Swimming Lessons

by Mary Alice Monroe

  “We should get back to work,” he said, reluctance in his voice.

  “We really should,” she agreed.

  But neither moved to leave the porch. They stood shoulder to shoulder, content to listen to the waves roll in and out, aware that their breaths matched its steady rhythm.

  8

  Cara pulled her Jetta to a stop at the beach house, but she knew the bright light overhead was deceiving. She was, in fact, late for Flo’s dinner party. It was a special “Girls Only” dinner that Florence had been planning for weeks.

  She’d been held up at her doctor’s appointment for the second in a series of hormone treatments. The therapy stimulated her ovaries and prepared her body for pregnancy. As she climbed from the car, her body felt too old and too tired to start this process all over again. She wasn’t sure if her blossoming headache was from the drugs or the angst.

  It was a long and arduous process. She’d already had blood tests and ultrasound scans of the ovaries so the doctor could pinpoint the optimal time to harvest the eggs. Then Brett would go in to make a deposit to the sperm bank. They had gone through the rigmarole of treatment twice before, and each time Brett shook his head and muttered, “Whatever happened to a good ol’ roll in the hay?”

  Whatever, indeed, she wondered, trying to recall the last time she and Brett had made love just for fun, without taking temperatures, drugs or checking charts. Lately, every aspect of her life seemed to be set by appointments on her daytime calendar.

  She looked at her sides to see her hands clenched into fists. Every day she was so tense, her shoulders felt like they were held in a vise. She hadn’t had a migraine in a long time, hardly ever since she’d made the move to Isle of Palms. What was it her mother had told her whenever she was in such a state? You have to live on island time, child. You need to breathe in and out with the tides.

  Cara closed her eyes and breathed in, allowing the fresh sea air to flow through her lungs. Gradually her mind and body responded, like a dry sponge to water. She exhaled heavily, easing her hands open and releasing the pull of the dull ache in her head.

  When she opened her eyes, she made a decision. If she was going to get through the ups and downs of trying once more for a baby, she might just as well be positive about it. No more nay saying and grousing. No more fists and frowns. She might be forty-five years old but she ate right, exercised and her body was primed. She set her chin, telling herself, I’m going to have a baby.

  Behind her, a sporty blue BMW pulled into the driveway. The brilliant aura of red hair in the driver’s seat could belong to only one person.

  Emmi cut the powerful engine and waved. “Hey, girl, wait up!” Her long legs stretched out like a can-can dancer as she climbed from the low slung car.

  Cara grinned widely. “How can you stand having to climb out of that little thing over and over again? My knees would give out.”

  Emmi grabbed her shiny gold leather purse from the side seat of the convertible and slung it over her shoulder. Her high heels wobbled as she made her way across the gravel driveway. Emmi was wearing sleek pants of soft sage green and a gorgeous top of matching silk that slid sexily over her body as she moved. Cara was always a smart dresser, but tonight when she looked down at her simple black cotton slacks and white, scoop neck shirt, she felt like a crow beside a painted bunting.

  “Don’t you look hot tonight. Why are you so gussied up?”

  “It’s Friday night,” Emmi replied with a tone that implied that was all the explanation needed. When Cara looked puzzled she added, “I have a date after dinner. A dream of a man I met at the Gastro Pub last Saturday.” She cupped her mouth as though to whisper a secret. “He’s thirty-five if a day.”

  Cara raised both her brows at that but didn’t comment. This was Emmi’s third date with a different man in as many weeks, and all of them younger.

  “You’re a flaming Mata Hari and I’m using words like gussied up. What’s wrong with this picture? I used to be the one who wore great clothes and looked sleek and au courant.”

  “Darling, you’re an old married now,” Emmi replied, her eyes glittering with tease. “I’m on the prowl. Besides, all this…” Her hand indicated her body and clothes. “It’s nothing a few hundred dollars at a salon and a boutique can’t provide.”

  “Thanks. I feel so much better,” Cara deadpanned.

  “At least I’m not the only one late for dinner,” Emmi said, slipping her arm through Cara’s. “Which means, I won’t be the only one scolded by Flo.”

