The Beach Trees

by Karen White

  She looked down at her hands. “On the day Monica left, my husband had his first stroke and needed round-the-clock care. Since Monica’s room was next to mine, we figured that would be the easiest thing for everyone to move him there. We all expected it to be temporary.” Her eyes met mine. “He stayed in the room for a year until we realized he’d be better off in a nursing home.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “Are Monica’s things still in the attic?”

  “Yes, although I’m sure they have water damage. You’ll have to ask Trey—he took care of the roof repair and everything else after Katrina. He’ll know if anything was salvageable and if her things are still up there.”

  “Thank you, I will.” I picked up Beau’s plate and handed it to the server, then asked for the check. After placing the cash on the table, I stood. “Did you miss Caroline after she left?”

  It took a long time for Aimee to answer. “It’s hard to miss someone you never really knew.”

  Something in her tone troubled me, but I didn’t have a chance to think why as I retrieved my purse from the floor, then helped Beau from his chair.

  Walking to the exit, Aimee took Beau’s hand. “I think it’s time for Beau’s first visit to Café Du Monde.”

  “Great idea, Miss Aimee. I’ll just make sure that you’re the one babysitting when he hits that sugar high.” I stopped and watched them walk ahead of me. It’s hard to miss someone you never really knew. Her words haunted me, not because of what she’d said, but because when she’d looked at me and spoken, I was fairly sure she hadn’t been talking about Caroline Guidry.

  Slinging my purse over my shoulder, I hurried to catch up, wondering who else in Aimee Guidry’s life had become a stranger.

  CHAPTER 15

  Come, for the House of Hope is built on sand; bring wine, for the fabric of life is as weak as the wind.

  —HÄFIZ

  Julie

  Autumn on the Gulf Coast arrives late and lingers through what I used to think of as the winter months. Like everything else I’d seen so far on the coast, fall was vibrant, sudden, and indefinable: bright, falling leaves nestled amid the perpetual greens of live oaks and palm trees. Although I missed the extended period of russets, ambers, and gold of my New England falls, I savored a temperature that seemed reluctant to dip much below sixty degrees for any extended length of time.

  With some luck, and no doubt vouched for by both Carol Sue’s mother and Aimee, I received a job offer as docent at Ohr museum, scheduled to start early November following their grand opening on the eighth. I was to have an abbreviated training period due to my past work history and education, for which I was grateful, since it would allow me more time to acclimate Beau to his new routine. Carol Sue had agreed to watch Beau on the three days a week I worked—Thursday through Saturday—and as excited as Beau was at the idea, I wasn’t convinced that he was ready to leave me for any length of time. At Aimee’s insistence, we’d return to New Orleans for the rest of the week, so she could spend time with Beau and I could meet with Trey.

  I didn’t see much of Aimee in the early part of the fall, due to her heavy involvement in the Garden District’s Christmas home and garden tour, and I was eager for her to continue her story about Caroline Guidry. When I’d first arrived in New Orleans, Aimee had said something about combining our stories to maybe put the pieces together regarding Monica’s disappearance. And the more I listened to her stories, the more I was beginning to believe that she was right.

  I’d hoped that Trey would be able to tell me where Monica’s things had been moved to following Katrina, but all he could say was that most of it had been so damaged with mildew that it had to be thrown away. But he recalled one box that he’d managed to save and thought he might have stored it with what remained of his possessions from his house in New Orleans East in a storage facility in Metairie. He promised me he’d go look as soon as he found time. I wasn’t holding my breath.

  The bulldozers had begun their excavation of the lot, preparing to rebuild River Song following new hurricane-zone building codes. Although I knew the changes would mean a significant savings in insurance premiums as well as peace of mind during storms, I found it difficult to make any alterations. I’d finally acquiesced to a significant change in design and looked on with some trepidation as pilings, driven deep into the sand, were constructed to raise the foundation of the new house. I only hoped that Monica would understand.

