Beach House for Rent

by Mary Alice Monroe

  That was how she felt, she thought. She’d hatched into this new world of widowhood and wasn’t sure where to turn now for her own personal source of light. Lost without bearings, scrambling madly toward some unseen goal. She no longer trusted her instincts. She didn’t know how to be alone. She was afraid to be the solitary swimmer she’d once been. Brett had changed that in her. She needed the companionship of her friends more than ever.

  Even Heather.

  Especially Heather.

  Cara stretched out her legs and leaned back on her arms, lifting a handful of cool sand and allowing it to run through her fingers. When she was in this sort of pensive mood, sitting on her mother’s dune, Cara felt each gentle breeze against her face as a caress from Brett. Closing her eyes, she heard the rhythmic rush of the waves against the shoreline as Brett’s beating heart. She wished she could have just one more conversation with him, to ask for his advice about what she should do now that he was gone.

  I’m here, she heard whispered on the wind.

  Cara closed her eyes, accepting the voice, believing in it. Her mother had told her she’d talked to Russell on this small bit of sand. Why couldn’t she talk to Brett? Even if it was her imagination, it brought her comfort.

  “What’s my problem with Heather?”

  Your problem?

  “Yes. She’s been so good to me. So kind and thoughtful. She makes me a special energy drink in the morning, prepares a healthy meal at night. Cleans the house. She’s a worker bee, always attentive. What’s holding me back from feeling close to her? Is it because she’s young?”

  No.

  “Why?”

  You know why.

  Cara shook her head with a sigh. “I don’t. . . .”

  Who does she remind you of ?

  “No. Don’t say it.”

  The wind blew, a whistling in her ear that sounded like laughter.

  “Okay,” Cara said begrudgingly, sweeping away a biting ant with a swipe of her palm. “She reminds me of my mother.”

  Yes, the wind answered.

  “But I loved my mother. I miss her terribly. Especially now that you’re gone. Why did you have to go?”

  Only the muffled roar of the gentle waves sounded in the night.

  “I miss her comforting words. Her guidance.” The words were like pinpricks of pain in her heart.

  She is guiding you.

  “No, she isn’t! She’s ignoring me!” Cara squeezed the sand resting on her palm to form a fist. “She’s guiding Heather.”

  You’re jealous.

  “No, I’m not,” she fired back—but even as she said the words, she knew she was lying. She was jealous of Heather. Sweet, generous, gracious Heather.

  Yes.

  But why was she jealous of Heather? Cara struggled with the question. The woman had given her no cause. Cara knew it wasn’t only because her mother visited Heather’s dreams and not hers. Or that Heather smelled her mother’s perfume when she was uneasy and Cara could not catch the scent, no matter how doggedly she wandered the house. Cara put her elbows on her knees and rested her chin in her palms as she stared out into the vast darkness. And Cara knew.

  Yes.

  Cara knew why she’d been jealous of Heather. Her delicate appearance was not what troubled Cara, or the fact that she resembled Lovie. And neither was her sweetness or youth or even her connection with her mother.

  Cara was jealous of Heather’s passion. It shone in her eyes and sang in her voice. Her passion was the music she loved and the way her spirit danced when she worked. How many mornings had Cara awakened to find Heather already gone, hiking the beach with her sketchbook and gear? How often had she come running back into the house, jumping with glee, shouting, “I saw a piping plover!” or some other shorebird? Heather couldn’t wait to get to her studio to dive into her work with a zeal Cara could only imagine. Cara watched her hunched over her paper, her hand moving quickly, creating a stunningly beautiful rendition from nothing. A miracle. And now that she was painting the final four birds, how many hours did Heather spend sitting at the easel, paint dripping over her, forgetting to eat, an expression of focus lighted by moments of ecstasy on her face?

  Cara was jealous that Heather had found such passion in her life. As her mother had discovered her passion—the sea turtles. Cara knew a great emptiness in her soul. This passion, this fervor, this excitement for living was what she was missing in her life. It was the reason she’d felt untethered and lost before Brett’s death. Why turning fifty had loomed large as an obstacle rather than a milestone.

