Stones of Sandhill Island

by Peggy Chambers

  “Good grief, Sandy!” Billie looked horrified.

  “I could think of nothing but my kids. I mean after what happened to you…” Sandy trailed off. “And I’m considering doing something different. I mean what if something happened to me? How would my kids handle it?”

  “Well, we all know that it doesn’t take a plane crash—just driving your car can be dangerous.” Billie thought of the car crash again that left her without a family.

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up.” Sandy touched her arm.

  “No, it has to be dealt with. I can’t just push it down and try to imagine it never happened. It did. But if you’re thinking about doing something else, that is a big deal. We should be able to discuss it. I can handle it.”

  “I know you can. And as far as my situation, I’ve been looking at options. I’ve been thinking of teaching. I don’t know. You know meteorology is all I ever wanted to do. I used to love the excitement and danger. Maybe I’m getting old or something.” The air was silent, and both women looked out to sea. Friends for a lifetime, they often did not need to talk to communicate. Billie knew her friend would make the right decision. She was an excellent mother and meteorologist.

  Billie stood, took off her sunglasses and hat and tossed them onto the towel. “You are getting old,” she said grinning, and ran for the water. Sandy trotted after her splashing into the surf near the kids, taking the starfish back to the relative safety of the ocean with her. Carol might find it again.

  The noise caused the stray dog in the distance to look up from its scrap. Kids were always fun to play with. But the dog stuck to the shadows—at least for now.

  ****

  The last pizza delivered and the tip money stuffed in his pocket—the small one, it wasn’t much money—Joe Franks drove his beat-up sedan to the jazz district again. The car would never be the same and would eternally smell like pizza. He didn’t know how he would ever be able to sell it. But he didn’t have the money to upgrade anyway. He just hoped it ran long enough for him to get a better job. He was a car salesman, not a delivery boy. There had to be a better way to make a living.

  “She used to sing here man, but after the accident, she never came back. A cryin’ shame. A voice like that… But I guess she just lost the urge to go on. Uh, um.” The bartender polished the glass. “You gonna drink that beer or just look at it?”

  “Do you know where she went?” Franks took a sip of the beer and tried not to like it too much.

  “Home, I think. Her mom got sick, so they probably look after each other now.”

  “Where’s home?” Franks sipped again.

  “You with the police or somethin’?” The bartender reached for another spotless glass to polish.

  “No, just knew her and wanted to touch base, you know.” Franks sipped again.

  “Well, you’ll never get her back here, but I heard she grew up on Sandhill Island, and that’s where she went. But that’s just rumor.”

  Franks tried not to flinch. He had her. She lived on Sandhill Island just across the water by ferry. He could talk to her. He’d go now, but he knew the ferry didn’t run at night. He’d wait until his next day off, and then he’d make a trip. “Thanks for the tip, man.” He took a long and satisfying draw on the beer in celebration, then sat it down on the bar along with a five-dollar bill, tipped his hat, and left the bar.

  Chapter 9

  The key turned with a squeak as Neil opened his mail box. He’d walked to the community mail box center where neighbors often met and chatted on the benches set under the awning. There were public bathrooms and trashcans in the new little oasis and the island kept it clean and tidy. He pulled his mail from the box and found the packet from the attorney. The divorce was final, evidenced by the file-stamp on the top of the document they both signed, and about time. It took a year out of his life. Without thinking, he scratched his neck where the barely visible scar rubbed his collar. He seldom wore collars these days. T-shirts were just fine for his lifestyle.

  The tall, thin, dark-haired woman walked his way, hips swaying the long flowing skirt that blew lightly in the breeze. He thought at first she walked barefoot, and then caught sight of the flip flops—something he still had not mastered except on the beach. Tennis shoes adapted to his style. Then he realized he’d seen her before—the jazz singer from the club. And he also remembered the warning from the shrimper that she was delicate. He understood that more than he ever thought he would. Life could reach up and smack you in the face when you weren’t ready.

  “Good morning.” Neil nodded to the woman who approached the mail boxes lined up under the awning.

  “Morning.” She spoke quietly and ducked her head shyly opening her box, pulling a few items out. She then relocked it and pocketed the key.

  He needed to meet the people he lived with daily on the island. He wasn’t a hermit, and he still had a long life to live—he thought.

  “Neil Towers,” he said holding out his hand to the shy woman. She looked up at him through dark, thick eyelashes and smiled slightly.

  “Billie Stone.” She barely touched his hand and then withdrew.

  “You’re the jazz singer at Le Chez? I caught your act the other night. You have a wonderful voice.” The paperwork in his hand seemed to burn next to his skin. He wasn’t hitting on her, just being friendly, he reminded himself. But he found it hard to ignore her fragile kind of beauty.

  “Thank you. I saw you in the restaurant. I know most of the people around here, and you were new.” She thumbed through her mail.

  “Snow bird—I guess. Or maybe permanent tourist. I don’t know yet.” True statement, since he had no idea where he might go next.

  “Must be nice to be so free.” She flipped open the magazine.

