“We’ll place one egg at a time and carefully move it to the bottom of the bucket, careful not to rotate it. Ready?”
“I’m a little nervous,” she confessed.
“No worries. If you drop one, we’ll eat it for breakfast.” He laughed at her expression. “Of course, I’m kidding. Watch me do a few, and when you’re ready, just start. We’ll count them as we go.”
She watched Dr. Bennett retrieve the Ping-Pong-ball-size eggs one after the other from the nest and carefully place them in the moist nest sand inside the bucket.
“Are you going to help or just watch?” he chided her.
Lovie reached down some two feet to wrap her fingers around a first egg. It was still warm from the sand and leathery and so soft it indented with pressure from her fingers. She held it like it was spun glass, careful not to jostle, and gingerly laid it on the pile of eggs in the bucket.
Egg by egg, one hundred and thirteen were retrieved. They lay nestled securely in the bucket and, lifting the weight of it, Lovie marveled at how the turtle had managed to carry them all inside her, plus the weight of her shell. She remembered the female loggerheads she’d watched painstakingly crawl over the sand, pausing to rest and then pushing off again, determined to fulfill their destiny on the dark beach.
They moved the eggs to a spot Dr. Bennett selected higher up along a pristine dune where the eggs would be safe from saltwater flooding.
“How many nests have you dug?” she asked.
He was digging steadily, using a large cockleshell to round out the bottom of the chamber. Lovie’s view of the new nest site was blocked by his broad back. The fabric clung to his body in spots where sweat pooled. How long had it been since she’d been so attentive to the shape of a man’s body? she chided herself. But he was beautiful to watch, like a dancer. His lean body was fine-tuned for the labor.
When he was done, he sat back on his heels and took off his hat, wiping his brow with his sleeve. “Would you like to do the honors?” he asked.
She nodded, feeling her heart leap in her chest. With reverence, Lovie reached into the bucket, retrieved an egg, and then cautiously set it an arm’s length deep into the new egg chamber. Russell sat beside her, watching and keeping count.
“That’s number one,” he said. “Careful not to rotate them. Two. Three . . .”
She lowered egg after egg into the deep nest. When at last she’d finished, Dr. Bennett covered the settled eggs with the original moist sand. Lovie firmly patted the sand down on the top, feeling a profound sense of accomplishment.
“I’ve seen the mama turtle pound the sand with the bottom of her shell like a drum,” she said.
Dr. Bennett cast a sidelong glance. “Don’t let me stop you. Is that part of your routine, too?”
She laughed, overjoyed at the experience of moving the nest. “Not yet, but if you said it was, I’d do that, too.”
“You really love this, don’t you?”
“No more than you.”
He didn’t reply. He didn’t have to. Their mutual grins said it all.
“What’s next?” he asked her.
“Well, I mark the nest with one of these small wooden stakes.” She picked up a stake and the measuring tape. “Then I record the data in the journal. I suppose we’ll need a new data form, now that we’re moving nests.”
They measured and placed the stake into the sand, then sat on the beach and talked awhile about what additional data he wanted included and why. He showed her how to measure the tracks and how to fine-tune the placement of the nest marker and what information to put on it. Lovie felt like a sponge, soaking up all the knowledge, and likewise making suggestions based on her experience in a fair give-and-take. Then, their first nest of the project finished, they moved on.
The sun was rising, as was the heat. The ocean sparkled beyond, tantalizingly cool. Lovie took her hat off and allowed the light breeze to cool the moisture building along her scalp. A few more people were on the beach now. They glanced at the two of them, wondering what they were doing. Lovie knew that time was of the essence. They walked without speaking to the northern tip of Isle of Palms where Dewees Island lay a short distance across a small inlet. Lovie was the first to spot the long stretch of turtle tracks.
When she approached, she saw that something was very wrong. Telltale flies buzzed over a hole in the sand, and circling it were dozens of broken eggs crawling with ants.
“Raccoons,” Dr. Bennett said, surveying the ravaged nest. “I saw it from the plane.”