  Passion was the wind in her sails. The source of her imagination. She smiled. The bubbles in her champagne. She missed feeling that excitement when she woke up in the morning, eager to get started on some project. She missed those moments while taking a walk when a great idea would burst forth from the fallow ground of her mind, one that she couldn’t wait to work on. What had Van Gogh said? I would rather die of passion than of boredom.

  Cara rose and stretched, feeling the lateness of the hour. A slight chill was in the air. She slapped the sand from her pants and took a final, sweeping gaze at the sea. Far out in the distance she saw the slim line of lights of a ship heading out to sea.

  “Good night, Brett,” she whispered into the night.

  Only the wind answered, whistling softly in the tall sea oats surrounding her.

  HEATHER FELT A dramatic difference in Cara since she’d returned to the turtle team. Her skin, no longer pale and drawn, now sported a suntan that matched her renewed vigor. And she’d gained a few pounds that rounded out the sharp edges of her contours.

  The same could be said of Cara’s attitude. Gone were the sulking and depression, replaced by, if not happiness in the traditional sense, an acceptance of the change in her life and a willingness to move forward. Not to say she wasn’t still struggling. There were good days and bad, and Heather knew from the light footfalls outside her door at all hours that Cara still wasn’t sleeping well. But it seemed that walking every day on the beach, having a sense of purpose, taking over again as the team leader, filled Cara’s time so she was no longer curled up in bed dwelling only on her loss.

  Best of all, Cara had warmed up to Heather. Something had shifted in Cara, a lowering of her guard, a tincture of time to build trust, and now they talked freely to each other, laughed at each other’s comments and jokes. They prepared meals together, invited Emmi and Flo over to dine, and went to their house as well. The doors were always open between the women’s houses.

  Emmi and Flo continued to take Cara out to restaurants, the theater, art shows, and such, according to the three women’s plan. But in these final weeks of August, Heather had to remain at home and work. Her September deadline for the four completed shorebird postage-stamp paintings was fast approaching. She’d struggled to find the right approach to best present the personality of the three birds selected by the committee—the red knot, the American oystercatcher, and the semipalmated sandpiper. Being ultimately so small, the art had to have a big impact. She’d cast away at least a dozen paintings as unsuitable. Cara argued with her that they were perfect. Flo, in her succinct manner, told her she was plumb crazy and they were great. Emmi was supportive. She loved them all.

  It was precisely at such times that Heather had to trust her instincts. If she sensed something was off, hers was the only opinion that mattered. She was never shy when it came to her work.

  Yet, as time was running out, she felt the pressure mount. She worked long hours, slept little, and ate less. There was no more time for dawn walks on the beach or studying birds in their natural habitat. She was strictly in production mode, and every stroke of her brush counted. It was taking its toll. She missed being out on the beach at dawn, seeing the sun rise over the water. It was very spiritual, akin to going to church. Sunny or rainy, foggy or clear, she loved whatever manner of light she captured in her art.

  To make matters worse, Bo had taken an extended job on Dewees, a small island off Isle
of Palms. It couldn’t be helped, he’d told her. He’d reserved these few weeks in August every summer. He had several jobs scheduled, including a big one he was nervous about, and he couldn’t cancel now. Bo had returned to Isle of Palms to see her three evenings in the past week but, like Heather, he was under deadline to finish the projects before the homeowners returned and had to spend most of his time working. Everything seemed to be coming to a close so swiftly; it felt like her world was spinning. Not the best feeling for a woman prone to anxiety.

  “I brought you some lunch,” Cara said as she entered the studio.

  Heather reluctantly turned from her painting of the sandpiper to see Cara carrying in a tray. Her face was pink from a morning spent in the sun, on the beach with the turtle team. She was still wearing her ISLAND TURTLE TEAM shirt, this one yellow.

  “Thanks. Can I eat it later? I’m almost done.”

