Beach House Memories

by Mary Alice Monroe

They differed in personalities, too. Palmer was lazy. There really wasn’t any way to sugarcoat it. He liked to hang around with his friends and play sports. He was well liked, a popular, good-looking boy who rarely rocked the boat. Stratton often frowned and declared he was waiting for something to come along and light a fire under that boy’s butt.

  In contrast, Cara was curious, competitive, and driven to succeed, whether it was on her report card or on some self-imposed goal. Unlike Palmer, Cara didn’t have many friends. With her tall, gangly frame and her brainy reputation, she was not popular. Lovie felt for Cara, but Stratton had little patience with her. When he disciplined the children, Palmer usually caved within himself, muttering, “Yes, sir,” and occasionally accepting the stern hand. Cara, however, argued back. Lovie cringed each time Cara went toe-to-toe with him. Lovie’s secret fear was that it was only a matter of time before Stratton laid a hand to her.

  Glancing at her watch, she realized it was not even ten o’clock and the children were asleep. Lowcountry summer days wore them plumb out. In one day’s time their skin was as red as a lobster’s from overcooking in the sun, and their lackluster expressions were replaced with the bright-eyed enthusiasm she always imagined Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn wore. The Lowcountry was a vast, idyllic playground for children. She had been right to insist they come to the beach house. Stratton would be fine downtown alone. The thought that he might even prefer it forced its way into her head.

  Lovie walked down the narrow hallway lined with black-framed photographs of the Simmons family in the early years of the beach house. Michael Senior and Junior on the Boston Whaler, arm over shoulder. Grandmother Dodie knitting on the back porch. Family gatherings on July Fourth. Dee Dee had removed all the photographs of Mickey after the accident, but Lovie hung them again when she inherited the house, along with new photographs of her children. The house felt empty without Mickey’s memories embraced within the walls.

  The low ceilings and overstuffed furniture of the living room made the small room cozy in the glow of lamplight. The house seemed to wrap its arms around her, making her feel safe. This quaint cottage had always been her favorite home, where she felt she belonged. Nothing ever seemed to change, certainly not the furniture. It was an eclectic collection of family furniture from both sides. The red cabbage rose chintz-covered chairs and sofa were new when Dee Dee and Michael bought the house in 1945. The rest of the furniture—two Victorian chairs, the piecrust table, Michael’s desk, the large navy Oriental rug—had endured years of sandy feet and paws, and the occasional spills. Dee Dee told her that no flooring was as tough as a good Persian rug. Only the collection of local art, many from artists she knew, was her personal addition to the cottage.

  Lovie bent to turn on the radio and smiled at the memories that tripped across her mind at hearing the song “Cherish.” She poured herself a glass of white wine, then sat at the mahogany desk. The French doors were open to the night’s breeze that stirred the sheer curtains. She reached out to flick on the green banker’s lamp. In an instant, a pool of yellow light flooded the large notebook lying there. Lovie lightly ran her hand over the muted black leather with the reverence an author might have for her novel. This book held her passion. Each entry represented her commitment, as well as her hopes and dreams.

  This was her sea turtle journal. The third volume she’d kept on her loggerhead observations since she’d begun her project ten years earlier.

  But Lovie’s love of sea turtles went farther back. Her father had purchased the beach house soon after he’d returned from World War II. The Beach Company was selling lower-cost houses in the postwar boom. Michael Simmons Sr. never talked about his experiences in the war, but they all knew without asking that his soul needed the solace of the beach to come to terms with whatever happened back in Europe. He spoke of his anguish eloquently through his long, silent walks at sunset and the worn Bible he read every night before sleep. Lovie still remembered the glow of his cigarette piercing the black night and the soft murmur of her parents’ voices from the porch.

  She and her older brother, Mickey, were best friends. They were, in fact, the only friends they had during their stays on the remote island back in the day. Mickey loved the sea turtles, too, but for all the wrong reasons. He thought it was a lark to wait up at night for a big mama loggerhead to come ashore, then hop on her shell to ride the poor creature back out to the sea.

