The Beach House

At last the loggerhead arrives in familiar waters. She waits in the swells near shore as a moon rises above the Atlantic. Her home is the sea, but instinct demands that she leave all she knows and face the unknown dangers of the beach to nest. Is it safe here, or should she swim farther on?

CHAPTER THREE

Cara’s headache blossomed into a full-blown migraine that sent her limping back to her bed. Lovie placed a cool cloth over her eyes and forehead and instructed Cara not to think, to just let her muscles relax. Cara nodded in compliance but knew that was like telling herself not to breathe. She had no job, no income and no plan for tomorrow. Her brain would be churning like mad for weeks to come. She shifted restlessly, then pulled the washcloth off her face. A rare hopelessness overwhelmed her, and bringing her hands up to cup her face, she let go of days of unshed tears.

Sometime later, her eyes were swollen and gritty and she felt that queer listlessness that comes when one is drained. Turning her head, she stared vacantly outside the window at an oleander swaying in the wind. Time had little meaning for her now. Clouds had moved in quickly from the mainland, changing the blue sky to gray. Outside her window she’d heard the low bellowing of a foghorn as a huge container ship navigated its way through the harbor and out to sea. She felt like one of those ships, caught in a fog as thick as pea soup, unable to see what lay ahead.

She had been only eighteen when she’d left Charleston for points north. She didn’t care where she went, as long as it wasn’t in the South. She’d had her fill of the unspoken but clearly understood expectations of a young woman, especially one from an old Charleston family. She would go to the college of their choice, find a husband and get married, then live somewhere in the South. Her whole life had been neatly mapped out for her.

But all along, she’d been studying maps of her own. She left home in a huff of tears and landed in Chicago. That soaring city on Lake Michigan suited her outspoken, rebellious ways more than the delicately mannered, cultured city of Charleston ever had. So she’d stayed, trading saltwater for fresh, her southern lilt for a midwestern twang, vowing to make a place in the world with her brains and wit, not her feminine charms.

She’d given it her all. During the day she worked as a secretary in an ad firm. At night, while roommates were having fun at bars finding mates, she went to school. To this day she was most proud of having earned a college degree by going to night school for seven long years. She went on to get a Master’s in business, all without a penny of support from her parents. That was her way. She believed if she worked harder than most were willing to, she’d win the race.

And she did, but the race was a marathon. It took her fifteen years to doggedly work her way up the ladder from receptionist to account director. She’d earned a full and busy life, filled with the small luxuries that she was proud to be able to afford for herself. She wasn’t wealthy, but she could splurge and go to the theater, drink good bottles of wine, dabble in investments and buy the appropriate suits and accessories required of a woman in her position.

And from time to time there were men…Never anything lasting, but then again, she never expected it to be. She’d been with Richard Selby for four years, longer than anyone before. He was a lawyer for the same ad firm, surefooted, witty and handsome in a corporate way. It was as close as she’d come to a serious relationship. She wondered if this was love? They didn’t speak the words—it was not their style—but she felt the understanding was there.

All in all, her life had been content.

And then, unthinkably, that life was over. She was fired and found she had no friends outside of work. She’d left town without so much as a goodbye to Richard and it didn’t seem to have made any difference. She still couldn’t get over that fact.

What frightened her most was that she’d had no control over what happened. She was a woman who liked control, who planned for all contingencies. But she hadn’t seen it coming. She’d worked and worked, moving along on her planned trajectory and bam! Now she felt numb. Drained of everything but fear. Wouldn’t they have a good laugh at work if they could see her now? The strong, tough Miss Rutledge curled up like a fetus in her mother’s house.

She brought the blanket high up under her chin, burying her face in the pillow. The down smelled of the sea. Holding it tighter, she looked again outside her window. A gust of air carrying the sweet scent of rain sent the roller shade rapping.

A rain shower would be nice, she thought drowsily, closing her eyes again.

