Beach House Reunion

by Mary Alice Monroe

  The porch light shone bright over the ocean-blue door, a beacon of warm welcome.

  “Thank you, Emmi,” she said, as a small smile of gratitude eased across her face. Emmaline Baker Peterson had been her best friend since childhood. She’d lived next door during the summer months for as long as Cara could remember. Cara knew she’d find milk, bread, and eggs in the fridge; fresh linens on the bed; and windows open to the evening breeze.

  A whimpering noise from the backseat immediately brought her to attention. Cara swiftly glanced again in the rearview mirror. She smiled when she saw the sweet face staring back at her. The baby girl’s large, dark eyes blinked sleepily under her dark brown curls as she yawned widely. Then her legs began to kick, and her plump hands moved in agitation as she started whimpering again. Cara jumped into action. The precious child had slept for hours with nary a peep.

  “I’m coming,” Cara said, and quickly released her seat belt. She swung open the car door and stepped out into the moist, balmy air. She paused a moment, breathing in the welcoming scents of wildflowers and sea after hours in the cramped, air-conditioned car. But another whimper sent her scrambling to the rear door.

  “I’m here,” she crooned as she lifted the year-old child into her arms, bringing her tight against her breast. The baby smelled of milk and soap and something intangible God put there in His wisdom to protect the innocents. She kissed the top of her head, feeling the delicate strands of hair graze her lips. Soft as a prayer.

  “Welcome home, Hope!”

  CARA BALANCED THE baby on her left hip as she struggled to find the right key to the front door. On the ground was a box with a chirping bird inside. The baby was slipping, and her arm strained to maintain her grip. At last a key slid in and the lock clicked. With a gusty sigh, she pushed open the front door and hoisted Hope higher on her hip. “We’re here,” she said, and stepped inside.

  She immediately felt the welcome of the beach house. All was in readiness. The floors had been washed, furniture dusted, flowers set in vases. She could smell the oil soap. A small table lamp shone golden light across the living room. Not a chair or painting was out of place. All was just as she’d left it three years earlier.

  Cara was humbled by her friend’s thoughtfulness. After a long day’s drive, she didn’t have to open the door to a steamy, stagnant, and stuffy house. She always had so much on her mind, projects and endless to-do lists, so when a friend took the time to do something thoughtful to make her life easier—better—just because she cared, Cara had to stop and remember that life was so much more than a job’s progress or a list of accomplishments. Life, if lived well, was enjoying random acts of kindness that elicited joy from giver and receiver alike. Each time she was reminded of this, she vowed to try to be a better giver than a receiver.

  This was one of the reasons she’d returned to this beach house on Isle of Palms. Cara needed the help of her friends and family to learn how to be a good mother to Hope.

  And I need the security of this little house, she thought as she surveyed the small rooms. The beach house was not grand, but it had loads of vintage charm. A row of windows overlooked the breadth of the Atlantic Ocean and gave the house an open, airy feeling. Even now when the ocean was cloaked in the evening’s velvety blackness, she could hear the gentle roll of the waves through the open windows, as soothing as a cat’s purr.

  Even though the beach house was now hers, in her mind it would always be the cottage of Olivia Rutledge, Lovie to all who knew her. It had changed little over the years. The art on the walls had been painted by her mother’s friends, local artists. The same ruby and blue Oriental rugs colored the wood floors. Even the plump upholstered furniture was Lovie’s. When Cara took it over, she didn’t want to change a thing; she’d simply freshened it up. She’d painted the walls a soft ocean blue with crisp white trim, replaced the Palm Beach-y chintz with durable white fabric, and removed the countless knickknacks her mother had in every nook and cranny.

  “What do you think?” she asked Hope with a gentle squeeze. “Shabby chic, but not too shabby, eh?”

  The baby looked back at her with wide, uncomprehending eyes. Chuckling, Cara kissed her cheek. “Well, we look a bit shabby after that long drive. And,” she added with a sniff, “you smell like you could use a change. Let’s freshen you up. How does that sound?”

