She’d been warned by articles she’d read not to have too many expectations for the meeting. To act naturally, to let her daughter guide the conversation, and to have photos to share. Her gaze moved to the two photo albums neatly stacked on the dining table. One was a smaller collection of photos of the Earnhardt family, labeled with births and deaths. She had made copies of the originals so she could present the album to Kristina to keep.
The other was quite old and ratty-looking, with worn, bent corners and coffee stains. She smiled, thinking how this album held the heart of this cottage. It had been the guestbook of the Earnhardt beach house for more than half a century. It was chock-full of photos of family holidays and reunions held in this very house—many of them in black-and-white—including several of herself as a child, a leggy teen, and later, the maiden aunt.
She cast her gaze around the tidy 1940s beach cottage that once upon a time was oceanfront but after Hurricane Hugo devastated the island in 1989, the local powers-that-be cut through the dunes and built a road and lots that were situated even closer to the sea. She shook her head at the shortsightedness of greed. This beach house was one of the few that remained intact after that storm. Pure luck. Others, including the one next door, were destroyed by tidal surge, fallen trees, or boats in their living room. People were still digging up silver spoons in their gardens.
Her parents hung on to the beach house when everyone else was selling. It was more than a summer home to them. It was a way of life. How many times had she heard them say that they were waiting for the day they could play with their grandchildren in the cottage? Even after she had found a different family for her baby. Elinor never heard that comment without a stab of pain and resentment. It still hurt how they didn’t have a clue how scarred she’d been by the experience of being ripped apart from her family, her friends, her boyfriend and sent to a Home for Unwed Mothers without once visiting her.
When she’d returned from the Home, Elinor shut herself off from the world. Her parents had told everyone she’d spent a year studying in London. But the truth has a way of leaking out. Whispers about where she’d really been had circulated the halls of high school. She was unceremoniously dropped by her so-called friends. The sad truth was, she didn’t care. Her personal loss felt so much greater than those friendships. She’d felt numb and, in hindsight, had few memories of that time in her life. Yet the memories of the Home and her baby were as fresh today as they were forty years earlier.
Elinor walked past her own bedroom with its white matelassé coverlet and Oriental carpet. Her gaze fell to the doll that sat in a place of honor on a blue velvet side chair. A soft smile of affection flickered across her face. She went to pick up the baby doll and held it out to study its face. It was a sweet, chubby-cheeked baby doll with blond curly hair and wide blue eyes. The doll’s pink lips were open in an O for feeding.
“Hello, Baby,” she said, smoothing the wiry curls. When she’d returned from the Home, her nights were filled with nightmares of the birth, and when she awoke in the morning she was depressed. Her parents, worried, sent her to a therapist in Charleston. He was freshly shaven and seemed not much older than she was in his new suit and wire-rimmed glasses. She’d sat with her arms crossed and glared at the man as he gave her advice on how to deal with being a mother who gave away her child.
In the end, the therapist gave her two things, both of which proved helpful. First, a prescription for an antidepressant. Her father was appalled that a child of his needed any mental drugs, but her mother hushed him up and encouraged her to take the pills.
The second thing he recommended was a baby doll.
Eighteen-year-old Elinor had howled with laughter at that one. “How about a teddy bear?” she’d sneered as she walked out of his office. She never returned.
Then her mother brought a baby doll home from a shopping trip in Charleston. Elinor was furious.
“It’s just to help you sleep,” her mother had said.
“I’m not going to sleep with a baby doll!” she’d shouted, throwing the doll to the floor. “I told you I didn’t want one.”
Her mother, crestfallen, bent to pick up the doll, dusted it off, and then cradled it in her arms. Elinor saw her face relax into a sad smile as she looked into the doll’s human-like pink-cheeked face and it felt like a smack in the face. She ran to her room and slammed the door. Later, as she lay alone in the dark, she realized that her mother might also have regrets and long for the baby she never saw.