She awoke later to the sound of knocking wood. Opening her eyes, she was surprised to find the room shadowy dark. In the hall, a light glowed. Her mother stood at the window, a small, trim figure in a thin summer sweater, an apron tied around her waist. Lovie was patting the window frame with the butt of her hand, trying to close the stubborn, swollen wood against the incoming storm. An angry wind billowed the screens and the first fat drops of rain streaked the glass. At last the window rumbled closed, leaving the room tight and secure.

“What time is it?” Cara asked in a croaky voice, rising up on her elbows. Pain pulsed in her head, sending her back to the pillows with a soft groan.

“I’m sorry I woke you,” her mother said, fastening the window lock and rolling the shade down. “My but that rain’s coming down like the Lord’s flood.” Turning to face Cara again, she studied her with a mother’s eyes. She stepped closer, hesitant. “How’s the headache?”

“Not as bad as this morning.”

“But still there?”

“Uh-huh,” she murmured. “How long have I slept? What time is it?” she repeated, licking dry lips.

“It’s almost four o’clock. It’s been drizzling on and off all day, just teasing us. But a good storm is rolling in now from the mainland. Thank heavens. We need the rain.” She reached out to stroke a lock of hair from Cara’s forehead, then rested her palm to test for fever. Her fingertips felt soothing and Cara’s lids drooped. “And you can use the sleep,” she added, removing her palm. “But first, do you think you can eat a little something? I’ve made you some soup.”

Cara smiled weakly but gratefully. “I thought I smelled something wonderful. And could I have a glass of water?”

“Of course. I’m on my way.”

Cara dragged herself up again, wincing at the relentless pulsing in her temples. But she could hold her eyes open in the dim light and the nausea had subsided. Outside her window the wind whistled. Thunder rolled so loud and close she could feel the vibrations, but it was fast moving. She knew this storm would soon move out to sea. She walked on wobbly legs to the bathroom to splash cool water on her face. When she returned, she found her mother already back in her bedroom with a tray filled with food and fresh flowers in a vase.

“Here we are! Some nice chicken gumbo, chunks of bread, ice water, and best of all, aspirin.”

Cara moved slowly, any sudden movement causing ricochets of pain in her head. She settled under the blankets and leaned back against the pile of pillows that her mother had plumped for her. “I feel like a patient in the hospital.”

“You’re just home, darling. Do you often have these headaches?”

“From time to time. They come if I work too late or sleep too long, that kind of thing. Chocolate does it, sometimes. Caffeine, on occasion. I’ve had more than the usual of all of the above recently.”

“Genetics, most likely,” her mother said with conclusion. She rested the tray on Cara’s lap. As she spread out the napkin, she continued. “Your grandmother Beulah had headaches so bad she used to retire to her room for days with the shutters drawn. We children were instructed to play out of doors and were under strict orders to tiptoe around the house in stocking feet so as not to clump loudly on the hardwood floors. The order went for house staff, too. I remember how we used to giggle at seeing a hole in one of their stockings.”

Cara savored the soup as the tastes exploded in her mouth. “Oh, God, I’d forgotten how good this was.”

Lovie’s chest expanded as she watched.

“If genetics win out,” Cara said as she dipped her spoon again, “then I reckon that hidden somewhere inside of me lies the knack for making gumbo like this. And greens…and barbeque sauce…and grits with tasso gravy.” She blew on another spoonful. “Though very deeply hidden,” she added with a twinkle in her eye before sliding the spoon in.

“Pshaw. That has nothing to do with genetics. That’s training, pure and simple. Since the day you were old enough to help me in the kitchen. I wouldn’t be worth my salt as a mother if I didn’t pass on the family recipes.”

Cara looked into her bowl.

“What’s wrong, honey? You seem troubled. Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really.” She paused, realizing she’d sounded flippant. She hadn’t meant to. It was more a knee-jerk reaction to anyone probing into her personal life. Even her mother. Perhaps especially her mother. Taking a step to closing the gulf between them she added, “Not yet.”

Lovie unclasped her hands and made a move toward the door. “I’ll be here if you change your mind.”

