Beach House Memories (2 page)

I’m thankful to everyone at Brilliance Audio for the fabulous
audiobooks and for granting me the joy and privilege of narrating my books. A special nod to Sheryl Zajechowski, Laura Grafton, and Mark Pereira. I continue to bask in the joy of my friendship with Eileen and Bob Hutton and rely on their wisdom and smiles.

My love and thanks to Marguerite Martino for her consistent stream of inspiration from the first and for her invaluable critiques. Coffee in the morning with her starts my workday. For editing the manuscript with an eye to accuracy for all things turtles and history, I am indebted—again—to my esteemed friends Sally Murphy and Mary Pringle. A special thank-you to my island neighbor, Mickey Williams, for his stories of growing up on Isle of Palms back in the day, to Leah Greenberg for talking out plots and plans, and to Jennifer Pinsak Penegar, for the gorgeous patchwork shawl that kept me warm while writing and is in the book. And love and thanks to my writer friends Dorothea Benton Frank, Patti Callahan Henry, and Jane Green for their support.

For years of education and camaraderie on the beaches, and for being part of our turtle family, I thank:

My fellow Isle of Palms/Sullivan’s Island Turtle Team members: Mary Pringle, Barbara Bergwerf, Tee Johannes, Bev Ballow, Barbara Gobian, Linda Rumph, Grace and Glen Rhodes, Nancy Hauser, Kathey O’Connor; and the support staff: Ben Bergwerf, Peyre Pringle, and Nicholas Johannes. Thanks too, Nicholas, for an education on airplanes. And to all my fellow turtle team volunteers, too many to name. But you know who you are.

My friends at the South Carolina Aquarium. I am especially grateful for the support of Kevin Mills, Jason Crichton, Rachel Kalisperis, Kelly Thorvalson, Shane Boylan, Jack Higgins, Adrian Cain, Kevin Campworth, Josh Kohl, Keisha Legerton, Whit McMillan, Kate Dittloff, and all the staff who contribute daily to support the sea turtles and all marine life in countless ways and with such enthusiasm. I am honored to serve with my
fellow board members and grateful for the generous giving of their time and support for our shared mission: Ken Seeger, Sheila Hodges, Kate Jerome, Bruce Hecker, J. Donald Higgins, Bryson Geer, Jonathan Zucker, Todd Abedon, Dixon Woodward, Will Albrecht, Kenneth Bauer, Charles Claus, L. John Clark, John Danahy, Randall Goldman, Erika Harrison, Virginia Hermann, Reba Huge, Wilbur E. Johnson, H. D. Larabee, Laura Davies Mateo, Thompson Penney, David Rivers, H. Del Schutte, Bryan Sherbacow, David L Simmons, John L. Simpkins, Catherine Smith, Stephanie Smith-Phillips, John Swink, Lawrence O. Thompson, Teddy Turner, C. Ray Wrenn, Tomi G. Youngblood, David Tigges. And Emeritus: Pat Conroy, James Ferguson, William Finn, Peatsy Hollings, Hilton C. Smith Jr., Robert R. Macdonald, Layton McCurdy, Robert E. McNair, Richard W. Riley, Victor Samra Jr., Theodore S. Stern, M. William Youngblood, and Jerry Zucker.

My friends at the South Carolina Department of Natural Resources, I thank so many who have walked the beaches with me and provided me with an education on sea turtles, especially DuBose Griffin, Charlotte Hope, Kelly Sloan, and Al Segars.

My fellow board members of the Leatherback Trust in Playa Grande, Costa Rica. Sincere thanks to James Spotila, Frank Paladino, Maggie Kruesi, Harold Avery, Randall Arauz, Robert Raymar, David Wright, George Shillinger, Ray Lowe, Kristin Reed, Tom Elzey, John Spotila, Mario Boza, Pilar Santidrián Tomillo, and the hardworking staff, interns, and volunteers dedicated to preserving the Pacific Leatherback and all sea turtles.