  Lovie could trace her memory back to the exact moment she felt her first connection to the turtles. She and Mickey had sneaked out of the house to the beach late one night. The moon was only a ghost in the sky. Mickey was on the prowl for turtles, and before too long they spied a single trail of tracks leading up to a dune.

  “Only one track!” Mickey whispered to her excitedly. “That means she’s still up there. This is our chance. Now stay low and don’t spook her. And keep quiet. Come on.”

  Lovie had felt a shiver of thrill on that hot, humid night as she hunched over to creep silently behind her brother toward the dunes. They heard the turtle before they saw her. The scratching of her large flippers in the sand rent the night’s silence and, drawing closer, Lovie could feel the spray of sand against her face. The loggerhead was a shadowy hulk in the dim light, laboriously moving her shell against the sand, sending sand flying as she camouflaged her nest. They crouched behind a cluster of sea oats nearby and waited, not wanting to disturb her. Lovie felt her heart pounding in awe of her first sight of a mother sea turtle on her nest. When the turtle ceased moving, she could feel Mickey’s muscles tighten beside her. Then the turtle began to crawl.

  “She’s going back out!”

  Without warning, he switched on his flashlight and shone the bright white light directly on the turtle. Instantly, the turtle went still. Lovie’s mouth slipped open in a gasp at the clear sight of the huge sea turtle within feet of her. So close, the young girl could see the faint outline of the scutes through the sand, their rich mahogany color, and the numerous barnacles that were affixed to her shell. She was magnificent!

  Mickey shoved the flashlight into Lovie’s hands, almost knocking her over as he leaped to his feet. With a wild war whoop, he raced to the turtle, grabbed hold, and jumped onto the turtle’s shell.

  “Giddyup!” he cried like a wild cowboy.

  The sea turtle lifted her head, and Lovie heard a strange guttural hissing noise through the open beak. But Mickey wasn’t warned off. Instead he just laughed louder and shouted, “Giddyup!” again and again.

  “Mickey, get off! That’s so mean. Get off her!”

  “Don’t be such a baby!”

  The sea turtle began moving again, flipper after flipper, dragging herself back to the ocean. The poor thing. It broke Lovie’s heart to see how hard it was for that turtle to get back to the sea, especially with a wild boy on her back. Every few steps, the turtle stopped to rest. Lovie could hear the heavy, labored breaths. Enraged at the insult to such a beautiful beast, she begged Mickey to get off, but her cries fell on deaf ears. He thought it was fun and was determined to ride that poor turtle into the surf.

  Then it happened. To this day Lovie wasn’t sure she hadn’t imagined it. The big sea turtle had stopped again. Mickey clucked and patted her shell, obnoxiously trying to get her to move. Lovie bent close to the loggerhead’s enormous head. There were tiny barnacles by her eye from which flowed a trail of tears.

  “I’m sorry,” she said softly.

  The turtle’s large almond-shaped eye met hers. In that singular moment, Lovie felt a bond with the mother turtle, an unspoken connection that transcended species. Her child’s heart responded.

  The sea turtle began crawling again, huffing heavily with the burden of Mickey. Watching her flippers dig deep into the sand to claw her way back to the sea sparked a fire of indignation in Lovie. She stomped closer to her brother, then with all her might shoved him, knocking him clear off the turtle’s shell. He landed in a graceless thump in the sand. The startled turtle lurched forward, picking up speed.


  “Hey,” Mickey shouted. “What’d you do that for?”

  Lovie was angrier at her brother than she’d ever been before. She raised her fists in the air and screamed, “You stay off that turtle, hear? It’s wrong! Wrong, wrong, wrong!” Tears were flowing down her own cheeks and she began to cry, great heaving, hiccupping sobs that did more to stop her brother than anything she might have said.

  The turtle made quick her escape, plowing toward the sea. Mickey didn’t chase after it this time. He stood with his arms limp at his side, at a loss for how to console his sister.

  “I’m . . . I’m sorry, Lovie. I didn’t mean nothin’ by it.”

  Lovie wanted to stop crying, but she couldn’t. The night sky suddenly seemed too big and she felt alone and frightened and tired. Mickey came closer and stood helplessly at her side, his hands clenching and unclenching.

