Swimming Lessons

by Mary Alice Monroe

  Toy felt tongue-tied.

  “She’s not saying that,” Ethan interjected.

  Bigger shook his head. “I got a turtle shooter on every net. But hey, it happened. And here she is. I could’ve just chucked her back in the sea. That’s what some others might’ve done. But I brought her in. I called Ethan, didn’t I?”

  Ethan slapped Bigger’s back. “You sure did. And I thank you for it. You did the right thing. We appreciate it. Don’t we Toy?”

  “Yes. Absolutely,” she blurted out. “Thank you, Bigger. This turtle owes you its life. Any time you see a sick turtle out there, we’ll come out here to fetch it and thank you each time.”

  Mollified, Bigger hoisted his son higher in his arms and smiled at his daughter. “Go get your pictures for your project. These folks have to move the turtle and I’ve got work to do. We’re wasting daylight.”

  It was no easy task to maneuver the injured sea turtle from the shrimp boat into the crate in the back of the truck. With every move, Toy worried more damage would be done to the badly cracked shell. Ethan’s family went out of their way to help in any way they could, and before leaving, Bigger had promised her a ride on The Miss Peggy, and Lily was beaming that Toy had named the sea turtle Cherry Point.

  On the way back to the Aquarium, Ethan was quiet, seemingly lost in his own thoughts. Toy wondered about the family man that she’d seen at Cherry Point, a man in sharp contrast to the loner. With his family, Ethan had opened a window to himself she’d never seen at the Aquarium. There, Ethan seemed as mysterious as the twelve foot shark he swam with every day in the Great Ocean tank.

  Toy cast a slanted glance at Ethan, eager to learn more about him before he shut the window completely.

  “Your family seems very nice.”

  He nodded, eyes on the road. “They’re good people.”

  “It sounds like you haven’t been home in a while?”

  “Never often enough to suit my mom.”

  “But you’re a genuine local.”

  “Yep. Born and raised. You can’t go anywhere near Wadmalaw without bumping into a Legare. The whole of Johns Island, really.”

  “It must be nice to have a big family.”

  “At times.”

  “Are you close?”

  He cast a quick glance. “I guess you could say we are. We have our spats, like most families. But we’ve been in these parts since before The War. Most everyone’s settled somewhere around Rockville or Charleston.”

  “Except Jim in Atlanta.” She said “Atlanta” with the same sour tone Uncle Will had used.

  That drew a reluctant laugh from Ethan. “Poor Uncle Will. He’s worse than my mother. He never can tolerate any of us moving off. I reckon it’s because we keep losing bits of our land and he’s afraid we’re losing the family, too. He holds on pretty tight.”

  “I find that endearing.”

  Ethan barked off a laugh. “I’m sure he’d like to hear that.” He shook his head, muttering, “Endearing.”

  “Hey, it’s better than enamored.”

  “I don’t know but I was right. My family was enamored with you. Especially Bigger.”

  “Your cousin is a real character.”

  A grin stretched freely across his face and affection gleamed in his eyes. “Yeah, that he is. One of a kind. You wouldn’t want to mess with him, but he’s got a heart of pure gold. Would give you the shirt off his back if you asked him. He’s saved my sorry ass a few times, I can tell you. Guys like him are a dying breed.”

  “Did you ever want to be a shrimper, like him? Or run Cherry Point?”

  His hands tightened on the wheel as the tires spun beneath them. “No,” he replied at length. “I never did. It’s not like I don’t enjoy going out on the shrimp boats and lending a hand from time to time. Some of my best memories were on board the Miss Peggy. But it’s a hard life. Long hours, tough work, hard men. The dock can be a pretty rough place at times. I used to work there in the summers coming up and some of the stuff I saw…”

  He shook his head. “It’s not for me. Never was. When I was a boy, I got a lot of ribbing for having my nose stuck in a book. I read about exotic places far away—Treasure Island, Narnia, Forty Leagues Under the Sea. If I ever dreamed of being a boat captain, it was Captain Nemo. My blood raced at the thought of getting in a boat and just…” He shrugged lightly. “Going.” He stretched out his arm. “Sailing on and on and on. Seeing the world and not worrying about coming back.”