I offer a heartfelt nod of thanks and respect to the memory of Florence Johnston, an original turtle lady in South Carolina, who graced me with numerous interviews before her passing. She was an inspiration. Thank you also to Meg Hoyle at Learning Through Loggerheads, and to another grande dame of the sea turtle world, Jean Beasley and her dedicated staff of volunteers at
the Karen Beasley Sea Turtle Hospital in Topsail, North Carolina, and to David Owens at the College of Charleston.

On the home front, I offer thanks and affection to my support staff: Angela May, Buzzy Porter, and Lisa Minnick. As with all my novels, I close with my love and gratitude to those who continually teach me the soul of my story: Markus; Claire, John, Jack, Teddy, and Delancey; Gretta and Zack.

I’ve taken some liberty in dates in the manuscript for the sake of story. I thank all those who checked the facts of my manuscript. All sins of omission and commission herein are mine.

Finally, I send my sincere thanks to all the people worldwide who have worked tirelessly, volunteered, and made donations—all with great faith and hope for the survival of sea turtles.

Those who come together to walk a turtle beach, to excavate a sea turtle nest to save some hatchlings, to work to stop fishing practices that kill turtles are part of a family. The very act of doing something for the turtles is an expression of faith in something larger than oneself. The reason that I have hope is that there is a large family of people who all do their part to save turtles for one more day.

—JAMES R. SPOTILA,
Saving Sea Turtles

Beach House
Memories

One

L
ovie Rutledge believed memories were like the tides. Sometimes they rushed in with a pounding roar to topple you over. At other times they gently washed over you, lulling you to complacency and then tugging you back to halcyon days that, with the passing of years, seemed ever sweeter.

She seemed to spend more time with her memories of late, especially on evenings such as this one when the red sun lazily descended over the Intracoastal Waterway, and the jeweled tones of the sky deepened. From the trees, the pensive cries of birds called all to roost. Lovie sat on the windward porch, still and silent, attuned to the moody hour. Sunset was her favorite time of the day, an introspective hour when the sky brought down the curtain on what she knew were her final days.

Lovie leaned her snowy white head against her chair, gave a slight push with her foot, and sighed as she rocked rhythmically back and forth, like the waves slapping against the shore. A small smile of relief eased across her face.

Peace at last
, she thought.

The wailing winds of the hurricane that had blown across her small island a week earlier had left in their wake the incessant
guttural roar of chain saws. The Isle of Palms had been pummeled, as had most of the South Carolina coast. It would take months to clean up. As though in apology, Mother Nature graced the island with crisp after-storm breezes that spurred the populace to a frenzy of repairs. Lovie was glad for the activity—the bellowing of voices, honking of horns, laughter of children, whoops from the beach, high-pitched calls of greeting as families returned home from evacuation. She heard in the clamor the shared exuberance of hope.

And yet, Lovie longed for the hush and lull of pace that came at the day’s end.

Stop your complaining, old woman, she admonished. You should be grateful that you wake up at all! Birdcall or hammering on wood—whichever! The sounds of life around her were welcome—especially now as death hovered like a thief, waiting for its opportunity to snatch away her last breath.

Lovie sank deeper into the cushion and let her tired body ease as she stared out again at a smattering of yellow flowers that had managed to cling to the vines during the storm, and beyond them, the sea. The Atlantic Ocean breathed like a beast snoring serenely in the distance. The gentle rolling water cloaked the secrets it held, while the earth revealed all. Ah, but she wasn’t fooled by her old friend.

I thought you were going to take my house with this last storm—and me along with it
, she thought with a faint chuckle.
Well, I thank you for leaving us be. At least for a little while longer
. She sighed and kicked off again with her foot.
I’ve known you too long and too well not to be wise to your mercurial nature. You appear so gentle and peaceful tonight. But Lord help the fool who ignores you
.

Lovie suddenly coiled in a spasm of coughing that racked her frame, so thin now she could be mistaken for a child. When at last the fit subsided, she bent forward, clasping the arms of the chair, gasping for air.

“Mama! Are you okay?”

Lovie turned her head to see Cara’s worried face inches from her own. She felt Cara’s larger hand tighten over hers in a reassuring squeeze.
Dear, sweet, daughter
, she thought as her pale blue eyes found refuge in Cara’s dark brown ones. There were crow’s-feet at the corners, adding maturity to the wide-eyed worry. Cara had been dismayed at turning forty, crying that her youth was over and now she was on the downhill slope. Lovie knew better. Cara was still so young! So strong and confident.