  “Just don’t forget to eat. It’s tuna salad. You shouldn’t let it sit out too long.” She set the tray down on the table and leaned over Heather’s shoulder to study the painting. “Oh, Heather, well done,” Cara said with awe. “You’ve captured the personality of our dear little peeps.”

  Heather studied the painting critically. The semipalmated sandpiper was a lot of personality packed into a small, chunky body. In her painting she wanted to show the short legs in motion, the way most people recognized the peeps as they played tag with the sea. She sighed and set down her brush.

  “I think this one’s okay.”

  “Okay? It’s your best one yet. I love it,” Cara crooned.

  As though on cue, Moutarde began singing at the sound of Cara’s voice. His clarion voice reached new heights as he perched close to Cara, his throat bobbing with passion.

  “I swear, that bird is in love with you,” Heather said with a much-needed laugh.

  “I have that effect on spicy males,” Cara quipped, but she smiled as she spoke and turned to make soft whistling noises to the yellow canary. Hearing the fuss, the other two canaries joined in, and the entire room was suddenly filled with song.

  Her concentration broken, Heather wiped her hands on her painter’s cloth and reached for the sandwich. She’d skipped breakfast that morning, fueled only by her power drink, and now she was starving.

  “I don’t know what I’m going to do after you leave,” Cara said with a note of sadness. “I’m so used to the birdsong. Not to mention you,” she added with a smirk. “I may have to get myself a canary.”

  Heather slowly finished chewing a bite of tuna salad on toasted multigrain bread as a thought took root in her mind. She rarely acted on impulse. Yet something about this felt so right that she couldn’t stop the words from spilling out. She wiped her mouth, then said, “Cara, would you like to keep Moutarde with you?”

  Cara’s face stilled and her eyes widened.

  “Only if you really want him, of course,” Heather hastened to add.

  “I don’t know what to say,” Cara said, a bit breathless. She swallowed. “This might be the time to tell you I’ve never had a pet before.”

  “Never?” Heather asked, surprised. “Not even growing up? Not a dog or a cat? Not even a hamster?”

  Cara shook her head. “My father forbade animals in the house, and my mother was only interested in wild animals outside. And then I was always working. . . .” She turned and bent closer to the birdcage and began making soft kissing noises. Moutarde jumped from perch to perch, cocking his head and flirting with Cara with his shiny black eyes, all the while offering his questioning chirp. Cara turned back to Heather.

  “Are you serious?” she asked hesitatingly. “You’d really give him to me?”

  For a moment, Heather regretted her offer. She loved Moutarde. He had the most personality of all her birds. He was the first to greet her in the morning and the last to bid her good night. Yet the thought of leaving Cara all alone in a quiet house was unbearable. She couldn’t stand to think that Cara would slip back into the abyss of loneliness. At least with Moutarde, she would have something to look after and care for, and in return Moutarde would fill her days with joyful song. She loved Moutarde—but she loved Cara more.

  She nodded resolutely. “Yes.”

  “Oh, Heather. I’d love to keep him. You’re sure?”

  “I’m sure. He’d be brokenhearted to leave you anyway.” Heather’s face fell. “As will I.”

  Cara came to hug Heather. “Thank you,” she said close to her ear. “This means more than I can ever tell you.” When she stepped back, Cara said, “Do you have to leave, Heather? You know you can stay here.”

  Heather sighed. As the August days had worn on and the commission deadline drew ever closer, she’d become more and more aware that her time on Isle of Palms and at Primrose was all too swiftly drawing toward its end. “Cara, you know I’d love to. But I really need to go home. My father expects me, and he’s already been so generous that I don’t want to disappoint him. But I admit it’s going to be very hard to leave. I can’t even think about it or I’ll break down in tears. I love it here.” Her gaze swept the room. “I love this house.”

  Cara nodded and cocked her head to the side as though contemplating something, then tucked a dark lock of hair behind her ear. “Do you still have dreams of my mother?”

  Heather was startled by the question. She had been warned by Flo not to mention her dreams to Cara, but in truth, she hadn’t had any more. She hadn’t realized it until this moment.

