Beach House

by Mary Monroe

  She put her hand on his shoulder. The wool felt hot and scratchy. “Palmer, it’s time to go. They’re waiting for us.”

  Her brother took a long shuddering breath then rose slowly, like an old man. Julia had done her duty and seen to it that his black suit was clean and pressed but he looked disheveled nonetheless. His hair was tousled from running his hands through it and everything from his tie to his gaze seemed askew. When he turned toward her and looked into her face, his bloodshot eyes were those of the little boy who had sat on the stairs with her at night, clutching her tight as they listened in fear to their father’s yelling downstairs.

  She opened her heart and her arms to him, as their mother had done. When he stepped into them and hugged her, weeping, all the cross words that had created a cold, hard wall between them melted away.

  “I didn’t get to say goodbye,” he cried, brokenhearted. “I didn’t get to tell her I loved her. I thought I had more time!”

  At that moment Cara realized how truly lucky she had been. If she hadn’t responded to her mother’s letter, if she hadn’t sorted through those years of accumulation, she, too, would have been left to live with the regret that Palmer now suffered.

  Gratitude gave her compassion and she began that day to reconcile the rift between them.

  Only a small percentage of hatchlings will survive to maturity to repeat the nesting cycle. Research indicates the number of sea turtles worldwide are continuing to drop. Turtles have existed for millions of years. Only time will tell if the efforts of professionals and volunteers will protect the loggerheads from extinction.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Cara stood on the small dune watching the sun dip into the Atlantic. The moon was but a silvery shadow in the purpling sky. This had once been the site of rendezvous for Lovie and Russell and it was now a permanent green space for generations to come. She felt closer to her mother here than in the cemetery where she’d been buried in the family plot beside her husband. That was where her body lay. But Cara knew her spirit was here on the dune where she’d stood for so many years staring out at the sea.

  And in the beach house. Cara had slowly come to terms with her grief in the past several weeks. There was an ebb and flow with the pain of loss. Yet as Cara slept in her mother’s room, in her high bed, sometimes she could sense her mother’s presence floating in the soft breezes that caressed her brow.

  But her mama was gone now, and with her death, Cara was free to leave. Another turtle season was over. Most of the tourists had already left for home. The turtle volunteers had dispersed until the next season. The nests that had remained in the sand during the hurricane did not hatch and the nest that they’d moved was unlikely to so late in the year.

  It was October. Cara always thought it the most beautiful month on the island. With the cooler evenings and the shorter days, a whole new array of wildflowers blossomed. Migrating birds were on the wing, passing through the Lowcountry on their journey south.

  Cara was heading north. Dressed in her city clothes, she already felt as out of place on the beach as she had when she’d first arrived. Early that morning she’d laid her clothing out on the bed with ritualistic care, mentally preparing herself for the shift in lifestyles. In a few more hours Brett would drive her to the airport.

  When she’d received her travel arrangements from the agency, she was a little spooked. She’d hardly left the Isle of Palms in the four months that she’d been here. She, who had traveled from Chicago to Los Angeles or New York on a regular basis for years, was suddenly apprehensive about getting on a plane and facing crowds again. Her life here on the island had been so insular. And yet oddly enough she’d established closer ties with more people in the past few months than she had in the past twenty years.

  Clothed in her ceremonial armor she stood facing the shoreline one last time. Around her, the sea oats clicked in the breeze like snapping fingers. She felt pensive, unsure of what her future held. Why was she questioning her resolve at the eleventh hour, she wondered, peeved by her lack of resolve. Everything was in the ready. Her bags were packed and lined up by the door. It was decided that Toy would continue to live in the beach house with Little Lovie. Brett had agreed that Cara should settle in her new job at the agency before they worked out the details of his trip north. She’d made peace with her past, her future at the agency loomed bright and her relationships were on solid ground. She should be content.

  Yet, the truth was, she hated to leave. She’d grown accustomed to life at a slower pace. She enjoyed waking up and knowing the day was hers. Her mother had told her that one summer could make a difference and she knew now it was true.

  She turned from the ocean to look at the small yellow beach house. Her beach house. Although a bit shabby again after the trials of the hurricane, it still stood proud and strong perched high on the dune. Purple and golden wildflowers sprinkled the dunes with a vivacity that rivaled the colors that had welcomed her in a spring that seemed years ago. This little beach house on the Isle of Palms was her home. This barrier island was where the people she loved lived. This small place of earth was where she was from.