“What a shame. I rarely have problems with raccoons on the south end.”
“It’s no wonder up here, with that forest. Feral dogs, boars, not to mention crabs all like to feast on turtle eggs, but those damn raccoons are a serious problem. Eggs are like manna from heaven for them. What I wouldn’t give for a good coon dog.” He reached into his backpack and pulled out a pair of plastic gloves and handed them to Lovie. “Another lesson,” he said with a crooked smile. “Not as pleasant.”
She groaned. “One I’m sorry I have to learn.”
“This can get nasty,” he said. The nest smelled of sulfur, and ants roamed the broken eggs. She followed him to the nest and watched as he opened it wide to assess the damage. “That rascal did a good job,” he said, pulling out broken eggs.
Lovie slapped biting ants as she counted forty-eight eggs destroyed out of the possible hundred or more eggs in the nest. They filled the nest back with sand and buried the broken shells close to the shoreline where the scent wouldn’t draw predators.
They stood in the ocean, washing off their hands and cooling the bites that went clear through the plastic gloves. When Lovie returned home, she’d rinse her hands with lemon juice. It was the only thing she’d found that took the smell away.
“I’ve got some chicken wire under the porch,” she said. “We can make a covering for the nest so that varmint won’t get any more of the eggs. Maybe we should put wire mesh over the other nest, too.”
“No, we have to leave it to document the hatching success in nature.”
Lovie drew upright, indignant. “What? You mean just leave it unprotected?”
“I know it sounds harsh, but we need to evaluate what happens without intervention.”
“But there is intervention. Me!”
“See, this is what I mean about getting personal. I know it’s frustrating to just watch while raccoons and crabs take so many nests. But we have to let nature take its course for now. I’m sorry.”
“No. I’m sorry, because I can’t go along with this. You say you’re here to monitor what goes on here on this island. Well, this island has me,” she said, pointing to herself. “And I’m going to put mesh over that nest to protect it from raccoons. Whether you like it or not, whether you help me or not, I’m still going to do it.”
She was angry, at him for being so inflexible and at herself for losing her temper. Her feet splashed as she walked determinedly from the ocean, eager to get to her things and get out of the sun. A sudden wind kicked up and sent her hat sailing. This time it flew far back and landed in the waves. She ground her teeth as she turned to fetch the now despised hat.
Dr. Bennett was already going after it. He plucked it from the ocean and came back to her carrying the sodden straw hat. He held it out to her as he would a peace offering.
“Thank you,” she said, taking it.
“I think you’ll need a new one.”
She smirked. “It’s put in a lot of years.”
“Mrs. Rutledge, I didn’t mean to bully you. I realize you’ve been doing things your way on this island for a long time, but I have to change things up a bit now for the study.”
“I’ve been a good sport,” she argued back, feeling heat. “But you told me I was your partner in this project. If that’s true, then you’ll try to understand that my continuing to protect the nests on this island will not disrupt your findings because I am part of this island. Whether they build that resort or not, I’m still here.
I’m a constant, so you have to factor that in. Right? I am going to protect that nest. And any other nest that needs my help. It’s what I do.”
He listened, studying her.
“I appreciate all you taught me today,” she said in a softer voice. “I realize I have a lot to learn.” She looked back at him. “But I can teach you a few things, too. Isn’t that what a partnership is all about?”
He slowly nodded. “Very well, Mrs. Rutledge . . . Partner,” he amended with a smile. “We’ve got a lot of work to do. If we’re going to build a project—and that mesh net—we’d better get started.”
She looked into those impossibly blue eyes and saw acceptance, and something more she couldn’t name—validation? “Since we’re partners, please call me Olivia. Or rather, Lovie. That’s what everyone calls me.”
“Everyone calls you Lovie when you have such a beautiful name? If you don’t mind, I’ll call you Olivia. If you’ll call me Russell.”
“Not Russ?”
He laughed and shook his head. “Only Bing calls me Russ, to rile me.”
“Okay, Russell.” She smiled, almost shyly.
“Okay, then, Olivia.”
