Beach Trip

by Cathy Holton

  Sara smiled sadly and ran her finger around the top of her glass. “She was always kind of scatterbrained but I swear it’s getting worse with age.”

  “It’s that fucking Briggs,” Mel said. “He keeps her so medicated.”

  Sara looked surprised. “Do you think so?”

  “I’d bet money on it.”

  “How do you medicate someone against their will?”

  “Who says it’s against her will? Remember, she’s married to Briggs.”

  “I thought you liked Briggs.”

  “Maybe twenty years ago. Not now.” Mel stood up, excused herself, and went to the rest room. When she came back she glanced at the clock and said, “What time did you say Annie gets in?”

  “Three-twenty, I think. Lola’s car is picking us up at three-thirty.”

  “Okay, that gives us just enough time,” Mel said, waving at the bartender.

  “Just enough time for what?”

  “Just enough time to get loaded before Annie gets here.”

  Sara laughed and looked around the bar. It was a small airport and there were only a few people, scattered here and there, waiting for their planes. “I love Annie.”

  “I love Annie, too, but she drives me crazy if I’m sober.”

  “They have medication these days for obsessive-compulsive disorders.”

  “She doesn’t take it. Trust me, I was with her in London.”

  “I hope you realize you’re getting ready to spend a week with her on a practically deserted island accessible only by boat.”

  Mel grinned and said, “But I plan on getting liquored up so it won’t matter.” She picked up her glass, drained it, then set it back on the bar. “Deserted island?” she said. “Accessible only by boat?”

  Sara laughed at her expression. “You obviously haven’t done your homework.” The bartender brought their drinks and Sara sipped her martini before continuing. “Whale Head Island is accessible only by ferry or private boat. It’s very exclusive. No cars are allowed on the island, only golf carts or bicycles. Families have been coming there for generations to get away from the stress of modern life. There wasn’t even electricity until the nineteen-sixties. There are no condos or hotels, only private houses that are very expensive to rent.” She shrugged and crossed her arms on the bar. “It cuts down on the riffraff I guess.”

  “No riffraff? Who am I going to party with?”

  Sara grinned slowly. She picked up her glass and tapped it against Mel’s. “I guess that would be me,” she said.

  Annie called Sara the minute her plane touched down. She could hear giggling in the background, which meant they were probably already sauced. Which meant she’d have a hard time getting them collected and into Lola’s car. Damn. “Where are you?” she asked.

  More giggles. “In the bar.” Of course they were. The boat ride to the island would be a long one. Annie hoped this wasn’t going to be like London, where she had wound up taking care of everyone. She’d taken care of Mitchell through five kidney stones, and she was pretty much over the whole Florence Nightingale thing.

  “Anne Louise!” Mel shouted when she saw her, lifting her glass. Her face was flushed. Sara was leaning against the bar sipping from a wide-mouthed glass. Annie picked her way through the sparse crowd, pulling her bag behind her. “Don’t get us banned from the airport,” she said, stowing her carry-on and a small cooler under the nearest barstool. “They’re pretty strict these days about unruly travelers.” Sara stood up and hugged her, and Annie hugged her back.

  “Who you calling unruly?” Mel said.

  “You’ve let your hair go white,” Sara said, holding her at arm’s length.

  “I quit coloring it years ago. I got tired of messing with it.”

  A weary-looking bartender slouched across the bar. He had brown hair pulled back in a ponytail and a moon face covered in freckles. An earring dangled from his left ear. “You ladies might want to get something in your stomachs,” he said, slapping a menu down on the bar.

  “Just keep the drinks coming,” Mel said.

  “We really don’t have time to eat,” Annie said, picking up the menu and giving it back to him. “We’re being picked up in five minutes.” She pointed at their drinks and held up two fingers, indicating that he should close out the tab. The bartender, looking relieved, turned around and went to ring them up.

  “I’m so glad you’re here,” Sara said, smiling at Annie. “We need someone to keep us in line.”

  Mel swung her arm around her head like she was twirling a lasso. “Crack that whip,” she said.

  “Crack it yourself,” Annie said. “I’m on vacation.”