  She went out the front door to pick up the bird box. Her canary, Moutarde, skittered about but didn’t utter a sound. She set the box on the table, then made a beeline to her childhood bedroom down the hall. She paused at the door, stunned by the transformation. Her old black iron bed was gone, and in its place was a brand-new white crib dolled up with pink floral sheets and ribbon-trimmed blankets. Where her painted wooden desk had once sat was a cushy white upholstered rocking chair with pink piping and a small bookshelf filled with children’s books. Cara laughed aloud at seeing the sweet green-and-pink-shaded lamp—it was a sea turtle. Emmi had raised two boys but had always wanted a girl.

  “She must’ve had a field day fixing up your room,” she told Hope as she laid her on the changing table. She chatted with the baby to distract her from getting her diaper changed. “You’re going to love your aunt Emmi. I’ve known her since I was just a bit older than you. No one has a smile like Aunt Emmi.” Cara envisioned her friend’s wide, Carly Simon smile. “She’s going to make you laugh. Oh yes she will,” she added, tickling Hope’s belly and eliciting a giggle. “And smother you with kisses.” She nuzzled Hope’s cheeks. Cara had never known what joy a baby’s laughter could bring.

  “And your Aunt Flo,” she continued, reaching into her baby bag and pulling out footie pajamas. Cara still felt clumsy in her newfound motherhood and secretly feared she was doing something wrong. For her, it was all trial and error. “Aunt Flo will tell you the best stories,” she said as she lifted Hope into her arms. “Most of them about turtles. She used to take care of me when I was your age.”

  Cara set Hope inside the crib, noting the quick frown of disapproval that flashed across the baby’s face. “It’s okay,” she crooned. “Just stay here and play with this turtle.” She placed a stuffed toy in Hope’s lap. “I’ll be right back.”

  Hope immediately began to protest, lifting her arms and crying to be picked up. Cara’s heart pinged. She couldn’t bear to hear Hope cry. “I just have to get the suitcases,” she explained with a hint of panic. “I’ll only be a minute.”

  Hope was having none of it. Her cries followed Cara down the hall and out to the car. They spurred her on like stings from a whip. She dragged suitcases, bags of baby supplies, and personal belongings out of the rear of the car and up the gravel drive and front stairs, not pausing for a breath and working up a sweat. She dragged in the last bag and plopped it on the kitchen counter, winded.

  “No wonder only young women have babies,” she muttered. She cast a weary glance at the pile of brown bags littering the kitchen, but a boisterous cry from Hope focused her anew. “A bottle,” she muttered, and rushed to the kitchen sink to fill the teakettle. “Mama’s coming!” she called out as she set it on the stove.

  As the water heated, Cara put her fingertips to her temples to calm herself. She had adopted Hope in February, and with that single decision she’d once again changed her life. The past four months had been a steep learning curve for a woman in her fifties who had never had much to do with children. A single woman at that. Cara was never one to let the moss grow under her feet, however. Once a decision was made, action followed.

  She’d given notice to the Tennessee Aquarium that she was resigning her position as the PR director—a job she’d loved—and made plans to move home to Isle of Palms to raise her child. Despite her seeming confidence, there were times, such as now, when the professional businesswoman was a complete and utter klutz.

  The baby began howling. From the box on the dining room table she heard the worried peeps from her bird. With mounting hysteria Cara ripped through her carefully packed bags in search of bottles and fo
rmula. She tossed bottles, nipples, and tops onto the counter and finally found a matched set. But her success was short-lived. Opening the formula tin was like breaking into Fort Knox. Especially with her shaky fingers. Just as she pried off the stubborn lid at last, the kettle whistled, and jolting forward to grab it, she bumped the open jar of formula powder. She watched in horror as it plummeted in slow motion to the floor, exploding white, powdery milk all over the clean hardwood.

  Cara gasped and stared disbelievingly at the mess. “No, no, no,” she cried, dropping to all fours and scooping what she could back into the container. As soft and fine as talcum powder, the disrupted formula created milky clouds in the air.

  In that ignominious moment, all the stress of the baby’s incessant crying mixed with the strain of quitting her job in Tennessee, packing up their things to move to South Carolina, and the long, exhausting drive came crashing down on her. She slid her long legs across the floor, leaned against the counter, and brought her powdery hands to her face as her cries blended with the baby’s.

