by Mary Monroe
“What did you call me?”
“If you want me to help pay for the kid, then you gotta come home. Plain and simple.”
She leaned against the wall and looked at the ceiling.
“So what’s it gonna be?” he demanded.
She closed her eyes tight. “I’m thinking.”
“Why don’t you think while I come pick you up?”
“No! I don’t want you to come here!”
“Why can’t I come there? Are you ashamed of me or somethin’? Is there some other guy?” There was a pause and she could almost hear his anger zoom. “That’s it, isn’t it? You’re with another guy.”
“Oh sure, like I’ve got all these guys after me. Darryl, I’m pregnant!”
“Yeah, well, some guys like pregnant girls.”
“You’re being disgusting.”
He skipped a beat. “I’m being what?”
That tone always signaled trouble. Toy immediately tried to douse the flame. “Never mind.”
“No, I want to know. You think I’m disgusting, now. Is that it?” His voice was rising.
“I didn’t mean you.”
“You better not be meaning me.”
“I don’t.”
There was a long pause during which Toy felt the tears begin to flow down her cheeks. She could feel the pressure from him closing in around her; she couldn’t breathe.
“Toy, you know I go crazy when you try to put some wedge between us.”
“I’m not.” She sniffed.
“Oh, no? What do you call saying we can’t be together? Honey, can’t you see? Those people don’t care about you like I do. They only care about keeping cheap help. We don’t need them or their stinking money. I’ve always taken care of you.”
Toy heard the sound of footfalls on the outside porch steps. She felt panic well up, afraid to be caught. “Darryl, someone’s coming. I gotta go.”
“Wait! We’re not finished.”
“I gotta go! I’m not supposed to be talking to you.”
“Shit. That’s it. No one tells you that you can’t talk to me. I’m coming out there and—”
“No, Darryl! I’ll call you later. I promise. ‘Bye.” She hung up the phone just as the door swung open.
Cara walked in first, carrying a box of Krispy Kreme doughnuts and a gallon of milk. Behind her, Lovie was scraping the sand from her sandals. They both were wearing matching green Turtle Team T-shirts and khaki shorts.
“Hi,” Cara called out when she spied Toy. She raised the box in her hands. “I’ve been naughty but I saw these at the gas station and I couldn’t resist. Mmm-mmm. I just love these and they’re fresh. Come and get ’em.” She held the door open for her mother, then, closing it, looked at Toy again, searching. “What’s the matter? Are you feeling all right?”
If Toy had learned anything from Miss Lovie over the past few months, it was to put a bright face on when times were at their worst. And Toy so wanted to be like Miss Lovie. She pushed all thoughts and worries of Darryl into a far corner of her mind, smiled and walked into the living room. “Oh, I’m fine. Just fine.”
It had been three days since her date with Brett at the hammock and he had yet to call. Cara had been working in the yard like a whirling dervish, obsessed with keeping occupied. He’d made her feel like some oversexed Amazon and she was furious that she even cared what he thought. She grabbed the rusty pickax that she’d salvaged from the trash pile when her mother wasn’t looking and began taking out her frustration on the roots.
It’d been a long day under a grueling sun. Her muscles trembled and rivers of sweat cascaded down her spine. She was finishing her battle with the oleanders when she heard the crunching of gravel on the driveway. Cara poked her head out from the jungle of branches to see who it could be.
The door of a white pickup opened and she spied a green baseball cap with Coastal Eco-Tours emblazoned across the top. The visor was worn low over his eyes, but there was no mistaking the broad shoulders that emerged from the cab. Oh, great, she groaned and slowly straightened, her back aching each millimeter of the way. He couldn’t have waited another hour. By then she’d have had a nice shower and been all sweet smelling instead of the muddy, sweaty wreck she was now. She brushed a strand of hair from her face, succeeding only in sprinkling more dirt across it.
He spotted her, then approached slowly, looking a little sheepish with his hands tucked into his back pocket. “Hey there,” he called out.
