Beach House

by Mary Monroe

  “Maybe the owner doesn’t want to sell.”

  “Everyone has their price.”

  “But I thought you said you didn’t have any money at the moment.”

  “It takes money to make money.” He turned in his chair to face her. “That’s what I came to talk to you about. I’ve got a lead on who owns that place.”

  Lovie dropped her fork. “Clumsy me! Excuse me.”

  “You okay?”

  “Of course I am. I’m just getting old. Now, what was that you were saying about the property?” She clasped her hands tightly in her lap but kept her smile fixed.

  “Well, we’ve been digging around. Seems those other two lots were deeded to the Coastal Conservancy by Russell Bennett. Do you know him? One of the Richmond Bennetts?”

  She hesitated, clenching her hands tighter. “Yes, I vaguely remember meeting him and his wife. Her name was Eleanor, I believe. She was a Huntington.”

  “He was big into nature and ecology, that sort of thing. I gather he was a champion of sea turtles in particular.” He looked to her for confirmation. “Seems he foresaw how these islands would be developed and he deeded those two lots for the protection of the loggerheads.”

  Still she made no comment.

  “I can’t believe you don’t know about all this. It’s right up your alley.”

  “I remember reading something about that in the newspaper. It was all such a long time ago. I admired him for that. It showed great foresight.”

  “I’m surprised your paths didn’t cross more often, you being a Turtle Lady and all. And you traveled in the same social circles.”

  “He was a biologist and I’m just a volunteer. You said you found out who owned the third lot?”

  “Not yet. But here’s the thing. The lots were all purchased in the same year. We’re checking to see if Bennett didn’t own all three of them at one time.”

  She coughed, waving away his hand at her back. After a moment and a sip of water she asked, “What if he did own them? Wouldn’t that mean that the land is held by his family?”

  “There’s no record of it.”

  She was exasperated and said sharply, “What possible difference could it make to you who owns it? You don’t have the money to buy that lot anyway. You said yourself that business was tight. It seems a waste of time to pursue this any longer.”

  “We could use this place as collateral, then sell both lots. Or better yet, build on them like I was saying the other night. Mama, we’d make a fortune.”

  “I’ll never sell Primrose Cottage,” she said quietly. “It means too much to me.”

  His face screwed up in disappointment. When he spoke, his words were measured. “I’m sorry to tell you this, but I’m going to have to cut back your allowance. Like I said, money is tight now and keeping up this place is becoming a burden.”

  Lovie’s face colored as she felt the flames of indignation and fear. “That allowance was set in the will. You can’t change that.”

  “Mama, be realistic. Costs have gone up. The dollar is shrinking. I know you don’t understand any of this business talk but, simply put, the money is just not there.”

  Lovie shuddered and wrapped her arms around herself, closing her eyes.

  “Now don’t you worry, Mama. You’ll always be taken care of. You’ll be happy back at the big house with me and the family. We miss you.” He leaned forward, studying her face, his brows gathered in worry. “Mama?”

  She opened her eyes and searched for the boy she loved in the stern set of his features. She’d always thought that Cara was the most like her father, but now saw that she’d been fooled by visible traits such as height, eye and hair color. As they aged, it was Palmer who had assumed his mannerisms. He had Stratton’s slump of the shoulders, the beguiling smile that did not reach the eyes, the way in which he could deliver an ultimatum with a cold swipe of the tongue. All these years she’d worried about Cara, but she’d been blind to the changes occurring right under her nose in her son.

  “I’m staying for this summer, Palmer,” she said, drawing herself up. He was taken aback by her decisive tone. “I won’t go. Whatever you have to do, do it.”

  “Mama…”

  “I’m staying because this will be my last summer. I’ve been wondering all during lunch how best to tell you this, Palmer, but you must know now. I have terminal cancer of the lung.”

  Palmer’s face grew ashen and his eyes protruded in shock.

  Lovie nodded her head.

  “Hell, no! I don’t want to hear this. What do you mean, terminal?”

  “I think you know. It means, simply, that I’m dying.”

