On Ocean Boulevard

by Mary Alice Monroe

  Gordon stretched over her. “Excuse me,” he muttered close to her ear, then quickly kissed her neck. He reached for the bedside clock. Still lying over her, he said, “It’s seven forty.”

  “Oh no, I’ve got to go.”

  He smiled down into her eyes, settling himself atop her. “Must you?”

  “Yes,” she said, and tried to wiggle away.

  “That’s nice.”

  “Stop,” she said, trying not to laugh. “I really have to go. I don’t want to be late for work.”

  Gordon slid over to his side of the bed with a groan. “Too bad.”

  Linnea pulled herself up to a sitting position, feeling the slosh in her head of too many drinks. Tugging the rumpled sheet up to cover her breasts, she looked around the fairly large bedroom. The queen-size bed was a platform with a modern, uninspired wood headboard. On the floor, scattered in crumpled piles, lay her clothes.

  “Oh no. Damn,” she muttered. “I’ll be wearing yesterday’s clothes. Everyone will notice. Shit. This is when I wish I wore a uniform.”

  “Can’t you dash home and change?”

  Linnea considered this and shook her head. “My parents will be up and about—my father will be drinking coffee in the kitchen. They’ll see me and know I didn’t come home. World War III will begin.” She put her hand to her pounding forehead and wondered if she could climb to her bedroom window.

  “So what if they do? You’re not a child.”

  “You have a lot to learn about southern daughters,” she told him. She looked again at her wrinkled clothing. There was nothing to do but to wear yesterday’s clothes and hope no one noticed. She began to climb from the bed, tugging the sheet over her body. She paused. Gordon was still watching her amiably.

  “Uh, do you mind?” she asked, waving her hand to indicate he should turn around.

  “Darling, I’ve seen every inch of your beautiful body. Every curve is imprinted in my memory.”

  “That was nighttime. This is daylight. It’s different.”

  Gordon thought about that, seemingly amused. But seeing she was serious, he pushed back the covers and rose to sit on the mattress, muttering, “Yes, of course. Forgive me. I’ll leave.”

  “Gordon,” she called, clutching the sheet higher as he turned back.

  He turned his head to look over his shoulder.

  “I don’t think you understand. I… I don’t do this. Usually.”

  He seemed confused. “Have sex?”

  She laughed a bit self-consciously and shook her head. “Not on the first date.”

  “Oh.” He moved on the bed to face her, listening.

  “My first boyfriend and I dated since we were thirteen. We were practically engaged before… You met him, actually. He’s the fellow whose engagement party you went to.”

  His brows rose. “That blond fellow? Daren?”

  “Darby.”

  He considered this. “Your first love, then?”

  She nodded. “We broke up in college. I had a boyfriend there. A terrible mistake. Then Darby again for a short while. Then there was… oh never mind him,” she said with a shudder. “Then John, the man I moved to California with. We were serious. None of them were casual.”

  “Is that what you think we are? A one-night stand?”

  Linnea looked into his eyes, boring into her like an acetylene torch. “I hope not.”

  “It’s definitely not. And,” he added in a sympathetic tone, “I understand what you’re trying to tell me. Never for a moment did I think you were casual. My God, I’ve been chasing you down for weeks.”

  She laughed then, pleased.

  “Now,” he asked, rising from the bed, “I expect you want to hear about all my previous affairs.” He faced her, utterly unconcerned with his own nakedness.

  “No.” She shook her head with a short laugh, then looked away.

  “Thank God.”

  Gordon walked to the closet and grabbed a robe. Slipping into it, he asked, “Can I make you a cup of tea? It’s the civilized drink. Or do you insist on coffee?”

  “Coffee, please.”

  “Cream and sugar?”

  “Just milk, if you have it. Now go!” She waved him off. “I have to dress.”

