Beach House Memories (10 page)

Lovie’s fascination for sea turtles continued to grow as she did. Every passing summer she couldn’t wait to get to the beach house and the turtles. From the first day till the last, she searched for turtle tracks and, later, nests.

She went to stand at the screened porch door. Her arms were wrapped around herself as she thought back again to the young girl who had made a commitment to that valiant sea turtle so many years ago. Did she want to get involved with the study? Wrestle with authorities? If the controversy became heated, her
name could end up in the newspapers. Stratton wouldn’t like that; he’d made that clear the last time she was in the paper, and it was only the neighborhood news. Naturally, her mother would be horrified. She could hear Dee Dee admonishing that it just wasn’t something a well-brought-up lady would do.

Lovie stared out at the darkness that masked the vast sea beyond, but she could hear the powerful waves rolling in to crash against the sand. Somewhere out in the swells, her beloved loggerheads were biding their time, waiting for some signal from deeply stored instinct that it was time to brave the unknown and lay their nests. Each nest, each egg, was precious to her. No one knew this beach better than she did. This was a critical moment for the island.

As she listened to the waves, the roar drowned out the voices of her mother and Stratton and the naysayers. In their place she heard the voice of her father and her brother calling out to her from the sea, echoing Flo’s words.

If not you, then who?

Sea Turtle Journal

June 8, 1974

Against great odds, the sea turtle crawls across the long stretch of beach to lay her nest high on a dune. She will lay over a hundred eggs in each nest and she will nest four or more times each season. Each nest she digs is a selfless act. Each egg is a triumph of hope.

Five

I
sland time
is a state of mind. For some it means a slowing of pace from the hurried, punctual grind of the city, the abandonment of routines, schedules, appointments. For others it is the acceptance that from sunup to sundown, what gets done gets done, and what doesn’t will get done soon enough. It’s finding pleasure in and appreciation for the fleeting moments.

Slipping into island time doesn’t happen overnight. Once someone arrives on the island, the transition can take from three to five days, longer for some ragged souls. For Lovie, this summer it took a full week.

During her first week, Lovie had too much to do to reach that easy island pace. Stratton telephoned to tell her he’d decided to bring the Porters to the beach house for a barbeque after all. Primrose Cottage was a classic island cottage of the kind that well-to-do Charlestonians had brought their families to, to escape the summer heat. They were the soul of charm and simplicity representing a gentler time in history, but not grand. Stratton would want the house shown in its best possible light for this event. She’d spent the week slaving over her house and garden, knocking items off from her to-do list with a methodical determination.

By Friday afternoon, the pine floors were lustrous from a washing with Murphy Oil soap, the paned windows were sparkling, the clunky old appliances were scrubbed, and the ancient claw-footed bathtubs gleamed. The cupboards were bursting with food, and the sweetgrass baskets on the counter were overflowing with fresh vegetables and fruits from the market. Pots of cheery flowers and hanging ferns decorated the porches, and in the shade, more flats of flowers waited to be planted. She was racing against the clock and had just finished putting the chicken in Aunt Leah’s marinade when Stratton called.

“Stratton, don’t forget to bring the wine,” she said, a little breathless from running for the hall phone. “And did you find out what drinks the Porters like? The bar is dreadfully low here. We need almost everything. Could you take care of that? Oh, and I especially need brandy for the trifle. I’m making Mama’s recipe. We always get so many compliments, I’m sure they’ll like it. I thought we’d have dessert on the screened porch. Though if Jeanne is wearing perfume, she might attract mosquitoes.”

“Well, Lovie . . .” Stratton cleared his throat. “That’s what I wanted to talk with you about.”

Lovie was wiping her brow and caught the tone in Stratton’s voice. She let her hand drop from her hair. “What’s that?”

There was a brief pause. “The Porters aren’t coming, after all. They’ve decided to go north to their farm. They have a hunting lodge there—ducks, boar, deer, birds. I hear it’s quite the place.”

Lovie felt awash with irritation. “Well, that’s very thoughtless of them, thank you very much. I don’t know what constitutes good manners up north, but in Charleston it’s hardly proper to cancel at the last minute without thought to all the preparations I’ve made. I mean, really, Stratton! If it was an emergency, of course I’d understand. But to change their mind to go hunting?”

“I’m sure Jeanne Porter didn’t mean to insult.”

“I should’ve known that a woman who wore so much makeup didn’t have good breeding.”

Stratton sighed low over the phone but didn’t reply.

She thought of all the stress Stratton must have been under the past week and how he must be disappointed to have lost the opportunity to extend his friendship to a man he hoped to enter business dealings with. “I’m sorry. That wasn’t kind. And I’m sorry they canceled. I know this was important to you. I hope you’re not too disappointed. You can always invite them to come another time. Come home. The children and I miss you.” She laughed lightly. “I’ve cooked and cleaned for days. We’ll feast.”

He skipped a beat. “Well, here’s the thing, Lovie. The Porters have invited me to join them at their lodge. They have a private plane and the plan is to fly out first thing in the morning.”

Lovie took a moment to get this straight in her mind. She twisted the phone cord in her fingers. “I see. So you’re going.”

“I’d like to.” He was being polite, seemingly asking her permission. Yet she heard in his tone that he’d already made up his mind.

“How long will you be gone? This time?” she asked, not bothering to disguise her pique.

He responded in kind, his voice gruff with irritation. “A week at the most.”

“A week,” she repeated, glancing at the calendar hanging on the wall. It showed a beach scene and the words T
HE
B
EACH
C
OMPANY
, the company that had sold the island’s northern end. Stratton was leaving for Europe after the Fourth of July and wouldn’t be back until the end of summer. “What about your time with us? You’ve already got so much scheduled you’ll be away most of the summer as it is. You have responsibilities to more than your business, you know. You have a family, too.”