  “Well, I guess. Like I said, I don’t know yet. I have a boat down in the marina, and I live on it at the moment. Thinking about touring the gulf and maybe the Caribbean.” He knew he talked too much. Maybe he needed work on his social skills.

  She smiled again glancing up from her mail. “Well, it was nice to meet you, Neil.” And she walked away.

  “And you, Billie.” He tried not to stare at the way the skirt swayed in the breeze. Flip flops, he needed to try to master them. Islanders wore them, and he needed to fit in around here. He took the packet from the attorney and resisted the urge to toss it in the trash. He might need it later.

  He dialed the office to check in on his way back to the marina. They got a little excited if he didn’t talk to them now and then. But he knew his best friend, Mike, would just show up on the dock where he moored his boat if he didn’t call now and then.

  Mike and Neil worked together for a long time. Neil had the ideas and Mike the business sense that made the money. Neil owned an off-site IT business for offices that didn’t have their own in-house staff. The bigger corporations had information technology at their fingertips. The smaller guys didn’t, and they needed computer help too sometimes. Then Neil was needed. He started the business on a shoe string, getting contracts all over town, and when it became impossible to handle all the contracts alone, he hired help. Soon he needed a business manager before the monster got so big it took over everything—including his home life. Maybe he made that decision too late—at least for Allison, his ex—but Mike took on the business end and whipped it into shape.

  “Hey, Mike, what’s the weather like up there?” He smiled knowing how cold it could get in Billings, Montana this time of year. “That cold, huh? Here? Around 70 with a light breeze. I could fix you up with a beer and some fishing if you come down. Oh, you have to work? Would the boss know if you played hooky?” He laughed out loud. He had to say it felt good to have a good belly laugh even at his friend’s expense.

  Mike would come down in a heartbeat though if he thought Neil was in trouble. Mike found him that night. Saved his life actually. Not long after Allison dumped him Neil started drinking to excess—and then the suicide attempt. Dumb now that he thought about
it, but at the time it seemed like a good idea. Just end it all and never have to worry or be hurt again. All those months of therapy made him realize that everyone hits bottom sometimes, and everyone has a chance to come back to the surface if they want to. He wanted to.

  Yeah, he owed Mike everything. Maybe he should make sure he got a good vacation.

  “I think you should seriously come down here. Leave Leanne in charge for a week and come visit. You could stay on the boat with me and get a little tan. I’m starting to look like a local—except for the flip flops.” He looked at his feet.

  He laughed again. “Well, think about it, bud. After tax season, put a plane ticket on your expense account. I’ll approve it. You can live the life of a pirate for a week, and I’ll show you around.”

  May seemed a long time off, and despite the beautiful scenery, Neil found he was getting lonely.

  ****

  The trash can smelled rancid—even to a dog—at least at the bottom where she stood—but she knew there were better scraps on the top. Her long brown-colored brindle nose lifted and sniffed the air around the can when the door opened. The man in the white jacket brought her scraps and treated her kindly. She felt hungry all the time these days, and the restaurant had food. The man stepped out. He placed the pan on the ground and talked softly to her as she ate ravenously. Then he dumped the water bowl with dead insects floating in it and took it inside only to return with it holding clean, fresh, cool water.

  Not all people were as kind as the man in the white jacket. She remembered being shoved roughly out of the car before it sped away leaving her behind. She chased the car to the water, but could not catch up for the traffic. Then she watched as it floated away on the ferry with the other cars. She roamed the streets at night looking for food and sleeping in alleyways, hiding from the lights. Her stomach often rumbled, and then she met the man who fed her.

  She lapped the water like she licked the pan clean of scraps and raised her head, water dripping from her long snout. She was skinny. Her ribs showed that she had been a stray for a while, but the kind man fed her now. She licked his hand as he squatted down to pat her head. Just recently she allowed him to get this close. She trusted him and his scraps to be there every day and had become dependent upon them both.

  “We need to find you a good home, pretty lady.” The man spoke as she lapped the water again. “I don’t know how you ended up on this island. But you’re here now, and you need a place to live.”

  ****

  Old Poppy stepped out of the shadows with a plate in his hand. Poppy had lived on Sandhill Island longer than anyone could remember. He was a fixture. Not homeless, he had an apartment on the other side of the island that had been fixed up after the last hurricane by the trust that kept the harbor repaired. He’d helped Jon and Meg Stanford solve the murder of Jon’s father and for that they were eternally grateful. And they helped him as much as he would allow. But Poppy was proud. Jon would have hired him full time, but he refused. He kept to himself. A minimalist, he needed little, but he wasn’t afraid of hard work. If he needed something he would work for it, and everyone on the island kept an eye on him. He also kept an eye on his neighbors and would be there in a flash if he could help.

  “That’s some good fish there, Sam.” He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and held out the empty plate to Sam. The dog tried to nose it. The old man leaned down and patted her head. “Can I help with those dishes tonight?”

  “No, Poppy, not tonight. You go on home. I saw your limp starting up again when you came in the door. How’s that hip?”