  On my frequent trips to Biloxi, I stopped by to measure progress on the site, texting pictures and any remarks from the builders to Trey, whose reply was usually a simple, “Okay.”

  The only time I’d received anything more was after my report of how I’d run onto the building site, waving my hands, when a bulldozer got too close to the oak tree. I’d argued with the operator, unmoving from my spot between the bulldozer and the tree, until he’d radioed in for backup. After calmly explaining that the tree was even more important than the house and needed to be treated gently, I left, reassured that no harm would come to Monica’s tree.

  Trey’s response that time had been a texted, “Good job.”

  A week before I was to start work, Carol Sue took me on a house-hunting tour in Biloxi. We’d left Charlie and Beau with Carol Sue’s parents at Miramar Park, a local playground, with plans to meet them back there by lunchtime.

  As I settled myself into her Land Rover, I watched as Beau ran after Charlie, his red hat safely in the hand of Carol Sue’s mother. I felt Carol Sue’s hand on my arm.

  “He’ll be fine. My parents have more than thirty years of experience.”

  I laughed. “I’m sorry. I guess I’d better get used to it, huh?”

  She smiled and started the engine. “I know I said I had a bunch of houses to show you, but I think our search might be over after this first one. It’s a two-bedroom, two-bath bungalow in a nice neighborhood, just a few blocks from the ocean and a quick drive to the museum. It’s been completely rebuilt and you’d be the first to live in it. Best of all, I know the owner is desperate and is more than willing to make it a month-to-month lease.”

  We pulled onto White Avenue, a street of tall oaks and crushed-shell driveways, with modest homes that wore fresh paint and new roofs. I liked the street because at the intersection with Beach Boulevard, next to the large fountain in the median, a Katrina tree had been carved into a large owl, its gaze steady and wise. I thought Beau and I could use its wisdom on a daily basis by sharing the same street.

  “Best of all,” Carol Sue said as her tires crunched over the driveway, “it’s dirt cheap. The owner has two more just like this one in Ocean Springs, and I know she’d like to break even on her investment.”

  I stared at the simple beige siding and sparse landscaping and felt no strong urge to call it home. It didn’t matter. I didn’t want or need a home, just a place for Beau and me to live. Like everything else in my life, it would be temporary.

  “I like it,” I said as I stepped out of the car.

  “Great. The backyard is a decent size, too, and definitely big enough to put in a swing set for Beau if you’re so inclined.”

  I followed her to the front door, where she unlocked a lockbox and then stepped back to allow me inside. There was brown paper making paths over the hardwood, and the whole house smelled of fresh paint and new carpet. The doors were plywood, and the fixtures in the bathrooms and kitchen were builder’s grade, but the rooms were large, the light bright, and the convenience and price were unbeatable. “I’ll take it,” I said.

  Carol Sue looked at me with surprise. “I was just joking about this being the only place you needed to see, Julie. I’ll be happy to show you the other houses I have lined up.”

  “No, really, I’ll take it. Show me where to sign.”

  “All right, if that’s really what you want. I’ll take you to my office and we can sign the papers there. I’ll be happy to help you decorate, too. Nothing fancy, since it’s a rental, but you’re allowed to put color on the wall, as
long as it’s not something crazy, and hang drapes or blinds on the windows.”

  “It’s really fine the way it is.”

  She looked at me oddly. “Didn’t you live in New York for a while? And work at an auction house?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “Because I would have thought you would have picked up some kind of a sense of style or love of color and fabrics along the way. I figure you must have been working all the time to have missed that.”

  “Aren’t you supposed to finish that with ‘bless your heart’ to soften the insult?”

  Carol Sue threw back her head and laughed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t really mean it the way it came out. I think being a single mom and in charge for so long has made me just a little too outspoken. What I meant to say was that Trey said you’re very focused, and I guess he wasn’t kidding.”

  “Did he mean that in a good way or a bad way?”