Not another word was spoken about the doll. It had just disappeared. Until one night a few weeks later. Elinor was trapped in another horrible dream, sobbing, and calling out, “Please! Let me see my baby.”
All she remembered was feeling her mother wiping the hair from her face, a kiss on her forehead. When she woke up the following morning, the baby doll was cuddled in her arms. She’d named the doll Baby, not daring to give it a proper name, and the doll had stayed in her bed.
“Hello, Baby,” Elinor said, stroking the wiry blond, synthetic hair. She had a true fondness for the doll. Dare she call it a love? Baby had spared her many hard nights over the years. As she lay the doll on the bed, the doll cried out Mama in its mechanical wail. Elinor paused. After all these years, that mournful cry still had the power to elicit a sigh from her. She used to lie in the dark, flipping the doll over and over, listening to the wail and never believing she’d ever hear that word from her daughter.
She could have had more children. She’d had many boyfriends over the years. Lovers. Proposals, even. Yet Elinor had never wanted to marry. She used to tell herself if her parents had really wanted a grandchild, why had they forced her to give away the only child she’d ever have? Was her decision not to marry subconscious punishment for her parents? Time had softened the edges of her pain and Elinor honestly didn’t believe it was. If that painful experience had changed anything about her, it was simply that she preferred making decisions for herself rather than have them made for her.
For there was love between her and her parents, and when they’d given up hope that their only child would ever marry, they were determined to give her a financial leg up in life. On her fortieth birthday, they handed her the deed to the beach house with great ceremony.
And someday, Elinor thought with more pleasure than she felt she deserved, she’d leave the house to her only daughter. That was another of the surprises she’d hoped to share today.
She strolled aimlessly through the house, looking at each room with what she thought might be Kristina’s eyes. It was a charming place with the charm from a time long gone. The rooms were small, but Elinor had an eye for color and design. The walls were refreshed with crisp whites, pale blues, and spots of color. She’d replaced dated Formica counters with marble; added large, potted plants and circulating fans. The house was a far cry from the worn plaids, rattan, and lime greens of her parents’ décor.
She entered the guestroom where Kristina would sleep. Fresh summer flowers from the farmer’s market sat in a vase by the bed, along with Evian water, a dark chocolate bar, a scented candle, and a Charleston Magazine. She knew it was the little things that made one feel welcome. Elinor bent to smooth the blush-colored duvet. A memory flashed, eliciting a crooked smile. This was the room in which Kristina was conceived. It was prom night. She snorted a self-deprecating laugh. Of course it was. In fact, the deed happened in this very bed. Elinor straightened and headed to the door. She didn’t plan on sharing that secret with Kristina.
Her phone pinged and Elinor rushed back into the living room to grab it. It was Kristina. She took a deep breath, praying she didn’t have a change of heart.
Storms hit. I had to pull off the road. I’ll be late. Maybe five?
Elinor slowly lowered the phone. Disappointing, yes . . . but not devastating. She was still on her way. She took a breath of relief. Lord help her, what was she going to do to while away another hour? She already was on pins and needles.
The doorbell rang, startling her.
That must be Maeve, she thought and hurried across the living room to answer the door. “Coming!” Opening the door, she saw her friend standing on the freshly painted, covered front porch changed from her Turtle Team T-shirt to a crisply ironed pink blouse. In her arms she carried a wrapped gift and a large pink balloon that said It’s a Girl!
“I heard it was someone’s birthday,” Maeve said cheerily, stepping into the cool of the house. “Lord, it’s hotter than Hades out there. Hurry and shut the door.”
“You sure can be bossy,” Elinor chided. “Anyone ever tell you that?”
“Every day,” she sang out as she walked toward the dining room. “My, isn’t this festive,” she exclaimed. Then, pointing to the cake she asked, “Caroline’s Cakes?”
“Of course.”
Maeve set her gift on the table. “Yum.”
Elinor walked closer to the large balloon in Maeve’s hand and gave her friend the stink eye. “A balloon? Really? You know we’re trying to outlaw them here on the island. Just sayin’ . . .”