  “No,” she replied honestly. Then she added, “I guess she knows I don’t need her anymore.”

  “And the scent?”

  Heather shook her head. “Whenever I smell jasmine, it’s you.”

  Cara laughed self-consciously, acknowledging that she’d begun wearing her mother’s scent.

  “But Lovie is still here,” Heather said in a serious tone, looking around as though she expected to see a ghost. “I feel her presence in every nook and cranny of this beach house. It’s a calming presence. Serene. Like looking at a bouquet of fresh flowers.” She hesitated, then asked Cara, “Do you?”

  Cara’s face grew solemn. “I do,” she replied in a soft voice filled with quiet conviction.

  Heather looked at her watch. “Look at the time. I’d better get cleaned up. Natalie should be here very soon.”

  Cara was immediately protective. “Are you okay having your stepmother visit?”

  “Please. Don’t call her my stepmother,” Heather said with a feigned shudder. “She’ll never be any kind of mother to me.” She scowled. “But I have to be polite. She is married to my father.”

  Cara asked, her face half averted, “Why is she coming here? Alone?”

  “My father is on a business trip and I suspect she’s making an effort. I could hardly say no. She’s not staying here, thank God. I don’t think I could’ve handled that. For that matter, I doubt she could, either. She has never really liked me. Nor I her,” she admitted honestly. Heather unconsciously began to wring her hands. “We aren’t exactly on the best of terms,” she added with a nervous laugh. “She let me know she has a hotel reservation in Charleston. I’m sure the city will be much more to her liking than the island.”

  Cara looked at Heather’s clenched hands. “You don’t have to do this alone. I know it’s hard for you. I can hang around if you like. Be the obnoxious roommate.”

  Heather laughed at the very idea of Cara playing the obnoxious roommate. “You can tell I’m nervous?”

  “Honey, you’re coiled like a wire about to spring.”

  It was true. Heather felt her heart pounding just at the thought of having to chat with Natalie one-on-one. Cara’s offer was certainly tempting—having her there would make things easier. She would be able to fill in the awkward moments skillfully. A voice in her head told Heather to accept the offer. There was no way she would be able to deal with Natalie alone without doing something stupid or collapsing into her nice-girl mode and agreeing with everything she said. But a newfound strength emerged and qu
ieted the negative voice. She hesitated. Then she said something she’d never thought she’d say.

  “Thanks. But I can handle it.”

  Cara lifted her brows and smiled approvingly. “All right, then.” She turned and crooned to Moutarde with renewed spirit: “Oh, you sweet boy. I’m going to spoil you rotten.”

  Heather smiled as she faced her painting and looked at the bright eyes of the sandpiper on her canvas. This had been a summer of discovery. While her caged birds had shown her how to sing, outdoors the wild birds had revealed to her what it meant to be free. Heather felt a sense of knowing wash over her. One that left her skin tingling, her blood racing, her heart pumping with certitude.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  HEATHER SHOWERED, PUT on a freshly ironed Lilly dress that she knew would please Natalie, and carefully applied some makeup despite the challenge her shaky hands posed. She sprayed herself with scent and, after a final approving glance in the mirror, went to the kitchen to set out a plate of fruit and cheese. Natalie didn’t eat “anything white,” as she put it, so most crackers were not acceptable to her diet. She was driving from Charlotte and had announced she would arrive in time to take Heather to dinner, so Heather figured she would just set out a small aperitif in case Natalie expected some pre-dinner drinks and conversation.

  “Don’t cook,” Natalie had instructed on the phone. “Let me take you out. Pick out the best restaurant on the island.”

  Heather sat on the sofa reading a paperback romance to distract her while she waited, but the next half hour was exhausting as she tried to silence the critical voice in her head telling her this was going to be awful, that it was a mistake to let Natalie come. With every excruciating minute that passed, she felt her anxiety growing.

  Natalie had told her five o’clock, and at precisely that hour the doorbell rang. Heather almost jumped out of her skin. She took a belly breath, then walked to the front door with smooth, even strides.