  “So, where did you end up going?”

  “I went to Woods Hole in Massachusetts for my graduate degree. It’s beautiful up there, but way too cold for a Southern boy. Once I’d left home, I just kept traveling. Farther and farther away. I did marine research in Fiji, the Caribbean, the reefs off Australia, Indonesia, then ended up in Costa Rica. I spent six years there, the longest I’ve ever spent in any one place.”

  “I heard that you discovered some kind of bottom dwelling invertebrate?”

  He nodded. “But I’m most proud of the work I did drumming up international support for sharks.”

  “When you add all that up, I can see how you were an ideal choice to run the Great Ocean Tank.”

  “You never know where the knowledge and experience you’ve gained is going to lead you in life. When I was chasing down black market shark poachers, I didn’t think I’d be caring for sharks in an Aquarium. It’s funny how life turns out sometimes.”

  “Did your father want you to take over the family business?”

  “Yes, sure. It’s only natural that he would. But I think he always knew I was more interested in studying the living fish, not the ones caught to be eaten. And between you and me, he’s the one who inspired my interest. He was the one who taught me the names of all the fish, about their habitats and habits. He never let me keep an undersized fish and was mindful of our role as stewards of the earth and sea. When I went off to study marine biology I got some raised brows from some of the family, but he never once criticized my decision. He always encouraged me to carve out my own destiny.” He chuckled ruefully. “Though he’ll never understand why I ever wanted to leave a place as beautiful as Cherry Point. My greatest fear was that I never would.”

  “But you did.”

  He nodded. “Yep.”

  “And now you’re back.”

  “I guess it’s like what Bigger said. The tide brings us back, sooner or later.”

  “Sort of like the turtles. You came back home.”

  He turned his head to face her. “Sort of. Now, your turn. Where are you from?”

  She shrugged nonchalantly, but inside she cringed. In the South, asking someone where they were from was asking for a family history and church affiliation. Toy didn’t have a family to brag on. She was ashamed to admit that her daddy had run off before she was born and the only siblings she had were two half brothers who were mean curs who’d as soon steal from her what little she had as say hello. One of them ended up in jail—to keep his daddy company, her mama liked to say.

  No love was lost between Toy and her parents, either. Her mother and step-father had kicked her out of the trailer at seventeen when she got pregnant and never opened the door to her since. Not exactly the warm family bond that Ethan knew.

  “I used to dream of traveling the world, too,” she replied, guiding her answer in a different direction. “Like you did. But I never made it farther than Holly Hill, where I was born. My parents moved to North Charleston when I started high school. My life got complicated pretty fast. Now I have my daughter, my job… So much for traveling. I have this recurring dream of a turtle swimming in the ocean, trying real hard to get home. Go figure.”

  “Is your family in fishing or conservation or…?”

  Toy snorted and shook her head. “Hardly.”

  “Your husband?”

  “My—” Her breath caught. “There is no husband,” she blurted out.

  “I thought…I know you have a daughter,” he said in way of explanation.

/>   There was an awkward silence during which Toy expected him to follow up with a question about divorce, or her being a widow. She tensed, not wanting to go into her history about Darryl and her being an unwed mother.

  “So what got you interested in turtles?” he asked.

  She silently blessed him for not prying. “That would be Miss Lovie, Cara’s mother. I took care of her when she was sick. She used to live in this big ol’house in Charleston but she loved the beach house. When she got sick she wanted to live there—to die there, I reckon. Anyway, she wanted a companion, so I took the job. Her real name was Olivia Rutledge, but everyone on the island called her Miss Lovie. She was the island’s first turtle lady and the dearest person you’d ever hope to meet.” She looked at her hands. “She was real good to me.”

  “Is that how Little Lovie got her name?”

  Toy brightened. “Yes. I called her Olivia after her, but it was my neighbor Florence’s mother, old Miranda, who gave her the nickname Little Lovie. It just stuck. It’s a big name to grow into, but I think she’ll manage it.”

