Beach House for Rent

by Mary Alice Monroe

  Heather walked back to her chair and sat down. She set her hands in her lap, the worry stone in one, crossed her legs, and straightened her shoulders. “I wasn’t angry,” she said, squeezing her hands together. “I was upset. I needed to collect my thoughts.”

  “And?”

  “And . . .” She took a breath. “Cara, you are mistaken. You can’t break the lease.”

  Cara shifted her weight on the sofa. “I own this house. It’s my house. I can do what I want.”

  Heather heard the wavering emotion in Cara’s voice and suddenly realized that Cara hadn’t checked with her lawyer about this. She couldn’t have. She’d just given herself away. Heather lifted her chin a notch.

  “I just checked my rights,” Heather said. “I Googled it. That’s what I was doing in the kitchen. And I know that though you own this house, you can’t just kick me out.”

  “I’m not trying to kick you out. I’m giving you an option to break your lease.”

  “And if I don’t want to?”

  “Why go that route?” Cara said with weariness entering her voice. “This needn’t be unpleasant.”

  Heather’s words came bubbling out. “Cara, I need to stay! I love it here. And my work is going so well. If I left now, it would stop my progress cold. Don’t you see? It’s not the money. I can’t afford the break in time. I have to work while the birds are here. And the committee has deadlines for my sketches.”

  Cara dropped her hand and looked up. Her eyes were dull and she squinted slightly, as if she was in pain. “Couldn’t you find someplace else to rent on the island?”

  “Couldn’t you?”

  Cara rubbed her palms together, as if trying to control her emotions. “For me . . .” She stopped and looked away. Then she said resolutely, “There is no other place.”

  Heather looked at Cara and suddenly saw not her landlady but a widow. She was pale and gaunt and holding on to her composure by a slender string. Heather gentled her combative tone. Being on terra firma, she could find empathy for Cara.

  “There are specific reasons for which you can evict me,” Heather explained, “such as having a pet without permission. Or doing damage to the house. Or not paying rent. I truly doubt my father has missed a rent payment. My father has a team of lawyers, and they made sure we had permission from you for me to have the three canaries. And you signed it. Take a look around,” she added in a softer tone. “I love this house and I’ve enjoyed taking care of it.”

  She waited to see if Cara would respond. Cara merely stared at her with a blank face. It wasn’t encouraging. So Heather squeezed the worry stone in her hand and pressed on. She didn’t feel especially anxious when she was stating facts. The emotional part was harder to say.

  “As I said, my father has a team of lawyers. So, unless you have a reason, Cara, you can’t evict me. My lease runs until September first.”

  Cara brought two fingers to her right temple and began making small circles. She mumbled something softly.

  Heather leaned forward but couldn’t catch it. “I’m sorry. What?”

  “I need to come back,” she said softly.

  Heather felt her emotions spill over. “It’s only until September. I’ll go home then. Surely—”

  “I need to come home now!” Cara cried out, rising to her feet. She paced back and forth, then went to the window and looked out, clutching the curtain in a tight fist.

  Heather sat back in her chair, stunned by the outburst.

  “I can’t wait until September!” Cara’s tone rose to a wailing plea as her shoulders slumped. She swung around, and Heather could see that tears flooded Cara’s eyes. “Please, Heather.” She had lost all control. Her face looked lost, tortured. “I have to come home. Let me come home. Please . . .”

  Heather was undone as Cara collapsed back onto the sofa and her palms went to her face.

  Only one thing mattered at that moment. Heather couldn’t watch Cara, another woman, a widow, in such pain without helping her. She hurried to the sofa and placed her hand on Cara’s shoulder. She felt it shake in sobs beneath her palm.

  “It’s all right,” she said in the same crooning voice in which she sang to her birds. “It’s all right.” What could she do to help? she wondered. She felt boxed in, trapped between what was good for her and what was good for Cara.

  “I need my mother,” Cara choked out. She leaned against Heather. “I miss my mother.”