“I know, I know,” Maeve muttered with a wave of her hand. “No one is going to release it. I promise you I will personally deflate it and toss it into the trash after our little party, okay?”
“It’s very nice,” Elinor conceded.
Maeve stood in front of the table with her hands on her hips and surveyed the party décor. “You done good,” she said. Then turning she asked, “When does the birthday girl get here?”
“Not till five. There were storms on the way down.”
Maeve lifted her wrist and looked at her watch. “Well, phooey. I’m ready for a glass of champagne.”
“Will white wine hold you over?”
“Sounds dreamy.”
“You spruced things up a bit,” she said when Elinor returned with the wine. “Very nice.”
Elinor was pleased with the compliment. “Just a coat of fresh paint. The house was looking a little tired. It was overdue.”
“How’d you get it done so fast? I can’t get Ben to change a light bulb.”
“Ever try doing it yourself?”
Maeve cast her a sidelong glance. “No.” Then looking around she added teasingly, “Trying to set a good impression?”
Elinor blushed at the truth of it. “I wanted the cottage to look its best. So she’d like it, and”—she walked over to fluff up a pillow—“maybe return for a visit.”
“Don’t get your hopes up too high.”
Elinor frowned. “I’ve been warned, thank you very much.”
Maeve took a sip of her wine.
Elinor felt badly she had spoken so sharply. She knew Maeve was only trying to be supportive. “I’m sorry if I’m a bit short,” she said after a beat. “I’m anxious.”
“It’s okay. I figured.”
“I really am glad you’re here.”
“Of course,” Maeve replied. She was sincere. “You’ve always been there for me.”
Elinor didn’t know what to say. When Maeve’s grandchild died from cystic fibrosis, she’d had a hard time. It was one thing for someone older to die. One could rationalize that the person lived a long life. But a child . . . there was no getting past that. Elinor, having lost a child, understood and never left Maeve’s side.
“You know,” Elinor said in an upbeat tone, striving for a change of mood, “I got a birthday card for Kristina every year of her life.”
“You’re kidding?” Maeve tilted her head, perplexed. “But, you didn’t know where to send them.”
“No.” She pointed to a sweetgrass basket on the coffee table. It was filled with envelopes. “There they are. I didn’t have her name, so I couldn’t address them.” She smiled. “Now I have a name to add.”
Maeve’s expression softened. “You’re giving them all to her today.”
“It’s one of my surprises.” She glanced at the pile of sealed envelopes. “I wrote something to her each year. I can’t remember all that I said. I hope it’s not too maudlin.”
“Confession time,” Maeve said, raising her palms. “I went to her Facebook page this morning and put a Happy Birthday notice up.”
Elinor was shocked. She wasn’t sure how she felt about that. “But . . . she doesn’t know who you are.”
“I figured I’d explain all today.” Then, seeing Elinor’s face she blurted, “Why? Was that wrong? I just wanted to let her know how excited we all were.”
“No, of course not,” Elinor said in a rush. “She has to be happy about a birthday greeting, right?” She chewed her lips. At least Elinor hoped she would be. This was all still so new. She wasn’t sure what did or didn’t cross the line into too much.
Her phone pinged. She met Maeve’s eyes, startled, then rushed to her phone on the table.
“It says she’s on Isle of Palms,” Elinor announced. She felt her heart rate accelerate. “She’ll be here any moment.” Elinor looked out the front window and brought her fingers to her lips, tapping them. “I told her to park in my driveway.” She moved her arms to wrap around herself, suddenly awash in self-doubt. “Was it silly of me to suggest we meet on the beach? Maybe I should text her to come to the front door. I should just stay here.”
Maeve rallied, nudging her friend toward the door. “Stick to the plan. It’s showtime. Just go!”
* * *
DAUGHTER
Kristina left the mainland via a long stretch of road called The Connector. It carried her over vast acres of cord grass, dark green and vibrant. The marsh spread out around her like a velvety carpet, dotted here and there with white egrets standing in exposed mud. The tide must be going out, she thought, and wondered what it might be like to live in an area dictated by the tides.