  “Oh, okay. It hurts more when I’ve been sittin’, and you know I have to sit to fish.”

  “Well, you come by anytime. And when that hip is better, I’ll find some dirty dishes for you. Right now, the Smith kid needs a weekend job and is washing the dishes most of the time. Got to make some money for college you know.”

  “Well, that’s right friendly of you, Sam. And you let me know when you have something for me to do.” Poppy limped off down the street into the night waving goodbye over his shoulder.

  “Anytime, Poppy. I always have more than enough food for everyone and could stand to take off a few pounds myself.”

  Chapter 10

  The loud crash woke Billie from a deep sleep. Her foggy brain again thought of the car crash that trapped her inside it. Her moist skin stuck to the sheets that enveloped her, but she quickly realized she had been dreaming. She was not inside the death trap with her family. Her therapist’s words came back to her to breathe and realize it was a dream, not reality. She need not be afraid of a dream. She breathed deeply.

  The sky began to pink-up in the east and it would be awhile before actual sunlight overtook the island. She loved this time of day.

  Then she heard it again. The wind must have picked up during the night knocking over the trash can behind the house. She unwound herself from the sheets and sat on the edge of the bed with her feet on the floor. Flip flops were left by the bed from the night before, and she slid into them. Pulling the afghan off the end of the bed, she wrapped it around her shoulders, then tip-toed to the back door careful not to wake her mother.

  The trash can lay on its side moving in the wind. She opened the back door slowly, so the squeak did not wake the household, and stepped out onto the steps when she realized the air around her stood deathly still—but the can moved. She froze instantly and then saw a long slender brown tail sticking out of the can that lay on its side. She knew a stray dog had been on the island lately and Sam, the chef at Le Chez, fed it.

  The tail grew larger as the dog backed out of the can toward the door—a pork chop bone in its mouth. Then it noticed her and ran for the front of the house on long thin legs. The island seldom had stray dogs because of its size, and most people with pets kept them in their yards. How this one ended up here was anyone’s guess. But they would have to do a better job of securing trash or it would be all over the place. The dog needed food, even though Sam fed it all the time. And pork chop bones were irresistible. If you were a dog.

  She placed the trash can back in its spot, walked back into the house and turned on the coffee pot that Raven prepared after dinner each night. With the flip of a button, a stream of aromatic brown liquid poured into the carafe. Billie inhaled deeply the aroma of morning coffee in her kitchen and salt air flowing in through open windows.

  ****

  The brown brindle dog didn’t run far with the bone. She had made a new home under the porch in the front of the house. So far, no one had spotted her. Lying on her ever-increasing belly, she crawled under the porch and lay happily chewing the bone. A great find.

  Soon she would have to dig the sand out a little more as her belly lay on the ground wiggling under her. No matter how much she ate, she felt hungry. The sun came up, and the warmth shown through the boards where she lay. She dozed in the slatted rays, the bone between her feet, and dreamed doggie dreams of running through sun drenched fields chasing rabbits as the house stirred above her.

  Flies buzzed around the bone and lit on her nose, waking her from a sound slumber. She rolled to her side to allow room for her girth and looked out into the distance at the shore and birds running to and fro. She was hungry once more.

  Chapter 11

  Sandy would be back next week—she’d promised. The kids went to see their dad for a few weeks when school let out and Sandy would come to Sandhill Island without them for a while. Billie loved to see Sandy’s kids but still looked forward to some girl-time. She allowed these thoughts to interrupt her meditation.

  She breathed deeply and stacked the stones one on top of the other slowly exhaling as she released each one. At the same time, she released the pain in her heart. Each stone she stacked lightened the burden within. Sometimes it worked better than others.

  Today she was easily distracted. A crab walked toward her on the sand—or away from her—hard to tell with crabs who always walked sideways, but she watched its movements to and away f
rom the water, afraid to get its feet wet. Funny little creatures who lived on the beach but were afraid of water.

  And then she saw him. The man she met at the post office boxes the other day walked her way. He had a fishing pole and bagged chair over one shoulder, a tackle box in his other hand. He waved one handed with difficulty as he set up the folding chair then tripped setting down his precious cargo. With difficulty, he kept from falling. He looked up red-faced and Billie tried not to giggle.

  “Flip flops!” He pointed to his feet.

  She wasn’t going to get anywhere with her meditation today anyway. She stood, rolling up her mat and placing it back in the bag. She walked his way smiling. “What about flip flops?”

  “I don’t know how you people live in them.” He picked one up off the ground, brushing the sand from it and placing it back on his foot.

  “I think it is a learned behavior. Actually, we put them on our babies at birth.” Billie giggled again and covered her mouth with her hand.

  “You have a nice laugh. You can tell a lot about a person’s laugh.” He took off his sunglasses and put them on top of the hat on his head. “And about their voice. Where did you learn to sing like that?”

  Billie could feel her face warm with embarrassment. People often asked that question, so why did she blush when he asked? “I started singing as a kid in church, and it just progressed from there.”