  “There are treatments for cancer! I read about them all the time in the paper. Goddammit, Mama, we’ve got one of the best medical centers in the country right here in Charleston. If they can’t figure out what’s wrong with you then we’ll go someplace that can. I’m not going to sit here and listen to you tell me you’re dying when I haven’t even had a chance to fight this thing yet!”

  “Palmer, come here.” She opened her arms to her son but he angrily shook his head, rose and walked to the edge of the porch to stare out.

  “I’m sorry I can’t spare you this,” she said. “I’ve been to the doctors. I’ve had all the tests. There’s nothing you, or anyone, can do. I’m afraid it is in God’s hands now. No, please don’t argue. That’s why I didn’t tell you in the beginning, because I knew you would put up such a fuss. I simply don’t have the energy to fight you on this.”

  He turned to face her, his own face filled with anguish. “What kind of a son would I be if I didn’t?”

  “A good son. A son who loves his mama and does as she asks him.”

  His face crumpled and he lowered his head. When she held out her arms to him again, he went to her side, buried his head in her lap and wept like he did as a child.

  Later that day, Cara was sitting on the porch with Emmi, sipping sweet tea and eating berries. Emmi had stopped by with a big bowl of strawberries that she’d purchased at the market. They rocked together in rocking chairs, ate berries and yakked like old times. Cara remembered back to when they were preteens and had lounged on this same porch. Those hot summer days seemed to drag on forever back then.

  “I got asked out on a date,” she said.

  Emmi swung her head around. “And you didn’t tell me?”

  “I just got asked.”

  “Who with?”

  “Brett Beauchamps. Remember him? He’s the—”

  “I know who he is! When did he ask you out?”

  “He runs the Coastal Eco-Tours you were so hot to send me out on.”

  Emmi gaped in astonishment. “Amazing. Who would have thought that Brett Beauchamps would end up a tour guide?” She shook her head again. “If he even managed to survive to forty, I would have bet he’d either be a billionaire or in prison. Brett Beauchamps,” she repeated with sparkling eyes. “Takes me back. Does he have his tour boat souped up and beer in the cooler?”

  “Actually, he’s quite different than we remember him,” she replied, feeling the urge to defend him. No one had been more surprised than she to discover that the popular, irascible football star had grown up to be a rather remarkable man. “And he isn’t a tour guide. He owns Eco-Tours. He’s a naturalist.”

  “A naturalist,” she said, drawing out the word. “That is so hard to imagine. He was such a wild, tempestuous good ol’ boy. How did you recognize him? Is he still as gorgeous?”

  “Actually, I didn’t recognize him. He recognized me.” She laughed lightly at seeing Emmi’s shocked stare. It was hardly flattering, but Cara had to acknowledge that it was unlikely. “I didn’t think he even knew I was alive in high school. We didn’t exactly hang around the same crowds. He’s a lot mellower now, more laid-back. And yes, he’s still gorgeous, but in a chiseled way. More ruggedly handsome than dreamboat, thank God.”

  “But my, my, my, I’ll bet he’s still got those football muscles.”

 
“I’ve always been a brains-over-brawn girl myself,” Cara said with a haughty lift of her chin.

  Emmi smiled devilishly. “Brett has both.”

  “You’re enjoying yourself, aren’t you?”

  “I’m simply living vicariously through you, reflecting in your glory. I have to do something since my own love life is in shambles.”

  “What do you expect when your husband is out of town?”

  Emmi’s rocking stilled. They’d suddenly moved into deeper waters and the mood shifted. “It’s not just when he’s out of town. It’s when we’re together, too.”

  “Oh, come on. You and Tom are the poster couple for the All-American Love Story. You were childhood sweethearts and all.”

  Emmi began rocking again. “All stories come to an end.”

  “I hope you’re still joking.”

  “No. I’m serious. Lately, I think he looks forward to going out of town. And I have to admit, I do, too.”

  “But Tom loves you. He always has.”

