Beach House Memories

by Mary Alice Monroe

  The hour flew by as Dr. Bennett outlined a basic sea turtle monitoring project. To Lovie’s surprise, it was not significantly different from what she’d been doing for ten years on her own. They were to form teams that divided up the beach into smaller sections. Every morning they were to walk the beach in search of turtle tracks. If they found tracks, they were expected to report to Dr. Bennett so that he could go to the site and confirm the nest. As the season progressed, they would also monitor the hatching of the nests.

  In the end, Dr. Bennett hit a home run. A dozen volunteers clustered around the table to sign up for the project and shake his hand.

  “Look at them,” Flo said with resigned humor. “This project is no different than what you’ve been doing for years, and now they can’t wait to sign on the dotted line.”

  “I know,” was all she could say, but in her mind she felt further diminished. She wanted to leave as soon as she’d signed her name to the list. “Flo, let’s duck out before we get caught by the rain. I need to get back to the girls.”

  “Wait just a minute more,” Flo pleaded. “I’d like to meet him. I thought he was fabulous, didn’t you?”

  “Your opinion of Dr. Bennett has certainly risen. Now you’re all smiles and hearty handshakes.” She leaned closer. “Are you sure it’s not his blue eyes?”

  “Actually it’s his friend, the one with the brown hair, I’ve got my eye on.” Flo turned her head quickly as her turn in line came up.

  “Delighted to meet you, Dr. Bennett,” she said in a loud voice. “That’s an impressive résumé of work you’ve got there. It’ll be an honor to work with someone of your caliber.”

  “Thank you,” he replied with an urbane smile. “I’m glad you approve.”

  Standing behind Flo, Lovie’s smile stiffened, catching the hint of sarcasm.

  “You know,” Flo added, stepping aside and glancing at Lovie, “she might not have all your credentials, but we have our own turtle expert here on Isle of Palms.”

  Lovie cringed. How could Flo introduce her as an expert? Anything she said now would only appear ridiculous to someone with the degrees and accomplishments of Dr. Bennett.

  “Really?” Russell Bennett replied with polite interest. “I hadn’t heard that. I’d love to meet her.”

  Flo turned to indicate Lovie standing beside her. “She’s right here. Dr. Bennett, meet Olivia Rutledge. She’s been studying our loggerheads for over ten years. All her life, really. She’s always taking notes and roping us into walking the beaches looking for tracks. We call her the Turtle Lady. If anyone knows about our loggerheads, it’s this lady right here.”

  Russell Bennett turned his head and fixed his gaze on Lovie. She felt the air sucked out of the room as their gazes met and his blue eyes bored into hers with the heat of a blowtorch. The attraction felt profound. Important. Unwelcome.

  He seemed to skip a beat before tilting his head and saying courteously, “Mrs. Rutledge.”

  Lovie was tongue-tied. She pulled her wits together enough to offer, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Bennett.”

  “So, I understand that you’re a . . . turtle lady?”

  Lovie frowned and saw the faint amusement in his eyes at the term, and her blush deepened. She was accustomed to Stratton, the mayor, and other men belittling her work, and stiffened her shoulders, determined not to allow this Ph.D. to diminish her status on the island.

  “Yes,” she replied, looking directly into his eyes. “That’s a term of affection. I’ve been interested in the sea turtles that nest on our island, but I don’t claim to be an expert. Amateur naturalist might sum it up better.”

  He seemed to note that. “What work have you done?”

  “I patrol the beaches in the morning, and if I see a nest I place a marker by it.” She was deliberately vague.

  “Then you must know how many nests you’ve had. You’ve kept a tally, I suppose?”

  “Of course. For the nests, and the hatches, too, of course.”

  He appeared astonished. “Mrs. Rutledge, that could be extremely helpful.”

  “Nothing to what you’re used to, I’m sure,” she said with sarcasm. By the way he studied her, she felt sure it didn’t go unnoticed.