  He smiled. “Well, if she’s anything like her mother…”

  She turned her head to look at Ethan. His dark brows gathered over narrowed eyes as he looked out at the road ahead. She could envision him steering the Miss Peggy, completely at home on the open sea. She thought of all he’d told her of his life and his travels. And looking out at the road ahead, she couldn’t help but wonder what that kind of freedom felt like.

  5

  That afternoon was as glorious as a promise kept.

  Toy said a hurried goodbye to Ethan after they admitted Cherry Point to the Aquarium, and forgetting all but her daughter, hurried home to build a sand castle.

  The beach was drenched with sunlight and overhead a cloudless sky made the ocean a dazzling blue. Memorial Day was one of the busiest beach days of the summer but the densest crowd clustered near the pier where the restaurants played music and served icy drinks. Families gathered together on a menagerie of brightly colored towels and under umbrellas. Toddlers splashed gleefully in long stretches of tidal pool while grandparents proudly stood by watching. The kite boarders preferred the gusty winds near Breach Inlet and the blue sky was dotted with arched kites, like so many wildly plumed birds.

  Oh, what a sandcastle it was! Toy didn’t hurry the project but allowed Little Lovie to design however big a castle she wanted. Her daughter, she learned, could dream big. The moats were as long as Lovie was tall and at each corner they built an enormous turret, complete with sea shell decoration. There was a drawbridge across the moat and more turrets along the castle wall than Lovie knew how to count. By the time they were done, the skin under their nails was tender from digging, their shoulders were pink, and the sun was lowering in the western sky. Most of the other beachcombers had already left for home and barbecue.

  After a rowdy day, the beach seemed very quiet, save for a few stragglers like them. Sandpipers returned to skitter along the shoreline and an unleashed dog trotted home. Their castle was done. Little Lovie ran off to the sea to wash the sand off her hands in the quiet surf. The tide was far out and the wet beach was gunmetal gray. It created a striking contrast to the pink streaks at the horizon. Toy hung back by the castle to watch her daughter at the waterline. Lovie gingerly dipped her toes in, testing the water, then treaded carefully a few inches into the lapping waves, stopping ankle deep. Her blond hair caught the last light of this precious day and it was like watching the sun spill over her shoulders as she bent to swish her hands in the waves.

  Toy watched her daughter and all the yearnings for travel and adventure she’d felt listening to Ethan dissipated like the foam along the shore. Her own journey in life had brought her to this moment and she felt a sudden longing to capture it forever.

  On the other side of the island, the Eco-tour’s tour boat was casting off for the sunset cruise. Cara stood on the dock and watched as Brett guided the big boat slowly back from the dock. The water churned loudly under the power of the engines, then eased forward toward the Intracoastal waterway. Every seat was filled with couples of all ages eager for a romantic cruise. While collecting the ticket money, Cara had overheard furtive whispers from couples worried that the sky was still so light that they wouldn’t see a sunset. She assured them that the sun would indeed set, as it did every night, and the voyage was timed so that they would get the most breathtaking and romantic view possible.

  Cara leaned against the wood railing to watch her husband at the helm of the long boat. Brett stood wide legged, his hands on the wheel. As the speed picked up, the water churned white wakes at the boat’s sides, spraying droplets of water into the air. The wind tugged at the tips of his tawny hair escaping under his dark green baseball cap. His chin cut a strong silhouette against the sky while the tails of the blue chambray shirt, worn open over his T-shirt, flapped behind him like a flag.

  As if he could sense her standing there, he turned his head toward the dock. Brett lifted his hand in a wave.

  In that brief signal Cara understood at some profound level that his blue eyes had registered her standing there and his lips curved in a half smile. She knew, too, that his brief wave signaled his love and his intent to return home—to her—at the voyage’s end. Cara swallowed deeply, moved that she understood all that in a quick flip of the hand.