  She shrugged. “I’m sure he does, but not the way he used to. I don’t love him the way I used to, either.” Her face grew long as her voice lowered. “It’s hard to feel anything for him when he’s gone all the time. We don’t share any interests any more. Not even the children. And it’s not like we’re hot for each other, either. I mean, after twenty years there aren’t many surprises left.” She stretched out her legs and wriggled her toes. “I wouldn’t mind poking my toe in the proverbial pond again, just to see how it felt.”

  “Emmaline Baker Peterson!”

  “Hey, don’t look at me that way. Why not? I know he does.”

  The image of a shy, red-faced Tom leaning forward to plant her first kiss on her lips shot through her mind. “I can’t believe that, either. Tom was so shy and so…conservative. He was the only guy we knew who didn’t believe in premarital sex.”

  “He just believes in extramarital sex.”

  “No!” Cara exclaimed.

  Emmi just looked at her.

  “You’re killing me,” Cara said. “That’s the third time my heart’s stopped. Are you sure?”

  “I’ve left five messages for him at his hotel. At all hours of the night. Even Tom doesn’t work that hard.”

  The silence stretched on while Cara tried to think of a plausible excuse. She couldn’t.

  “It wouldn’t be the first time,” Emmi continued. “Of course, when he gets home, I never bring it up. We go about our lives as though nothing happened. I’m not a coward. I’m just lazy. It’s easier just to pretend I don’t suspect than to confront him. And the funny thing is, after a while I begin to question and doubt the whole thing. Before you know it, I let it slip out of my mind—until it happens again.”

  “I had no idea,” Cara responded, not knowing what else to say.

  Emmi tapped the arms of the rocker. “Hey, I don’t want to talk about this boring old stuff.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’ve made my bed and I’m sleeping in it. Even if it is in a different house,” she added, her wide mouth stretching into a mirthless grin. “The question of the hour is, where is Brett Beauchamps taking you on your date?”

  “We’re going out for a picnic.”

  “Oh, my God. Let me guess. That’s you, him, a boat and a trip to some way-off hammock. I heard about those picnics in high school. Better put bug spray everywhere.”

  Cara laughed again, but inside she sizzled. She’d heard about Brett’s picnics, too.

  Her eggs laid, the mother loggerhead now uses her rear flippers to rake sand over her nest and her front flippers to throw sand to disguise the area. When her work is done, the mother lumbers back to the safety of the sea. She’ll never return to her nest.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Brett picked Cara up in a johnboat.

  “You certainly go to both extremes,” she said as he took her hand and helped her from the dock at the marina into the twelve-foot, flat-bottomed boat. The Eco-Tour boat next to it looked like the Titanic in comparison.

  “We’ll need something flat to get where I’ve in mind,” he replied. “Sit down now, lest you want to take a dip in the water.”

  She moved in her rubber-soled sandals to sit on the flat metal seat, holding on to the sides as he shifted a large cooler, a fishing rod, a net, long rubber boots and thick rubber gloves out of her way to make room in the front of the small boat. Not the usual accessories for a date. When he sat down in the rear he winked at her with a little boy’s smile of anticipation. After settling things around to his satisfaction, he turned to work on the Evinrude engine.

  “So where are we going?”

  “A secret place.”

  “It won’t be a secret anymore once I get there.”

  “Oh, you’d have a hard time finding your way back,” he replied with a smug smile.

  “I imagine I’m not the first one you’ve taken there.”

  He laughed. “No.” He checked the fuel and oil on the motor. “I’ve got friends still trying to find it again. I have to come in and fetch them after they get themselves lost.”

  Cara cast an uneasy look out at the landscape of thick grassy marshes that seemed to go on forever. “Can we get lost in there?”

  “Some folks can.” He put heavy black sunglasses on, leaned back and grabbed hold of the engine. “Hold on now. We’re ready to go.”

