“What’d you hear?”
“It’s running into some trouble with environmental issues. Which is exactly what I’m talking about. My job would be to explain the project’s positions to the public. To pave the way for better understanding. Maybe you could put in a good word for me. I’d love to get an entry position on their team.”
Palmer scowled as his face colored and shook his head. “They’ve got an army of so-called environmental consultants already, and I don’t know what the hell they’re doing. Wasting our money, from what I can tell. The damn project is still stalled.” He took a long swallow and finished the drink.
“What we need is a damn good lawyer.” He skewered her with a loaded gaze. “Maybe you could go to school for that, huh? We could use a good lawyer in the family.”
“Let Cooper do that.”
A flicker of frustration crossed his face. “I don’t know that he’s got the stuff to be a lawyer.” Her father set his glass on the table and looked around. “Speaking of the devil, where is that boy?”
“He’s upstairs in his room. He’s sick.”
“Sick? Or hungover?”
She shrugged and said nothing.
He looked up as his wife entered the room carrying a platter of roast beef. Their cook, Belinda, followed with a platter of vegetables.
“Julia, do you know our son is lying hungover in his room? Again?”
Julia set the beef in front of Palmer. “He’s just feeling poorly.”
“Uh-huh. For the third time this month.”
“Oh, it’s just graduation. You know boys,” she replied, taking the platter from Belinda and setting it on the table. “They have to sow their wild oats. You did the same at his age. And your daddy before you.” Julia looked pointedly at Linnea. “Look at you, sitting at the table while I serve. Go in the kitchen and fetch the red rice and beans.”
“Yes’m,” Linnea muttered, and rose too quickly, feeling a wave of dizziness sweep over her. She clutched the back of her chair.
“What’s the matter with you?” Palmer asked, concerned. “You sick too? Hell, maybe Cooper isn’t hungover.”
Her mother looked at Linnea with accusation. “I do believe our daughter has the same sickness our son does.”
Palmer looked from Julia to Linnea. “What? Are you hungover?”
“I’m fine,” Linnea replied quickly. “I just got up too fast, is all.”
“Don’t you be lying to your father,” her mother said. “I happen to know you came tiptoeing back into the house in the wee hours of the morning. I hear everything.” She turned to Palmer. “Your darling daughter didn’t come home last night.”
Linnea’s blood chilled as she watched her father’s face pale. She cast a withering look at her mother. Thanks a lot.
Palmer tossed his napkin on the table. “You didn’t come home?” he bellowed. “Where the hell were you?”
Linnea unwittingly took a step back. “I was at Jessica Linton’s,” she said, trying her best not to sound rattled. “She had a party at their beach house. I just stayed over.”
“Were there boys at that party?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Daddy. I’m twenty-two. Of course there were boys. Or men, rather. What’s the big deal? They’re all nice guys I went to high school with. You know most of them. Everyone’s coming home after graduation and we’re all just glad to see each other again.” She looked at her mother. “Darby was there. I spent most of the time talking with him. We had a nice catch-up.”
Her mother’s eyes glittered, and Linnea saw with satisfaction she’d played the right card. That ought to quiet her for a moment, she thought.
Her father didn’t care that it was Darby Middleton of the Middletons. All he heard was there were men at the party.
“And you spent the night.” He said these words in a low, rumbling voice, which she found more frightening than his shouts.
“Not with the boys,” she said lightly to diffuse the tension. “With the girls. After everyone else left, a few of us decided to crash.” She counted off on her fingers: “Jessica, Lane, Delancey, Ashley, and me. It was, you know, like a sleepover.”
Her father seemed placated. “Nice girls . . .” he muttered, picking up his napkin.
Her mother clasped her hands. “Why didn’t you call to let us know where you were? Do you know how worried I was? I almost called the police.”
The truth was, no, she hadn’t thought of calling her parents; it had never crossed her mind. “I’m sorry I worried you,” she said, and meant it. “But I am twenty-two.”
