by Mary Monroe
“It’s a very sweet house,” she said.
“Sweet? Now that really hurts.” He unlocked the door. “Come on in before you say anything else.”
The interior was pure bachelor. The walls were dingy gray, the light fixtures strictly of the hardware store variety and what little furniture there was represented years of collecting whatever could be obtained free or on the cheap. A bicycle was parked by the front door and a wet suit and kayak lined the hallway. And his business office was little more than a bunch of mail, papers, books and manila folders cluttering the dining room table. Her eyes skimmed over the mayhem quickly, drawn instead to the glorious view outside the wall of sliding glass. The water of the Intracoastal was racing with the current of the changing tide. It was breathtaking and she instantly fell in love with the place.
She was standing at the glass patio doors looking out when he came up behind her. His strong arms encircled her, dwarfing her, and his big hands rested against her abdomen pressing her to him. She felt an electric jolt when he touched her and closed her eyes with a sigh. Was he making his move at last?
“Hungry?” he asked.
She told herself she wasn’t going to fall into that ridiculous banter about how she was hungry for his kisses. It was too clichéd, too utterly banal.
“I’m starving,” she replied, suddenly coy.
“I’m going to fix us some dinner,” he said, drawing his arms away.
She watched him walk away, stunned. “You do that,” she said, half smiling, half pouting. She told herself he was just throwing her off her mark. Other men would have slipped their hands up her blouse and made love to her on the spot. Dinner would have been an afterthought.
She turned her head in time to see Brett open the glass sliding door and walk off across the yard and down to the end of his dock. Curious, she moved closer to the door, resting her hands upon the cool glass. The glass was smeared with water spots and grime, but she could still see well enough that Brett was bent over the dock. A moment later, he was pulling up a crab pot. The black iron cage emerged dripping with water and filled with what she could only guess were plenty of snapping crabs. Brett appeared to know exactly what to do with them.
Who was this guy, she wondered? Most of the men she’d dated went to the refrigerator or picked up the telephone to get dinner. She leaned against the door and laughed. Brett was nothing remotely like any other man she’d dated.
Thank God.
Together they cooked the crabs in a big stainless steel pot on a gas burner out on the back porch. Cara melted some butter in the microwave while Brett shucked corn. The setting sun cast a pink pall on the water and deepened Cara’s hair to a chocolate brown that matched her eyes. She’d pinned it high up on her head; eating crab was a two-handed affair that required lots of dipping in butter and lots of napkins.
She and Brett sat in the dwindling sunlight while the candles flickered in the hurricane lamps. As they ate their sweet crabmeat and drank beer from cans, it seemed so easy to fall into a rhythm of conversation. They talked about their jobs, the latest turtle nest, plans for the porch and anything else that came to mind. As the night wore on, she found she liked Brett more and more. She liked the way his eyes focused on her when she talked and the way she could laugh readily, like with an old friend. It was comfortable—almost too. And as she watched the way his face moved when he laughed and the way his blue eyes intensified as he told a story, she wondered whether he felt the same about her or if this was merely the way Brett Beauchamps was with everyone.
After they finished clearing the empty shells and husks and returned to the table with cold beers, Cara told Brett about Darryl and Toy. He reacted exactly as she’d thought he might. His mouth set in a grim line and his large hand crinkled the metal of his beer can.
“Just let him show his hairy ass around your place and he’ll be one sorry little bastard. In fact, I hope he does show up.”
“What is it about men that they just can’t wait to beat their chests and have a good fight?”
“I’m not joking around, Cara. I hate guys like that. Hitting a woman makes them feel like a man. I like nothing better than giving his type a chance to pick on someone his own size.”
“I know and I agree. I just hope we don’t have this little gladiator exhibition at Primrose Cottage.” She reached up to stroke his arm while a flicker of worry crossed her face. “You never know about a lowlife like that. He might carry some kind of weapon. A knife or a gun.”