“Hello,” she replied as regally as she could with mud streaked down her face.
He came to a halt on the opposite side of the oleander, grabbing hold of a branch and studying it as though it held the secrets of the universe. “I don’t suppose you’d believe me if I told you the engine gave out on the tour boat? I had to work day and all night to get it fixed for today’s tour.” He looked up then, eyes pleading.
“I believe you.” She began to pick pine needles and sand spurs from her garden gloves with staccato movements.
“And you’re thinking I could have called anyway.”
“Brett, you don’t have a clue what I’m thinking.”
His smile slipped and he looked at her as though trying to determine if there was even a shred of humor in that statement. “You’re right. No excuses. I’m sorry.”
It was the right answer. She lost her attitude and nodded with a half smile. “Apology accepted.”
“Are you hungry? I thought you’d let me take you out to dinner.”
“I don’t think I have the energy for another trip to a hammock tonight,” she said. “Not that it wasn’t an…original first date.” Her eyes indicated the piles of branches littering the lawn. “But I’m utterly and thoroughly exhausted.”
“A pot of boiled crabs at my place was more what I had in mind.”
It was her turn to smile. “In that case, I accept. But let me finish this first. It’s war and I’ve almost got this sucker beaten into submission.” She grabbed hold of the root and began tugging as hard as she could, muttering curses between pants. She didn’t get very far. There just wasn’t much juice left in her muscles.
“Here, let me help,” he said stepping forward to maneuver the limb from her hands. Then, gently nudging her aside, he grabbed hold at the base of the trunk. “Rule number two,” he said as he planted his feet firmly in place. “A Lowcountry man never stands by and watches a lady do manual labor.”
Cara took a few steps back and watched as he took a deep breath. Then, with a low growl, he ripped out the shrub by the roots in a single tug and tossed it like a cotton ball onto the huge pile of debris. She slumped in awe.
“I’m obviously not cut out for this.”
“You go on and get cleaned up while I drag all this to the end of the drive,” he told her, rolling up his sleeves.
“You’re all clean. You don’t have to do that. I can manage.”
“Yes, I do. A little groveling is in order, don’t you think?”
She tried to look disapproving but couldn’t stop the indulgent smile that spread across her face. “Since you put it that way, there’s twine under the porch. And clippers, if you get inspired.”
He was already dragging a large, fallen oak branch that she couldn’t even budge to the curb. She watched for a moment, amused. He seemed to know what he was doing. She let him be, shuffling up the stairs to the house, each small movement an effort. Inside, the scent of garlic and tomato sauce filled the air. Her stomach growled and she realized how ravenous the hard work had made her. Toy was at the stove, stirring.
“Smells good,” she called out.
“Thanks,” Toy replied in a monotone, not turning from her sauce.
Cara passed by, pursing her lips in worry. Toy had returned to her aloof self the past few days. She did her work well and answered whenever spoken to, but she’d retreated back into her shell. At night she kept to her room, and they could hear the Singer humming as she sewed maternity clothes. Unfortunately, she wasn’t a skilled seamstress
. The dress she was wearing now was a hideous lime-green pattern that didn’t match at the puckered seams.
“I’m going out for dinner tonight, so go on and eat without me.”
“Oh, okay,” Toy replied sullenly.
“Oh?” Lovie looked up from the couch, where she was resting with a book. “Going out with whom?”
“Oh, you don’t know him. Just some guy I met the other day.”
“Really?” She closed her book and sat up from the pillows. “A fella?”
Cara could see that her mother’s matchmaking antenna was up and twirling. “I’m grossly filthy. I’ll talk to you after I shower.” With that, she ducked down the hall, making good her escape from the deluge of questions poised on her mother’s lips.
The hot water sluiced down, washing away what felt like acres of dirt from her body. As exhausted as she felt, she was also bubbling with excitement at the prospect of another evening with Brett. With other men she’d had quick flings with in the past, she’d often hoped that they wouldn’t call her again. And if they did, she usually found some way to dump them, nicely of course, but firmly. She was definitely glad Brett came back. Oh yes, she thought, turning off the faucets. Most definitely.