  “You’re always late. Flo will expect it from you. It’ll be me she’ll come after.”

  “You’re right,” Emmi said with a squeeze of the arm. “Oh, goodie.”

  “What held you up tonight?”

  “I don’t know, nothing in particular. Getting dressed just always takes longer than I think it will. I used to drive Tom crazy with waiting,” she said with a short laugh.

  “Even before that, remember how the nuns at Christ Our King gave you demerits for being late for mass? Your mama was fit to be tied.”

  Emmi laughed with a whoop. “I was the Queen of Demerits! If I could’ve collected demerits like green stamps…. You, on the other hand, would have been the darling of the nuns. Always punctual, probably the first in line. Too bad you weren’t Catholic.”

  Cara loved the sound of her own laughter after such a trying afternoon. Emmi’s ability to make her laugh—often at herself—was one of the things she loved most about her.

  She opened the black, scrolled iron gate that led into Florence’s front garden. The Prescott house was at one time the prettiest house on the island. Set back from the road by a formal front garden and a carriage house, it had been the biggest on the Isle of Palms. Today, however, the newer mansions that lined Ocean Boulevard were easily double the size and twice as showy, a sign of the current affluence of the island. Yet, the Prescott house reflected the refined architecture and taste of an earlier era of beach dwellers.

  Across the garden was the carriage house that had once been the domain of Flo’s mother, Miranda. Though neither of them mentioned her name, Cara knew that both were thinking of the eccentric old woman who had charmed the girls as they grew up. Emmi linked arms with Cara as they made their way along the tabby walkway to the main house. Their thoughts were wandering back to the days when Miranda had invited the young girls into her studio to paint. Dressed in long flowing skirts and scarves, Miranda painted brilliantly colored landscapes that Cara remembered as almost frightening. Sadly, the paintings were treasured by few besides Miranda. Nonetheless, she painted and gardened and lived life with a passion all found contagious. Her passing had left a void in Florence’s life that was evident in the lifeless garden.

  Florence Prescott had been Cara’s mother’s best friend and an adopted aunt to Cara growing up. Her father had rarely joined them at the beach house. There had been an unspoken understanding between her parents that this was their sacred time spent apart. Thus, summers at the beach were a bastion of female companionship—girlfriends and turtle ladies.

  So many glorious summers were spent on Isle of Palms! Cara had spent nearly as much time in the Prescott house as her own. Flo and Miranda always had interesting people visiting, open cabinets filled with sweets, a fridge filled with Cokes, and closed mouths when it came to secrets.

  As they climbed Flo’s front stairs, Cara was saddened to see that the old house was not as spit-polished as it had been when Flo was younger and took pride in such things. Mold peppered the porches, spider webs lurked in corners and beside the door, a wooden planter box looked pitiful half filled with broken shells, dead insects and sand.

  Emmi dropped her arm and looked around the porch with concern. “The place looks a bit shabby, doesn’t it?”

  “I was thinking the same thing.”

  “Is Flo all right? Her health is good?”

  “She is getting older, I suppose. It’s hard to think of Flo as anything but vibrant, but it’s clear that she’
s slowing down. It takes a lot of energy to take care of a house like this, especially in this climate. One season goes by and bam! The metal rusts, the mold is back, and so are the weeds. It’s a constant battle, believe me. And that’s without the storms.”

  Emmi clucked her tongue as she looked across the front square of land that was fenced by a white picket fence stained brown in spots by well water. “Look at Miranda’s roses. They’re half dead and choked with weeds! This used to be Miranda’s pride and joy. She adored flowers, especially roses. Do you remember the garden parties? How we all gathered in the garden for sweet tea and sandwiches?”

  “Remember how Miranda declared that everyone had to wear a fabulous hat?”

  Emmi laughed. “Oh, I’d forgotten the hats! How could I have? We spent days—weeks—dressing up our hats with flowers and ribbons. Did anyone take a photograph?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Then the memories are only in here,” Emmi said, tapping her forehead with a finger.

  “And here,” Cara said, touching her finger to where her heart lay.