  The car sent to take them to the ferry was a long white Escalade with twelve-spoke wheels. “That car has Briggs written all over it,” Mel said as it pulled up in front of the airport. A young man wearing a blue polo shirt and khaki pants opened the driver’s door and jumped out. “You must be Mrs. Furman’s friends,” he said, coming around to take their bags. “I’m Stewart. I’ll be your driver today.” He grinned and Mel grinned back.

  “Where’s Mrs. Furman?”

  “Oh, she’s back at the boat with Captain Mike. They’re waiting for you at the ferry landing.”

  Mel looked at Sara and mouthed Captain Mike. Sara shrugged and helped Stewart load her bags into the back of the Escalade.

  “Careful with that cooler,” Annie said. “It’s got deviled eggs in there.”

  “You brought deviled eggs to the beach?”

  “Well, I couldn’t just come empty-handed, could I?”

  No, of course she couldn’t. They were all Southern girls and had been raised to come bearing gifts. What each woman brought said a lot about her personality. Sara brought a beautifully wrapped, lacquered picture frame with a photo of the four of them standing out in front of their college apartment. Mel brought a bottle of Dos Amigos tequila.

  Stewart closed the back door. “Are we ready, ladies?”

  “I’ll ride up front with Stewart,” Mel said, quickly climbing into the front seat.

  It was a forty-minute drive from the airport to the Whale Head Island Ferry, long enough for Sara and Mel to sober up. They drove down narrow asphalt roads surrounded on both sides by wide flat fields of marsh grass. Late-afternoon sun shimmered across the landscape, and high overhead a hawk soared, circling above the distant tree line. Sara’s cell phone rang once but she didn’t answer it. It was Tom, calling to see if she’d arrived. She couldn’t talk to him here, in front of everyone. A faint feeling of homesickness stirred her bowels. They’d been married for seventeen years, and in all that time had never been apart for more than two nights. She thought of her husband’s smile, of her children’s sweet faces, and the homesickness swelled to a thick lump in her throat. Away from them she felt only half herself.

  Annie, as if reading her mind, asked, “How’re Tom and the kids?”

  “They’re fine. Thanks. And Mitchell? The boys?” Even now, when things got so bad, Sara could not imagine a life without Tom.

  “As ornery as ever. The boys have summer jobs, William in Chicago and Carleton out in Colorado.”

  “We’re not going to talk about the husband and kids the whole time we’re here, are we?” Mel asked.

  The fleeting camaraderie Sara had felt with Mel in the bar seemed false now, a desperate desire to become what they had once been, and could never be again. A product of that age-old elixir of forgetfulness, alcohol. This trip would require a lot of alcohol.

  She looked at Mel and thought, I shouldn’t have come. She thought, Things will turn out badly.

  The ferry landing was a low, quaint building of weathered gray cypress built to resemble something in a New England port town. It was swarming with tourists and island dwellers who didn’t have their own boats and had to ride the ferry with the tourists. There was only one grocery store and three restaurants on the island, so people brought most of their own supplies, loaded into big plastic tubs with locking lids. A long line
of shiny SUVs stood outside the landing, their owners unloading plastic tubs, bicycles, and beach gear on to a series of trolleys manned by an army of fresh-faced porters, who rolled the loaded trolleys into the baggage hold of the ferry. Children played in the sun, oblivious to the shouts of their stressed-out parents, who were trying to keep one eye on the luggage and one eye on their children.

  Stewart pulled slowly past the long line of SUVs, careful not to hit any of the scurrying pedestrians, and drove several hundred feet along the water’s edge to a small marina. The crowds here were thinner and less hectic, as island people loaded supplies onto their boats and called to one another by name.

  “Which boat is Lola’s?” Sara asked.

  “Boat?” Stewart said, chuckling. He lifted one hand and pointed. It was the largest one in the marina, of course, a one-hundred-twelve-foot Hargrave yacht sporting the name Miss Behavin’.

  “I love that name,” Mel said.

  April, the girl hired to make beds and cook, stood out front holding an empty trolley She was tanned and pretty, and had the confident air of a young woman in her twenties. Behind her was another trolley loaded with groceries. She introduced herself to the women, then went to help Stewart load the luggage.