  “Neither, really. He meant that in a Trey way.”

  She didn’t elaborate, as if I should understand. A fly buzzed around us before striking its hard body into the window over the kitchen sink. I moved to see into the backyard with its simple concrete-slab patio and overgrown grass. A tree with pointed leaves and clusters of large, oblong nuts dominated a corner of the yard. “What kind of tree is that?”

  Carol Sue moved to stand next to me. “A pecan tree. October’s harvest time, and it looks like you’re going to have lots of nuts.”

  “What am I supposed to do with them?”

  She regarded me with raised eyebrows. “Have you never had pecan pie?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  She gave me an exaggerated roll of her eyes. “Well, then, I’ll have to fix that. I’ll make you a pie and use pecans from your tree, as long as you shell them first. We’ll have to work fast, since I don’t think you’re allowed to live in the state of Mississippi if you’ve never had pecan pie.” She winked, then returned to the kitchen island and retrieved her purse.

  I continued staring out at the tree, wondering how it had survived the storm, or if it was a new tree, pollinated at the whim of the wind, and thinking about what Trey had said about me. “Aimee said that Trey and I have a lot in common. I don’t see it, though. He appears to be completely emotionless—unless he’s with Beau. I haven’t even seen him grieve for Monica. All of his energies seem to be focused on getting me to leave and building somebody else’s house.”

  I turned and saw her lips curve in a half smile. “I’m one of the very few who’ve seen Trey Guidry cry, and Monica’s death hit him hard. He’s dealing with it by throwing himself into his work. And I can’t say that’s any different from devoting your entire life to searching for someone who’s been missing for seventeen years.”

  I turned around to face her, my mouth open in surprise. “He told you that?”

  “Not in so many words. Just sort of my own conclusion when he told me about your sister.” Turning away from me, she began slowly stacking sales sheets into a neat pile in the corner of the counter. I watched as she squared her thin shoulders and spoke again. “They didn’t find Charles for two weeks, and I remembered thinking that as long as they didn’t find him, he was still alive.” Her hands stilled. “So I know what it is to hope and pray so hard that you’re sure God will answer your prayer just so you’ll stop asking.” She turned her head halfway and smiled, but her eyes were damp. “It was only two weeks, but I remember what that was like.”

  She tapped the papers down on the counter with a snap. “Well, if you’re sure this is the house, let’s go down to the office and sign these papers.”

  With a professional smile, she led me outside, locking the key in the lockbox behind us.

  We drove the short distance to the downtown area in silence as I stared out the window to get my bearings in my new neighborhood.

  As she parked in a small lot behind her building, Carol Sue said, “Trey mentioned that you were looking for a box of Monica’s things that had been stored in the First Street house before Katrina. He remembered that he gave me a few boxes, but he doesn’t know if they’re from the First Street house or his in New Orleans East. I ran out of room at my house, so I stored them here at the office. You’re welcome to look through them while you’re here, if you like.”

  “Are you serious? I’ve been wondering how to ask Trey about Monica’s boxes again without seeming like a nag, and you’re telling me you might have had them all along?”

  “Yes, well, Trey’s not the big communicator. Come on; let’s go see what I’ve got.”

  We walked through the parking lot to the back door of the two-story brick building that housed the realty office. We passed through a narrow hallway with a door to a restroom on the right and a watercooler opposite, and into a larger room with four cubicles set around the perimeter. Two of them were empty, while at another an older woman was on the phone and waved at Carol Sue as we walked by. I could tell which one was Carol Sue’s from the photographs of Charlie placed on the desk and shelves. And the conspicuously absent photos of her late husband.

  She placed her purse on her desk, then tossed an empty Styrofoam cup into the garbage. “Let me make sure we have everything we need and start making photocopies. While I’m doing that, I’ll show you to the storeroom, where I put the boxes.”