  Heather slipped her arm around Cara’s shoulders and felt the frailty and the sharp bone. With those words, Cara had won her argument. No legal points, no strong-arming, not even her superior attitude when she’d walked in. Cara hurt, she was broken, and she missed her mother. This Heather could relate to at the most intimate level.

  “I understand,” Heather said. “I miss my mother, too.”

  Heather sighed and rising, walked to the window and stared out. Silver cirrus clouds streaked the blue sky hinting at the rain that was forecast. She hoped the incoming rain would break the record-breaking heat streak. “Cara,” she said, turning back toward her. “Why don’t you move in with me? There’s enough room for both of us. We could both live here. It’d only be for the rest of the summer. Then, come September, I’ll leave. As planned.”

  Cara turned on the sofa to face her with a look of disbelief. Her face was blotchy from crying, and she wiped her cheeks with her palms. “You’d do that?”

  Heather nodded, a weak smile on her face. “Why not?”

  “You hardly know me.”

  “I know you need to be here and so do I. If the tables were turned, would you share your home with me?”

  Cara sucked in her breath. “I would.”

  “It’s the only possible solution. I can’t leave. So what do you say?”

  “I don’t know what to say. I come here and threaten to evict you. Quite wrong of me. I apologize.”

  Heather didn’t reply.

  “And now you want to live with me?” She paused. “Why?”

  “Because I miss my mother, too.”

  Cara blinked heavily twice, comprehending the magnitude of that statement. Then she sighed, and a small smile eased across her face. It was more than the smile of relief. Certainly not the smile of victory. When Heather looked into her eyes, she saw a depth of gratitude in the dark brown. The message pulsating there went from one woman to another and stirred instincts that ran very deep. Perhaps right to her X chromosome.

  “All right, then,” Cara said with a slight smile. “Let’s give it a try.” She held out her hand.

  “For the summer,” Heather said taking it.

  “For the summer,” Cara echoed. Then, with a squeeze, she added, “Thank you.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  THE RAIN RETURNED, and it suited Cara’s mood. The beach house was quiet. Rain pattered in a steady, gentle pace. She heard the tap-tap-tap on the rooftop. Even without looking out at the night, she knew a heavy fog had settled in. Out in the harbor she heard the low bellowing of a foghorn as some huge container ship navigated its way either into or out of the harbor, she couldn’t tell. The horn sounded to her like the melancholy wail of a lost soul.

  Cara brought her arm up over her eyes, moist with tears. Another two weeks had passed. She couldn’t believe she was back in her childhood room where she’d spent those summers at Primrose. History was repeating itself. She snorted. It felt like some sort of cosmic joke.

  Heather had offered her the choice of sleeping in the master bedroom, but Cara wouldn’t hear of it. She would move back into her mother’s bedroom in September, after Heather left. The least she could do after Heather’s generous offer to share the house was to allow her to stay put.

  Heather couldn’t have been more welcoming, bless her heart. For Cara’s arrival this afternoon, she had freshened the sheets, set out fresh towels, and filled a sweetgrass basket with dark chocolates, nuts, dried fruit, and bottled water for her room. Tonight for dinner Heather had prepared poached salmon with asparagus, boiled potatoe
s and parsley, with fresh fruit and cream for dessert. It was a lovely spread, but the aura of yet another brewing migraine had nauseated Cara. She’d nibbled some but couldn’t swallow much. With apologies, she’d retired early to her bed. She didn’t miss Heather’s expression of relief. She was a sweet girl and she was trying so hard. The thought that her mother would have loved Heather made her laugh.

  Over dinner, Heather had shared that she still had an occasional visit from Cara’s mother in her dreams. And, on occasion, she’d catch the scent of jasmine in the house. Cara brought her shaking fingers to her throbbing forehead. Once again her mother was doting on the young waif who needed guidance. Just as she had with Toy Sooner when Cara had first returned home to this very beach house.

  Cara turned to her side and tucked her hands under her pillow. “Mama,” she whispered fervently, clutching the pillow as hot tears streamed down her cheeks. “Why are you ignoring me when I need you, too?”

