FRANK
Bulls Island
The Christmas Pearl
The Land of Mango Sunsets
Full of Grace
Pawleys Island
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Shem Creek
Isle of Palms
Plantation
Sullivans Island
Credits
Jacket photograph by Jack Alterman
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
RETURN TO SULLIVANS ISLAND. Copyright © 2009 by Dorothea Benton Frank. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
Adobe Digital Edition May 2009 ISBN 978-0-06-189175-5
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