  “Quit crying, Lovie. I didn’t know it got you so upset. I was just having a little fun.”

  “I told you to stop.”

  “Well, I stopped, didn’t I?”

  Lovie sniffed and swiped her nose with her arm. “But only ’cause I knocked you off.”

  “Yeah, you sure did,” he said with a soft laugh. He rubbed his shoulder, then playfully, gently shoved hers. “You’re pretty strong when you want to be.”

  This brought a small, reluctant laugh to her lips.

  Mickey pointed toward the ocean. “Look, Lovie. The turtle’s almost at the ocean now. Let’s watch her.”

  She clutched his arm tight in desperation. “You promise not to jump on her again?”

  “Nah, I won’t,” Mickey replied, a little shamefaced. “Come on!”

  Mickey and Lovie sprinted the ten yards to where the waves rolled onto the shore. The sea turtle paused at the shoreline to lift her head, as though catching the scent that would guide her home. The stars shone softly from above. Side by side, brother and sister stood, united this time, and watched as the great sea mother crawled into the sea. Now that she’d reached water, she moved gracefully. Lovie and Mickey scrambled to remove their shoes and followed her in. The water was cold and murky, but they stayed with her into deeper water, clear up to their waists. The waves washed the sand from the turtle’s shell, revealing for a glorious instant the rich, glossy mahogany color before she took one strong push with her flippers and disappeared into the depths.

  Lovie looked into her brother’s eyes, and they both smiled.

  Mickey never rode the turtles again after that night. The following summer his interest shifted to girls, and things were never the same between Lovie and her brother after that.

  Lovie’s fascination for sea turtles continued to grow as she did. Every passing summer she couldn’t wait to get to the beach house and the turtles. From the first day till the last, she searched for turtle tracks and, later, nests.

  She went to stand at the screened porch door. Her arms were wrapped around herself as she thought back again to the young girl who had made a commitment to that valiant sea turtle so many years ago. Did she want to get involved with the study? Wrestle with authorities? If the controversy became heated, her name could end up in the newspapers. Stratton wouldn’t like that; he’d made that clear the last time she was in the paper, and it was only the neighborhood news. Naturally, her mother would be horrified. She could hear Dee Dee admonishing that it just wasn’t something a well-brought-up lady would do.

  Lovie stared out at the darkness that masked the vast sea beyond, but she could hear the powerful waves rolling in to crash against the sand. Somewhere out in the swells, her beloved loggerheads were biding their time, waiting for some signal from deeply stored instinct that it was time to brave the unknown and lay their nests. Each nest, each egg, was precious to her. No one knew this beach better than she did. This was a critical moment for the island.

  As she listened to the waves, the roar drowned out the voices of her mother and Stratton and the naysayers. In their place she heard the voice of her father and her brother calling out to her from the sea, echoing Flo’s words.

  If not you, then who?

  Sea Turtle Journal

  June 8, 1974

  Against great odds, the sea turtle crawls across the long stretch of beach to lay her nest high on a dune. She will lay over a hundred eggs in each nest and she will nest four or more times each season. Each nest she digs is a selfless act. Each egg is a triumph of hope.

  Five

  Island time is a state of mind. For some it means a slowing of pace from the hurried, punctual grind of the city, the abandonment of routines, schedules, appointments. For others it is the acceptance that from sunup to sundown, what gets done gets done, and what doesn’t will get done soon enough. It’s finding pleasure in and appreciation for the fleeting moments.

  Slipping into island time doesn’t happen overnight. Once someone arrives on the island, the transition can take from three to five days, longer for some ragged souls. For Lovie, this summer it took a full week.

  During her first week, Lovie had too much to do to reach that easy island pace. Stratton telephoned to tell her he’d decided to bring the Porters to the beach house for a barbeque after all. Primrose Cottage was a classic island cottage of the kind that well-to-do Charlestonians had brought their families to, to escape the summer heat. They were the soul of charm and simplicity representing a gentler time in history, but not grand. Stratton would want the house shown in its best possible light for this event. She’d spent the week slaving over her house and garden, knocking items off from her to-do list with a methodical determination.