“I can handle it.”
She considered this.
“What?” he asked on the defensive. “You’re looking at me funny. You don’t think I can?”
“Just the opposite. When you say you can handle it, I believe you. I’ve never felt that way about a man before.”
“Felt what way?”
“Safe,” she replied, surprised she’d admitted something so personal. “My last boyfriend—” She paused and put her hand to her cheek. “God, isn’t that a horrible word for a woman my age to use? Boyfriend? It makes me feel like I’m going steady.”
He frowned. “What about him?”
His eyes were intense and she wondered with a smug pleasure whether he might be a tad jealous. Interesting.
“Well,” she drawled, trying to decide where to begin and how much she wanted to divulge. Talking about old beaus with new beaus could be a tricky business, so she opted for the less is more approach.
“Richard and I worked for the same advertising firm. We could talk about anything work related and I thought we made a pretty good team. We had good times together, too. You know how it is when you find someone who shares your interests. But when it came to personal things, like my relationship with my mother or my well-being, I didn’t tell him anything. I didn’t consciously make the decision not to, I just never did. I’m very closemouthed about my personal life as a rule. Looking back, however, I realize it was instinct. I never really knew for certain if he’d use that information against me somehow. As it turned out, I was right.”
“What happened?”
“He got promoted and I got fired. Not that I blame him for that, but he knew about it and didn’t warn me.”
“You got fired? When?”
“Last month. Before I came here.”
“That’s all you’re going to tell me?”
“What more can I say? It happens. What difference could it make to you?”
“A big difference. Damn, the last thing I’m going to do is take your money when you don’t have a job. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You really are too sweet. Is that another of your rules? A Lowcountry man never takes money from a lady down on her luck?”
“If it wasn’t before it is now.”
“Not to worry,” she replied, liking him even more. “This lady is fine in that department. I can afford a porch. Maybe not a house, but a porch, yes.”
“No.”
“Brett, please, don’t argue,” she said, stopping what she could see was a torrent of words about to spill from his open mouth. “This is something I need to do. It’s hard to explain, but I need to do something to help Mama, to make her feel better in any way I can. There have been so many years of meaningless exchanges between us. I know this will make a difference to her and I want it to come from me. Whatever the cost financially, I don’t care. It’s the emotional cost if I don’t do it that’s prohibitive.”
Brett considered this. “It won’t be much.”
“Oh, no you don’t. No cutting any corners or pricing your time cheap. I respect hard work and value a job well-done. Though I appreciate the thought.”
“You forget. I care about Miss Lovie, too.” He paused then asked, “She’s very ill, isn’t she?”
She dreaded going into this discussion tonight yet knew it couldn’t be avoided. She nodded. “She has cancer.”
He lowered his head.
Cara reached out to place her hand over his. “Brett, I really want to thank you for taking the
job. I realize I came on strong earlier. Maybe I was a little pushy. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be. It’s just that I felt this sudden panic. The doctor thinks she may only have this summer and I wanted to do this for her before—” She sighed. “Before it was too late.”
“I thought it was something like that. She looks kind of frail.”
“I know. It’s hard to see her this way. It kills me when she won’t eat or when she has to pause for breath. And she’s beginning to cough now, too. Did you notice that? It scares me. I feel so helpless just standing by. When I see a problem I like to step in and fix it. But I can’t fix this.”
“No, you can’t. Nobody can. It’s nature.” He turned his palm over to wrap his fingers around her wrist. “I hope you don’t mind my speaking honestly. We all look at death as an aberrance of nature. Something that has to be fixed. Every day I see nature at work and not all of it is pretty. Life is just plain dangerous and sometimes cruel. But it’s beautiful, too. We have to remember that at times like this. It’s hard to watch Miss Lovie pass on because we love her. But if it’s her turn, our challenge is to help her through it, not to fight it. That just makes it harder for her.”
“But sixty-nine is so young. It’s not fair.”