  Who did she think she was fooling? She was hopeless when it came to mothering. An utter and complete failure. She was a fifty-three-year-old career woman. Her résumé was great for a PR executive, but she’d never bag a job as a mother. She couldn’t even make a bottle without screwing up.

  At moments like this, her greatest fear would surface. Was it a mistake to adopt Hope?

  Help me, Mama, she cried into her hands.

  The baby’s cries pierced through her desolation. Cara was never one to wallow in doubt and self-pity. Her nature was to get things done. And that bottle wasn’t going to make itself. She finished scooping up as much formula as she could and dragged herself to her feet. She washed the powder from her hands and face, and with a determined swipe of her nose on her sleeve, she started anew to prepare the bottle. She worked quickly, with steady hands, but as she shook the bottle, she suddenly noticed the house had gone quiet. She froze. Hope had stopped crying.

  Cara turned on her heel and rushed to the bedroom. She screeched to a halt at the door and sucked in her breath. Fear fluttered in her heart. But as she slowly exhaled, the fear dissipated and wonder took its place. It was as if time were standing still. A hazy white light shimmered near the crib. Hope was standing, clutching the railing. No longer crying, her face bore the sweetest grin of pleasure as she cooed and babbled at the glowing light beside her.

  And in that shimmering light Cara saw her mother, or rather, a ghost of Lovie. Transparent yet real. There was no mistaking her. Lovie’s hair was pulled back in her usual chignon, her profile serene as she gazed at the child. Then, in a breath, her mother turned her head and looked up.

  Cara felt the unspeakable power of a mother’s gaze. The light seemed to enter her soul, permeate her being, and warm her. Reassure her. Comfort her. Lovie smiled, and Cara felt the weight of her hopelessness lift from her shoulders. In that miraculous instant, she knew she was going to be all right.

  Then, in a blink, the light disappeared, and Lovie was gone.

  “Mama?” she called out. Cara suddenly wondered if she’d imagined it all. She shook her head and looked down at Hope. The child gazed back at her with innocent eyes.

  Cara hugged the little girl and crooned softly as she rocked her in her arms. The room was filled with the scent of jasmine. Her mother’s scent.

  “Thank you, Mama.”

  Chapter Two

  The scientific name for loggerheads is Caretta caretta. It is the third largest of seven sea turtle species, including the leatherback, olive ridley, hawksbill, flatback, green sea turtle, and Kemp’s ridley.

  THE MORNING SUN crept into the room like a thief, slipping through openings in the plantation shutters and stealing away precious moments of sleep. Outside her window a cardinal sang his dawn song as strident as a bugle’s call, signaling the start of a bright spring day. Cara plopped a pillow over her head with a groan. Every muscle ached from the push of packing and the long drive. Plus, Hope had awoken three or four times in the night. She was teething, poor dear, but they were both paying the price for it. Cara yawned. Even her bones ached. She wanted to sleep for hours.

  No sooner did drowsiness slide over her again than she heard a short cry from Hope. Cara held her breath, hoping it was a passing whimper and she would be able to go back to sleep. But no . . . the dulcet tones of Hope’s cries soon joined the birdsong. She groaned again. This song she couldn’t ignore. She tossed off the pillow and covers, then dragged herself out of the cushy bed.

  Her mother’s four-poster was high off the ground and dominated the room. The floors and trim were dark wood, but everything else was white—the walls, the lace curtains, the crisp bed linen. Unlike the rest of the house, where paintings covered the walls, only one hung in this room. It had been her mother’s favorite, commissioned when Cara and her brother, Palmer, were very young. In it, two children played together on the beach, building a sand castle with a bucket and spade, the boy with white-blond hair, the girl’s dark. The island had been a paradise for Cara and her brother growing up, and she intended to pass on that lifestyle to her own daughter.