  Emmi nodded wistfully. “Those were halcyon days. Why is Flo letting her mother’s garden go?”

  ‘I don’t think she cares much about gardening. The house was her thing. It was always Miranda who loved gardening.”

  “Is it old age, lack of money, or lack of interest that engenders this state of disrepair?”

  “I guess it just depends. For my mother, it was her illness and budget. For me, it’s lack of time.” Cara looked over the railing at her own beach house. Though in better shape than Flo’s, the trim was in need of paint and the trellis was being pulled from the wall by the weight of overgrown vines. When would she find time to work on it?

  “I hear that. Speaking of time, it’s time to face the music.” Emmi raised the brass doorknocker fashioned in the shape of a sea turtle.

  After three knocks, Florence swung open her front door, wiping her hands with a kitchen towel, looking as far from lonely as any woman could. Her white hair was trimmed short around her ears and a streak of flour branded her right cheek.

  “Here you are! At last!”

  “We’re sorry we’re late,” Cara exclaimed.

  “Oh, don’t be. We’re having a grand ol’ time,” Flo replied in a boisterous tone that swept away their apology. She stepped aside and impatiently waved Cara and Emmi inside. “Hurry up. We don’t want to invite the bugs in.”

  Inside, Cara was assailed with the mouthwatering scent of freshly baked cookies. “Don’t tell me we’ve missed dinner and you’re already on to dessert!”

  “No, no, no.”

  She followed Flo through the small front room crammed with antiques that had been in Flo’s family for generations. Miranda’s tasseled, paisley shawl was draped over the worn fabric of the sofa and countless figurines and photographs cluttered the shelves and table tops. Flo had complained bitterly about the clutter while Miranda was alive, yet after her death, Flo didn’t have the heart to get rid of a single piece.

  It was this deeply sentimental side to the outwardly unflappable and brusque Florence Prescott that endeared her to Cara. As she followed Flo into the kitchen, her nose tickled with the dust and musk that hung in the air like ghosts.

  Flo hustled with purpose to the kitchen in a hurry to get back to the small baker standing on a wood chair in front of the kitchen table, rolling a ball of cookie dough in her palms. The child’s head turned to reveal a gamin face, her wide grin exposing a missing tooth.

  “Hi, Auntie Cara! Want a cookie? They’re real good.” Little Lovie’s face was also streaked with flour, as was her shirt and most of the floor in a three foot radius around her.

  Cara broke into a grin. “They smell heavenly.” Her stomach was growling and it occurred to her that she hadn’t had lunch that day. “I’m starving.”

  “Come on, then,” Flo said, pulling out a white wooden chair from the table. “Sit yourself down. You too, Emmi. We’re waiting on Toy so you’re not late. In fact, you’re early. Do you want wine or would you like to join Lil’ Lovie and me and have a tall glass of cold milk?”

  “I’ll take that wine, thanks,” Emmi replied, setting her large pocketbook on a chair.

  “Coffee would be great,” said Cara. “But I wouldn’t mind some of that milk in it.”

  Cara sank into the chair beside Little Lovie with a soft groan. She felt strung out after the doctor’s and it was the first time she’d relaxed all day. Beside her, Little Lovie was licking dough from her fingers.

  “That’s the best part,” Cara told her.

  “Want some?” Lovie stuck out her hand.

  “I’ll wait for my cookie, thanks.”

  Across the room, Flo was opening cabinets in search of dishes. “We’re all running a little behind,” she announced. “But who’s watching the clock, anyway?”

  Emmi looked at Cara, then her watch and shrugged. She reached into her purse and pulled out her cell phone, then walked to the foyer for a private conversation. After a few minutes she came back in. “No worries. I cancelled my date.”

  Flo was stunned. “You had a date? Tonight?”

  “Just drinks after dinner. Since things are running late, I don’t want to rush my time here. I broke his heart, I’m sure.”

  Flo couldn’t seem to get this straight in her mind. “But, you had a dinner date with us. It’s already after six. When would you have met your gentleman? At eight? Nine?”

  Emmi reached for the stack of plates from Flo’s hands. “Who knows? Maybe ten. The night is still young. Besides, it’s what happens after drinks I’m interested in.”