  A foghorn sounded again, and soon after a low echo of thunder rumbled, closer this time. It sounded like a wail. Cara pushed herself up on her elbows and scanned the shadowed room.

  “Mama,” she said louder, hoping she was being heard. “Are you here?” She waited, ear cocked and listening to the night for some sign that her mother was here with her. The rain pattered, the wind gusted, but that was all. She knew that if anyone heard her talking to a possible ghost they’d howl with laughter. Strong, pragmatic Cara Rutledge had gone off her rocker. But she didn’t care. She had to try. The heart could be demanding—especially when desperate.

  CARA FELT FINGERTIPS at her forehead. Then a soothing coolness that eased her throbbing head. The touch was gentle. Caring. A feeling of comfort flooded her. Thunder rolled and the white noise of a steady downpour filled her ears. Opening her eyes a crack, she saw that the room had the dull coloring of a rainy morning. A short while later a slim figure entered the room carrying a tray. Her blond hair wreathed her head like a halo.

  “Mama?” she said in a croaky voice.

  “You’re awake.”

  Cara reached up and found a cool washcloth on her forehead. It was Heather, she realized, waking further. Tugging it off, she asked Heather, “What time is it?”

  “Almost eleven.”

  “So late.”

  “Who cares? It’s a sleepy, rainy day. And you need your rest. Especially with your headache. How is it?”

  “Better.”

  “But still there?”

  Cara’s answer was a muffled groan.

  “I brought you something that might help.” Heather balanced the tray on her hip while she moved the water glass, then set the tray on the bedside table. “Some fresh water to take your medicine, and a few pieces of dry rye toast, which should be okay for your tum. And my special morning drink. It’s got some caffeine from maté, some maca powder, protein powder . . .” She trailed off. “Well, all sorts of good things. You need some bolstering.” She picked up a blue ceramic mug with a turtle on it. “For you.”

  Cara looked at the steaming mug in Heather’s hands suspiciously. Her furrowed brow must have given her away, because Heather laughed. “It’s good, really. Creamy. Trust me, you’ll love it.”

  Cara didn’t know if she could take the heady brew. “My stomach . . .”

  “Cara,” Heather said, “I know where you are. I’ve been there. You’ve been through trauma. You’re fragile. Let me help you through this. Believe me, when I was eighteen, I was a mess. As thin as you are now, and as emotionally depleted. The heart will take time to heal. But let’s at least start with your body. Okay?” She held out the mug. “Today is the first day of the rest of your life.”

  “Oh, Lord,” Cara said with another groan. She didn’t think she could face Heather’s determined cheerfulness. “If I drink it, will you stop with the platitudes?”

  Heather laughed again. “I promise.”

  Cara hoisted herself to her elbows, grimacing when her head began throbbing anew. Any quick movements could be punishing. She licked her dry lips, then pushed herself up to a full sitting position. Her body ached and she felt weak. “I’ve turned into an old woman,” she lamented.

  Heather hurried to add a few pillows behind her back for support. “You’re not old. You’re sick.”

  Tru dat, she thought. The nausea had subsided. She was surprised to find she was actually hungry. She could eat something. With a weak smile of gratitude she reached up and took the warm mug from Heather’s hands. Peering inside, she saw it looked creamy, like a latte. Sniffing it, she caught the faint scent of chocolate. “Chocolate can be bad for my migraines.”

  “It’s just a bit of raw cocoa. No sugar.”

  Bottoms up, she thought wryly, and brought the mug to her lips, taking a small sip.

  “Oh. That’s good.”

  “Don’t sound so surprised,” Heather said, clearly pleased with her response. “I drink it every morning. I call it my morning potion. I’ll make it for you every day, too. Too much coffee isn’t good for you, though I do love my coffee. And this is chock-full of superfoods. Now, just sit back and enjoy the quiet. You don’t have to do anything today. Not a thing. I’ll be working in my office. I mean, the sunroom,” she quickly amended. “Just call me if you need anything.”

  Cara slanted her gaze. “Were you always such a mother hen?”

