“Yeah. Smart like anything.”
They talked for a few more minutes and finally said goodbye.
She called Woody and got his voice mail. She called Cecily and got her voice mail too.
“So, what am I supposed to do all night? Sit around and stew?” She was talking to herself, but this was not so unusual, especially given the tensions of the day. “Oh, shoot, I may as well work on my piece for the paper.”
She went upstairs, got out a legal pad to take notes, and started rereading the letters to the editor in the Moultrie News and some other articles from the Post and Courier that she had been saving. Noise was the new cause du jour on Sullivans Island. It had long been a problem downtown in the French Quarter, on the Isle of Palms beachfront, and, of course, on Folly Beach since the days of their amusement park and the pier. But Sullivans Island was a family-oriented island, and different in that it had never really curried the favor of pub crawlers.
Beth was unsure of her political stance on the topic. In some ways, she liked the liveliness of Dunleavy’s Pub, Off the Hook, and Poe’s Tavern. It made the island seem like a happening place and she didn’t feel so isolated from the modern world. But through reading the stack of letters and articles and by talking to the guys at Atlanticville she was beginning to understand the problem. And, most especially, now that she was going to be an investor in the health of the area, it was even more important for her to fully grasp the issues.
A few residents who had purchased homes near the bars in the business district were complaining bitterly about the late-night noise. How stupid! she thought. If you wanted to live in a quiet spot, why on earth would you buy a house near a beach bar? Let’s look at it another way, she thought. Should the complaints of a few dictate the rights of the many? Yes, in this case, because wasn’t every resident entitled to peace?
The noise went farther than the backyards of the neighbors of the bar scene. There were some residents who had owned houses on the island for over fifty years and the voices from the partyers and their loud music carried over as far as Atlantic Avenue and as far back as Raven Drive.
When Beth was a little girl, Sullivans Island was a sleepy beach community. The wildest thing that happened at night might have been a stranded tourist with a flat tire. In recent years the popularity of the island’s business district had grown dramatically. Now there were easily a thousand people who came and went from all the bars and restaurants on Friday and Saturday nights to meet friends and listen to music until two in the morning. And all that noise traveled across the island like pollen, hence the complaints. Happy voices calling out to one another sounded like a good thing unless you were trying to keep your children asleep in their beds. Shouldn’t tax-paying residents have the pleasure of sleeping with their windows open, waiting to be lulled off to dreamland on the sounds of an incoming tide?
But here was the problem no one seemed overly concerned about. Yet. If someone was on the porch of a bar or in the parking lot of a restaurant in the wee hours of the morning, carrying on at the top of their lungs like a maniac, shouldn’t the authorities call their sobriety into question? Locking up rowdy drunks was surely safer than letting them drive home and killing themselves or, worse, some innocent people in another car. But the island had no holding cell, did it? If the island turned their heads while people, as drunk as forty goats, got behind the wheel of their cars resulting in tragedies, one after another, wouldn’t that be a liability for the island at some point? Certainly it would be for the bars that had overserved them. Beth had lots of questions that needed answers and she imagined she would have to go over to the police station on Monday and also place a call to the island attorney. But where was common sense in all of this? Once people were made aware that the island residents did not want to live like that, wouldn’t visitors come to their senses and have a little regard for others? As of yet, no.
Beth was not the only one stewing in her juices waiting for a phone call. What if Woody looked hard at her fax and realized she had added that zero? It took all of her willpower to put it out of her mind.
Woody Morrison arrived at his home late Sunday night after watching a tennis match with some friends of his and checked his email. There in the basket of his fax machine was the letter of permission from Beth. It looked fine to him and he wondered what Beth had been through to get her mother to go along with their plan. One phone call and her mother said yes to a hundred thousand dollars? Amazing. Maybe Beth should go into a career in sales!
While undressing for bed, he began to feel some anxiety over the whole thing. He knew there was nothing legally wrong with what he was about to do, but he had never done anything like this without Henry’s counsel. He was Henry’s golden boy. The fact that Henry himself had judged the deal as unworthy of investment for whatever limp reason he claimed, Woody worried that it might seem disloyal for him to steer Henry’s niece toward it. But they had Beth’s mother’s stamp of approval and that was all they needed. He would call his friend at HSBC first thing in the morning and get the transfers and loans settled. Despite the times, Woody’s reputation and track record were platinum and he would get it all done by noon. He was sure of it. Besides, he was so dead in love with Beth Hayes that he would have done anything to prove it, especially now that Max had indicated he would clear the field for him. Woody hoped that all he needed was time for Beth to see how right they were for each other. The last thing he thought about as he pulled his covers over his shoulders was how much his parents would like Beth. They would love her. She was the quintessential girl next door.
On Monday morning, Beth picked up the Island Eye News wrapped up neatly in a plastic bag at the end of their driveway. She tore it open, very excited to read her first published article. Right there on the front page was a picture of Max Mitchell and he had never looked more handsome. The headline, clearly written by Barbara Farlie, said Meet Max Mitchell, and a subtitle read Developer Brings Island into 21st Century.