She dressed carefully, choosing white jeans and a sexy black silk top. She let her damp hair hang loose to her shoulders. Looking in the mirror she was surprised by how much sun she’d gotten, even under her hat and bent over like a crone. Her skin positively glowed.
“I’m going!” she called out, grabbing her purse from the hall table.
The house was deserted. Neither her mother nor Toy were anywhere in sight, despite the two place settings neatly laid out at the table, complete with napkins and flowers. Through the open window she heard a burst of laughter coming from the yard. Filled with dread, she hurried out the door.
The air was slightly steamy and insects sang in the brush. All the twigs and branches it had taken her a day to accumulate were neatly bound with twine into neat bundles and lying at the curb. Beside them she saw Brett smiling and chatting with Lovie, laughing in the manner of old friends. She hurried down the porch steps and across the lawn to their circle.
“I see you’ve met,” she said to her mother.
“Oh, my heavens, yes. You didn’t tell me that you were going out to dinner with Brett Beauchamps! Why, I’ve known him for years.” She beamed up at him, her gaze dripping with charm. “How many years would you say?”
Brett was wrapped around her finger. “I don’t know, Miss Lovie. Must be ten—fifteen years at least.”
Cara was stunned. “But how do you know each other?”
“The island is really a small town,” Lovie replied. “Brett used to come help Florence fix up her house every once in a while. He’s really very good with his hands.”
“Really?” Cara cast him a loaded glance. He arched a brow but managed to keep a straight face.
“I’m going in to check my sauce,” Toy said, moving off.
Cara wished her mother would go along, too, but it was clear from the gleam in her pale-blue eyes that Lovie was enjoying her gentleman caller.
“Oh, yes,” Lovie continued, eager to sing his praises. “Do you see that lovely porch? He built that for her. And her gazebo, too. Have you seen Florence lately, Brett?” she asked, directing the question to him. “Why, I’m certain she’d just love to see you again. You’re one of her favorite people.”
“No, ma’am, I haven’t seen Miss Prescott in a long time. I’ll go over and say hello. How is old Mrs. Prescott?”
“Miranda? She’s doing a bit poorly now. Seeing you will cheer her up considerably. She still talks about you. You’ve stolen her heart, I’m afraid.”
“There’s nothing seriously wrong with her, I hope.”
“Son, at ninety, everything is serious. But we hope it’s just a touch of the flu and she’ll be feeling better soon. She lives for the turtles, you know. Once the hatchlings start coming, Flo won’t be able to keep her mother from the beach.”
Cara smiled, thinking of the parallels.
“Who looks after you these days?” Lovie wanted to know. “I can’t believe you haven’t been snatched up yet. A good-looking fellow like you.”
A faint blush crept up his neck and feeling for him, Cara said in a warning tone, “Mother…”
Lovie was undaunted. “Are you still living on Hamlin Creek?”
“Yes ma’am, I am. I was lucky to buy that place years back. I doubt I could afford it today.”
“Don’t I know it. Who would have ever thought we’d be fetching these prices? It was a wise investment. I hear tell your business is doing real well, too. Cara gave a glowing report, though she neglected to tell me it was your boat.” She looked over to smile at Cara, whose turn it was to blush. “I’m proud of you, son. Your daddy must be, too. You’re piloting boats, just like him.”
“Well, his boats are a tad bigger, but I thank you all the same.”
Cara looked across the yard at Florence Prescott’s gazebo while the banter between Brett and Lovie faded. The porch was well designed and constructed, not at all a flimsy addon. It looked built to withstand the harsh weather of a barrier island. And it had style. She made a quick decision, which was typical of her, and when their conversation concluded, she jumped in.
“Say, Brett, would you be interested in another job? A small one?”
