LF47 - Love Finds You in Folly Beach, South Carolina

by Loree Lough

  Love Finds You™

  IN

  Folly Beach

  S O U T H C A R O L I N A

  Love Finds You™

  IN

  Folly Beach

  S O U T H C A R O L I N A

  LOREE LOUGH

  Summerside Press™

  Minneapolis 55438

  summersidepress.com

  Love Finds You in Folly Beach, South Carolina

  © 2011 by Loree Lough

  ISBN 978-1-60936-214-0

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in

  any form, except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without written

  permission of the publisher.

  The town depicted in this book is a real place, but all characters are

  fictional. Any resemblances to actual people or events are purely

  coincidental.

  Cover Design by Lookout Design | www.lookoutdesign.com

  Interior design by Müllerhaus Publishing Group | www.mullerhaus.net

  Back cover and interior photos of Folly Beach provided by Loree Lough.

  Summerside Press™ is an inspirational publisher offering fresh,

  irresistible books to uplift the heart and engage the mind.

  Printed in USA.

  Dedication

  To Larry, whose steadfastness taught me what lasting love is all about. To my daughters and grandchildren, whose understanding makes it possible for me to “live my dream.” To friends and relatives, for patiently enduring my never-ending chatter about Folly Beach and the characters who brought it to life. And most of all, to my Lord and Savior, for infusing me with the desire to deliver Your Word through the pages of Christ-inspired fiction.

  Acknowledgments

  My heartfelt gratitude goes out to all the wonderful people at the Folly Beach Chamber of Commerce, the Folly Beach Turtle Watch Program, and the Save the Light (Morris Island) organization for providing a slew of past-and-present information about your projects and your lovely town.

  Thanks to Ann, who, despite caring for dozens of hungry patrons at The Crab Shack, graciously took the time to tell me about “all the nifty Folly places you just can’t miss!”

  And a great big thank-you to Jim Taylor, for pretending you didn’t mind that all the big ones got away when I interrupted your peaceful fishing at Folly’s fishing pier with nonstop questions about your hometown.

  I pray that I’ve done y’all proud. And, God willing, the US Postal Service will help me put those copies of Love Finds You in Folly Beach, South Carolina, I promised into your oh-so-helpful hands!

  If you, dear reader, would like to learn more about the

  Save the Light and Turtle Watch programs,

  visit www.savethelight.org and www.follyturtles.com.

  I think you’ll find the information fascinating and educational!

  JUST SOUTH OF HISTORIC CHARLESTON LIES THE BARRIER ISLAND Folly Beach, one of the East Coast’s best surfing destinations. Whether vacationers crave a lively holiday spot or a haven from life’s hassles, this stunning seaside town delivers.

  Translated from old English, folly means “area of dense foliage,” so it isn’t surprising that it seemed the ideal location for harried ship captains to abandon cholera-infected passengers…who dubbed it “Coffin Island.” In no time, this sandy slice of heaven healed and prospered and earned a new moniker: “The Edge of America.”

  Folly Beach legends boast of pirates and buccaneers, while history books list Civil War officers who plotted battle strategy on the island that eventually became a Union stronghold. Three hundred feet offshore stands the old Morris Island lighthouse, a defiant sentinel and ghostly reminder of the days when its beacon guided vessels into port. And did you know that, while vacationing in Folly Beach in 1934, Ira Gershwin wrote the opera Porgy and Bess? These days, any visitor can claim “writing fame” by adding a message to the hundreds layered onto the hull of “The Boat,” washed ashore during Hurricane Hugo.

  So grab your fishing poles and prepare to snag a big ’un from the Folly Beach Fishing Pier. Bring your camera and capture the dazzling dawn on film. If you’re patient (and a little bit lucky), you might catch the infamous “green flash” glowing on the horizon at sunset. But even if you miss it, your time in Folly Beach will be dazzling and memorable!