Beth scanned her words and, beyond the headlines, Barbara Farlie had not changed a thing. Beth was thrilled!
“Wait till Max sees this! This is going to bring him so much business! This is wonderful! Holy crap! I’m a real journalist! I’m a paid professional!”
She dialed Max’s cell phone but got his voice mail. He was probably out of range, she thought, and left him an excited message to look up the newspaper online because now he was famous!
The rest of the morning was spent talking back and forth to Woody and faxing signed forms between the banks. As predicted, the deal was done right around a late lunchtime. Woody and Beth were beside themselves with excitement.
“Did you talk to him?” Beth asked.
“Yeah, but only long enough to get the routing information for the transfer. It’s raining like the dickens up there and his phone kept dying. But he’s very happy about the money, that’s for sure.”
“Well, good. I wish he’d call me! I’ve been trying to get him on the phone all morning.”
“He’ll call.”
“I know he will. We’re having dinner tonight.”
“Really? Well, hoist a glass of champagne with my name on it. We’re all partners now!”
“I know! Oh, Woody! This is the most thrilling thing I have ever done in my whole life!”
“You know what? Me too!”
Beth was still giddy when she realized it was four o’clock in the afternoon and still Max had not called. She called him again and this time he answered.
“So, hi! What’s going on? Where’ve you been?”
“Hi. Busy. Crazy busy.”
“Well, you got the money, right?” Max didn’t sound right.
“Yep. Thanks. It makes all the difference.”
“Are you going to make it back in time for dinner?”
“I don’t think so, Beth.”
Now Max sounded parental and his tone was filled with annoyance.
“Why not?”
“Look, I went online on my foreman
’s laptop and read that article. Remember I told you not to take my picture?”
“Oh, please, you look like a movie star!”
“Well, thanks, but I really hate having my picture taken and I thought you knew that.”
“Yeah, well, it wasn’t up to me. The editor in chief chose the pictures.”
Was he angry with her over one insignificant photograph?
“I see.”
“So that’s it? A little thanks for the hundred thousand dollars and goodbye?”
“No. I’m sorry. Look, I’ve just had a really terrible day. Really terrible. I’ll call you when I’m on the way back, okay? It will probably be tomorrow.”
“So? No celebration dinner tonight?”
“Nope. I’ll see you tomorrow night. I hope.”
“Hey, I miss you!”
“I miss you too! Listen, what’s your street address in case someone wants to send you flowers?”
She perked up at the promise of flowers from him and gave him the address just as fast as she could spit it out of her mouth. But the flowers would never arrive.
In the meantime, Cecily called Monday afternoon to say she wasn’t coming over. She was fully occupied with Niles in the throes of their new love and he was wearing her out. Presumably and hopefully, she was doing the same to him.
“I need a facial and a nap,” she said to Beth.
“A facial? Do you know I have never had a professional facial?”
“You don’t need one, honey, with that peaches and cream skin of yours! Anyway, I’ll see you tomorrow. Is everything okay?”
“Of course! Everything is great.”
But everything was not great, and Monday night turned out to be one of the most unnerving nights of her life. Beth called Max every two hours until one in the morning and he never answered his phone. She prayed to God and begged for Max’s safety, and when she couldn’t shed another single tear, she took herself to bed. Something was terribly wrong.
Her first call to Max had been prompted by her spontaneous desire just to hear his voice and perhaps have a celebratory glass of something on the phone together. That seemed appropriate, all things considered. But he didn’t answer. Was he out with someone else? Maybe his assistant architect or foreman? So she waited until nine and dialed his number again. This time all she wanted to do was apologize over his picture appearing on the front page of the paper. That had to be why he wasn’t answering the phone. But why would a picture make him so angry? She just didn’t understand. It didn’t make sense. But she would apologize anyway and smooth things over. The third and fourth times she called him she was sure he was either in bed with another woman or in a hospital.
To add to her growing frustration, she couldn’t call anyone to say she was concerned about his safety or her money because she had lied to almost everyone about the nature of her relationship with him. The only one who knew all the facts was Woody. If she had called Woody, he would surely have panicked to hear the escalating concern in her voice. The truth was, Beth was worried at a level that would have been impossible to conceal. And after what had transpired between Beth and Woody on the porch that night, she really didn’t want him to see her in doubt over her feelings for Max or Max’s integrity. Since then she had all but declared her choice. Based in part on Beth’s faith in Max, they had signed away a fortune to him just that morning. She knew Woody cared about her and trusted her and those were the reasons why he had moved so quickly to make everything happen. What if she was wrong? What if she was wrong?
15
Bad News
[email protected]
Maggie, Tell me I’m losing it and I won’t disagree with you. I keep having these terrible dreams! Last night I dreamed Beth was standing on the edge of the ocean at Station 22½. She was screaming and screaming over the noise of the ocean, which was churning the way it does when a hurricane is coming. I can’t take this. Something is wrong. Am I losing it?
[email protected]
Quit eating escargots. Snails never did agree with you. What you need is some Bluffton oysters and a good glass of cold white California agricultural product, like Henry would say. Funky food makes funky dreams. Try a little poulet ce soir. xx ooh la la!
