Beach House Memories

by Mary Alice Monroe

  “I’m sure I’ll make it out,” he replied absently, head bent over the journal. “It goes back more than ten years,” he exclaimed, surprised.

  “Farther, actually. If you include my father’s data.” Something compelled her to add, “But Daddy only recorded what he’d found on the days he walked. It wasn’t every day so his reports aren’t consistent.”

  Dr. Bennett looked up from the journals, his gaze speculative. “And yours are?”

  Lovie lifted her chin, not appreciating his tone. “Yes. At least in the later years they are. The first year or two I might have missed a few days. If the children were sick, or whatever. As time passed, I began to see I couldn’t miss a day, so I enlisted the help of friends to cover for me when I couldn’t make it out. There weren’t many volunteers, but somehow we made it work.”

  “And you’ve been walking the beach, recording your findings, for ten years.” He spoke with a sense of wonder, as though he couldn’t quite believe it.

  “That’s right.”

  “That’s a long time. What prompted you to begin?”

  “What prompted you?” she asked. She was beginning to get annoyed by his questioning of her motives.

  He smiled good-naturedly. “Fair question. Where do I begin?” He leaned back in the chair, relaxed and at ease. She had the feeling he could be equally comfortable in a grand estate, as the Bennett home likely was in Virginia, or in some hut in South America.

  “My father taught me to hunt and fish at a young age, but I was more interested in the turtles, lizards, snakes, and other reptiles I found. My mother was a good sport about all the strange pets I had. We spent summers at our home on Virginia Beach and winter vacations in Bermuda. I guess you could say I spent a lot of time outdoors, especially on the beach. I was always fascinated by wildlife and landscape. It was only natural that I’d study it as a grown-up.” He tilted his head and studied her face with another of his teasing grins. “I’m going to hazard a wild guess and say you loved critters as a child, too.”

  Lovie chuckled and thought to herself that this gentle teasing was part of his personality. Part of his boyish charm.

  “At last! I’ve cajoled a smile from Mrs. Rutledge.”

  “All right, yes,” she conceded. “I’ve always collected a weird assortment of critters and shells. But turtles . . . There’s something about them. They’re so charismatic. I only really got to know them when I was ten years old. That’s when my parents bought this house. We lived farther north in Aiken but spent summers here. My father loved the loggerheads and I loved him, so . . .” Lovie felt a sudden pang of longing for her father. She missed him, even after all these years.

  Lovie didn’t want to talk more about herself. It didn’t seem fair, given how forthcoming he’d been, but she’d already shared more than she’d intended. She stepped back from the desk. “I won’t delay you any longer, Dr. Bennett. The rain will stop and your clothes will be dry before you know it. I’ll leave you to read, and if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to make a few phone calls and track down my runaway daughter.”

  An hour later, Lovie sat straight in the side chair, her legs crossed, her foot tapping, and clutching a glass of ice water. The humidity from the storm made the room feel like a steam bath. A bead of sweat formed at her upper lip and her T-shirt clung to damp spots in all the wrong places. She glanced up at the ceiling fan that whirled noisily at high speed but offered only minimal relief. She was glad Cara and Emmi had gone over to Miranda’s house. It would have been intolerable if those two were here, snooping around with their big eyes and ears trained on the handsome man in Stratton’s bathrobe. No, she wouldn’t want that tidbit of information floating around the island.

  Across the room, Russell Bennett sat hunched over a notebook, elbows on the table and his long legs bent. He hadn’t accepted her offer of a cold drink and didn’t appear the least uncomfortable on this steamy day. Not a drop of sweat trickled down his brow, even though she felt like a lawn sprinkler. Not to sweat in that terry robe—he couldn’t be human, she thought.

  Lovie heard the high ding of the dryer and sprang to her feet, glad to have something to do. The laundry room in the cottage was little more than a large pantry closet that opened to the kitchen. She pulled out Dr. Bennett’s brown shirt and trousers, feeling the act was somehow intimate, at the very least strange, to be handling another man’s laundry. She noticed that the quality of the cotton was very good and that though the cuffs were slightly frayed, likely from his fieldwork, they bore the initials RDB in subtle dark brown thread. Even his socks were a cashmere blend. Someone dressed him well, she thought, and credited his wife. If they were Stratton’s clothes, she wouldn’t think of not ironing them. She’d be shamed to send her husband out in public wearing wrinkled clothes or missing buttons. But Dr. Bennett was not her husband and he could very well iron his own clothes. Besides, unlike Stratton, who found a loose thread distracting, Dr. Bennett struck her as the type who wouldn’t even notice that the shirt and trousers were terribly wrinkled.

  But at least they were dry, Lovie thought as she hung them on hangers. She’d volunteered to help with the turtle project, not be his personal maid. She carried the clothes to the living room.

  “Your clothes are dry,” she told him, holding the hangers in the air.