  “Where’s Lola?” Annie asked, shielding her eyes with her hand and squinting at the Miss Behavin’. But Lola had already seen them and was running across the deck and the gangway toward the dock. She looked like a girl, with her hair loose about her shoulders and her feet bare. She was wearing a pair of white capris, a sleeveless shirt, and dark-rimmed sunglasses.

  “My God, you look like a movie star,” Mel called to her.

  She threw her arms around Mel and then hugged each one of them, laughing. Even Annie got caught up in her exuberance and smiled shyly. “I brought deviled eggs,” she said.

  Out in the water the crowded ferry gave two sharp whistle blows, then pulled slowly away from the dock. People sat up top or below in the covered cabin, their faces pressed eagerly to the glass. Seagulls followed noisily in the wake of the huge ship.

  Lola waved at the passing ferry like she was hailing a taxi.

  “Is that yacht really yours?” Sara asked, watching as the Miss Behavin’ rolled lightly in the ferry’s wake.

  “It’s not mine,” Lola said. “It’s Briggs’s.”

  “The eggs are in the cooler,” Annie said. “But we should probably get them into the refrigerator.”

  “Will you shut up about the damn deviled eggs?” Mel said.

  Annie ignored her. She had learned long ago to ignore Mel. She turned her head slightly and watched as the ferry moved slowly toward the open sound. “I make mine with fresh chives,” she added, getting the last word in.

  “Come on,” Lola said before Mel could reply, putting her arm around Annie and pulling her gently toward the boat. “I’ll introduce you to Captain Mike.”

  He was climbing down the steps to the deck when they boarded. “Welcome aboard,” he said, taking off a baseball cap that read, WHAT WOULD ELVIS DO? He ran his fingers through his sun-bleached hair. Mel guessed he was somewhere between thirty-five and forty, not really handsome, but attractive in a faded-athlete kind of way He called Lola Mrs. Furman, very proper, very correct. She called him Captain or just plain Mike. He had a self-assured air that Mel found vaguely annoying. He shook hands with everyone and then went to help April with the groceries. She smiled at him and he grinned and gave the trolley a playful tug. So that’s how it is, Mel thought, watching the two of them together.

  The ride to the island took only fifteen minutes. Sunlight sparkled on the choppy water of the sound. In the distance, past two narrow spits of land that curved inward like pincers, the sea was a wide blue haze. Lola, Mel, Sara, and Annie sat out on the aft deck, where it was too windy to talk, their hair whipping around their faces. April was in the galley and Captain Mike was up on the flying bridge. Mel wanted to ask Lola about him but it was hard to talk with the noise of the engines and the roar of the wind in their ears. She was pretty sure Briggs had planted Captain Mike and April to keep an eye on Lola. They were probably paid to send detailed reports to Briggs every night; after London, he wasn’t about to trust Lola with her crazy girlfriends unchaperoned.

  Mel wasn’t sure how Lola had stood it all these years, being married to Briggs Furman. He was as jealous and controlling as Lola’s mother had been, ruling Lola’s life with an iron fist. Still, Mel thought, watching the way the wind caught Lola’s hair, the way the sun slanted across her smooth, pretty face, Lola looked better than she had in years. She seemed animated and confident. She definitely looked better than she had in London a few years ago, where she had wandered about as numb and bewildered as a lost child.

  The boat sped over the blue waves, past dolphins swimming in precise formation, past a buoy that rocked and dipped with their passing. Ahead they could see the island in the distance, with its lighthouse, Old Baldy rising from the interior like a giant chess piece. A sailboat passed in front of them, its sails straining with the wind. As they approached the island, Captain Mike cut the engines, and the yacht slowed to a crawl as they entered the harbor.

  The whole island had been built to resemble a sleepy New England fishing village. Tall gray-shingled cottages and storefronts clustered around the marina. Behind the village, to the north and west, the marsh glimmered between banks of tall grass, while the interior of the island surrounding Old Baldy was covered in a maritime forest of live oak, saw palmetto, yaupon, and wax myrtle. To the south and east stretched miles and miles of uncrowded beaches. And everywhere, sitting up on the dune ridges, clustered in small enclaves beneath the spreading live oaks, and along the quiet marshes, were the weathered cedar-shingled houses, their tall roofs and mullioned windows glittering in the sun.

  “Oh, my God, it’s beautiful,” Sara said.