  Loree Lough

  Chapter One

  Holly steered the sporty convertible onto Center Street, where the houses glowed with summery pastel hues and vibrant awnings shaded outdoor cafés and sidewalk sales. Everything about the charming South Carolina town whispered “Welcome,” from the soft hiss of waves that lapped the sand to the briny sea-scent of the air. With every puff of the balmy breeze, palmetto palms swayed in syncopated rhythm—like tall dancers on a stage of concrete and cobble-stone. Gulls soared overhead, shrieking as they swooped in to grab a discarded french fry or cookie crumb.

  A sense of belonging enveloped her, inspiring a quick and heartfelt prayer of thanks that she’d finally arrived. Folly Beach seemed like a perfect name for the town, considering all the foolishness she’d endured to get here. So much for her father’s step-by-step directions and the loan of his GPS. If anyone back in Baltimore knew how far out of the way she’d driven—or how many times she’d been lost—Holly would never live it down.

  At least the weather had cooperated.

  Just outside of Richmond, where she’d stopped to top off the gas tank and get directions back onto the highway, she’d put down the convertible top. The sun on her face felt so wonderful that Holly almost forgot about the crazy detours.

  Almost.

  Yawning, she slowed for a traffic light. Tucking windblown curls behind her ears, she pulled down the visor mirror. “Rats,” she told her reflection, “more freckles.” As if she didn’t already look more like a high-school kid than a nearly thirtysomething scientist…

  Well, there wasn’t a thing she could do about that now. The time for action had been at five thirty this morning, when she’d been so preoccupied with packing shoes to match every outfit that she’d completely forgotten to apply sunblock.

  Stifling another yawn, she tapped the steering wheel in time with “The Beat Goes On.” Hopefully the song’s lively tempo would keep her awake until she settled into her room at Coastal Cottage Bed and Breakfast. For the past ten miles, she’d thought of little else but the home-squeezed lemonade and fresh-baked brownies pictured in the colorful brochure. And a hot shower sure would feel nice right about—

  The blare of a horn startled her enough to produce a quiet yelp. With one hand over her hammering heart, she stared into the rearview mirror.

  “Light’s green!” the driver bellowed, pointing up.

  She started to say “Sorry,” but he never gave her the chance. Instead, he sped by on her left, glowering. “Well, I never,” she huffed, taking her foot off the brake. “Aren’t you just the welcome-wagon poster boy?”

  Instantly, guilt washed over her. For all she knew, the guy had a perfectly good excuse for behaving like an impatient boor. What if his wife was in labor? Maybe he was a doctor, rushing to perform emergency surgery—or a firefighter, on his way to help douse a three-alarm blaze. She said a little prayer for him and got on her way.

  At the next corner, a white-haired man stepped off the curb, and Holly slowed to let him pass. He tipped his hat and mouthed “Thank you” as he walked in front of her car. Now that’s what I call Southern hospitality. She nearly giggled out loud at her next thought: Maybe if Mr. Baseball Cap loosened his hatband a notch or two, his mood would improve.

  Bless him, Lord, she pr
ayed, and fill him with the same peace that I’m feeling right now.

  “Amen,” she whispered, as a familiar green-and-orange convenience store sign came into view. Magazines, snacks, and bottled water would help to pass the hours as she pored over her notes at the end of every day. And what better way to meet a few locals? Maybe they’d know something about the man who’d hired her to help write the chapter about sea turtles for his book about the Morris Island lighthouse.

  One quick turn aligned her car with two big pickup trucks beside it. Then, hoisting her big faux-alligator purse onto one shoulder, she aimed for the double glass doors, where colorful, bigger-than-life photos of donuts, ice cream, and hot dogs made her mouth water. “Decision time, Hol,” she whispered, stepping inside, “something to eat and then a nap, or the other way around?”

  She got the answer to her question in the form of a smiling young mother, who led her ice cream–eating toddler from the store, oblivious to the strawberry-pink trail that led from the cashier’s counter to the door.