  He put one finger in the air in the signal to wait one moment. He crossed to his dresser and pulled out a blue T-shirt. “I know you’re much smaller than I am, but this is one of those stretchy shirts. It might work, if you want to try it. It’s clean.…”

  “And it’s not the same color as the shirt I wore yesterday. That’s important,” she said, reaching out to take the shirt. “Very thoughtful. Thank you.”

  Their eyes met as they both held on to the shirt. She felt again the zing of neurons and for a moment she thought they might return to the bed.

  “Right. Coffee,” he said, and quickly turned to leave the room.

  Linnea felt like laughing aloud, she was so happy. All the depression and loneliness that had been hanging over her like a dark cloud had fled like a specter at first light. She felt filled with joy and… dare she say it… love. She was absolutely head over heels falling for this man. She remembered the smell of him, the feel of his skin against hers, how he moved within her. Oh, Lord, she thought with a flutter. She had it bad.

  She scrambled to her feet and collected her clothing strewn about the floor, chair, and bed. Her suit was terribly wrinkled, but his T-shirt actually wasn’t that bad worn under her jacket. She splashed cold water over her face, ran her fingers through her hair, borrowed toothpaste and finger-brushed her teeth, then hurried out.

  The main room of the house was open and sunny. Sliding glass doors lined the exterior wall, allowing a beautiful view of the ocean and spacious decks. It wasn’t a particularly pretty house. The style had been popular some forty years earlier when a rash of contemporary, wood beach houses were built along the southeastern coast; this one was painted green outside with wood paneling on the inside. Most of the houses in this style had been torn down and replaced with upscale homes as the real estate values of the islands skyrocketed. It was nonetheless beachfront property on Sullivan’s Island, and she imagined the rent was exorbitant during the peak beach season.

  Gordon approached her, carrying two mugs of coffee. A latte. She loved him just for that.

  “You know how to spoil a girl.”

  His smile was quick. She swallowed the coffee. She appreciated a man who could make an excellent cup of coffee.

  “Delicious,” she crooned over the rim of her cup.

  “No credit here. I pushed a button. Thank God for Swiss engineering.” Gordon leaned against the counter and his face grew more serious. “Can I see you tonight?” he asked.

  “I’m sorry, I can’t tonight. I have to work. I’m assisting at a sustainable seafood dinner.”

  “That sounds interesting. Where is that?”

  “The Long Island Café.”

  “Right on Isle of Palms? Fabulous. Can I come?”

  “Sorry. It’s sold out.”

  “What about tomorrow night?”

  “I have to sit at a turtle nest. I’m on the team.” She paused. “Actually,” she said as an idea came to mind, “I found it. The first of the season. Would you like to come along?”

  “Of course.”

  “All right,” she said, glad that he wanted to come. “The nest is on Sullivan’s. I’ll text you the details. It may not hatch tomorrow, of course. It could linger for several days. But I want to be there when it does.”

  “Excellent. You, the beach, turtles… couldn’t be better.”

  “Oh.” She pursed her lips.

  “What?” he asked, taking a swallow of tea.

  “I promised Pandora she could come see a nest.”

  “The more the merrier.”

  She took a breath and broached again the topic that had been plaguing her. “You don’t mind? Her seeing us… together? As a couple?”

  He looked at her over the rim of his mug, his blue eyes catching
hers. “Are we a couple?”

  She drew back, suddenly unsure, not answering.

  He put his cup on the counter and moved closer. “I’m teasing, Linnea,” he said, slipping his arms around her waist and placing his lips against the top of her head.

  “But Pandora…”

  “Strictly friends. More acquaintances. Surfing pals. I like her. But not in that way. Not like the way I feel about you.”

  He released her and searched her face. “I think we have something special. I’d like to continue seeing you, if that’s what you’re asking.” He lifted a side of his mouth in a teasing smile. “If you haven’t noticed, I’m trying in earnest to see you again. But you seem to always be busy. Do you think you can squeeze me into your schedule?”

  “Well, I don’t know,” she deadpanned. “It depends on the turtles.”