Lovie sat in the Jeep and looked straight ahead, sipping cool water from her thermos. She and Russell didn’t speak on the ride home, but there was none of the awkward tension one often felt in silence. Rather, it was comfortable riding beside one another. Something had changed between them this morning. Their earlier friction had altered to something deeper, certainly friendlier. Definitely positive. She didn’t dare glance at him for fear he might be looking at her with the same wonder she felt sure was on her face.
She glanced at Russell as they pulled into her drive. He’d taken off his brown baseball cap, and his short blond hair had curled slightly in the humidity. He turned and smiled when he put the car into park. “Good-bye,” she said, climbing from the Jeep as gracefully as she could carrying a bucket full of sticks and a backpack. She clumsily slammed the heavy, creaky door and rounded the Jeep’s enormous hood with the bucket banging against her leg.
“So, I’ll see you later this afternoon?” he called out from his window.
She turned to face him. “Uh, yes, of course. Around two okay?”
“Perfect.” He smiled again, and she wondered if he had any clue of its power. “See you then. Olivia.”
She waved, unable at that moment to call him Russell.
She staggered up the stairs to the porch and unloaded her gear in a pile to be dealt with later. She was sweaty, plastered with sand, and smelled of rotten eggs, but inside she was glowing.
“I’m home!” she called out, closing the door and walking straight to her bathroom. She stripped off her damp clothes, casting sand like a sea turtle, and stepped directly into the luxuriously cool shower. She sighed as the water cascaded down on her. It felt like half of the beach washed from her skin and hair.
Soaping up, her mind circled around the conversations of the morning. There had been so many powerful moments. Especially at the end . . . Lovie could tell that it was hard for Dr. Bennett—Russell—to give in on the issue of the raccoons. She smiled. Once again, she was being that pushy, pesky turtle lady. But he’d borne it well, with kindness, dignity, even respect. He didn’t yell at her or say that she didn’t know what she was talking about or tell her not to get involved in things she didn’t understand, as Stratton would. She thought that was what mattered most to her. Russell had listened to her. He considered her his equal. It was his respect for her that swung the argument in the end. She squeezed the water from her hair and paused. It had been a very long time since she’d experienced that.
When she returned to the living room, she felt cooler, more herself. It was after ten o’clock and she hadn’t had breakfast. She went first to the kitchen to pour herself a cup of stale coffee, craning her head for sign of the children. She found them out on the porch with Emmi Baker, eating enormous wedges of watermelon. Juice dripped down their chins as they took turns spitting seeds over the railing in an age-old game. She paused at the window to drink in the sight of them, tanned, relaxed, talking—and not fighting. This mood, she thought, was what summer was all about. She cocked her ear to overhear their conversation.
Palmer spit a seed and landed a good one. He chuckled smugly and leaned against the porch railing. “Beat that,” he said, wiping the juice from his chin with his arm.
Lovie knew Cara wouldn’t back down from a challenge. She watched as Cara slurped up a big bite of melon, singled out one seed, and fired. It fell short. Her face flamed as Palmer guffawed. While the girls spit round after round to beat him, Palmer ate his fruit with an eye open for any cheating. He knew better than to turn his back on Cara during a competition.
“Hey, what do you girls think about a game of hide-and-seek, over at Fort Moultrie?” Palmer asked.
“Not today,” Cara said. “It’s too hot.”
“Maybe it’ll cool down later. It’s breezy up there on top of the fort.”
“Maybe,” Cara replied, then spit again. “How about the mud-hole?”
Palmer snorted. “Not with you.”
“Why not?”
“’Cause you’re a girl. Duh.”
“Who says a girl can’t go to the mudhole?”
“Nobody.” He scowled. “But it’s weird. You’ve gotta stop tagging along everywhere I go.”
“I’m not,” Cara shot back. “I like to go to the same places you do. That’s all. Right, Em?”
Emmi nodded.
Lovie moved closer, listening to every word. Stratton had told her that Palmer had complained that Cara was hanging around the boys too much, and now she wondered if it was true.