“Mama,” Cara called out.

Lovie turned, her hand resting on the doorknob.

“Thank you. For the soup.”

“You don’t have to say thank you. I’m your mother. It’s my job. My pleasure.”

“I know, but thanks for…everything.”

Lovie wiped her hands on her apron and nodded, but her eyes sparkled with gratitude. “You eat up, hear? I’ll be back in a bit for the tray.”

Cara lay back on the pillows and sighed. These first steps could be exhausting.

The rainy weather persisted on and off throughout the Memorial Day weekend. Parades were canceled and picnics brought indoors. Lovie could well imagine the grumbles that rumbled in the hotels and rental houses on the island. As for herself, Lovie was glad for the rain. They needed it desperately. The tips of the palmettos were crisp brown. Besides, the cloudy, introspective skies were a nice change and propelled her to do more of the indoor chores that needed doing. Like her photo albums.

For years she’d intended to organize her collection of old family photos into albums but the free time never seemed to materialize. So, most of her photos ended up stashed in boxes, out of harm’s way but certainly not in any kind of order. Since moving to the beach house, however, she’d put the project high on her priority list and filled up more albums in the past four months than she had in the past forty years.

On this rainy afternoon, Lovie was so engrossed in sorting through the photographs that she didn’t hear the kitchen door open.

“Are you still digging through those moldy old photographs?” Florence Prescott asked as she walked into the cottage.

Lovie turned her head to smile at her dear friend and neighbor. “Still? Honey, I’ve more photos to sort through than I can get done in a lifetime. Or, at least my lifetime.”

Flo’s smile slipped and her brilliant blue eyes grew more serious. “Why? How are you feeling? Any change?”

“No, and I don’t expect any.”

“Well, don’t sound so glum about it. That’s good, I guess. Steady as she goes.”

Flo crossed the room and plopped down on the sofa beside Lovie. She was of average height and build but with a runner’s body—slim, wiry, darkly tanned and just beginning to give in to softness at sixty-five. Only her thick, snowy-white hair gave a clue that she wasn’t a woman half her age. When she spoke it was with the same focused, upbeat energy she used in running the local races.

“Well, then! How’s everything else around here? Seems pretty quiet. Where’s Toy?”

“She went to the market. Said she wanted to make something sweet for dessert. I’m not sure whether it’s to fatten me up or because her hormones are running wild.”

Flo laughed. “Probably a bit of both. You know, I still haven’t laid eyes on that renegade daughter of yours. Is she really here or are you just making that up?”

“Go on and take a peek in her room if you don’t believe me. But I wish you wouldn’t. She’s sleeping.”

“Again? All she does is sleep. Is she sick?”

“She has migraines. She spent the first several days just lying in the dark, poor thing. But I gave her plenty of my chicken gumbo and they’re pretty much gone now.”

“Chalk up another cure to home cooking. Then why is she still sleeping?”

“I’ve been wrestling with that question myself. It could be she’s just exhausted. She works so hard and she claims she’s burned out by the job. Do you know she travels to New York or Los Angeles several times a month? I had no idea. I couldn’t imagine living like that. Back and forth, back and forth, sometimes just for the day. It suits her, I suppose, but I’m much too much a homebody for that.” She pursed her lips and looked toward the closed bedroom door. She thought of the sadness she saw in her daughter’s eyes…or was it defeat?

“I get the feeling that something else is wrong. It’s like she’s sick inside but she won’t tell me what the problem is.”

“She’s our Caretta. I’d be more surprised if she did tell you.”

“Why do you say that?”

“How many years has she been gone? Twenty? In all those years how many times has she come to you for advice? Or just to visit and hang out and, I don’t know, go through those old pictures together?” Her eyes flashed. “I can’t think of a single time.”

Lovie turned back to the photographs, feeling the pain of the comment deeply. “She’s busy and has her own life.”

“I think it’s because it’s easier. You two fight a lot.”

“We do not.”