  Dr. Bennett looked up, distracted. “What? Oh, good. Good. Just set them anywhere. I’ll get to them in a minute.” With that, he went back to his work.

  Spoken like a man accustomed to being taken care of, Lovie thought, irked by the subservient role he’d just placed her in. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw that he was engrossed with her sketch of the beach erosion that occurred on the island the previous year. He was comparing it against sketches of the dunes made earlier. If he’d bother to ask her questions, she could talk at length about the serious erosion of the beach and the patterns of accretion.

  Rubbing her hands together, Lovie’s gaze aimlessly swept the room, the clock. To anyone walking it at that moment, it looked like a peaceful, companionable scene. It was four o’clock on a rainy afternoon, the room was cozy, softly lighted, a man worked at the desk, a woman was doing laundry, and ceiling fans whirled. In reality it was anything but peaceful.

  Lovie felt her impatience rising up in her throat, choking her. She couldn’t sit in the stifling room just waiting for him to finish for one moment longer. She felt as though she were waiting for the results of an exam or, worse, her thesis. Those pages held more than a record of events. She’d given this project her all—her best ideas, her best efforts, her best years. In her heart of hearts, she felt if her work didn’t measure up, then somehow she didn’t measure up. She didn’t sign up for this.

  She walked swiftly across the room to the porch. The rain was little more than a drizzle now, so she pushed open the doors and stepped out into the fresh breezes that blew in from the ocean. She held on to the railing and inhaled gulps of the moist air while gazing on the low-lying clouds that moved farther out to sea like an armada.

  A short while later, Dr. Bennett joined her on the windward porch. “That breeze is welcome,” he said, coming to stand beside her.

  She turned her head to see that he was now properly dressed again in his wrinkled shirt and trousers. Oddly, they suited him. He looked all the more the naturalist in his element.

  “I thought I was the only one feeling the heat,” she said with sarcasm.

  “If I did, I didn’t notice. I was too engrossed in your records.”

  Lovie closed her eyes a second, bolstering her resolve, then turned to lean against the railing. She crossed her arms, wary. “And . . . ?”

  “Mrs. Rutledge, what you have there is a wonder. Absolutely astonishing. I didn’t know what to expect, but I certainly didn’t expect this.”

  Lovie released the breath she’d been holding in a soft laugh. A small smile eased across her face, and she felt a flood of satisfaction. She had to hear more. “How do you mean?”

  “I mean I am
truly amazed at the level of thoroughness and perspicacity you’ve shown in your records. You clearly show a grasp of the nesting habits of the loggerhead on Isle of Palms, and also of anthropogenic activities. I’ve never stumbled on anything like these before.”

  “I never thought . . .” she stammered. “They were just . . .” She laughed lightly, flustered by the praise. “I don’t know what to say. I’m so glad,” she said, meaning it. Her relief made her giddy. “I wish my father could hear you say this.”

  “Ah, yes, well . . . To be honest, your father’s notes are not, as you said yourself, consistent. I’m afraid they won’t be of much help.”

  “He only did it for his own curiosity and pleasure,” she replied, feeling the need to defend her father.

  “No criticism meant. Just that, in terms of methodology, Mrs. Rutledge, your observations provide a remarkably consistent record of the sea turtle population on this island for the past ten years. Through your system of patrolling the island’s beaches, you’ve established, conclusively, that on the Isle of Palms the loggerhead sea turtles are in decline. That’s astounding. Well done, Mrs. Rutledge!”

  “Not the whole island,” she corrected. “Just the southern end, from Breach Inlet up to the maritime forest.”

  “True, but it’s actually better that you were consistent in one area than willy-nilly all over the island.”

  Lovie’s lips twitched. Hearing the word willy-nilly from this scientist’s lips was amusing. Still, hearing her work described as following scientific methodology and that her findings were astounding made her stand straighter with pride.

  “First, let’s get out of the way that you should publish your findings.”

  “Publish?”

  “Of course. Your data is important information on the regularity of nesting on this island. Second, you’ve just single-handedly shot this project into high gear,” he continued. “I’ll wager no one knows this island or the turtles here as well as you do.”

  “I’d accept that wager,” she replied, confident in that knowledge.

  His blue eyes narrowed as his lips twisted in a wry grin. “I can see why they call you the Turtle Lady.”

  Lovie held back her smile, amused. “I’m going to assume you mean that as a compliment.”

  He smiled openly then, and his sincerity surprised her. “I do. I really do.”

  In his wrinkled shirt, under the brightening sky, with his tan making his eyes seem to shine, Lovie felt a frisson of physical attraction that flustered her. She wondered if he felt it, too, because they both looked away and stepped back a pace.

  “Thank you, Dr. Bennett,” she replied with a curt nod of her head. “I appreciate that.”

  “I’m still wondering why,” he said.