“I don’t care how old you are!” her mother snapped back. “You’re an unmarried woman. Your reputation will be ruined if you stay out all night. This is a small town. Word gets out.”
“What about Cooper? He was gone all night. All weekend! And we all know he wasn’t fishing or hunting.”
“It’s different for boys,” her father said.
“That’s so nineteen-seventies,” she fired back.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” her mother asked.
“It means you’re using the double standard you grew up with. But that’s not true anymore. I’m an adult. And I can drink legally.” She paused and lowered her voice. “Last night I drank too much. I admit it. It doesn’t happen often. I knew better than to get behind the wheel. It was a responsible decision,” she argued. “I thought you’d be proud of me for not driving.”
“I’m not happy you didn’t call,” her father said.
Linnea exhaled with relief. Her father’s tone told her he wasn’t angry.
“You shouldn’t worry your mother.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry.”
“Promise me it won’t happen again,” her mother said in a calmer voice, trying to restore peace at her dinner table.
“I promise,” Linnea replied in a rote manner.
“Well, then,” her mother said. She took a breath, pulled out a chair, and slid elegantly into it. She made a show of smoothing her napkin on her lap. “I think we’re done with that conversation. Hardly suitable discussion for dinner. Let’s enjoy our meal.”
“Excuse me, please,” Linnea said, rising. She set her napkin on the table. “I really don’t feel well. I’ll be in my room.”
Hearing no arguments, she hurried back up the stairs, past the gauntlet of stern, disapproving looks from the portraits. Closing the door, she leaned against it.
She’d only been home a week and couldn’t wait to leave.
Chapter Four
The female loggerhead is wary as she sits in the surf and scans the beach under a dark sky. Is it safe to leave the protection of the sea and venture forth across the sand? In the water, she is a powerful swimmer, but on land, a cumbersome, slow-moving creature. Instinct urges her on. Should she nest here or move on?
THE BEACH HOUSE was still dark. The sun hadn’t yet risen. Even her canary was a puffball in the cage, sleeping on one leg. Cara sat in front of her computer, a cup of steaming coffee to her left. In the past two weeks as she’d settled into the beach house, she’d been trying to establish her at-home work schedule. It turned out that the only times she could work were early in the morning before Hope awoke and late in the evening after she went to bed. The problem was, Cara was so exhausted by that point that she fell asleep.
It had been risky to leave a secure position with benefits, but the benefits of living near family outweighed any others. She had a reputation for excellence and was willing to take the chance. While working for Brett’s ecotour business, she’d been her own boss. She’d learned to be disciplined with her work hours and used that discipline now to find time to work around Hope’s erratic and demanding schedule. Today she was sending out her résumé to two firms that had shown interest. Fingers crossed, she thought. Money was tight and she had to make do.
She smiled as she pulled up her files. Make do was a phrase her mother used to say. Despite the Rutledge family wealth, her father, Stratton, had kept his wife on a mise
rly budget. It wasn’t until years later that Cara had learned how punitive her mother’s budget was, especially concerning anything to do with the beach house. It had been Lovie’s, passed down to her from her parents before she married. All the other properties—even their home on Tradd Street—had only Stratton Rutledge’s name on them. He’d been a controlling man, and it drove him crazy that Lovie refused to sell her beach house. Likewise, when Palmer had assumed control of the family finances he, too, had badgered his mother to sell the house. And later, Cara. That, he soon learned, was futile.
Lovie had always told Cara that the beach house was her own “little slice of heaven.” The small cottage was her sanctuary where she could hide from the slings and arrows of Stratton’s mental abuse, the social demands of Charleston, and the burden of caring for the large house South of Broad in the city. On the island she could live a simpler life with her children. Stratton hated coming to “the shack” on Isle of Palms. He’d rather have sold it and bought a house on Sullivan’s Island, where his friends had houses. Over the years he’d stopped coming altogether. They both preferred it that way.