  By Friday afternoon, the pine floors were lustrous from a washing with Murphy Oil soap, the paned windows were sparkling, the clunky old appliances were scrubbed, and the ancient claw-footed bathtubs gleamed. The cupboards were bursting with food, and the sweetgrass baskets on the counter were overflowing with fresh vegetables and fruits from the market. Pots of cheery flowers and hanging ferns decorated the porches, and in the shade, more flats of flowers waited to be planted. She was racing against the clock and had just finished putting the chicken in Aunt Leah’s marinade when Stratton called.

  “Stratton, don’t forget to bring the wine,” she said, a little breathless from running for the hall phone. “And did you find out what drinks the Porters like? The bar is dreadfully low here. We need almost everything. Could you take care of that? Oh, and I especially need brandy for the trifle. I’m making Mama’s recipe. We always get so many compliments, I’m sure they’ll like it. I thought we’d have dessert on the screened porch. Though if Jeanne is wearing perfume, she might attract mosquitoes.”

  “Well, Lovie . . .” Stratton cleared his throat. “That’s what I wanted to talk with you about.”

  Lovie was wiping her brow and caught the tone in Stratton’s voice. She let her hand drop from her hair. “What’s that?”

  There was a brief pause. “The Porters aren’t coming, after all. They’ve decided to go north to their farm. They have a hunting lodge there—ducks, boar, deer, birds. I hear it’s quite the place.”

  Lovie felt awash with irritation. “Well, that’s very thoughtless of them, thank you very much. I don’t know what constitutes good manners up north, but in Charleston it’s hardly proper to cancel at the last minute without thought to all the preparations I’ve made. I mean, really, Stratton! If it was an emergency, of course I’d understand. But to change their mind to go hunting?”

  “I’m sure Jeanne Porter didn’t mean to insult.”

  “I should’ve known that a woman who wore so much makeup didn’t have good breeding.”

  Stratton sighed low over the phone but didn’t reply.

  She thought of all the stress Stratton must have been under the past week and how he must be disappointed to have lost the opportunity to extend his friendship to a man he hoped to enter business dealings with. “I’m sorry. That wasn’t kind. And I’m sorry they canceled. I know this was important to you. I hope you’re not too disappointed. You can always invite t
hem to come another time. Come home. The children and I miss you.” She laughed lightly. “I’ve cooked and cleaned for days. We’ll feast.”

  He skipped a beat. “Well, here’s the thing, Lovie. The Porters have invited me to join them at their lodge. They have a private plane and the plan is to fly out first thing in the morning.”

  Lovie took a moment to get this straight in her mind. She twisted the phone cord in her fingers. “I see. So you’re going.”

  “I’d like to.” He was being polite, seemingly asking her permission. Yet she heard in his tone that he’d already made up his mind.

  “How long will you be gone? This time?” she asked, not bothering to disguise her pique.

  He responded in kind, his voice gruff with irritation. “A week at the most.”

  “A week,” she repeated, glancing at the calendar hanging on the wall. It showed a beach scene and the words THE BEACH COMPANY, the company that had sold the island’s northern end. Stratton was leaving for Europe after the Fourth of July and wouldn’t be back until the end of summer. “What about your time with us? You’ve already got so much scheduled you’ll be away most of the summer as it is. You have responsibilities to more than your business, you know. You have a family, too.”

  “I’m well aware of my responsibilities,” he said in a low voice that dared her to challenge him.

  She did not.

  “Why do you think I’m working so damn hard? Sure, I wish I could come out to the beach, to hang out with you and the kids. But some of us have to work for a living.”

  She wanted to ask him what he meant by that, to let him know how much that comment he’d tossed out so thoughtlessly had hurt her. But in truth she already knew exactly what he’d meant. She also knew she was pushing his buttons hard and backpedaled. There was no point in arguing over the phone like this. It solved nothing, and at that moment the only word she wanted to hear was “good-bye.”

  “Look,” he said in a conciliatory tone, “you know this is important or I wouldn’t do it. Porter can open doors for me in Japan. That’s the future. It could mean a lot for us. For our family. I need your support now—without the third degree.”