The Connector arched over a long ribbon of water she knew was the Intracoastal Waterway. A motorboat was racing below, sending a long stream of wake behind it. Then, without warning, there was the Atlantic Ocean. Her breath caught in surprise at seeing the ocean looming before her, so broad and majestic, cloaked in a brilliant blue hue that reflected the cloudless sky. The sight filled her with hope.
She drove on, leaving The Connector and crossing onto Isle of Palms. The first thing she spotted was the water tower. It stood starkly against the horizon, like an omen.
“I’m here, Joe,” she said aloud, feeling sure she was heard. “I couldn’t have made it without you.”
She felt his presence, as she often did throughout the years. Joe had given her a start with his gift of money, true. However, it was as though he’d always been by her side, holding her hand, each step of the journey, ever since that first step leaving the hospital after his death.
At the stoplight, she reached for her phone and texted Elinor that she’d arrived on the island. The thought struck that she’d see her mother soon. In minutes. The light changed and she pressed the gas, moving forward across Palm Boulevard straight toward the sea. When she turned right onto Ocean Boulevard, her stomach tightened, and her fingers began to dance in anticipation on the wheel. This was really happening. There was no turning back now.
She craned her neck from side to side, gaping at the mansions that bordered Ocean Boulevard. Peppered here and there on across the street were quaint cottages. Elinor’s house would be one of those. Oddly, that pleased her. It felt less daunting to go to a more normal-size house than some grand mansion. Still, she was relieved Elinor had suggested that they meet on the beach. She’d explained why on their phone call.
“The beach has always been my sanctuary. My church. Most mornings I stand at the shoreline and say a prayer for your health, your happiness. A prayer that someday I would meet you. And at last, my prayer has been answered. So it seems only fitting that we meet in God’s church, don’t you think?”
At last Kristina found Elinor’s address. She was here. She swallowed hard and pulled into the driveway beside a tidy white beach cottage with a large, covered porch fronted by giant hydrangeas. A small blue flag hung over the entrance with wording in sunshine yellow: Welcome Kristina.
Stepping out from the car, she felt as though someone was watching her. She glanced up at the row of front windows. Was her mother in the house? Should she knock on the door first? She stood on rubbery legs that still thrummed with the five-hour journey. Turning her head, she spied a bit of blue water between the houses.
The ocean called her home. She closed the car door, adjusted her purse on her shoulder, and began to walk toward the designated Fifth Avenue beach path. Her flat heels dug into the soft sand as she made her way in the shade of two large houses. The narrow path led over the dunes, cloaked with small yellow flowers and tall, drooping sea oats. She paused at the top, feeling the salty breeze of the sea caress her cheeks. Elinor was right, she thought. Being by the water had a way of calming the nerves. Staring out at the breadth of sea and sky, she felt on common ground.
Her gaze scanned the beach. She saw a blue umbrella and two matching chairs. A dog running joyfully along the shoreline. Two women jogging. Then she froze. One woman, not twenty feet away, stood alone near the dune. She was older. Kristina zeroed in on details. Her hair was a wispy, light brown, like her own. She was of average height and weight and wore a white linen shirt with a bright blue scarf. The woman stood motionless, staring back at her with wide eyes the same blue color as her own. This woman looked like her. Kristina would have known her in a crowded room.
Recognition washed over her like a wave, sweeping away hesitation and fear.
The woman lifted her hand in a wave. “Kristina!”
Kristina’s breath caught in her throat and she rushed forward. Step by step, she was at last going home.
* * *
MOTHER
The sun glared bright and hot, even at five p.m. Still, Elinor resisted putting on her sunglasses. She wanted Kristina to be able to recognize her. If there were any similarities in appearance, at least. There was no way to know. They’d not exchanged photographs. Perhaps they should have, she worried. What if she didn’t recognize her? Oh Lord, she should have suggested they carry roses, or some such marker.
Reunion Beach Page 20