  “Actually, yes,” Heather replied. “After my mother died, I took care of my father. We had a lot of help, but I was the one who made sure his dinner was ready when he got home, that his shirts were cleaned.” She laughed nervously. “Basically, a mother hen.”

  “Well, nurse, thank you for this,” Cara said, raising the mug in salute. Heather held back her smile. She picked up the empty water glass and turned to leave, but stopped at the foot of the bed. Cara looked up from her mug to see the shyness return to Heather’s expression.

  “You’re my first roommate,” she said, looking at her hands. “I hope”—a blush stained her cheek as she looked up again—“I hope we’ll be friends as well.” She smiled tentatively and walked out.

  Cara watched her leave, her muddled brain trying to make out who this young woman was. There was a kindness at her core. It revealed itself in everything she did. But Heather was nobody’s fool, either. That was the part Cara hadn’t expected. Heather had done a respectable job of turning the tables on Cara regarding the lease. And now she’d maneuvered her into committing to getting herself together a little bit, something even Emmi and Flo hadn’t been able to accomplish. “Watch out for the quiet ones,” Cara herself always used to say. Good Lord, she thought with chagrin. Next she’d be doing yoga.

  Then she thought again.

  When Heather had walked in, Cara had momentarily mistaken her for her mother. Heather was slight and blond, yes. But it was everything else, too. The cool cloth on Cara’s head, the lowered shades, the special drink and dry toast. The offer to share the house. All these were gestures Lovie would have made.

  Heather was a lot like Lovie. The notion gave Cara pause. Was that why Cara found her so intriguing? Beguiling, even?

  She picked up the mug and smelled its strange but appetizing aroma. When Cara thought of herself, she thought of a woman who was smart, capable, practical. She’d always prized her toughness under pressure, her ability to confront, to go toe-to-toe with an adversary. To her mind, that defined power and strength for a woman in a man’s world. Her specific battle arena was one of words, thus her display of wit and intelligence won points even if—especially if—it wounded another.

  She snorted and shook her head with self-contempt. Look how well that’s been working out for you, she told herself.

  In the midst of all her mourning and heartache, Cara had turned fifty. In the end, it was just another day. She had reached that milestone with a whimper, not a roar. Perhaps it was appropriate, she thought. Instead of lamenting that she was getting older, it was time for her—at last—to grow up.

  When she’d marched out of her parents’ house at eighte
en, she’d forged a life with a chip on her shoulder. She’d climbed the ladder ruthlessly. Got the corner office with a window, a good salary, a title—and it still wasn’t enough. Not in that world. She’d thought she’d given up that lifestyle when she’d stayed on the island and married Brett. To an extent, she had. But in truth, a spark of that misplaced ambition still burned inside of her. Not being a boss in a business didn’t stop a woman from being coldhearted and strategic in her personal life. How many women who’d never entered the corporate world could say they didn’t wage battles at home?

  Well, she’d had her “come to Jesus,” as Mama would’ve said. Guilt was a terrible thing. Regret even worse. Since Brett’s death, she wasn’t guilt-ridden thinking she hadn’t loved him enough. She knew without doubt that she’d given him all her love, freely and without reservation. He’d known that she loved him. However, the guilt that haunted her at night was how often she should’ve been more understanding. Kinder. More careful with her words. More grateful for what she had. She recalled the conversation she and Brett had had earlier in the spring about her sense of inertia, how reaching the milestone of fifty was making Cara feel so unmoored and unsatisfied, in need of a passion to pursue. Hah! She longed for the days when not feeling professionally fulfilled was her greatest cause for upset.

  At Brett’s funeral, one person after another had spoken of his generosity, his kindness, how he’d always been there for a friend. How he had the right priorities and lived life fully. How he was the very definition of a lowcountry man.

  Like Brett, Lovie had been an embodiment of all that was best about the South—exuding a lowcountry woman’s gentility, natural grace, a vulnerability that opened her heart and tamped down her ego, empathy for others, generosity, and strong conviction of right and wrong. Like the graceful palm tree she treasured, Lovie bent in the harsh wind but did not break. At her funeral, someone had declared that Lovie had never said a bad word about anyone. Enough said.