  Flo relinquished the plates in stunned silence, then cast a guarded glance at the child across the room.

  Cara held back a grin and gave Emmi points for silencing Flo on any subject. Yet she felt again that sense of unease at Emmi’s new aggressive attitude toward men and sex. She wasn’t a prude but it was unlike her Emmi.

  Emmi caught her watching. “What are you doing, sitting there like the Queen of Sheba? Aren’t you going to help?”

  “I should,” Cara said, leaning back in the chair, “but I don’t have an ounce of energy left.”

  “I’ve got enough pent up energy for both of us, so relax,” Emmi replied. She sighed, pausing her setting of the table to let her gaze slide across Flo’s kitchen.

  Flo may have relinquished the rest of the house to her mother’s tastes, but the kitchen was her own. She loved to cook and had completely gutted and rebuilt a kitchen to her liking. Light poured in from large windows and skylights overhead. The walls were white bead board, the cupboards were pine, and the counters were thick white marble, dotted at the moment with two dozen chocolate chip cookies. Flo scooped two of these with a spatula and placed them on a plate with neat and precise movements.

  “I love this room,” Emmi said wistfully. “Always have.”

  “Thank you, darling. You can have it,” Flo replied flippantly.

  “I’ll take it,” Emmi replied, only half in jest. “I’m thinking of selling my beach house.”

  All conversation stopped as heads swung toward her.

  “Why are you all so shocked?”

  “Emmi,” Flo began in a tone laced with scolding, “your folks have lived in that house near as long as mine have in this house. You can’t sell it.”

  “Yes, I can,” Emmi said, staring Flo down.

  “Why do you want to sell?” Cara asked more gently.

  “First off, I’m just thinking about it. But to be completely honest, I don’t know that I want to live in it full time. It’s always been more a beach shack than a full time home.”

  “You could redecorate. Add on.” suggested Cara.

  “I could,” Emmi replied. “Or I could sell and move on. Look, I’m just thinking about it.”

  “Think some more,” Flo said brusquely and turned her back on Emmi and the subject. Emmi tossed up her hands in frustration and walked back to the table to finish setting it.
Flo carried over a plate of cookies and steaming coffee to the table. “You look terrible,” she said to Cara. “No offense.”

  “None taken. I’m okay, just exhausted. Busy day.”

  Flo slipped her hands into oven mitts, opened the oven door and pulled out a white casserole. Lifting the lid, Cara spied a dark, bubbling stew and her stomach started growling when she caught a whiff of garlic, spices and wine.

  “Oh, Lord,” she moaned. “That smells like a miracle! What is it?”

  “Boeuf Bourguignon, and I hope you’re hungry because I made enough to feed the multitudes. And there’s a fresh-baked loaf of French bread and salad fixings in the fridge.” She put the lid back on the casserole and closed the oven. “I hope it doesn’t dry out before Miss Toy makes her appearance.”

  “When is she coming?”

  “Soon. She got held up at work. Again. That’s why I’ve got this little helper tonight.”

  And why dinner is a little late, Cara thought. The three women had worked out a system of childcare for Little Lovie that provided a loving, secure base for the child and support for Toy as a single mother during the years that Toy had gone to college. They’d agreed that Flo would cover Little Lovie in the morning and Cara in the afternoons. The system had worked well in the past five years, but lately with Toy’s long hours and Cara working late with the Eco-Tour expansions, more of the child care time had shifted to Flo. Cara knew the time had come to revisit their schedule.

  But not tonight, she thought wearily. She reached out to pick up a cookie. When she bit into the soft, warm loveliness of it, her toes practically curled.

  “I don’t dare eat any cookies,” Emmi said, bringing her nose close to the cookies cooling on the counter and sniffing lustily.

  “Aw, go ahead,” Flo said, her brows gathering with disapproval. “You’re starting to look a little scrawny.”

  “Scrawny? Really?” Emmi asked, delighted at the description. “You know what they say. Nothing tastes better than thin.” She pushed herself away from the cookies and sat at the table beside Cara. “So, what’s the latest gossip?”