  “She’s just being modest,” Kate added, stepping closer. She smiled at Lovie with affection. Lovie wished she could, for once, just reach out and put her hand over Kate’s mouth. “She’s out there every morning, and when she’s not, she ropes one of us to go out there looking for tracks. Never misses a day. And she’s always scribbling in her notebook about this or that.”

  “You write your observations, too?” he asked, taking interest.

  “Honestly, Dr. Bennett, they’re making way too much of it,” Lovie replied.

  “I’d appreciate the chance to see them. Your records could really jump-start my project. Our project now,” he added, glancing up at the few women who had lagged behind to listen to the conversation. They enthusiastically agreed and urged Lovie to comply.

  “Some of my observations are personal,” she hedged.

  “I assure you, I’m only interested in the turtle data. Mrs. Rutledge, if it’s not too inconvenient, could we set up a time to look over these records? I’m sure you have more information than you realize.”

  Lovie took a deep breath, trying to think of a reasonable reason to refuse. The silence grew awkward.

  “If there’s one thing Archie Carr pounded in our heads,” he added to persuade her, “it was to listen to anecdotal stories of the natives.”

  Anecdotal stories? she thought, drawing herself back. Natives? Could he be more insulting? “I’m sorry, Dr. Bennett,” she said curtly. “I’m sure the simple markings of a local native could have no interest for you. I really must go now. The storm is about to break.”

  As though on cue, thunder clapped loudly, seemingly overhead. Everyone moved to rush out the door, giving Lovie the perfect opportunity to slip away. She hurried to the door and saw that she was too late. The clouds opened up and it was a deluge. These torrents were not uncommon on the island as a strong storm front moved quickly from the mainland out to sea. The pounding rain was deafening and difficult to see through. Lovie paused at the door, feeling trapped.

  “Mrs. Rutledge . . .”

  She heard Dr. Bennett coming after her, calling her name. She cringed, realizing she’d left her umbrella inside. Looking over her shoulder, she saw through the open doors that he’d been momentarily detained by two women. He looked her way, marked her departure, then tried to excuse himself from the ladies.

  Seizing the moment for her escape, Lovie stepped into the storm.

  Six

  The rain was cold and biting, drenching her clothes within seconds. Lovie had her head bent and kept walking forward, fast, her hands clenched as they pumped the air. It wasn’t the first time she’d found herself stuck when a storm broke. It’d happened many times while walking the beach. Sometimes a storm front approached like a wall of gray rain and she could literally step into a storm. But today she was upset because she was ruining a perfectly good pair of shoes.

  “Mrs. Rutledge!”

  Lovie couldn’t believe it. She looked over her shoulder to see a vague image of a man trotting through the misty downpour after her. What kind of an idiot would pursue her in this tempest? she thought, but she didn’t stop. Maybe he’d take her obvious hint. She was only a block from home and picked up her pace.

  “Mrs. Rutledge!”

  A moment later he was at her side. She glanced over to see Dr. Bennett, his face scrunched in a grimace as he was pelted by the rain. He, too, was drenched, and she could see the color of skin beneath his soaked shirt.

  She kept walking but asked, shouting to be heard over the rain, “What could be so important that you’d follow me in this storm?”

  “I couldn’t let you leave without apologizing,” he shouted back at her, keeping up with her pace. “I didn’t mean what I said back there. Well, I did, but it came out all wrong.”r />
  They were approaching her house, and Lovie was left to wonder if she could, in good conscience, leave him in the storm. Drat, she thought, mentally kicking herself, she wouldn’t leave a dog out in this rain.

  “I can barely hear a word you’re saying,” she shouted. “Please, come inside out of the rain.”

  He hesitated. “Are you sure?”

  “You can’t stay out here. Come in.”