Cara asked, “You gonna try hiking to the Point this summer?”
“I guess,” Palmer replied. “I do that every summer.”
“Me, too,” Cara said.
“But you never make it . . . every summer.”
Cara stood straighter, indignant. “I’m going to make it this year. You just watch me.”
“You say that every year, too.”
“I almost made it last year.”
“Oh, yeah? Well, close is no cigar. You got to make it all the way to the Point and sign the book. Or it don’t count.” Palmer lowered his voice and attempted a scary drawl, “Nicodemus is waiting for yoooooou.”
Cara angrily spit out a seed. It was a sad attempt that landed on the railing.
Lovie felt for her little girl who wanted to compete with the boys. She was faster, smarter, even taller than most of them. How could she help her daughter see that she could be all those things and more—as a girl. And yet, Stratton and her mother urged Lovie to mold her into the kind of young lady who wouldn’t want to make it to the Point or swim with the boys in the mud-hole.
“You’ll see. This summer, I’ll do it,” Cara said, squeezing her melon so tight her fingers dug into the fruit. “Won’t we, Em?”
Emmi bit into her melon and nodded unenthusiastically.
Palmer gave a smug laugh. “You’re a girl. You won’t make it.”
A spark of pique rose in Lovie, and she opened the porch door. The children’s faces showed surprise that she was home.
“I’m glad you cut yourself some watermelon,” she said to them in a cheery voice. “How is it?”
“It’s a good ’un,” Palmer muttered as he took another bite.
Lovie went to the table to cut herself a piece of the melon. “You know, Palmer, girls make it to the Point, too.” She picked up her wedge and walked over to join the children at the porch railing. She could tell by their shifting glances that they were uncomfortable that she’d overheard them.
“Oh, yeah?” Cara asked, eyes bright. “Who?”
“Yeah, who?” Palmer asked it as a challenge.
Lovie heard a hint of Stratton’s smug superiority in Palmer’s voice and she didn’t like it. “Me,” she replied.
She thought it was time her little boy was taken down a peg or two. S
he looked out over the sandy grass for the seeds that lay farthest away. Taking a bite of the watermelon, she saved a seed in her mouth. Then leaning over the railing, she gathered her air and spit out the seed. It sailed far beyond Palmer’s best shot.
Cara and Emmi cheered and clapped.
Lovie laughed and looked at her scowling son. “Not only did I sign the book, but your uncle Mickey and I were some of the first ones. We were part of the gang that started the challenge. Go check the book if you don’t believe me.” She wiggled her brows. “If you dare go back.”
She glanced at Cara and Emmi. Their eyes were wide with astonishment and awe.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me,” Lovie said, dabbing her mouth with a paper napkin. “I’ll make lunch.”
“You actually moved an entire nest? You touched eggs?”
Flo’s eyes were agog as she sat forward, chin in her palm, across the teak table from Lovie. There was an unspoken agreement that every evening the three women—Lovie, Flo, and Miranda—gathered during the season on Lovie’s porch to toast the sunset with a glass of wine. The sky was darkening, and the children were inside. Peace was restored at Primrose Cottage.
Lovie launched into a colorful description of the morning’s experiences, embellishing details, knowing she had an appreciative audience. When she was done, Flo sat back in her wicker chair, swirled her wine, and scrunched up her face in a frown.
“Now I’m mad.”
“Why?” Lovie asked, feigning innocence.
“I want to switch jobs with you. While I’m out there hoofing it in the heat, you’re up in the sky getting a personal tour of the island with Mr. Blue Eyes. Then he gives you private tutoring on how to move a nest. Which, by the way, I’m not sure we should do. Really, Lovie, where does he get his authority?”
“From the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service,” she replied dryly.
“Oh, well.” Flo swallowed her wine. “It’s still not fair.”
Miranda swirled her wine in her glass. “You sound just like you did when you were ten.”
Flo jokingly stuck out her tongue at her mother. “I feel like I’m ten. Lovie gets to do all the fun stuff.”
Beach House Memories Page 14