  Yet she was leaving again. She felt the contradiction in her marrow. Russell’s words to Lovie played in her mind. I accept that the mind often dictates the heart. Yet I believe that the heart is the truer guide. Was she repeating her mother’s mistake? Was she making what seemed the right choice for all the wrong reasons?

  The sky was darkening. Lifting her wristwatch, she saw it was time to go. With a heavy sigh, she began walking away. A sudden breeze swept over her, cool and sweet smelling. She looked up but the sky was cloudless. It would be a good night for travel, she thought. She caught sight of the turtle nest, the one they’d returned to the sand after the hurricane. For sentiment’s sake, she detoured to say a final farewell to the turtle season that had helped to reconcile her with her mother.

  The lone nest appeared as a deserted outpost on the windblown dune, just a small triangle of space marked by tilting wooden stakes, drooping orange tape and a plastic sign. She bent on one knee to remove the stakes and officially end the season. But as she reached out, she noticed a pronounced concave depression over the nest. She blinked, not quite believing what her eyes were telling her. Bending lower, there was no question. This was a live nest. And it was hatching!

  Her heart pounded with happiness and she leaped to her feet. “Mama, it’s hatching!” she cried, then ran up the sandy path. By the time she reached the house she was breathless.

  “Toy!” she called out as she ran inside. “Toy!”

  “What?” Toy called back, stepping from the kitchen with a dish towel in her hand. She looked slim and girlish again in shorts and a T-shirt, her hair pulled back in a ponytail.

  “You won’t believe it. The nest. Lovie’s nest. It’s hatching!”

  Toy squealed and twirled around on the ball of her foot.

  “I’m calling Flo. No, wait. Brett.”

  “You call Brett. I’ll run over and get Flo. It’ll be quicker.”

  Cara’s fingers shook with excitement as she dialed Brett’s number.

  “Honey, hurry over. The nest is hatching.”

  “You’re kidding? A reprieve! Maybe we’ll get time off for good behavior.”

  “Just get over here, quick!”

  She hung up and was about to run back to the beach when an inner voice told her to call Palmer. Mama had said he needed the beach house. And it would be one step closer for the two of them. She picked up the phone and dialed his number. After a few rings, she heard his gruff voice.

  “Palmer! Mama’s nest is hatching.”

  There was a stunned pause.

  “Big brother, this is Mama’s last nest. The one she personally saved. Linnea would love to see it. And so would Cooper. Mostly, I think you should be here. Are you coming?”

  “Hell, yes!”

  She felt her grin stretch across her face. “Well, good! Now hurry up and get your sorry butt out here. T
hese babies won’t wait!”

  The moon rose higher in the sky. It was low tide, and arcing watermarks scored the sand in wavy lines. On the dunes, sea oats dangled their golden seed heads in the breeze. Cara, Brett, Toy and her baby, Flo, Miranda, Palmer, Julia and their children all clustered around a small, widening opening in the nest. They watched with rapt attention as the sand collapsed around the perimeter. A turtle’s little flipper broke through, then its head. Catching its first breath of night air, it wiggled, broke free of the sand and, in a frenzy of flipper movement, began its dash to the sea.

  “Is that all?” Cooper asked, clearly disappointed.

  “That’s just the scout,” Linnea answered in a know-it-all voice. “Now, hush.”

  Cara and Brett shared a commiserating look of amusement.

  Moments later, the circle of sand seemed to heave as though being pushed upward from a force below. The sand erupted and the eighty-plus hatchlings bubbled out of the nest, flippers waving in the night air, bodies squirming and pushing as they climbed one over the other. It was a true boil!

  The reflected moonlight on the sea and the phosphorescence of the breakers called the hatchlings home. They raced frantically, comically, down the slope, then fanned out in the direction of the sea. The hatchlings climbed through vegetation, around rocks and ruts, and swam through the long narrow tidal pool, doggedly following the voice of an instinct over one hundred and twenty million years old. The silvery beach seemed alive with tiny sea turtles.

  Cara stayed at the nest to count the hatchlings as they emerged while the others walked the hatchlings to the shore, guarding against marauding ghost crabs. When it appeared the last turtle had fled, she rose again, wrapped her arms around her chest and peered out across the beach.

  Toy was walking slowly beside a hatchling, Little Lovie resting securely in her arms. Not far beyond were Flo and Miranda, arm in arm, keeping watch over a few hatchlings that had wandered off too far. Linnea inched her way down the beach, heels together in a V, guiding a chosen baby turtle along its way. Palmer stood with Cooper, one hand on his son’s shoulder, one arm pointing out toward a hatchling. His suit trousers were folded up to the calf, his feet were bare and he was bent at the waist speaking into Cooper’s ear. Down at the shoreline, she saw Brett’s powerful silhouette, in his usual hands-on-hips stance.

