LF47 - Love Finds You in Folly Beach, South Carolina

by Loree Lough

  “Give me the backpack,” he said, wiggling the fingers of one hand.

  “So I won’t lose my balance and take a dive?”

  “The dock doesn’t move,” he explained, “but the boat does. Add to that the gap between the boat and the dock and, well, it makes some people dizzy. Even people who aren’t…”

  Clumsy? she finished silently, grinning as she gave him her hand and the backpack.

  Once Parker had helped her up the short flight of steps and she’d planted both feet firmly on the coarse boat floor, Holly nodded. “I see what you mean.” She steadied herself on the shiny brass rail. “So,” she said, looking around, “this is the famous Sea Maverick.”

  “I’d hardly call her famous.”

  Parker had made it clear during their lunch that he didn’t like talking about his background—the military stuff in particular. So she couldn’t very well admit that, prompted by the appearance of the lady in the wheelchair and her handsome caretaker, she’d looked him up on the Internet before turning in last night. Her exploration took her to numerous websites, where in every photograph, he wore the same stiff-lipped smile, whether he and his teammates raised football trophies or superior officers pinned the Purple Heart and Silver Star to his chest. The only one in which he’d looked truly happy had him surrounded by grinning Boys’ Club members who hoisted hammers and saws, fishing poles and reels…the tools he’d taught them to use as, together, they turned a forgotten old tub into a seaworthy charter boat. Someday she’d ask about the boys. For now, she pointed out to sea. “Is that the Morris Island lighthouse?”

  He followed her gaze. “Sure is. She’s a beauty, isn’t she?”

  Arms crossed over his broad chest, Parker leaned his backside against the rail and told her how it grew from an ordinary flame that warned 1670s sailors of the craggy shore, to the forty-two-foot “Charleston Light,” commissioned in 1767 by King George. By 1862, the Confederates destroyed it to keep it from Union hands, but the North quickly took it over and used it to guide their troops. At the close of the Civil War, the lighthouse was rebuilt on Morris Island.

  Holly had read all about it before coming to Folly Beach, but she didn’t say that. “Then I guess your Save the Light project must be doing its job,” she said instead, “because it doesn’t look all that worse for the wear to me.”

  “Looks are deceiving,” he said without turning around. “We’re hundreds of yards from her, so you can’t see the worst of it.” He explained how, over the years, the rhythm of the Atlantic’s waves had rotted the light’s wooden base. Ocean microbes, various erosion-protection projects, and basic neglect had only increased its instability. “Save the Light is responsible for turning it into a historic landmark,” he said, nodding. Funds from local governments and private contributors were working to keep it from crumbling into the sea. “But the work’s far from done,” he added, frowning. “If we want it there for future generations to enjoy…”

  His voice trailed off, and for the first time in her life, Holly wished she was independently wealthy, so she could supply all the money required to protect the beautiful old relic forever.

  * * * * *

  “I know I said we’d start on the turtle project today,” Parker said, “but one of my regular customers called last night.”

  “Oh, I don’t mind. Maybe I could help out—make sandwiches and act as your hostess. It’d be a great way to see how a charter business works.”

  “Well, they only booked a three-hour tour.”

  Holly launched into the Gilligan’s Island theme. He didn’t know which surprised him more—the fact that she had such a stunning voice, or that she remembered all the words. When she finished the last stanza, she donned a sober expression and said, “I hope the weather bureau isn’t predicting any storms.”

  He went back to scrubbing the deck. “Me too.”

  Now her serious expression turned more real than feigned. “Why?”

  “Because unless the wind blows us back toward land, we’re doomed.”

  If her eyebrows rose any higher, they’d completely disappear under her bangs. “Doomed?”

  He aimed the drippy sponge at the Atlantic. “No islands east of here.”

  “But what about…? Really? No islands?”

  “Nary a one.” Parker shrugged and put the sponge back into the bucket then extended sudsy hands, palms up. “Sorry.”

  “Sorry?” A nervous snicker punctuated her question.

  “That’s odd… .”

  “What’s odd?”