Thus, each summer Lovie and the children spent three glorious months free from Stratton’s tyranny. They had no schedules or social engagements. If the children wanted to play on the beach all day, they could. If Cara wanted to sit in the shade to read for hours in her pajamas, she did. The meals were simple too. Lovie went to the docks to buy fish off the boat; grits were a staple in the house; and strawberries, blueberries, peaches, and vegetables came from farmers’ markets. Even though they lived on a shoestring, whenever they did something extravagant, Lovie would just laugh and say, “Oh, we’ll make do,” as she paid the sum.
Cara leaned back in the chair and smiled, remembering those golden years. They’d gone by quickly. Everything had changed when Cara graduated from high school. She’d started making plans of her own—plans that didn’t correlate with those of her father.
It came to a head during an epic battle when she was only eighteen. Cara had left her home, Charleston, and all she knew and headed north. She was on her own without one dime to rub against another. But she wasn’t afraid. She was hell-bent on succeeding. She was smart, and more, she was a hard worker.
Her first job had been as a receptionist at Leo Burnett, a major advertising firm in Chicago; gradually Cara had earned her way up the ladder to become an account executive, getting her college degree after years of tedious night school. And then, suddenly, it was over. After twenty years of mainlining work at the expense of her personal life, she’d been ignominiously let go in a major power shift at the agency.
That was when she’d come home to her mother. Once again, Cara had rebuilt her life, giving up the bright lights of the city for the moonlight and sunshine of the lowcountry. She’d met and then married the love of her life. She’d been happy. Then, just when things were going smoothly, her husband had died in a cruel twist of fate, and Cara was alone once more. She’d picked herself up off the floor and left the lowcountry to find new meaning in her life. And she’d ultimately found it in the form of a twenty-three-pound little girl. For Hope’s sake, she would be careful and make do until she landed a few more clients. Her decisions for the future would always put Hope in the forefront. With her daughter, Cara would never be alone again.
This thought gave her the motivation to shake off the sleepiness and focus on the tasks at hand. Fatigue was never good for one’s work ethic.
An hour later, she heard the faint sound of Hope’s call: “Mama!”
Cara lowered her head into her palm. Not yet, she thought. Hope wasn’t supposed to awaken for another hour. Cara had two conference calls scheduled for later in the day and needed to prepare. Hope was teething and had woken four times in the night.
Beside her, Moutarde heard the cries and began chirping with excitement, hopping from perch to perch. Cara closed the computer and rose to fetch her daughter.
By 10 a.m. Hope was changed, dressed, fed, and playing on the floor. Cara knew this peace was short-lived. Soon Hope would be crawling to a new location, trying to stick her finger in an electrical socket or some other such dangerous game. Cara needed coverage for her phone calls. With desperation she reached for her phone and dialed the only person who she knew could help.
“Hello?”
“Emmi? It’s me. Cara. Listen, I have to get work done and I’m just not managing with Hope crawling about. She wants me to play with her all the time and she isn’t napping.”
“You sound frazzled.”
“I’m just so tired. She gets up at the crack of dawn and wakes up during the night. I need sleep. But I need to work more. Emmi, do you know someone I can call to babysit?”
“Oh, gosh, Cara. I’ve been out of that game for a long time. And”—she rushed on—“I can’t. I have to go to work.”
“I know you can’t. I was just hoping you knew someone who might babysit. Or just take pity on me for a few hours?”
“What about Heather?”
“I wish. She’s out of town.”
Emmi exhaled heavily after a moment’s thought. “I’m sorry, I can’t think of anyone. Most women I know are either working or volunteering.”
Cara sighed. She needed someone today if she was going to get those résumés out and be ready by the deadline. “What about Flo? Is she busy today?”
“Flo? Honey, Flo’s eighty years old.”
“So? She seems plenty sharp to me. Certainly capable of watching a small child.”
There was a long pause. “I don’t know,” Emmi replied slowly. “It might be too much for her.” She lowered her voice. “Here’s the thing . . .” She hesitated again. “Flo’s . . . not herself.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well,” Emmi began uncomfortably, “you remember Miranda, don’t you?”