His expression ranged between a grimace and curiosity. “I haven’t really had the time for extra jobs in quite a while.” Then considering a moment he added, “But for Miss Lovie, I’ll do what I can. What’s this small job you have in mind?”
“Well, it’s not so small, actually. A porch for the front of a house.” She looked at her mother and smiled. “And a pergola.”
Lovie’s eyes widened with surprise.
Her reaction did not go unnoticed by Brett. He cast a questioning glance Cara’s way, then turned and walked to the front of the house at a slow gait, studying the building as he passed. The two women followed him. Standing side by side on the dune, they watched as he paced the width of the porch, carefully inspected under the house, then paced out the opposite side before returning to the dune. His face revealed nothing as he stood, arms crossed, his chin cupped in his palm, and perused the house in silence. When at last he walked back to them, his gaze was cautious yet positive.
“It could be done easily enough,” he said.
“How wonderful,” Lovie exclaimed.
“Do you want something like you used to have, before Hugo?”
“I can’t believe you can recall that old structure,” Cara replied. “That was years ago.”
“Of course I remember it. Even before I moved to the island I came over in the summers to work in construction. I used to drive by your place and I always admired the roses blooming along the pergola. They were a real showstopper, Miss Lovie. I was sad to see it go.”
“I was just telling her the same thing,” Cara added.
“I think I know what you want,” Brett concluded. “Something traditional but substantial. If you have any old photographs that would be helpful. Problem is, I’d have to do it in my free time, so it won’t be quick.”
“Could you complete it this summer?” Lovie asked.
He rubbed his jaw. “Well now, maybe by the end of it. Summer is my busiest time.”
“It’s got to be early this summer,” Cara exclaimed urgently. “The sooner the better. Hire someone to help you. Order anything you need. Money isn’t a problem.”
His brows furrowed and Cara thought she saw a flash of anger in his eyes.
“Maybe not, but my time is.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pressure you, Brett. It’s just, well—” she darted a worried glance at her mother “—time is of the essence.”
There was a long silence as Brett and Cara stared at each other. The fire in his eyes banked as understanding dawned. He turned to look at Lovie.
“If I did it immediately, before the season gets out
of control, I could try to squeeze it in. But it would be a push and you’d have to hire someone to help, probably two if we want to get it up fast. I’ll draw up the design and oversee it. I know a few people I can ask. They’re good. And reasonable.”
“I’m sure they are, if you recommend them,” Lovie replied, eager to appease him.
Cara was more direct. “You’ll do it?”
He offered a wry smile and Cara instantly knew she’d won. But just as quickly, she was on the receiving end of an exchange that told here there would be a price to pay.
“I’ll do it, provided you’re one of the crew.”
Lovie released a short, high laugh of surprise.
“Me? But I don’t know anything about wielding a hammer and nail. I’ll just be in your way.”
“Who said anything about a hammer and nail?”
She raised her brows, thinking maybe her luck had changed.
“I had a paintbrush in mind.”
The temperature of the sand during incubation plays a role in determining the sex of the hatchlings. Cool sand produces males, while hotter sand brings females.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“Home sweet home,” Brett declared, leading the way up the crumbling cement walkway. “Come on in and I’ll cook you up some dinner.”
Cara just stared at the small 1960s stucco bungalow. “It’s pink!” she exclaimed.
“I call it the Pink Flamingo.” He pointed to a metal pink flamingo roosting in the ground near the front entrance. Catching her expression he chided, “Now, before you look at me like that, it’s important to remember that you’re back on the island. It might be a very different thing if I had a pink house up north. But here it’s very Bermuda.”
“I know that. It’s just that I have a hard time picturing you in a pink house—anywhere.” She looked at the compact, boxy structure with the gray sloping roof. Dominating the front lawn, shielding the little house from the busy street, was an ancient live oak tree that stretched its perfect-for-climbing branches across the front lawn and graced the house with shade. Her heart pinged, recalling her own favorite tree growing up.