“Who said life was fair? When a child dies, is that fair? Are wars or disease fair? Or even when a ghost crab grabs hold of a hatchling just after it pops out of the nest. Is that fair?”
“Oh, please,” she said sharply, tugging her hand away in annoyance. “I don’t want to hear platitudes. This isn’t some abstract intellectual discussion.”
He looked slightly wounded.
“Look,” she tried to explain. “When I read in the papers about a tragedy in which someone dies I feel saddened and say, ‘Oh, that’s too bad.’ Even when someone I vaguely know dies, I manage to go on about my business. But this is about my mother. I feel it intensely and it makes me so angry to feel so helpless.” She brought her hands to her face. “I don’t want my mother to die.”
Brett came around the table to sit by her side and put his arms around her. She felt very small and leaned into him, relishing the comfort she found there.
“I’m so scared. There’s so little I can do.”
“You’re doing a lot. You’ve come home, which I’m sure means a lot to her. And now you’re rebuilding the beach house, which means so much to you both. It doesn’t take brains to see the symbolism in that.”
“It feels like everything is spinning out of control.”
“Maybe it’s spinning into focus.”
She sniffed against his chest. “Maybe. I don’t know. I’m too much in the thick of it to see clearly. I have to get through to the other side first. It scares me that it’s all just beginning. I feel all alone.”
“But you’re not. I’ll be here.”
He didn’t say anything more, only tightened his arms around her. When he lowered his head to hers there was no nervousness or wondering whether she’d given the wrong cues. The current between them felt as natural and powerful as the flow of the mighty waterway yards away.
The following morning when Cara and Lovie returned home from their duties on the beach, the house seemed unusually quiet. No music blaring from the CD while Toy went through her morning chores, no humming in the kitchen. Cara saw Lovie standing rigid in the middle of the room with her head cocked.
“Listen,” she whispered to Cara, waving her closer. “Do you hear someone crying?”
Cara stood still and listened to the sniffling and muffled curses coming from Toy’s room. Lately, Toy had been keeping herself separate, going to her bedroom and closing the door. Meeting her mother’s eyes, Cara said sotto voce, “She’s been moody lately. It’s probably her pregnancy.”
“Moody is one thing but crying is something else entirely.” With a determined tred, Lovie led the way to Toy’s bedroom. The door was ajar and, peeking in, they found her sitting hunched over a great knot of fabric that was obviously stuck in the angrily buzzing sewing machine. Toy was wearing a short, fuzzy blue robe that revealed thin, tanned legs and bare toes painted a bright violet. She looked up as they entered, her face distraught.
“It’s ruined,” Toy wailed, giving a frustrated yank at the fabric. “I tried and I tried and I just can’t get this damn thing to work out right. I hate sewing.”
“Honey,” Lovie said, placing a calming hand on Toy’s shoulder. “Why didn’t you ask me to help?”
“I didn’t want to trouble you and I thought I could do it on my own. It didn’t look so hard when I picked out the pattern. It’s this fabric. It’s so slippery!” She angrily tossed the trailing piece of fabric off her lap.
“Bless your heart. You probably didn’t know that’s a very difficult fabric to sew,” Lovie said.
“Especially for me. I’m so stupid.”
“No, you are not,” Cara said, jumping into the fray.
“Then how come I can’t do it? Lots of people can sew.”
“It’s not your fault that you’re having a hard time with this project,” Lovie said looking at the pattern. “Anyone would. It’s also a difficult pattern. If you don’t mind my asking, have you ever had sewing lessons?”
“Just the basics in seventh grade. We made a pillow or something like that. I thought I could figure it out. But all these steps…It’s so hard.”
“Sewing is one of my most favorite things in the world to do. It’s not the least bit hard. But you can’t build a house until you learn how to hammer a nail.” Her gaze glided over to Cara, a sparkle in her eyes. “Isn’t that right, Cara?”