  She led him up the stairs to the porch where, mercifully, they were protected from the pummeling of the cold rain. Water dripped down her face and she mopped it with her hands. Looking down, she was horrified to see her drenched blouse left little to the imagination. Lovie plucked at her blouse as she slipped out of her shoes and, opening the door, hurried inside. While Dr. Bennett unlaced his shoes, she scurried through the living room to her bedroom, trailing water and calling, “Cara? Emmi?” There was no answer. She grabbed two towels from her bathroom, wondering where the girls had sneaked off to and realizing she was alone in the house with Dr. Bennett.

  She returned to the living room to find Dr. Bennett standing by the front door looking like a drowned rat with his hair plastered against his face and his clothing clinging to his well-muscled body. He seemed embarrassed.

  “I’m terribly sorry to be dripping all over your floor.”

  “Can’t be helped,” she replied, handing him one of the towels. “And these old floors have been dripped on for years.”

  He accepted the towel gratefully and began mopping his face and hair, but it was obvious that he’d never get those clothes dry. “I should make a run back to the Exchange Club. It was idiotic of me to chase after you, but when I realized how what I’d said to you could be misunderstood, I couldn’t let you leave like that.”

  Lovie’s stern expression softened somewhat with her mood. “This rain won’t last too long. They’ll likely wait it out indoors and you’d be stuck dripping in those wet clothes, catching your death of cold. Might as well wait here where it’s warm and dry.”

  “Can I call them? To let them know where I am.”

  “There isn’t a phone in the club, I’m afraid.”

  He thought for a moment. “Then it appears I’m stranded and at your mercy.” He shrugged with exaggeration.

  She smiled. “If you go into the bathroom at the end of the hall”—she pointed—“I’ll get you a robe and dry your clothes.”

  “I don’t want to put you to any trouble,” he said again.

  “I’m not going to launder and iron them. I’m just going to toss them in the dryer. They can go in the dryer, can’t they?”

  He chuckled. “Sure. They’ve been through a lot worse.”

  “Well, then. If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather you didn’t continue to drip on my floor. I’ll get that robe.”

  A short while later the dryer was humming and Dr. Bennett emerged sheepishly from the bathroom, tightening the belt around Stratton’s white terry cloth robe. Lovie peeked through the kitchen door to see his long, tanned legs poking out from the robe. It seemed oddly intimate to have him walking around in a robe, with the children gone and the two of them alone in the house. She was glad she’d turned on lamps in the living room. He was walking around the room, looking at the art. He stopped to admire Lovie’s collection of seashells and peered closely at the silver-framed photographs of her family on the mantel. She smiled when he lifted the primitive clay sea turtle that her father had created one summer. It was her prized possession.

  Lovie had changed into the first dry clothes she grabbed from her bureau—white shorts and a navy T-shirt. She was measuring coffee into the percolator when Dr. Bennett entered the kitchen.

  He continued his perusal around the cramped room—the scrubbed wood table with the lazy Susan that held the turtle salt and pepper shakers and hot sauce, the small clay plates on the walls with art of turtles. He tucked his hands in his pockets. “You have a lot of turtle art,” he said.

  She chuckled. “Oh, yes. I get a lot of turtle things as gifts. I have quite the collection.”

  The wind gusted, shaking the windows. “Storm still raging,” he said, stating the obvious. “Seems like you have quick, fierce storms in the afternoon here, too. They’re common in Florida.”

  “They move fast coming in from over the mainland on their way out to sea.” She plugged the percolator into the socket. “We should have hot coffee in a minute.”

  “It’s a nice cottage. Very warm and welcoming.”

  “Thank you. It belonged to my parents, and now me. Someday it will go to Cara and Palmer.”

  “I assume they are your children?”

  “Yes,” she replied, reaching up for two cups.

  “Ah, Meissen,” he remarked, noticing the Blue Onion pattern. He picked up a coffee cup and turned it over to look at the underside. “Crossed swords,” he said, acknowledging the mark of the blue-glazed porcelain that protected it from forgery. “My grandmother collected Meissen ware. It was her passion.” A slight smile of remembrance crossed his face. “She had a lot, too.”