  * * * * *

  Of all the days to get stuck behind a dizzy blond, why today, when his patience had all but reached its snapping point?

  Stifling a groan, Parker drove toward Coastal Cottage and tried not to think about his hectic day. As he left the early-morning Save the Light meeting for his charter fishing boat, his first mate had called to say he’d picked up a stomach bug. Parker had made three calls to replace Joe, all with no success. He considered canceling the trip until he remembered that his client, Sam, enjoyed baiting his own hooks and setting his own lines. But even with Sam’s help, he’d be forced to troll—a colossal waste of fuel and time—and rarely as successful as dropping anchor when his sonar screen told him they’d found a hot spot. Then, to further complicate things, Kate Sullivan’s whining thoroughly tested his “customer is always right” principle:

  The motor’s vapors were “stinky” and the engine itself was too noisy. The wind mussed her blond hair—but when the wind stopped, she whimpered that the heat and humidity were sure to smother her. In response to her complaint that the deck was too hot for bare feet, Parker suggested shoes, inviting a scowl rivaled only by the stuffed barracuda in the window at Temple’s Taxidermy.

  “If you don’t quit acting like a two-year-old,” Sam had scolded, “I’m gonna toss you overboard.”

  For a minute there, it looked like Kate’s moping might just succeed in pulling an apology from her husband. Instead, Sam provided the only enjoyable moment of Parker’s day by saying, “On second thought, that seems like cruel and unusual punishment… for the fish.”

  Chuckling at the memory, Parker tugged at the bill of the Orioles cap that had belonged to a fallen comrade who’d been born and bred in Baltimore. Poor Sam, he thought—because, by now, Kate had probably doled out some form of pouty payback for her long-suffering husband’s wisecrack. If Parker lived to be a hundred, he’d never understand why every man he knew tried so hard to please their wives and girlfriends. Every last one of them was his age or older, so why hadn’t they figured out that it was an exercise in futility? He wanted a home and children as much as the next guy, but to have them, he’d first need a wife. The irony might have been comical if he hadn’t just spent four grueling hours with Kate Sullivan.

  “Better get hold of yourself, Brant,” he grumbled. He would arrive at his mother’s cottage any second, and the last thing he wanted was for his rotten mood to foul up her evening too. When it got a little tough to balance the demands of his charter-boat business, a book deadline, and helping out while his mom recuperated from surgery, he just reminded himself that for every night of sleep he’d lost these past weeks, Maude had devoted a year of her life to him.

  The list of things that needed his attention at the cottage his mom had shared with her grandparents was as long as his anchor. He needed to get up onto the roof and straighten a crooked lightning rod, for one thing, and while he was up there, he might as well replace those slate shingles that had cracked during the last storm. The shutters on the turret needed a fresh coat of paint, and so did the turret itself. And when he got it all done, there were a dozen similar chores waiting for him at his own house, just up the road.

  As he pulled into the driveway of Maude’s cottage, the old quote “Man plans, and God laughs” came to mind, inspiring a gruff chuckle. Now if Parker could depict that concept on canvas, maybe he’d finally sell another painting!

  He threw the gearshift into PARK. A glance at the cloudless blue sky was enough to encourage the decision to leave the windows down; it wouldn’t take long to change Maude’s bandages, fix her something to eat, and make sure her medications and a thermos of lemonade were within easy reach.

  With any luck, it would still be light enough to check the progress of his vegetable garden and then catch the Orioles game when he got home. Parker stooped to pluck a weed from between two flagstones in the walk. No way he’d have the time or the freedom for either with a wife and kids. An uncomplicated life is a happy life, he thought, climbing the porch steps. And maybe if he said it often enough, he’d come to believe that someday.