Cara let it slide. “Mama’s right,” she said to Toy. “If anyone can teach you, she can.”
Toy remained sullen and silent.
“Nothing worth doing is ever easy,” Lovie continued. “I’d be pleased to teach you. And I don’t think we could do any more harm to that fabric. Don’t look so glum. What do you say to the idea of going to town to pick out an easier pattern? We’ll find a nice, crisp cotton fabric. Something that won’t be slippery and get caught in the machine.”
“I’ll take her for you,” Cara said. “The trip to town might be a bit much for you.”
“I don’t need to be mollycoddled. I want to go to town.”
Cara could see in her mother’s eyes her dismay at facing the reality that she wasn’t up to shopping excursions any longer.
“Oh, very well. But in the meantime,” Lovie said, turning to Toy, “a little bird told me that you have a birthday coming up. Shame on you for not telling me.”
“It’s no big deal. I don’t expect you to do nothing.”
“But of course we should do something. Your eighteenth birthday! That’s a milestone.”
Toy’s face reddened and she squirmed in her seat. “If, you know, you’re thinking to get me anything at all, well, I’d be grateful if you’d get something for the baby instead. I can get by, but I don’t have a thing for the baby and I need just about everything. That’s what I’m saving all my money for.”
Cara was moved, remembering the days when she was Toy’s age and starting out in Chicago without two dimes to rub together. She would never forget that particular kind of fear.
“You’ll be getting lots of things for the baby when we give you a baby shower,” Cara said, privately determined to make certain Toy had whatever she needed. “But for your eighteenth birthday, you must get something just for you.”
“Let us buy you a dress or two,” Lovie cajoled. “To make you feel pretty.”
“No, ma’am, it wouldn’t be right. I can make my own clothes. I’m just getting the hang of it.”
Lovie looked pointedly at the pitiful mess all caught in the needle. Toy, looking at it again, burst into tears.
Cara and Lovie exchanged a long look, both sure it had to be the hormones.
“There’s no use arguing,” Cara said with a gentle laugh. “She’ll wear you down eventually. Then, of course, after she was done you’d have to go round two with me. Just say ye
s and let us have the pleasure of buying you a little something for your birthday.”
Toy’s face twisted in confusion and Cara felt a pang of sympathy for her. Her pride was kicking in and she was trying to save face. “Please, Toy,” she said, coaxing. “We really won’t give up until you say yes. And it will make Mama happy to do this for you.”
Toy wiped her eyes and Cara saw that the tears had been replaced with relief.
“Okay,” she said with an embarrassed shrug of her shoulders. “If it’ll make Miss Lovie happy, maybe just one dress.”
Later that afternoon, Cara and Toy sat at an outside umbrella table at Port City Java for lunch. At their feet were large bags burgeoning with several maternity dresses, shorts and tops made of light, beautiful fabrics of a quality and style unlike any Toy had owned before. She didn’t even know that there was such a thing as a maternity swimsuit! There was also a brand-new layette for the baby—little tops and bottoms too cute for words.
In the back of her mind, Cara knew she should be careful with her money now that she had no income. But she didn’t care. She was having a ball. In Chicago she’d been too busy to do much shopping and she’d never enjoyed it anyway. At her favorite clothing stores she had saleswomen set things aside for her to try on. For gifts, she’d found it more efficient to pick up the phone, order online or send a gift certificate.
But today had been a whole new experience for her. Toy’s excited expression as she tried on dress after dress and the sound of her “oohs” over a pair of shoes were pure pleasure. Cara remembered standing in the layette section of Belk’s department store. She and Toy had giggled like schoolgirls at seeing the layout of pastel infant clothing, especially the teensy knitted sweaters with adorable bears and kittens embroidered on them. Toy had wanted just to touch them. Cara had watched her stroll through the department skimming the fabrics with her fingertips, an expression of awe on her face.
“They’re so little,” she’d said, voicing Cara’s own thought.
“Why not try one on for size?”