“I’m well aware of my responsibilities,” he said in a low voice that dared her to challenge him.

She did not.

“Why do you think I’m working so damn hard? Sure, I wish I could come out to the beach, to hang out with you and the kids. But some of us have to work for a living.”

She wanted to ask him what he meant by that, to let him know how much that comment he’d tossed out so thoughtlessly had hurt her. But in truth she already knew exactly what he’d meant. She also knew she was pushing his buttons hard and backpedaled. There was no point in arguing over the phone like this. It solved nothing, and at that moment the only word she wanted to hear was “good-bye.”

“Look,” he said in a conciliatory tone, “you know this is important or I wouldn’t do it. Porter can open doors for me in Japan. That’s the future. It could mean a lot for us. For our family. I need your support now—without the third degree.”

Lovie laughed, a short, bitter sound that had nothing to do with thinking the situation was amusing but because it was what she’d come to expect. Lovie clearly remembered the many times he’d said those exact words to her over the years, and how many times she’d rallied. Weekends, weekdays, when she was pregnant, tired, last minute—it didn’t matter. She was his wife and that’s what wives did. They stood by their husbands through thick and thin, for better or for worse.

Yet this had been a particularly long and cold winter, and his many evening absences had been noted and counted. Lovie wondered if her desperate craving for the feel of the sun’s warmth on her skin was because her husband had grown so cold.

“It seems you’ve made up your mind.” Her voice was lifeless. “Have a good time.”

There was silence on the other end, as though he were thinking of what to say. Apparently he didn’t have much to add because
he said only, “I’ll call you when I get back. Give my love to the children.”

She hung up the phone feeling empty, vacant—like he’d already left.

June 15 came slowly for Lovie. She rose early as was her custom, swallowed a quick cup of coffee, and went off to ride her bike along the shoreline. Thunder rumbled faintly, and dark clouds hovered low over the Atlantic Ocean. Lovie hoped for a little rain to water her newly transplanted flowers, but she wanted to make it back to the house before the first drops fell. Glancing at her watch, she figured if she hurried she’d have enough time to do a little research at the library before the two o’clock meeting.

There were no tracks found this morning, so she made it back in good time. She went to her room to iron a favorite village print blouse. A short while later she emerged, the crisp blouse tucked into bell-bottom jeans. Her hair was neatly plaited into a braid that fell down her back like a skein of flaxen-colored wool.

“Cara!” she called out, walking out of her room.

“Kitchen!”

She found Cara sitting at the kitchen table with Emmi, their long thin legs roped around the chair legs. They were slathering thick layers of peanut butter on Wonder bread. The smell made her mouth water.

“Girls, I’m going to the library, then there’s the meeting at the Exchange Club. Do you want to come along? You can pick out some new books. Maybe you’d like to volunteer for the project. If you write a paper on what you did for the study, I’ll bet you’d get extra credit at school.” She tried to make her voice upbeat and encouraging.

“Nooo way,” Cara replied, rudely shoving her palm out. “You’re not roping
us
into turtle duty.”

“It’s not turtle duty,” she replied, firmly lowering Cara’s hand from in front of her face.

Emmi tried to refuse politely. “We already have a lot of reading on our list this summer, Mrs. Rutledge.”

Lovie didn’t miss the commiserating glance the girls shared. She gave up. She’d tried for years to get the girls interested in helping the turtles, and it was like pulling eyeteeth. Summer after summer she met countless children thrilled at the prospect of seeing a hatchling. She loved teaching children about the turtles and the nesting cycle. But Cara and Emmi, and Palmer as well, not only had no interest in the sea turtles but shared a disdain for them.

“Fine,” she said on a sigh. “Suit yourselves. I won’t be gone long. I’ll just be a few blocks away at the Exchange Club. Now remember, girls. You’re to stay in the house till I get back, hear?”

“Yes, ma’am,” the girls replied in unison, then looked at each other and giggled.

“Oh, no, don’t you two get any ideas,” she said with suspicion.

“We won’t, Mama,” Cara replied.

Lovie looked at the two girls. Their blue eyes were the very picture of innocence. She didn’t believe them for a moment.

“We’re ten years old,” Cara said. “We’re not babies, you know.”

Lovie leaned forward to kiss Cara’s cheek. “Of course you’re not.”

The Exchange Club was a little wood-frame building that sat on a prime piece of real estate alongside Hamlin Creek. Sitting on Palm Boulevard, the clubhouse was a favorite spot for locals to gather for small weddings, birthday parties, garden club workshops, oyster roasts, and about any other meeting on the island. Lovie looked at the sky, considering. It was a short walk
from Primrose Cottage, but she didn’t want to get caught in the rain. She grabbed an umbrella from the basket by the door and headed out.

The winding gravel road was bordered by sandy lots that were overrun by wild indigenous palms, shrubs, and wildflowers. She walked the three blocks to the Exchange Club at a clip, swinging her green-and-white umbrella. A black-and-white cat sunning in the middle of the road didn’t appear the least bothered by her passing. As she approached the parking lot, she was surprised to see at least ten cars, and stepping out from one was Kate Baker. Her red ponytail fell over her shoulder when she bent to pull something from the car, offering full view of her generously filled-out flowered Bermuda shorts. When she stood, she was carrying a tray covered in aluminum foil.

“Hi, Kate. What’ve you brought?” Lovie asked her, taking hold of Kate’s purse to lighten her load.

“Oh, hi, Lovie. Cupcakes,” she replied, her blue eyes sparkling with pleasure at seeing Lovie. “The mayor asked me to bring something for the meeting.”

“He didn’t ask me to bring anything.”

“He probably has other plans for you, Miss Turtle Lady. Are the girls being good?” asked Kate.