  “In all the years I’ve owned the Sea Maverick, this is the first time I’ve noticed an echo.” He reached into the bucket again and wrung out the sponge.

  “An echo?” She looked even more surprised than she sounded.

  “Yeah, and it’s a bad one.”

  “A bad ech—” And then she grinned as she got the joke. “Funny. Real funny. I have a friend whose uncle owns the comedy club on Water Street in Baltimore.”

  He didn’t get it. “Comedy club?”

  Holly nodded. “Yeah. If you’re really nice, I’m sure I can arrange an audition.”

  “An audition?”

  He was scrubbing the next section of deck when she said, “Well, sir, when you’re right, you’re right.”

  “Right? Right about wha—”

  “There is an echo on this boat, and it’s a bad one, I tell you. Bad!”

  “Oh. I get it.” He laughed. “Touché, professor. Touché.”

  She lifted her cap just enough to allow her to stuff her bangs under its brim. “So these regular customers of yours, are they Wall Street bankers? Hotshot attorneys? Real-estate moguls?”

  “Bill and Sissy and their twins. They own Davis Management. At the height of the season, the properties they oversee keep them hopping and there isn’t much time to goof off with the twins.”

  “Bill and Sissy and the twins? Is that another one of your jokes? ’Cause if it is, I have to say, it’s not nearly as funny as—”

  “Jokes?”

  Slapping a hand to her forehead, Holly groaned. “Don’t tell me we’re starting up a whole new round of the echo game!” Laughing, she said, “Those names—you made them up.” One brow rose as she met his gaze. “…Right?”

  “ ’Fraid not.”

  Another giggle came, and then, “What are the kids’ names?”

  He winced. “I almost hate to tell you.”

  “Not—”

  “Sorry…”

  “Buffy and Jody?”

  “ ’Fraid so.”

  “Oh my goodness! If you tell me they have a butler named Mr. French, I might just have to jump overboard.”

  Another shrug. “You want a hand up, or can you make it over the rail all on your own?”

  She was laughing too hard to answer.

  “All right,” Parker said, “so the guy isn’t a butler.”

  “Whew!”

  “More like a supervisor. Or even a foreman.”

  She studied his face. “But his name is Mr. French?”

  “Nah, but…”

  “Thank heavens. I thought for a minute there I’d have to make good on my threat!”

  “…but his real name is Vinnie DeMarco,” Parker continued, “but because of all the other coincidences, he got stuck with the nickname of French.”

  By now, she was bent at the waist, with both hands resting on her knees. “Please,” she squeaked, “stop. I can’t breathe.”

  Difficult as it was, Parker tried to behave as though the whole thing wasn’t the least bit funny. Frowning, he bit back a grin. “I never would have guessed that you’re one of those people who makes offers willy-nilly, without following through.”

  “Willy-nilly?” The phrase started up a whole new gale of giggles.

  “I don’t see how you can perform hostess duties in your condition.”

  “I’ll pull myself together before they get here.” She wiped her eyes on a sleeve. “But just to be safe, when are they getting her
e?”

  “They’re not. We’re going to them.” Using his chin as a pointer, Parker said, “That’s their place, just over the dunes. Soon as you’re ready, we’ll fire up the Maverick and motor over to their dock.”

  “They have a dock but no boat?”

  “They have one, but it’s a sailboat. Not nearly as conducive to fishing.”

  “I can hardly wait to meet this family,” she said, rubbing her palms together. “I’m ready when you are…unless you want me to throw together some sandwiches first.”

  “No need,” he said. “It’s only a…”

  “…Three-hour tour,” they said in harmony.

  And this time when she burst into merry laughter, he joined her.

  Chapter Nine

  A man waved to them from the shore, and Holly said, “Hey, Parker, isn’t that Hank over there?”

  He grabbed his binoculars and snapped off the protective lens caps. “Yep. Sure is.”

  “Why don’t we pick him up? I’ll bet he’d love to join us.” She glanced around the boat. “There’s room for one more, isn’t there?”

