On Folly Beach

by Karen White

  After a few deep breaths, Emmy followed Abigail into the house. “Can I get anybody coffee?”

  She stopped, spotting Lulu sitting on a footstool in front of the pile of books Emmy hadn’t searched through yet, a thick clothbound volume opened on her lap. Lulu’s pale skin had whitened even further, and her hands shook.

  Going quickly to Lulu’s side, Emmy attempted to take the book from Lulu’s hands but Lulu held on to it. “Are you all right?”

  “What’s wrong?” Abigail asked as she came to stand behind Emmy.

  “I’m fine,” Lulu barked, still clutching the book.

  Abigail leaned over, seeing for the first time the words written in the margins. “What is it?”

  “That’s one of the questions I wanted to ask Lulu. In the box of books you sent to my mother’s store, as well as in a bunch of the books stored here in Heath’s house, I’ve found notes written in the margins of some of them. They appear to have been written by a man and a woman as an odd correspondence, although I have no idea of the chronology. There’re no initials or signatures or anything to identify the writers, but from what I can tell, the handwriting looks the same in all of the notes.”

  “What kind of notes?” Abigail put her hand on Emmy’s arm so she could get a better look.

  Lulu hesitated, and for a moment, Emmy thought she might close the book and refuse to let them look. Instead, Lulu lifted up the book for the other women to read, her spine stiff and her attitude even harder to hurdle than usual.

  Silently, Emmy and Abigail read, “Love is a tyrant. Resisted.” I must see you. When?

  “The first part is John Ford, from The Lover’s Melancholy,” said Abigail. “But who wrote that in the margins?”

  “That’s what I’ve been wondering, too. That’s the woman’s handwriting—the man’s is different enough that you can distinguish between the two.” Emmy took a deep breath, realizing that both Lulu and Abigail could be related to the writers and decided to leave out her suspicions that the lovers were involved in a clandestine affair. “They used these books to communicate with each other for some reason.”

  Emmy walked over to her laptop and picked it up to show Abigail. Handing it to her, she said, “I’ve been keeping a list of the books and notes I’ve found so far to see if I could put them in some type of order. As you can tell, they seem to be pretty random—except for the tone. Some of them are simply love letters, others are more desperate or angry, and a few are just eager for the next time they could see each other.” She paused as she considered whether to continue, and her hesitation had as much to do with sparing the feelings of Abigail and Lulu as it did with her reluctance to simply let go.

  Lulu continued to sit silently with her arms crossed tightly over her chest while Abigail read over the document on Emmy’s laptop. When she looked up, Abigail’s eyes were wide. “Where’s that envelope of photos I gave you?”

  Emmy thought for a moment, embarrassed to admit that she’d only glanced at the photos briefly before sticking them back in the envelope. She was pretty sure the envelope was on the kitchen counter, though, and she excused herself to go find it. Handing it to Abigail, she asked, “Why do you need them?”

  Abigail sat down on a sofa and placed the laptop on the coffee table so she’d have both hands free to look at the pictures. “Well, as I’m sure the thought has already occurred to you, these books were Maggie’s, so there’s a good chance the woman’s handwriting is hers. Since she wrote on the backs of the photographs, we can compare.”

  Carefully, Abigail slid the pictures out of the envelope onto her lap. The first was a picture of the same little boy Emmy knew was Abigail’s husband, John. Emmy stood to retrieve the book Lulu still held, and when Emmy bent to get it, she again had the odd thought that Lulu wasn’t going to give it to her. Instead, Lulu thrust the closed book at her. “Don’t know why you want to dig up the dead. The dead should be left to rest in peace so the living can get busy with the business of living.” Their eyes met and Emmy was certain that Lulu wasn’t just talking about the unknown lovers.

  Emmy brought the book back to Abigail, then flipped through it until she found the woman’s handwriting. Abigail placed the photo of John wearing a cowboy hat, boots and holster on the page opposite and flipped it over where the words Johnny November 5, 1944 were written on the back. They both bent over to look more closely, glancing up at the same time.