IT WASN’T LIKE Beth really slept that night, it was more like she tossed and turned, had a fitful nap for an hour, and then woke up to house noises. Yes, the house noises were back and they were the worst she had ever heard. All through the night, the clock chimed, floors creaked, the halls whispered, and occasionally something would slam, like a door or a drawer, or there would be a distinctive sound like the thunk of a dropped hammer that would reverberate through the rooms. She would have sworn she could smell the fragrance of Aramis, her father’s favorite cologne. Finally, at six-thirty, she gave up her bed to the day and got up to face the morning. These were dark omens, and as familiar as the islanders were with signs and wonders, Beth didn’t know what to make of it all. Rather, that is, she didn’t want to know.
She pulled on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt and decided to walk Lola on the beach. She was so tired. Her eyes were swollen from crying, her hair was a sweaty rat’s nest of mats and tangles. She had not looked this bad since the day after she had her wisdom teeth removed. She washed her face and looked at the dark circles under her eyes. There was nothing to be done about the way she felt and looked except to drink a lot of caffeine and hope that her youth would trump her overwhelming exhaustion.
She hooked Lola to her leash and crossed the dunes, leaving the house wide open, thinking it was well protected by all the dead crazies. Although the day had all the promise of a classic hot and humid summer day—blue skies without a cloud, birds atwitter by the score, rising sun—something terrible was in the air. She knew it just as she knew something was seriously wrong with Max. Where was he? Why had he not called her back? The silence from him was so deafening, she would have believed he was dead because she couldn’t find him in her heart. It seriously frightened and unnerved her.
She wished she could reverse time and go back to the very first day she met him. What was the matter with her? Why had she been so anxious, so hell-bent and determined to impress him? Did this relationship happen all because of her own ambition to be recognized as an adult before the world would have offered a ceremony of some sort that opened that door for her? Perhaps. Perhaps it did. Why was she in such an infernal rush?
And exactly what was it about him that she found so irresistible? Why had she fallen so hard for him? He was gorgeous to look at for one thing. Everyone agreed on that. And he exuded confidence, taking charge of every situation. When she was with him, he made her feel alive all over and made her believe that everything was going to be wonderful. He didn’t just look in her eyes like others did. He looked in her eyes with an intense kind of desire that she had never even known existed, as though he could read every thought in her head and knew everything about her that ever was or would be. She didn’t just love him, she idolized him. She loved every whisker on his face and the way they grew and every single curly hair on his head. She loved the way he smiled and smelled and that sometimes he seemed slightly dangerous. If Max had been a drug, he would have been a controlled substance.
The beach was almost empty of people, except for a few old salts tossing tennis balls and Frisbees with their dogs. The tide was going out. Soon, locals and tourists would begin arriving with their children and chairs, umbrellas and coolers, toys and books. They would spend a great part of their day soaking up vitamin D and digging their toes in the wet sand near the edge of the water. Their little ones would build castles of sand and mud and dig moats all around them. When they got hungry, they would eat pimento cheese sandwiches and sandwiches made of pineapple and cream cheese, all on white bread, cut into perfect halves. Their mothers would wipe their faces, kiss their cheeks, and they would run back to play. In the afternoon, they would return home, caravans of families, rinse off under their outdoor showers, and sit on their porches and step
s until they were dry enough to go inside without tracking sand and water from one room to another. Little ones, with golden arms and freckled noses, would take long naps under overhead fans, crooked in their beds but fast asleep on their backs like starfish. The adults would continue to read or start supper. Eventually they would all migrate to the porch for gin and tonics while their children played all the old games like swing the statue out in the yard on the grass that glistened with the dew of evening. Later still, all of them would disappear inside for suppers of rice and something else, but always rice.
That life, Beth realized, was the one she wanted. She had dreamed of having something like that with Max, but now, because he had not returned her calls, she feared that everything was in jeopardy. And what did that say exactly, the fact that she feared her whole future hung in the balance because of a few unreturned phone calls? Something way inside her heart knew she had given far too much and received far too little.
Without planning to walk such a distance, she saw she was near the crossover at Station 221/2, which was very close to the construction site. Maybe, she thought, I should go over there, and if Max is around, he can give me a ride home and tell me where he’s been. Good idea, she thought.
So she crossed the dunes for the second time that morning, wishing she had pulled herself together a little better, but then, so what? He knew what she looked like when she wanted to look good. This was the beach, for heaven’s sake, and it was barely eight o’clock in the morning. And she was a fourth-generation Geechee Girl, which required no explanation to the locals.
Once she got away from the sounds of the ocean, she expected to hear the construction crew shattering through the morning quiet with whirring band saws and whacking hammers, but she did not. And then she thought maybe they didn’t start work until a little later and she might see a few guys sitting around eating donuts and drinking coffee from a thermos. But when she rounded the corner, there were no trucks, no noise—in fact, the entire site was deserted. This was strange, very strange. Beth knocked on the door of the darkened trailer and no one was inside. Everything was locked up. What was this? She had goose bumps all over her arms and legs.
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