  “Yeah, there’s room. But this isn’t like driving a car, y’know,” he said, grinning. “I can’t just hit the blinkers to signal a lane change and then pull up alongside the beach and park this old tub.”

  Buffy pointed to a pier not fifty feet ahead. “But couldn’t we stop there and pick him up?”

  “First of all,” her twin said, “we need to make sure there’s a life vest for him.” Jody lifted the padded seat and peered into the compartment where Parker stowed the jackets. “One, two,” he counted then met his sister’s eyes. “Well, that’s one problem solved.” He dropped the seat into place and faced Parker. “So how will we pull up to get him, Parker?”

  Grabbing the loudspeaker, Parker said into the mike, “Yo, Donovan…you in the mood for a little fishing this morning?”

  Even from this distance, Holly could see Hank’s smile. The older man waved and started jogging toward the dock. It took a few minutes to reel in the trolling lines, secure each rod, crank up the engine, and motor over to the pier. Soon enough, though, Hank climbed aboard and greeted each passenger with a bear hug. “Did you notice that there’s something new painted on the old boat?”

  “What old boat?” Holly asked.

  “Just a johnboat,” Hank explained. “The dumb thing washed ashore during Hurricane Hugo and nobody claimed it.” He handed Holly the binoculars and showed her where to look. “So there it’s been ever since, collecting one crazy saying after another. Why, I’ll bet the thing weighs three times its original weight in enamel alone.” He chuckled. “Every couple of weeks—sometimes more, sometimes less—somebody comes along and adds a saying to it.”

  “ ‘CONGRATULATIONS, TIM AND MARLENE,’” she read. “And ‘DUKE ROCKS!’” Smiling, Holly put the binoculars back on the hook beside the helm. “That’s pretty neat,” she admitted. “Has anyone ever seen who adds the messages?”

  “Not that I know of,” Parker said.

  “Reminds me of Edgar Allan Poe’s grave in Baltimore. For years and years now, on his birthday, somebody sneaks into the cemetery in the dark and leaves a single red rose and a bottle of cognac on his tombstone.” She shrugged. “Without getting caught.”

  “What?” Bill Davis scoffed. “With all the gizmos and gadgets out there today? Sounds to me like one of those things people choose to overlook.”

  “Right,” agreed his wife, “because not knowing the truth is a lot more romantic than finding out who’s responsible.”

  “Well, in any case,” Hank interrupted, “it’s funny that you guys happened by today,” he said, giving Parker’s shoulder a fatherly squeeze. “I’ve been on the beach off and on hunting for shells. Must be some kinda storm brewing, because I didn’t see a thing worth bending over for between here and your mom’s place.”

  Sissy recapped her water bottle and asked, “What’s the connection between a shell-free beach and an impending storm?”

  “Y’know,” Hank began, “I’m not a hundred percent sure.” He threaded his arms through the sleeves of a life vest. “It’s something my pa always said. Wasn’t the most talkative fella,” he added, fastening its buckles, “so I never pressed him for an explanation. Near as I can figure, the sea gets real quiet when a nor’easter is fixin’ to roll ashore.”

  “The calm before the storm?” Jody asked.

  Hank ruffled the boy’s hair. “Probably, son.”

  Buffy looked across the glassy surface of the Atlantic. “Was your father a fisherman?”

  As Parker motored toward deeper water, Hank helped Holly reset the hooks with bait. “Matter of fact, he was. Spent more time out there on the Atlantic than he did at home, so I reckon he’d know.”

  “Didn’t you miss him?” Buffy asked. She glanced at her dad. “I hate it when Dad has to travel on business trips.”

  “Well, nobody liked it, least of all my mama. But the man kept a roof over our heads and food in our bellies, so we couldn’t very well complain.”

  “Why were you lookin’ for shells?” Jody wanted to know.

  “I make stuff out of them. Glue ’em to candlesticks and picture frames, arrange ’em in jars of sand and the bases of glass lamps, and then I sell ’em to tourists.”

  “Wow,” the wide-eyed little boy said. “People pay money for stuff made outta seashells?”

  “Not enough to make me rich, but it pays for my fishing license every year.” He looked at Parker. “What’re we looking for today, son?”