  “They’re identical,” said Abigail. “Look at the way she curls the bottom of her lowercase y’s. And see here—” She pointed at the r in both the word November and tyrant. “They’ve both got a little curve at the top. It’s very unusual—unusual enough to make me say that both of these samples were written by the same person.”

  “Maggie? Are you sure she’s the one who wrote on the backs of all of these photos?” Emmy took the rest of the photographs and turned them upside down, sorting through them. All of them had something written on the back, and all in the same handwriting. She stopped when she saw the words Our wedding day June 11, 1943. Flipping it over, Emmy found a black-and-white photograph of Maggie wearing a smart skirt suit with hat and gloves next to an unfamiliar man wearing the uniform of a naval officer. She held up the photo to show Abigail.

  “This is definitely Maggie, isn’t it?” Emmy asked.

  Abigail read the back, then took the photo before holding it up to show Lulu. “This is definitely Maggie. And this must be John’s father. Is that right, Lulu?”

  Lulu pursed her lips, tightening her arms across her chest. “I think Maggie would want us to stop prying into her business. She was a very private person.”

  Abigail rested her hands in her lap, still clutching the photograph. “But aren’t you the least bit curious? I’m wondering if the man’s handwriting is John’s father’s. I can ask John if he has any letters written by his father that we can compare. All I know about him is that he was stationed at the naval air station in Charleston during the war and met Maggie while dancing on the pier.” She smiled. “That happened a lot back then. The high emotions of wartime brought people together a lot quicker than usual.”

  Lulu was staring hard at them, as if they’d missed something obvious, but she wasn’t giving anything away. “I’ve got too much stuff to do today to take a trip down memory lane. Let’s talk about your Web site.”

  Abigail held up her hand. “Hold on, Aunt Lulu. We need to look at these photos and the ones on the walls first. Emmy had a few questions.” She took the photographs and spread them faceup on the coffee table so they could see them.

  There were several of John in his cowboy outfit and boots, including one of him at the beach with the holster around his bathing trunks. Maggie appeared in most of the photos with John, always nearby, and in many of them, she had a hand on him as if she were afraid to let him go. She smiled in all of the photographs, but the expression in her eyes made Emmy lean forward, trying to see what it was in Maggie’s eyes that seemed so familiar. With a start, she sat back, recognizing that what she saw was reflected every time she looked in a mirror: eyes with a muted light that looked out at the world like those of a caged bird.

  Lulu was watching Emmy closely as if she saw it, too. “What do you want to know?”

  Emmy lifted a photo from the table. It was a picture of the same man with the unusual eyes she’d seen in one of the framed photographs on the wall. She flipped it over to look at the back but there was nothing marked. “Who is this?”

  With only a slight hesitation, Lulu said, “Peter. That was taken at the pier the spring of nineteen forty-two. Somebody gave Cat a camera for her birthday, and she went a little crazy taking pictures of everybody.”

  Abigail leaned closer. “I recognize the sand-dollar bracelet—is that Maggie’s arm?”

  Lulu shrugged. “Maggie’s or Cat’s—it’s hard to say. It was Maggie’s bracelet—she’d inherited it when our mother died—but sometimes Cat borrowed it. She borrowed lots of Maggie’s things.”

  Emmy stood an
d walked over to the framed photograph. “It’s definitely the same man—see the gold signet ring on his right hand? He sure doesn’t look happy to be photographed.”

  “No, he hated it. That’s why we only have two photographs of him.”

  Emmy jumped, unaware that Lulu had moved to stand behind her. Turning back to the four hanging pictures, she pointed at the wedding photo. “I believe this is Catherine, right? But who’s her groom?”

  A smile lit the corners of Lulu’s eyes, as transforming to her face as the lifting of a veil. “Jim Brier. He was killed at Pearl Harbor.”

  Emmy studied the photo again, looking for clues of impending tragedy in the same way she’d studied her own wedding photos. But the faces were young and without guile, although her first impression that Catherine’s expression was more of surprise and victory than of joy remained.

  “How sad. Did they have any children?”

  Lulu shook her head. “No. They weren’t married very long before he was sent to Hawaii. She was very beautiful, wasn’t she? Almost as pretty as Jolene.”