  She rose and went to the bathroom to splash cool water on her face. She glanced in the mirror as she patted her face dry, then lowered her hands and studied her reflection. She let her fingers comb through her very short hair. Seeing the new style still had the power to startle her. She’d worn her thick, dark hair to her shoulders, or longer, all her life. It was a glossy mane, an enviable feature and arguably one of her better ones. When she’d adopted Hope, however, she wanted to make a different statement. Cutting her hair short seemed a powerful way to embark on a journey of personal transformation. What better way to begin than with the literal cutting off of the old and starting anew?

  Hope was standing in the crib, her arms outstretched, when Cara arrived. She paused, her heart beating quicker. She never failed to be amazed that this sweet baby wanted her and accepted her as her mother . . . despite her ineptness. Cara brought the baby close to her, kissing her cheeks that were still flushed and warm from sleep. Ah, yes, she thought. This makes waking up at dawn worth it.

  She changed Hope’s diaper, grateful it was just wet, and managed to fasten all the snaps and buttons without caffeine. She plodded into the kitchen, then stopped and surveyed the mess of scattered bottles and spilled formula from the night before. She took a deep breath.

  “Our first day home,” she told Hope with a gentle shake of encouragement. “Let’s make it a good one.”

  After a few clumsy attempts at keeping Hope from rummaging through the bags, she managed to get the high chair set up and Hope strapped safely in. She set a few Cheerios in front of her, then began to clean the floor and counters, still groggy from lack of caffeine.

  Suddenly the kitchen door flew open and an elderly woman breezed in. Her bright white hair was cut short, and she wore brown nylon cargo pants and a green TURTLE TEAM T-shirt. Her blue eyes were as bright as a torch, and she was all smiles.

  “Caretta!”

  “Flo!” Cara exclaimed, her hand at her heart. She shouldn’t have been surprised. Flo had freely strolled into her kitchen for as long as she could remember. Her mother’s best friend, Flo Prescott was like a second mother to Cara and Emmi, especially since both of their mothers had passed. Cara ran into the old woman’s arms.

  “You scared me half to death!”

  “Welcome home, baby girl,” Flo said, her soft arms wrapping around Cara and patting her on the back. She leaned back and gently shook Cara’s shoulders, her bright eyes shining. “Took you long enough.”

  Cara took a moment to absorb the shock of Flo’s aging. Her skin was paler, her short hair wispy at the crown, and the sharp gleam in her eyes dimmed. It had only been a year since she had last seen her . . . but in that short time, Flo had aged dramatically.

  “Hey, girlfriend!” Behind her a younger woman with fiery red hair and a wide grin entered with beckoning arms. This one hadn’t changed at all
.

  “Emmi!” Cara ran to her, lingering a moment in her best friend’s tight embrace, comforted by her familiar scent. She was transported back to childhood. School was out, she’d just arrived on the island, and the first thing she did was run straight to Emmi Baker’s house. They’d squeal as they ran into each other’s arms and hug as if they’d been apart for ages instead of one school year. Now women, they still hugged each other with the same enthusiasm.

  “Lord, I’ve missed you,” Emmi said into her ear with a squeeze.

  “It’s so good to see you both again. I’ve missed you, too,” Cara said, pulling back. Emmi was already lightly tanned and her nose and cheeks were sprinkled with freckles. They were the same age, born only a week apart, and when Cara saw the wrinkles forming around Emmi’s eyes and on her forehead, she knew Emmi was spotting them on her face as well. Thanks to L’Oréal, neither of them showed any gray. Emmi’s hair was the same Scottish red. The only change was the additional pounds she’d gained each year since menopause that seemed to settle in her hips. Broad in the beam, as Lovie used to say.

  Emmi scrunched up her face. “You haven’t changed a bit. Except for your hair. You cut it!”

  Cara’s hand flew to her cropped hair. “I needed a change. What do you think?”

  Emmi crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes as she considered it. “Very Anne Hathaway of you. You still look sensational, damn you. With your bone structure, you can pull off that short hair. Me? I’d look like Howdy Doody. If he had big hips.”

  Emmi’s big smile and laugh were so infectious that Cara had to laugh too.

  “I’ve put on almost ten pounds this year,” Emmi told her with a pat on her belly. “I started watching TV and stopped exercising. But the turtle team season has started and I’m out on the beach walking every day. It’ll drop off.”