Lovie felt the panic that always came with the coughing spells loosen its grip. Gradually her breath came more easily. She nodded weakly.

Cara’s eyes narrowed, quickly checking for signs that Lovie needed oxygen or a dose of pain medication. “Mama, it’s getting chilly. Let’s go inside.”

Lovie didn’t have the breath to answer, but she weakly shook her head.

Cara hesitated, then with a
tsk
of mild frustration, she didn’t force the issue, as she might have just months earlier.

Lovie leaned back again in her chair. Staring at her from the settee across the room was a large calico cat. The cat had mysteriously appeared after the hurricane, lost and mewling piteously. Cara fed her daily, cleaned up after her, and petted her long fur whenever she passed. Cara called the cat the Uninvited Guest and pretended not to care one way or the other about her. But Lovie could tell she was secretly pleased the cat had decided to stay. It was Cara’s first pet.

Cara was rather like that cat, Lovie thought with some amusement. The previous May, Lovie had asked her only daughter to come home for a visit. She hadn’t thought Cara would come. They’d been estranged for some twenty years. Cara was always too busy, too involved in her career to find time to come back to Charleston. If Lovie was honest with herself—and this
late in life, why be anything but honest?—she had to acknowledge that Cara just plain didn’t want to return. She preferred the crispness of the North in all its forms. Lovie had prayed that she and her headstrong daughter could patch up their differences before she died. She took a long breath and exhaled slowly, feeling the weariness of her years. How did one reconcile after so long a time? It was in faith that she’d written, and in a twist of fate, Cara had returned.

Cara had been laid off from her high-powered job at an advertising agency in Chicago. She’d arrived at Lovie’s door at the onset of summer, feeling lost and restless, uncharacteristically adrift. She’d stayed the summer on Isle of Palms, ostensibly to take care of her mother. And yet, over the past months, Cara, like the lost cat, had been cared for, stroked, needed. The summer had made Cara wiser and more content—not so quick to chase the mouse.

And in the process, she’d rediscovered her mother’s love. This had been the answer to Lovie’s prayers.

It was autumn now, however, and like the season’s end, Lovie’s strength was ebbing with the receding tide. She had terminal cancer, and both she and Cara knew that soon the Lord would call her home.

“Okay, Mama,” Cara conceded, patting Lovie’s hand. “We’ll sit out here a little longer. I know you hate to miss a sunset. Would you like a cup of tea? I’ll make you one,” she went on, not waiting for an answer.

Lovie didn’t want tea just now, but Cara needed something to do. Though they didn’t say the words often, Lovie knew that Cara expressed her love with action. Cara rose effortlessly from the chair, a move Lovie could hardly recall being able to make.

Cara was strikingly good-looking, tall and slender with glossy dark hair she usually wore pulled back in a carefree ponytail. But tonight was cooler and the humidity low so she let it fall unkempt
to her shoulders. It swayed in rhythm with the few long strides it took her to cross the wooden porch.

Lovie’s gaze swept across the porch of her beloved beach house that was showing signs of age. Time . . . it passed so quickly! Where did all the years go? How many summers had this dear house survived? How many hurricanes? Two white wooden rocking chairs sat side by side where mother and daughter sat most nights to enjoy the Lowcountry sunset. The recent category one hurricane had destroyed her pergola, and the new screens Cara had just installed hung in tattered shreds, waving uselessly in the offshore breezes. She heard the teasing hum of a mosquito in her ear.

Her little house on Ocean Boulevard had always been a place of refuge for Lovie, a sanctuary through good times and bad, ever since childhood. In the twilight, the quaint and tidy lines of her 1930s beach cottage appeared part of the indigenous landscape beside the tall palms, the raucous wildflowers, and the clumps of sea oats on the dunes. From her seat on the porch, she could see straight out to the Atlantic Ocean without the obstruction of one of those enormous houses that bordered the island’s coastline. It was the same view she’d always had, all these many years. When the wind gusted, it rippled across the tall, soft grass like rosy waves and carried her back to happier days when the island was a remote outpost.