  She lifted her arm and returned the wave, feeling the connection. Then he turned and focused on the water ahead. She dropped her hand slowly, missing him as he disappeared from view, sensing how empty her life would be without him.

  They’d been married for five years. Sometimes it seemed like five days, sometimes like five decades. In those five years they’d journeyed from the early days of naive and explosive passion to a deeper love derived from commitment, understanding and finally acceptance of each other’s best and worst qualities.

  Theirs had been a tempestuous love affair. When people thought of them, they usually compared them to apples and oranges—or Scarlett and Rhett. No two people could be more opposite. She’d loved the city life, the pace of her job as an advertising executive, the quick decisions and the thrill of the deal. Brett was a lowcountry boy in love with the salt marsh, the winding creeks and all the wildlife treasures that were hidden there. His pace was leisurely and his temper slow to ignite. But once he dug his heels deep in the pluff mud, he wouldn’t budge an inch. This was in sharp contrast to Cara’s quick, mercurial mind.

  She might say that she married Brett against her better judgment, except that every instinct in her body had screamed that he was the one. Brett Beauchamps was the only man who had ever stood up to her, who continually surprised her, challenged her—and yes, loved her. Love had never come easily for Cara.

  She turned and walked slowly down the dock. She’d never envisioned her life the way it had turned out. When she was young, she’d dreamed of escaping the South forever, and all the expectations of her deeply rooted, South of Broad family. She grew up in an era learning the limits a woman could achieve outside the home and always desiring to surpass them. Everything she’d ever wanted was somewhere off, far from Charleston in cities where people moved fast, where the accent was harsh, and where a woman living alone was accepted as a norm, not viewed as someone to be pitied. Times had changed a lot since then, but back when she was a long limbed, skinny, dark eyed teen, all traffic traveled to points north.

  Cara locked the door of the small wooden shed that housed the Eco-tour ticket office and walked past flashy, expensive fishing boats and across the open gravel parking lot to her car. The night was so quiet she heard only the gravel crunching beneath her feet, the dull thud of boats knocking against the dock, and the laughing cry of a gull.

  She laughed back. What a hoot her life turned out to be. She had left her executive job in Chicago, her condo overlooking Lake Michigan, her beautiful wool suits and fine leather shoes to be the wife of a boat captain struggling to make ends meet on the Isle of Palms. Wouldn’t her mother have just loved
the way things ended up?

  She chuckled at the thought, then sighed, missing her mother terribly, wishing she had lived to see her daughter happy at last, wanting to drive over to the beach house for a spot of tea with her and a quick chat. She would have told her mother that the only ingredient missing in her romantic saga was a child. She knew how much Brett wanted a baby and she felt a deeply rooted guilt that she, somehow, had let him down.

  “Please, God, let this baby come,” she whispered.

  The car seat burned her thighs as she climbed into the compact sedan. The humidity and heat were so thick she could barely breathe. She quickly started the engine and rolled down the windows, welcoming the offshore breezes that whisked in. She didn’t wait for the air-conditioning to cool things down. It had been a hectic day and she wanted to feel the cool water of a shower down her back. She guided the car around ruts in the lot, turned onto Waterway Boulevard and headed home.

  A short while later she pulled off at the small, pink stucco house on Hamlin Creek that she called home. A sporty, blue BMW convertible blocked her entry into the garage. She cut the engine and checked the plates. She didn’t recognize the sexy car but the license plate showed the orange peach of Georgia.

  It could only be one person. She scrambled from the car and trotted along their winding front path, digging for her house keys. Just as she reached the door, however, it swung open. Standing before her was her best friend in all the world, Emmi Baker Peterson, arms wide and her flame colored hair a fiery wreath around her grinning face.

  “Surprise!”

  “Emmi!” she screamed, throwing her arms wide.

  They squealed in unison like little girls as they threw arms around each other. Cara closed her eyes and instantly she was thirteen again and it was the beginning of summer and she and Emmi were arriving at Isle of Palms with their families for a whole, glorious season! Emmi’s beach house was only a few blocks up the road, but both families lived the rest of the year in homes on the mainland.