  Without warning, the blond at the traffic light popped into his mind, the one who’d been so busy fussing with her hair and earrings that she hadn’t even noticed the light change from red to green. Though younger and cuter than Sam’s wife—way cuter, from the little he’d seen of her—it seemed pretty clear that, like Kate, she made a habit of putting her own needs ahead of others’. Parker couldn’t say which made him wince, the sudden high-pitched squeal of the screen door or the notion that self-centeredness must be a “blond thing.”

  “That you, son?”

  “Yeah, Ma.” He hung his baseball cap on a hook behind the front door and made a mental note to oil those hinges first thing tomorrow. He found his mother at the tile-topped table, both feet propped on the cushion of a nearby chair. A dewy glass of iced tea sat beside an issue of Greatest Gardens magazine.

  “Henry stopped by earlier,” she said, pointing to the towel-covered pies on the counter.

  Why does she persist in calling him that, Parker wondered, when the man has said time and again that he prefers “Hank”?

  “He said his daughter baked too many pies for him to eat alone, so he brought those over for us. Even popped them into the oven so they’d be nice and warm when you got home.”

  Home.

  The word only served to remind him how little like home his house felt. Parker hid a scowl and forced his attention to the desserts. He’d known Hank’s daughter almost as long as he’d known the retired FBI agent himself. Nice enough girl, but even on her best day, she couldn’t have worked her way through a recipe for buttered toast without setting off the smoke alarm. How like Hank to pick up the sweet treats on his way over and give her the credit.

  “They almost look good enough to eat.”

  “Help yourself, and help me to a slice while you’re at it!”

  Parker stepped up to the counter and slid two dessert plates from the cupboard. “Apple or cherry?”

  “Surprise me.”

  Maude had never made a secret of the fact that cherry was her favorite, and although Parker preferred apple, he grabbed a knife from the drainboard and sliced the pie with the big C carved into its crust.

  Too bad he couldn’t express gratitude for the pies—for all the considerate things Hank did for Maude every day. For everything he’d done for Parker too, like filling in as first mate and helping repair that leak in the porch roof. Would’ve made a great fill-in father too, if not for Maude’s stubborn refusal to remarry.

  By the ripe old age of ten, Parker had figured out that admitting he liked her latest beau was a surefire guarantee that she’d kick them to the curb with no explanation and no invitation to return. The only way to keep the ones he liked, at least for a little while, was to pretend that he didn’t like them.

  “Henry said that if you leave a can of oil where he can find it, he’ll fix that squeak in the front screen
door when he stops by tomorrow.”

  “What a gem.”

  If Maude had heard the sarcasm in his voice now, it didn’t show. They were the very words she’d used more than a decade ago— the final time he’d asked about his father. “I couldn’t compete with the exciting life of an Air Force test pilot,” she’d said, “and neither could you.” A sucker punch would have hurt less, he’d thought, and he decided then and there never to expose himself to that kind of pain again. Someday he’d find out, all on his own, if his father had left by choice or if Maude had sent him packing before the fighter jet he’d been testing exploded over the Atlantic. Not that it mattered. Gone was gone. What good would wondering and whining do? Still, if God ever saw fit to bless Parker with a son, no one—not even the child’s mother—had better try and keep him from—

  “Help yourself to some iced tea, son. Henry made it fresh just a little while ago.”

  He topped off her glass then poured some for himself.

  “Mmm, this pie is delicious, isn’t it?”

  It was tasty enough—for store-bought. But even if Hank had rolled the crust and baked it himself, Parker wouldn’t have admitted it. The man had been a Coastal Cottage fixture for the past six years. More important than that, he’d become a trusted friend. At this stage of his life—and Hank’s—it wasn’t likely that Maude’s feelings would change the friendship that had developed between them, but why risk it?

  “…and Neapolitan ice cream too,” Maude was saying, “because Henry knows you like it on warm pie.”

  Good old Hank, always thinking of others. But memory of the two blonds who’d rained on his day made it easy to put a hard edge on his voice. “God bless Henry Donovan.”

  She clucked her tongue and then said, “He offered to change my bandages too.”

  “Yep, he’s a real prince, all right.”