  “Yes, it is,” Lola said. “I’ve enjoyed it so much.”

  There was something in her tone that made Annie ask, “Are you getting ready to sell it?” Mitchell had promised her a beach house years ago, but somehow they’d never gotten around to buying one.

  “Oh, no,” Lola said quickly “It’s just, well … it is beautiful, isn’t it?”

  “Like something from another century,” Sara said.

  “Where are all the nightclubs?” Mel said.

  Lola laughed. “No nightclubs, I’m afraid. Everything pretty much closes down at ten o’clock.”

  They pulled slowly into a slip not far from where the ferry was unloading its crowd of happy tourists. A long line of trolleys connected together and pulled by a motorized cart stood waiting to whisk them to their rented houses. Each trolley bore the name of the house where its occupants would be staying, and the porters, sweating now in the heat, hurriedly loaded the luggage from the ferry onto the appropriate trolleys. Tired parents climbed on board to wait and watch with weary smiles as their excited children pointed out boats, bicycles, turtles, and seagulls.

  Captain Mike helped the women disembark, then followed them up the dock to the landing. “You go ahead and take the smaller golf cart, Mrs. Furman,” he said. “April and I will come along later with the luggage.”

  Everywhere they looked there were golf carts, traveling like gypsy caravans along narrow asphalt roads, parked in front of the storefronts with their electrical cords tethered to rows of electrical outlets.

  Lola’s golf cart was a custom-built unit made to resemble a Mercedes. Lola, noting their expressions, said apologetically, “It wasn’t my idea. Briggs had it specially built.” She disengaged the electrical cord and climbed in and Mel climbed in beside her. Annie and Sara sat behind them, facing backward. Lola slammed the lever into reverse and quickly pulled out into the road. She pushed the lever to the right and took off with a sudden lurching motion that caused the women to grab for the nearest canopy frame.

  Briggs had also had the electric motor modified so that the cart, which normally had a cruising speed of eight mph, now clipped along at a frightenin
g speed of twenty-five mph. Lola laughed and talked the whole time, waving her hands and turning around to talk to Annie and Sara in a way that made Mel nervous.

  “Damn it, Lola, let me drive,” she said, but Lola just laughed and kept talking about Henry and his new girlfriend. They sped along a narrow winding road that led from the village to the interior of the island. There were only two major roads, Blackbeard’s Wynd, which ran down the middle of the island through the maritime forest, and Stede Bonnet’s Wynd, which ran along the beachfront.

  “Most of the roads are named for pirates,” Lola called gaily as they passed a slower-moving cart. She lifted her hand and waved. The people in the cart waved back.

  Ahead Mel could see the intersection where Blackbeard and Stede Bonnet split off from each other. She looked nervously at Lola. “Which way are we going?” she said. Lola showed no signs of slowing down. She was still talking about Henry’s new girlfriend, whom she adored.

  “Damn it Lola, slow down,” Mel said, thumping the bottom of the cart with her foot like she was pumping an imaginary brake.

  Lola said, “Her name’s Layla. Isn’t that a lovely name?” She turned around to smile at Annie and Sara. “Her dad named her after that song by—oh, what is that guy’s name?”

  “Eric Clapton,” Sara said. “Watch the road, Lola.”

  “I think I might be getting sick,” Annie said.

  “Eric Clapton!” Lola said, turning again to smile at Sara. “I love Eric Clapton.”

  “I really shouldn’t be riding backward,” Annie said.

  They were almost to the intersection now and Mel clamped her foot down against the floor of the cart and put one arm out in front of her, grabbing the canopy frame with the other. At the last minute, Lola took a sharp right onto Stede Bonnet and the cart tipped up on to two wheels. Without thinking Sara swung her leg out like a rudder. Beside her, Annie hissed like a scalded cat. Lola spun the wheel and leaned against Mel, and the cart righted itself. “They’ll get married in Michigan,” she said, her face dreamy and tender with thoughts of Henry. They were out from beneath the trees now and cruising along the beach road in the bright sunlight. A strong wind buffeted the cart. To their left rose a series of terraced dunes covered in steep-roofed houses. To their right stretched the Atlantic Ocean, its blue waters sparkling in the sun.