“Maybe not yelling or such. You’re much too polite for that,” she said with a nudge. “But there’s always been this unspoken argument between the two of you. I suppose it’s just your way. But if you ask me—and I know you aren’t asking but here’s my opinion anyway—the two of you could use one good ol’ knock-down-drag-out fight. Spit it all out.”

“What a suggestion!” Lovie replied, irked that her dearest friend couldn’t understand the situation at all. “You’ve known us for long enough to know better. Cara’s simply moved far away. It’s only natural that there be an emotional distance as well. Besides, Cara’s always been a loner and perfectly capable of taking care of herself.”

“Being able to take care of herself and being by herself are two separate things entirely.”

“What are you saying?” The notion struck her hard.

“Well, does she have a fella?”

“Who knows, though I’ve asked her enough times. She gets prickly when I so much as broach the subject. She mentioned a Richard Selby from her office who she’s been seeing for some time. My ears perk up whenever a man’s name is mentioned twice in her life. But it seems to me if he were the least bit special she would be on the phone with him. She hasn’t called a soul.” Lovie thought back to the empty-eyed expression she’d caught when Cara was staring out the window. “Do you think she’s lonely?”

“How should I know? It’s possible. I mean, she may be superwoman at work but she’s still a woman when she goes home at night.”

Lovie set the photos down in her lap, flustered. “But, I just told you. She lives a busy, full life. She’s always going someplace or doing something with someone. Cara loves the theater, you know. She’s seen all the latest shows.”

Flo’s blue eyes seemed to burn right through Lovie’s arguments. “You might know better than most how empty a busy life can be.”

Lovie’s breath caught and she couldn’t reply. It felt as though her world, which just a few moments ago seemed peaceful and orderly, was thrown off-kilter.

“I’m sorry,” Flo said. “You know me, I speak first and think later. You wouldn’t be the first one to toss a ripe tomato my way. Go right ahead.”

Lovie shook her head with a shaky smile. “It’s what I love most about you. But, I wonder if you might be right about Cara, after all.” She picked up a photograph from the pile on her lap. It showed a dark-haired Cara at about thirteen, all thin arms and legs. She was curled up like a cat in the branches of an enormous, twisted live oak tree, reading a book.

“Look at her,” Flo said with affection. “She was scowling even then.”

Lovie chuckled and ran a finger over the girl’s image. “I remember taking this one. That old tree was her favorite spot. She’d go up there to read or think, or just to be alone. Hiding out, most likely. She was a funny little thing. Always seemed to carry the weight of the world on her shoulders.”

“Pubescent girls often behave like that. They’re teetering at the edge of womanhood and are so damn moody.”

“Perhaps. We used to be very close when she was little but she became so distant. I could almost feel her hand pushing me away.”

“Again, that’s normal for a girl that age.”

“Be that as it may, it’s still painful for the mother to go through.” She sighed. “She’s still pushing me away. But that’s nothing compared to her father. She may have pushed me away but she raised her dukes to him. Went toe-to-toe with him at every chance. I was terrified for her. You know how his temper was. I daresay she enjoyed torturing him.”

“Yeah? Well, good for her.”

“Flo!”

“What? You know how I felt about Stratton. God rest his soul, though I hate to think where the old coot’s roasting now.”

Lovie frowned but let that pass without comment. The least response from her about Stratton would get Flo wound up like a top. She couldn’t stand the man and the feeling had been mutual. But that was all water under the bridge, as far as Lovie was concerned.

“I wanted to capture Cara in her tree and I’m glad I did,” she said, returning her attention to the photograph. “Hurricane Hugo took that oak away along with so many others. Such a pity,” she ended with a sigh and set the photo aside. “I’ll show this to her later. She’s bound to notice her tree is gone.”

“When you do, why don’t you ask her what else she remembers about that time? It’s a good way to open things up between you.”

“Oh, Flo, those days are long gone. Why stir up bad memories? This is the first time she’s come home just to visit me. I’d like to keep things cheery and positive. And who knows? You might be right and it was nothing more than teenage angst, anyway. Best to leave things lie.”