  “I heard on the radio earlier that they’re pulling up a lot of redfish near Murrells Inlet. We’ll float around over there for a while and see if it’s true.”

  “Redfish are scaredy-cats,” Hank said. “The least little thing will spook ’em.”

  “And if they aren’t biting?” Bill asked.

  “We’ll try for sheepshead or sea bass.”

  Jody stepped up to the rod Hank had just baited with a live shrimp. “We gonna keep ’em, Dad, or we gotta throw ’em back?” he asked, watching as he secured the hook to an eyelet.

  “If they’re big enough, we’ll keep ’em. Right, Parker?”

  “Right.”

  “I heard in town yesterday,” Hank said, “that a guy caught a forty-pound king, using blue crab as bait.” He whistled.

  “Now that’s a fish story,” Sissy teased.

  “Nope. It’s as true as true can be.”

  “Last time we went fishing,” Buffy said, “you promised to tell us a ghost story, but there wasn’t time. We have time now… .”

  “Oh, now, I dunno…your mama might think you’re a tad young for such tales… .”

  Jody stood taller and crossed his arms over his chest. “We’re almost ten years old! Tell him, Mom. We are old enough for ghost stories. Right?”

  “I suppose,” Sissy said. And wagging a forefinger at her children, she added, “But if you have nightmares, don’t even think of waking me.”

  “Aw, Mom,” Jody whined, “we aren’t babies.”

  “Yeah, Mom,” agreed his sister, “we know the difference between make-believe and something real.”

  Grinning, Bill shook his head. “You might want to take a nap when we get home, hon.” He looked at his wide-eyed kids. “You know, just in case.”

  “Maybe you should take a nap,” was his wife’s quick retort.

  Hank sat on the long starboard-side bench seat and draped an arm over each twin’s shoulders. He spoke in soft, even tones, drawing—and holding—their attention as he described pirates and treasure chests and the legend of Civil War soldiers that prowled the shore in search of their severed heads.

  Chuckling, Parker drew Holly’s attention away from the family. “Better keep an eye on their lines,” he said, smirking. “I’d bet my best rod that not one of them will notice if they get a bite.”

  “Yeah, it looks to me like maybe they’d all better take a nap.”

  “If I’d known what a first-rate fi
rst mate you’d be,” he said, giving her a nod of approval, “I would have hired you for that job.”

  “Which reminds me…when are we going to get some writing done?” They’d compared research notes on the loggerheads, the lighthouse, and Folly Beach. Since they held similar opinions on all three topics, Parker saw no reason to rush into things. But she was right. In the few days that had passed by, they hadn’t done a lick of work on his book. “We can start today…if you don’t have other plans, that is.”

  Holly laughed. “The only people I know in Folly are right here on this boat.” She glanced toward shore. “Well, except for your mom and Opal.”

  “Good point. So once I get Maude settled in for the evening, we’ll head over to my place. Maybe work up an outline.”

  “I can’t believe I hadn’t thought to ask you this before, but if you don’t even have an outline, what do you have?”

  Without letting go of the wheel, Parker shrugged. “I have you. What more do I need?” Then he tapped the fish-finder screen, more as an excuse to look away from her steady gaze than to indicate that they’d located a school of redfish.

  Switching off the motor, he gave Holly the signal to drop the lines. How like her not to hesitate even for a second. Parker watched as she expertly unfastened the first hook from its eyelet, glancing over her shoulder to make sure she had plenty of room to cast. The spinning reel whizzed as she released the line. It floated and reached thirty feet from the boat before plopping into the water, its sinker dragging the hook into the deep. She set the reel lock and didn’t waste a minute, moving to the next rod and the next.

  Then, her hands on her hips, she faced Hank and the Davises. “You guys gonna sit there all day listening to tall tales, or are you ready to catch some fish?”

  It was all the excuse the kids needed to leave the scary stories behind. “Which rod is mine?” Jody asked, stepping up beside Holly.

  “First come, first serve,” she said. “Take your pick, mister!”

  He chose the center rod, and his sister stood beside him.