  He laughed then and bent to kiss her. “You really are quite perfect.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Plastic isn’t biodegradable. Depending on the type of plastic and where it lands, items can take days to hundreds of years to break down into very small pieces, which means the waste plastic is left for generations to come.

  AFTER WORK WHEN she returned home, Linnea pulled several bags from the Gold Bug, then looked up at the long flight of stairs that led to the front door and groaned. When would her parents get an elevator? Taking a breath, she hoisted the many bags higher in her arms and began the climb. With each step the bags slipped lower in her arms. By the time she reached the porch, the box under her arm was about to topple out. She couldn’t get the door handle and, seeing her mother reading on the sofa, she kicked the front door with her foot.

  “Mom! Mama! Come open the door!” she called out.

  She thought her arms would break as she watched her mother spring from the sofa and trot across the room to open the door.

  “My goodness,” Julia exclaimed, grabbing the slipping box and stepping aside to let Linnea pass. “What all do you have there?”

  Linnea didn’t have the strength to answer. She crossed the threshold and released the multiple bags onto the floor. She stayed bent for a moment, catching her breath and stretching her fingers, which were curled up as though still holding the handles of the bags.

  “What is all this stuff?” Julia asked again, looking at all the brand names on the bags: Staples, the Art Shop, and local printers.

  Linnea straightened, feeling bubbly with excitement. “This is the beginning of Rutledge House Interiors!” she exclaimed.

  “What?”

  “Grab a bag and let’s look at the loot,” Linnea said, lifting two of the four bags and carrying them to the dining table. She began unpacking as Julia did the same. Soon the table was littered with boxes.

  Opening a long rectangular box, she revealed business cards. Pulling one out, she handed it to her mother.

  Her mother looked to Linnea like a young child at Christmas as she reached out to take the small business card—all wide-eyed with wonder and expectation. Linnea held her breath, hoping her mother would approve. Julia was very particular. The pale parchment paper was simple and unadorned. On the front of the card, in an elegant black print, was the name RUTLEDGE HOUSE INTERIORS. She watched as her mother turned over the card, and at last Linnea saw the longed-for smile. There, again in simple lettering, was Julia’s name and contact information.

  “They’re perfect,” her mother said softly.

  Linnea released a long sigh of relief. “I used the very best grade of paper,” she said.

  “How did you get them done so fast?”

  “I went local. And look,” she said, picking up another, bigger box. “Note cards, in the same paper and font. I didn’t use a logo, given that you don’t have one.”

  “I don’t want one.”

  “All the better. I think the name at the top looks elegant. Strong.”

  Her mother’s finely arched brow rose. “It’s a very good name, my dear.”

  “Own it, baby,” Linnea added with a short laugh. While her mother studied the card, Linnea walked around the table to retrieve another bag. This was the largest, from the Art Shop. From it she pulled out a large portfolio. It had cost Linnea a pretty penny. But the moment she’d seen it, she knew her mother had to have it. The brown leather was very fine, and it would give her mother confidence when she carried it with her and set it out to reveal her work to a potential client. “Now for the pièce de résistance.” She held out the portfolio.

  Julia took the leather folder into her hands with reverence. On the cover, her initials were embossed. She let her fingers glide over them, her breath held. Slowly she opened it, then gasped.

  Linnea watched her mother flip from one page to another, her fingertips shaking. She knew what Julia was seeing, knew each page by heart, having spent hours arranging them with Dana, the art director, an old school chum. These were the photographs of her mother’s years of work designing and decorating houses—her own and those of her friends. Some of the work was truly transformational. And more, Julia had her own look. Her talent was undeniable. It shone from the page. Dana had remarked on it.

  When Julia lifted her face, there were tears in her luminous blue eyes.

  Linnea and her mother had spent endless hours together when she was very young. They were inseparable. Julia had been so thrilled to have a daughter. She wanted to share with her the things that she loved—pretty clothes, flowers, going shopping, getting her hair done, a girl’s day out. She’d created in Linnea a miniature of herself. There were occasions when she’d had mother-daughter dresses made to match.