  Sensitive to the awkwardness of the two of them in the confined space, Lovie kept busy. She went to the fridge for milk and, noting that Palmer had already drunk half the gallon, poured some into a white creamer. She placed that and the sugar bowl on a tray with two spoons and napkins. Paper would have to do, she thought, as she carried the tray into the living room. Pools of light spilled out from the lamps, making the room feel cozy. Thunder rumbled, softer now, and the rain sounded on the roof with a consistent, but less insistent patter. It was a good afternoon to stay indoors.

  “You know, Mrs. Rutledge, since I’m here,” he began, following her into the living room, “I might as well take a look at your sea turtle records. No time like the present. That is, if you’ve forgiven me enough to let me see them.” He laughed, defusing the tension. “I really would appreciate taking a look. They could jump-start the whole project, especially since the nesting season has already begun.”

  Lovie knew this was coming and considered it as she set the tray on the coffee table. She enjoyed for the moment holding some power over him.

  “Cream or sugar?” she asked him.

  “No, thank you. Black is fine.”

  Lovie poured and offered him the cup and saucer. She poured herself a cup but didn’t drink. Setting the coffeepot on the tray, she thought his apology seemed sincere and he’d lost the arrogance she’d found so distasteful at the club. Lovie cast a discreet glance at Dr. Bennett standing across the table. He was, in fact, looking anything but arrogant in his bare legs and feet.

  She said, “Yes, Dr. Bennett. You can look at my journals, records, observations, whatever you prefer to call them. I’m a little embarrassed to show them. They represent a great deal of time and effort, and have served my needs, such as they are. But they also include some comments of, well, a more personal nature. Nothing I can’t show you, but . . .” She shrugged and let her arguments go. “There are quite a lot of notes, I warn you.”

  “The more the better. Where should I sit?”

  Lovie walked to her father’s desk and pulled out the chair. “Why don’t you sit here? You’ll want to spread out the maps and there’s good light.”

  “Maps, too?”

  Her lips lifted in a smug smile. “A few. We natives do what we can. I’ll fetch the journals.”

  While he settled himself in the chair, Lovie went to the cabinet below the bookshelf and pulled out the three journals. She ran her hand tentatively over the soft leather.

  After she’d married and inherited the beach house, she’d discovered a manila folder in this same cabinet where her parents kept old papers and photographs. Curious, she’d opened it and discovered an old composition notebook, the kind she’d used to write essays in at school. It was filled with her father’s observations of the loggerhead sea turtle nests he’d discovered and those he’d witnessed hatching. In the folder there was also an assortment of rough sketches of the island’s beach with an X m
arking the location of every nest he’d discovered, season after season. The maps were spotted and wrinkled; he’d obviously carried them with him on the beach, perhaps folded in his pocket. That he’d never told her about this file had stunned Lovie.

  The following winter, Michael Simmons passed away. Her father had been her inspiration to begin recording the turtle nests on the Isle of Palms. In the beginning, she’d found comfort in continuing her father’s efforts. On mornings she was tired, ill, or just not in the mood, she remembered her father and forced herself to get up and walk the beach. No day was missed. No details were omitted.

  Yet, how would her record of “native observations” measure up to the scientific work of Dr. Bennett, a professional biologist with a Ph.D.? She blew out a plume of air and patted the journals. She would soon find out.

  She carried the three journals to Dr. Bennett along with two manila folders, one filled with her maps, the second her father’s original file.

  Dr. Bennett moved aside papers cluttering the desk, making space for the journals. He looked at them, rubbing his hands like a man before a feast. “I’ll just get started, then.”

  Lovie scooped up the miscellaneous papers and stood motionless, watching with her breath held, as Dr. Bennett opened the first volume. She didn’t realize her hands were tightening on the papers, crushing them.

  “There’s a system,” she said, self-consciously. “At least, one develops as the years pass.” She paused. “I made changes as I figured out what I needed.” She realized she was already making excuses and tightened her lips, willing herself to stop babbling.