  Cara stood on the dune and felt her mother’s presence beside her. She heard Lovie’s voice in her ear. One day you will look up and see it—and just know.

  Cara looked out at the scene unfolding before her and knew.

  She would not return to Chicago. She loved this Lowcountry man and would not ask him to leave this place where they both belonged. She would stay in the beach house with Toy and the baby and help them begin their new life. She would make peace with Palmer and be there for his children. She would nurture all her relationships as she had nurtured thousands of hatchlings over the summer. She would be a kind of wife, mother, grandmother, aunt and sister. It might not be the traditional family—but when had she ever been traditional?

  With her heart filled with silvery light she walked from the dune. Brett turned his head from the sea to follow her solitary journey across the beach to his side. He stretched out his hand to her and she took hold.

  They gathered in a semicircle around the last straggler hatchling as it made its way to the surf. Cara saw it get its first taste of the sea as the fingers of a wave slid up to caress it. The sand washed from its back revealing the gleaming, reddish-brown color of its shell. The hatchling raised its head, straining high, seemingly to sniff out the direction home, or perhaps, hearing the ancient turtle mother’s call. With a renewed surge of energy it dashed forward once more, only to be pushed back up the beach by a second wave. Undaunted, the hatchling scrambled forward again.

  Another white crested wave approached. Cara squeezed Brett’s hand. The wave engulfed the hatchling, sending it somersaulting in the surf. This time, the turtle’s instincts kicked in. It righted itself and burst into a frenzied swimming stroke.

  Cara bade a silent farewell to the last vestige of a glorious season. She watched as the turtle caught the outgoing tide, dove and disappeared into the vast sea. Then she smiled. In twenty years’ time, when the hatchling returned, Cara knew that, God willing, she would be here on the Isle of Palms, waiting to welcome the turtle home.

  Dear Readers,

  For millions of years the sea turtles have survived the changes and fluctuations of our planet. Recently, however, the species has been threatened with extinction. The fate of sea turtles depends on all of us. Conservation organizations have been working hard to provide education, conduct research, purchase habitats and lobby for sea turtle protection in the United States. While the loggerhead is the type of turtle most often seen in the United States, the leatherback, green, hawksbill and Kemp’s ridley are also endangered. If you would like to support these efforts, you can write your local representatives and ask them to support legislation that protects sea turtles and the welfare of our coastal regions. You can also donate to the following agencies, only a few of several conservation organizations that need our support.

  Ocean Conservancy

  1725 DeSalle St. NW

  Suite 500

  Washington, D.C. 20036

  Caribbean Conservation Corporation

  4424 NW 13th St.

  Suite A1

  Gainesville, FL 32609

  www.cccturtle.org

  The Nature Conservancy—Botany Turtle Project

  Box 5475

  Columbia, SC 29250

  At the beach, there are also “turtle friendly” rules to follow:

  LIGHTS OUT! Turn off the lights at dusk that are visible from the beach! Close blinds and drapes on beach facing windows. Use motion sensor security lights instead of outdoor porch lights.

  STAY AWAY FROM NESTS. Do not touch or disturb turtle nest markers. Walking on the nest can crush the eggs below. Please keep pets on a leash away from the nests.

  DON’T PICK UP THE HATCHLINGS. Crawling to the surf on their own helps them to orient when they enter the sea. When the females mature in twenty years, they will return to nest.

  FILL IN THE HOLES. Baby turtles can navigate a footprint, but large moats around sand castles, etc.can trap them. Adult sea turtles can be trapped as well.

  QUIETLY OBSERVE A NESTING TURTLE FROM A DISTANCE. If the mother turtle is disturbed by lights or people, she may abandon her effort to nest. Stay behind the turtle so that she can’t see you and do not try to touch her.

  NO FLASH PHOTOGRAPHY! Both the adult turtle and the hatchling can be disoriented by the bright light. It may be tempting, but please avoid flashes from cameras or the white light of flashlights.

  REMOVE BEACH AND BOAT LITTER. Balloons, plastic bags and other nondegradable pollutants cause the deaths of turtles who try to eat them.

  Thank you!

  ISBN: 978-1-4268-2914-7

  THE BEACH HOUSE

  Copyright © 2002 by Mary Alice Kruesi.

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher, MIRA Books, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.

  All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.

  MIRA and the Star Colophon are trademarks used under license and registered in Australia, New Zealand, Philippines, United States Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries.

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