  But then Linnea had grown up, and her interests changed. She still loved pretty clothes, but the opinions of her friends mattered more than her mother’s. More, her focus had shifted. She spent her summers at the beach house. For her the thrill came from observation of nature, not material things. She felt challenged, stimulated, excited to learn. In this world, her mentor was her grandmother, Lovie. As Linnea entered her teens, she and her mother were not estranged exactly, but they were not close. Perhaps it was simply her age. The teenage years were a time of separation from parents. She had to discover who she was and what her own interests were. Yet her mother still clung to her expectations for her daughter. Julia wanted—demanded—that Linnea conform to the rigid social expectations of being from Charleston royalty and living South of Broad. Linnea had chafed under the burden and arguments flared. They no longer shared secrets, ideas, gossip. Rather, Linnea kept her life as private from her mother as possible. Her father had once stepped between them during a shouting match and yelled, “You two scream louder than two alley cats over a dead rat!”

  Time, however, had a way of healing all wounds. That and maturity. Her mother had stood by her side when Linnea wanted to take the job in California and move in with John Peterson. Her mother had called Linnea faithfully while she lived on the opposite coast, and once came for a visit, all by herself—her first time traveling alone in a plane. What a glorious week that had been. Once again, for that brief period, they were inseparable. Linnea had taken her to the redwood forest, the Golden Gate Bridge. Her mother had taken her shopping at Gump’s department store.

  Looking at her mother now, Linnea felt more than love. She felt pride. She stepped forward to hug her and was enveloped in her familiar scent. The skin of her cheek was softer with age.

  “I don’t know what to say,” Julia said, her voice quavering.

  “You don’t have to say anything. You’ll have to pay for the stationery,” Linnea admitted, “and you can start deducting it from your business expenses. The portfolio, however, is my gift.”

  “No, I can’t let you do that.”

  “Mama, please. I want to.”

  “Thank you.”

  She crossed her arms. “There’s nothing holding you back now. You can go into Mrs. James’s house with confidence. You’ve got this, Mama.”

  Julia lifted her chin. “I think I do,” she said “But I’d better put all t
hese treasures away, so they don’t get food on them. I’m about to serve dinner.” She paused and looked around the room. “Oh dear, where shall I put them?”

  “Mama, you need an office.”

  “I don’t have room for an office. There are only three bedrooms in this house, and your father’s taken one for his office. And you’re sleeping in the other.”

  “I won’t be here long.”

  “You don’t know how long you’ll be,” her mother admonished. “And we will need a room for Cooper when he visits. I can’t take a guest room.”

  Linnea sighed, knowing her mother wouldn’t put herself ahead of her children. “Then you’ll have to make a nook. You need your own space. Virginia Woolf’s room of one’s own and all that.”

  “The laundry room is spacious.”

  “No! No laundry, junk, no distractions allowed in your office. It’s a sacred space of work and creativity.”

  “I was just going to set them there temporarily while I separated the paper and plastic for recycling.”

  “You know they’d stay there for months for want of anywhere to go.”

  “Well…”

  “It doesn’t have to be fancy or big. My workspace is that little wood desk in my bedroom. I’ve become quite fond of that desk. And Cara? She has a little cubicle in a warren of other cubicles at the aquarium. Inside there’s only room for her metal desk, a file drawer, and two small metal chairs. All the directors and employees lucky enough to have a desk are squeezed onto one floor. And you know what? It works.”

  Linnea looked around the open floor plan room. “There’s tons of space in this room since you knocked down the wall. Go forth, Mama, and claim a spot. Buy yourself a desk. A dream desk, Mama. You’ve earned it. Get a screen or partition, if you must. The first project of Rutledge House Interiors should be creating your office.”

  Julia put her fingers to her lips, seemingly enchanted with the idea. “You’re right. I do deserve a space of my own.” Her eyes gleamed as she looked over the room. “And I know just the desk I want.”

  Linnea held back her smile. If her mother loved a desk, it would set her father back a pretty penny.