“Flo’s mother? Of course I do.”
“Do you remember how she started to wander off looking for turtles? And how Flo would get all worried and we’d all run out and search the beach?”
“Good Lord, Emmi. Is Flo wandering off?”
“No! Not yet, anyway. But she forgets things more.”
“We all do!” Cara felt enormous relief. “She’s just getting older.”
“True,” Emmi replied with a light laugh. “I can’t remember names at all anymore. I recognize the person, but the name? Gone. But,” she continued in a more serious tone, “it’s not just names with Flo. Her mind wanders too. Honestly, I just don’t know if it’s safe to leave a baby with her.”
“I won’t leave the baby with her. I’ll be in the next room. I just need another pair of eyes. Someone to play with Hope so I can work.”
Emmi sighed. “I guess that’s okay. Anyway, she’s in the kitchen. Hold on. I’ll fetch her. Oh, wait, I almost forgot. I’m having a little party tomorrow night. Just family and friends. I want to welcome Hope.”
Cara was touched. One more proof she’d made the right decision in returning home. “That’s so thoughtful. Thanks, Em.”
“You know me. I love a good party. Now, hold on. . . .”
Cara watched Hope while she waited. Her daughter had crawled over to the base of the large birdcage and pulled herself up to a stand. She began banging the cage with her palm, sending Moutarde fluttering.
“No, no, Hope,” Cara said, hurrying over to pull her away. “Don’t touch the birdcage.”
She picked Hope up, eliciting a howl of protest. Cara felt a spurt of worry that maybe Flo was too old. She set Hope in front of the pile of toys. “Here, baby girl. Play with your fun toys!” No sooner did she let go of her than Hope was crawling right back to the birdcage.
“Hi, Cara!”
At the sound of Flo’s strong, assured voice, Cara felt a wash of relief. Emmi was just a worrywart.
“Good morning, Flo!” Cara said into the phone as she hurried to grab Hope before she reached the cage. “How are you feeling?”
“As well as can be expected at my age.”
>
“Good. Good,” Cara said, rocking Hope on her hip.
“What can I do ya for?”
Cara took a breath. “I was wondering. Do you have any free time this morning? I’m desperately trying to get some work done, but with Hope awake, I can’t focus. Would you be able to watch her? Just for a few hours?” She couldn’t keep the pleading tone from her voice.
There was a pause as Flo considered the request. “Well, now . . . I’m not as quick on my feet as I once was. And it’s been a while since I did any babysitting.”
Cara heard the hesitancy and plowed forward. “I only need you to keep an eye on her while I work. You’ll be in the next room, and I’ll be here the whole time.”
“Well, then, I think I can manage.”
“Oh, thank you, Flo!”
“Happy to help. What time should I be over?”
Cara sighed. “As soon as you can.”
A FEW YEARS earlier when Heather had rented the house, Cara had converted the ocean porch into an art studio and aviary. Cara had been slightly jealous of the great, light-filled space; now that Heather wasn’t renting the house any longer, Cara had followed her example and set up a desk, a few bookshelves, and her canary cage on the porch and claimed it as her office. Once she got Flo and Hope settled in the living room, she sat at her desk and sighed with relief. At last. Soon her fingers were tapping away on the keyboard.
Within a few minutes, Hope was crying. She heard Flo’s high-pitched voice trying to cajole her to be quiet. The problem was, Flo didn’t cajole very well. Hope was having none of it, and her crying only intensified. Cara closed her eyes and counted to ten. If I could just get one good hour . . . She checked her watch, mindful of her phone appointments.
She reluctantly pushed back her chair and went to the living room; Flo was sitting on the floor and trying to keep Hope from crawling to the porch. It was kind of funny. Flo had never married or had children. She wasn’t the domestic type.
“Maybe I could take her for a walk?” Flo offered. “She knows you’re in there, and there’s no holding her back.”
Beach House Reunion Page 5