  As the engine sprang to life, she gripped the sides of the boat. Brett easily guided the boat into the waterway, as comfortable on the water as he was on land. “Hang on to your hat,” he called out over the engine’s din and they took off at full throttle. The tide was going out so the current moved strong in the opposite direction. The little boat bobbed against the choppy water and the wind tore at her cap. She reached for it, but it flew off her head. Brett caught it and tucked it in the back of the boat under the rubber boots. His own hair was streaming from his face and his squared chin cut the wind like a masthead. Traveling so close to the water in the small boat was akin to riding a motorcycle on an open road. Everything was closer, more immediate. The spray of the water sprinkled her face, cool and salty.

  She’d only ridden on a motorcycle once and it was actually more a glorified moped. Yet the wind against her face and her arms tight around a man she was currently infatuated with had been thrilling and made her yearn for a ride on a powerful bike someday. This was as close as she’d ever come. She felt alive and exhilarated.

  Two larger craft passed them, creating wakes that had Cara reaching again for the sides of the boat. Brett only waved nonchalantly and kept his eyes straight ahead. They couldn’t talk over the roar of the engine as they bounced along. So, relaxed at not having to maintain conversation, she admired the view. She saw several long-necked egrets wading in the shallows of the marsh. Overhead, a pelican banked and flew off. A ways farther, Brett tapped her shoulder then pointed. Cara followed the trajectory and gasped out loud. A dolphin was streaking through the water only a few feet away, keeping up. It seemed to be playing with them, surfacing with a loud whoosh through its blowhole. A minute later she saw another one, even closer. She wanted to reach out and touch the sleek gray skin as it skimmed the surface only an arm’s length away. She laughed out loud. Looking over at Brett, she saw his smile stretch across his face at her reaction.

  He turned off the main waterway onto a narrow channel of water. She watched the pair of dolphins swim off until they disappeared. She and Brett were winding their way through the thick of the marsh where several other channels interconnected to form an enormous maze. She looked to the left and right, a little afraid. The grasses rose up high over her head, blocking out any horizon markers. In only a few minutes, she was totally lost. She only hoped Brett wasn’t bluffing when he’d claimed he could find his way back.

  The farther they traveled in, the more the tide moved out and the water levels lowered. In some areas it drained away completely, exposing steaming mudflats where wading birds hunted for dinner in the soggy soil. Brett slow
ed their pace and the engine lowered to a bubbly growl as he expertly motored through the jungle of grass, his eyes on the bank, one hand on the rudder. It was like being Katharine Hepburn and Humphrey Bogart on the African Queen, she thought to herself.

  “Are we almost there, Mr. Allnut?”

  He broke into a grin and pointed to a small hammock. “Just ahead, Rosie,” he called back.

  She smiled. He just bumped up a few notches for catching the old movie reference. She always found well-rounded men to be infinitely more fun.

  At last he pulled up to the bank of a small, treed island. He brought the boat as far up shore as he could, then shut off the engine. Instantly, the quiet enveloped them. As quickly, Cara felt very far away from the rest of humanity.

  “We’re pretty far from dry land,” she said doubtfully, looking off beyond a long stretch of mud.

  “This is as close as we can get by boat. It’s just a short walk away.”

  “Walk?” Cara’s voice rose in disbelief. Surely she couldn’t have heard right. “Brett, you can’t expect me to walk through that mud! There are acres of it. And who knows what’s in there?”

  “That’s the interesting thing about marsh mud,” he replied as he kicked off his sandals. He reached for the pair of rubber boots from the bottom of the boat. “That slimy mud out there is rich in organic matter. All sorts of life forms—oysters, snails, fiddler crabs—live, breed and die in that mud. Not to mention all manner of insects and larvae.”

  Cara watched in horror as he pushed his legs into the waders that reached up to his knees, then gathered his gloves, a hammer and the net and threw them into a mud-stained canvas bag.

  “I don’t care what those critters do in that gook. I’m not joining them.”

  He stood up and took a step toward her. She crouched back with a short yelp.

  Brett laughed and stepped out of the boat into the soft, slimy mud. He sank down to his ankles. Moving to her side, he turned his back to her. “Okay, hop on.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “Nope. I’ll carry you.”