  I followed her back into the hallway and headed this time toward the front of the building, where a large window dominated the space, the company’s name and phone number plastered on it. She opened a door right outside the reception area, flipped on a light, and stepped back. “All of the business records for the realty business are marked. Trey’s have his last name written in red marker—my idea, of course, so that they wouldn’t get mixed in with the rest. It shouldn’t be too hard to find them. Come on back to my cube when you’re done and I should have everything ready for you.”

  “Thanks,” I said, staring into the room of stacked boxes lit only by the single bulb in the ceiling as her heels clicked back down the hallway.

  As Carol Sue had said, it didn’t take me long to find Trey’s boxes. They were stacked separately from the rest, behind the door. I had to remove three heavy company boxes from on top of them, but then had easy access.

  The boxes were sealed with only a single strip of packing tape going along the opening at the top, as if whoever had sealed them had thought it a temporary measure. There were three boxes, identical, with only the name Guidry written across the top and side that I could see. I slid the first one off of the stack, dislodging dust as it hit the floor.

  I was able to peel off the tape easily, then opened the box to peer inside. Leaning back to allow in the feeble light, I spied a folded Tulane sweatshirt on top. Moving it aside, I found a nearly deflated football, a small Green Wave flag, a plastic cup filled with Mardi Gras beads, a framed photograph of a yellow Labrador, and a baseball trophy. Tucked into the bottom of the box was a stack of photographs.

  Feeling like a trespasser, I leaned forward, hesitant to touch anything. The photograph on top was of a much younger Aimee with Trey and Monica on a Christmas morning, an enormous and lit Christmas tree behind them. They were around twelve and ten, and Monica’s hair was long and blond and didn’t look like she’d brushed it yet. Her mouth was open and her eyes focused on the present in front of her, what looked like an artist’s palette.

  I imagined Trey preparing to evacuate his house, choosing what was most valuable to him, and ending up with the contents of this box. The sentimentality of the items surprised me, and I found my attitude toward Trey Guidry shifting slightly.

  The next box yielded similar items—a tennis racket, two framed Tulane diplomas for undergrad and law school, more Mardi Gras beads, a Jax beer sign, and, stuck inside another plastic tumbler with the Greek letters SAE on them, two tickets for the Mississippi Coast Coliseum dated June 11, 1998. I almost laughed when I saw that the tickets were from a Backstreet Boys concert. If I hadn’t known that the band had been one of Monica’s all-time favorites, I wou
ld have planned to bring it up with Trey as often as I could just to torture him.

  I slid the second box off the bottom one and peeled the tape off quickly, eager to see if I’d found Monica’s things. I wasn’t sure what I hoped to find, but if there were anything that Monica had left behind her when she left that might offer a clue as to the reason she ran away, this was the only place I knew to look.

  For the third time, I opened a box and peered inside. This time I found stuffed animals and dried flower corsages, their petals crushed and broken, sprinkled over the other contents like seasoning. I spotted several framed school art department awards and ribbons, along with a dog leash and a rhinestone tiara. There was more, but I knew that I’d found the box I needed, so I quickly resealed it and stacked Trey’s boxes back behind the door. I shut off the light, hoisted the box, and made my way back to Carol Sue’s cubicle.

  As I walked into the brightly lit space, I stopped, my arms straining to hold the heavy box. Standing in the cubicle with Carol Sue was a tall, dark man in a business suit. He was standing very close to her, but she didn’t seem to mind, as her hands were placed flat on his chest and her cheeks were pink as she looked up at him.

  Feeling as if the box were going to drop from my hands, I quickly turned to a nearby desk and let it fall, the noise causing both Carol Sue and her companion to look up in alarm and step back.

  “Julie,” she said, her voice flustered. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

  “Sorry,” I said, not moving any closer. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

  Tucking her hair behind her ears, she walked toward me, her eyes bright. “I’d like you to meet my friend Walker King. His dental office is right down the street, and he came to see if I had lunch plans, but I told him that we were meeting Charlie and Beau and my parents at the park as soon as we were through here.”