  Emmy frowned without responding, still trying to figure out what it was about the couple that made her uneasy, like considering sitting in a stuffed chair with visible springs. “Was Jim a local boy?”

  “No. He was from Lafayette, Louisiana. He’s the one who told me about the bottle trees.”

  Facing Lulu, Emmy said, “So, in a way, they’re his legacy. Sort of like his own children that have lived beyond his years.”

  For a startling moment, Emmy thought Lulu would cry. Apparently, Lulu did too because she turned away and said gruffly, “Let’s talk about the Web site.”

  “Fine,” Emmy said, deliberately repeating Lulu’s words, “what do you want to know?”

  “When are you going to hire Jolene? I’ve seen what she’s sent you and it’s excellent work. You’re costing me dollars here in potential orders.”

  Emmy raised her eyebrows. “Are you even prepared for more orders? It looks like you’ve got your hands full as it is.”

  Lulu mimicked Emmy’s expression. “I’ve spoken with Janell. She’s taking a class to learn how to bend metal in a controlled fire so she can make the tree trunks for me, which will make my turnaround a lot quicker. And I’ve got a stockpile of bottles that should last into the next millennium.”

  Abigail approached and put an arm around Lulu’s shoulders. “Trying to rid the world of evil spirits one tree at a time, hmm, Lulu?”

  Lulu snorted but Emmy hardly noticed. She was remembering the way Lulu had looked when they were discussing the photograph of Catherine and Jim. “How old were you when Jim married your cousin?”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  Abigail squeezed Lulu’s shoulders before answering. “She was nine. Why?”

  Emmy looked at Lulu, surprised to see her wearing a pleading expression. She swallowed her words, saying instead, “Just curious. I was trying to figure out how long this bottle-tree obsession of hers has gone on.”

  Abigail turned away, satisfied with Emmy’s answer, but Emmy kept looking at Lulu, wondering why she didn’t want a childhood crush brought up after more than sixty years.

  “So why don’t you go ahead and hire Jolene and get it over with already?” Lulu demanded.

  Lulu’s voice brought Emmy back to the present. “Because I haven’t received any competitive quotes yet. And because she might be an alcoholic, which would make her unreliable. I can’t afford that right now—especially with a new venture in this economy.”

  “Would you at least talk with her?”

  Emmy studied Lulu for a moment. “I’m curious. Why is it so important to you that I hire Jolene?”

  Lulu dropped her gaze, shaking her head. “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “Try me.”

  Lulu’s lips thinned as she glared at Emmy. “We both lost our mothers at a young age. It’s an odd bond, but there it is. Other people don’t understand what kind of a loss that is unless they’ve lost their mothers at the same age themselves. I knew why she couldn’t continue to see Heath after he was diagnosed. I’m not saying that I thought she was doing the right thing, but I understood it—and I was the only one. I’m still the only one.” She shot a quick glance at Abigail. “It makes her feel not so all alone, and I’m glad. Maggie did that for me, and maybe this is my way of returning the favor.”

  Emmy remembered what Abigail had told her, about how Jolene reminded Lulu of somebody she owed a debt to, and Emmy wondered if it could have been Maggie. But a niggling doubt remained, fueled by Lulu’s antagonism and her reluctance to discuss the past and an old infatuation.

  Emmy nodded her head, as if accepting Lulu’s explanation. “I’ll be happy to talk with Jolene. I wanted to before, but she went back to Atlanta. I’ll admit her Web site pages are extraordinary.”

  “I’ll have her call you and make an appointment, then.”

  “Fine,” Emmy said. And then, as if somebody invisible had nudged, she added, “Thank you.”

  Abigail stood. “Well, I guess we should leave you so you can get back to your books.” She led the way to the door, with Lulu and Emmy following.

  They said their good-byes, and when Lulu and Abigail were almost down the steps, Emmy remembered one more thing she needed to ask. “Have you been able to locate that last box of books?”

  Abigail turned around and shook her head but Lulu kept walking. “I’ve looked everywhere I could think of at the house and haven’t had any luck. I’ll keep looking, though.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

  Instead of turning around to follow Lulu, Abigail studied Emmy for a moment. “Don’t spend too much time in the past, you hear? Sometimes you remind me of Maggie. I think sometimes she forgot that she had a life in the present.”

  Emmy stammered, too hurt and a little angry to come back with a response.

  Lulu called back over her shoulder, “Or maybe she’s just being nosy.”

  Ignoring Lulu, Abigail said. “I’ll let you know if I find that box.” Then with a wave, she turned around to join Lulu in the car.

  Emmy closed the front door, remembering too late what Heath had told her about Maggie selling the house to Peter Nowak. For a brief moment, she considered running out to ask Lulu but decided she’d be better off catching her at work. Her interaction with Lulu had exhausted her, and she didn’t think she could take another wayward glance or half-truth answer.

  With her back leaning against the door, Emmy’s gaze slid to the copy of Mansfield Park she’d placed on a side table before answering the door. Picking it up, she read the notation again: This must end. I am near desperation—the kind of desperation that can drive a man to murder. I’ve been lying awake at night, trying to think of a way out of this intolerable situation. I need to talk to you. Meet me.

  She shivered again as a breeze blew through the opened French doors, bringing with it the pungent smell of the marsh and a whisper of music through the bottles in the bottle tree. They sang a song of unknown origin—a tune that tripped Emmy’s memory and made her want to dance and cry at the same time. Emmy moved to the French doors and closed them, shutting out the marsh, the music, and the odd sensation that the world was conspiring to teach her steps to a dance she didn’t want to learn.

  CHAPTER 17

  FOLLY BEACH, SOUTH CAROLINA

  May 1942

  No light shone through the blackout curtains in Maggie’s room, but she knew it to be near dawn by the sound of the birds outside. Her eyes stung from another night spent tossing and turning, listening to Lulu’s breathing as she waited in utter darkness for morning. Peter had been gone for more than a week, and the temperature had risen quickly into the eighties, bringing with it high humidity that draped Folly like a wet sweater. Everyone seemed cranky, with news of more rationing and reports of even more ships falling prey to an accepted U-boat presence. Even though the Americans were finally claiming their own U-boat victims, with prisoners of one downed sub being sent to
nearby Charleston, nobody could seem to shake off the persistent miasma that had settled on Folly along with the sudden change in season.

  Maggie slid out of bed, careful not to wake Lulu; then she moved the blackout curtain to the side to let in enough light to see. After hurriedly washing and dressing, she headed downstairs. As she passed Cat’s room, she noticed that the door was slightly ajar, although she knew Cat always slept with the door closed. Curious, she pushed the door open and peered inside, seeing the empty, unmade bed and Cat’s nightgown left on the floor.

  Maggie continued down the stairs, expecting to find Cat in the kitchen or parlor, a sick feeling settling in her stomach as she found the downstairs empty. She knew Cat wasn’t patrolling the skies today because she was scheduled to work in the store and her spotter cards were still on the kitchen counter. Saturday was their busiest day and Maggie needed her help. But none of that explained why Cat wasn’t in the house, or why Maggie’s throat had become so dry.

  She raised the blackout shades and straightened the parlor, eager to keep her hands busy. Restless now, and knowing she’d go mad waiting for Cat to come home, she grabbed a sweetgrass basket from a cabinet, slipped on her shoes, then headed out to the beach in search of turtle eggs. She’d make a nice breakfast for the three of them, and then hopefully she’d have a chance to talk to them about her plans to deed the house to Cat. If Maggie had to leave with Peter suddenly, she didn’t want to have to wait or to worry about Cat. Lulu would go with them, of course, but Cat would need the house.

  She walked slowly through the deserted streets toward the beach, swinging her basket by her side. May through August, the large loggerhead turtles lumbered from the ocean and laid their eggs on the shore before disappearing back into the sea. Since she was a girl, Maggie had come to the beach in the early morning to gather turtle eggs for breakfast, following the trail of gauged and ridged sand until it ended in a slight depression covered with sand and beach debris.