  “Why what?”

  “You didn’t answer me earlier. Why do you do it? What compelled you to keep these records, all on your own, so consistently—I dare say obsessively—all these years?”

  Lovie’s mind flashed back to that single turtle whose gaze she’d met so many years before, and all the turtles she’d encountered since. One female after another. One hatchling after another. She’d responded not as merely an observer but also as a woman. How could she explain the depth of her emotions, something as ephemeral as having felt a bond with a wild animal, to this scientist? She decided she wouldn’t. It was too personal.

  “Hard to say,” she replied vaguely. “I’ll never really know if I chose this project, or if the project chose me.”

  His eyes glimmered with appreciation at her answer. He moved a step closer, speaking in earnest. “You know, Archie Carr always says that naturalists were born, not made. Unlike other areas of science, like chemistry and physics, where a scientist chooses to pursue a subject that interests him. Or as Archie put it, the heart follows the mind. For naturalists, it’s the reverse. The mind follows the heart. You, Mrs. Rutledge, are a true naturalist. You’re rare.”

  Lovie felt his words intensely. There was no teasing now, no slanted comments about her being a turtle lady, no condescension for a well-meaning woman who loved turtles. He’d called her a naturalist. He viewed her as an equal. He couldn’t know what that meant to her.

  “Mrs. Rutledge, I wonder . . . Would you consider being my assistant in this project? Well, not assistant. More a partner. A colleague?”

  “A colleague?”

  “Yes. Your knowledge of the island, the nesting sites, your records, are invaluable. I’ll have to burn the midnight oil to get this project under way as soon as possible.”

  Lovie wanted to jump on board and say yes, but an unpleasant thought that had been niggling in the nether regions of her mind all afternoon surfaced again. One planted by Flo. She hesitated, rubbing her palms together.

  “Dr. Bennett, before I agree to the project, I have a question for you.”

  “Fire away.”

  “You’ve been hired by the development company, haven’t you?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And they need this impact study in order to move forward with their plans.”

  “Yes,” he replied in a tone that told he was wondering where her questions were heading.

  “Once you gather all the information, what will happen to it? Will they seriously consider the findings, or just file and ignore them? They have a lot invested in this property, and from what I understand, the plans for the development are on a grand scale. What’s to stop them from doing whatever they like and ignoring the needs of the turtles? Building groins, docks, walls along the beach like they did in Florida?” She looked briefly at her hands. “How can we be sure the report won’t be in any way . . . biased?”

  Glancing up, she saw that his face had tightened, barely perceptibly. He crossed his arms and considered her question, his gaze fixed on Lovie. “You’re questioning my motives?”

  She hadn’t expected him to respond so bluntly. He continued to stare at her, barely blinking.

  “I’m just asking what others are thinking.”

  “I see.” Dr. Bennett hesitated. “You think perhaps I’m getting a little cash under the table? Maybe a new lot in the new development, something to sweeten the report?”

  “I’d like to believe you aren’t,” she replied honestly. “But I don’t know you at all.” She saw the surprise on his face and ran her hand through her hair. “This is our island. This isn’t academic for us.” She spoke quickly now, wanting him to understand her position.

  “I’ve been up against guys like these many times before, trying to get them to turn off the lights shining on the beach, reduce noise, stop people from riding the backs of the turtles, poaching. The list goes on and on. And you know what I get? A pat on the head and someone telling me to keep up the good work. That kind of condescension is infuriating, not to mention insulting. No one wants to see my records or hear my opinions. I’m dismissed. So I’ve gone it alone. I’ve walked the island every day for years, knowing all along there was a possibility that no one would ever see my work. And I didn’t care. Because I know at the very least I’m making a difference in the sea turtle population on this island, hatchling by hatchling. Even if it’s small. I’ve earned the right to be suspicious of anyone who comes in and takes over my project. So I’m asking you, Dr. Bennett, if we succeed in getting more volunteers and we all put our backs into the project, what’s going to come of it?”

  His smile was rueful, even a little sad. “What’s going to come of it?” he repeated. “Do you want an honest answer?”

  She nodded.

  “I don’t know. Nobody does. There are no guarantees.”

  Now Lovie’s lips tightened in frustration. It seemed too easy an answer.

  Dr. Bennett sighed and put his hands on his hips. He suddenly looked very tired.

  “I’m a lot of things,” he began. “I’m a biologist, a student of natural history, a field researcher. But I’m not a politician. I’m here to study the nesting cycle of the loggerheads on this island and to offer an opinion on
the impact the development’s plans will have on them. Period. What happens after that is not up to me.”

  “So you just come in, do your job, and leave?”

  He shifted his weight and pursed his lips in thought. “I leave your island, yes. But I’ll continue the good fight. My work with sea turtles is more global. I don’t confine myself to one beach. This is a migratory species, Mrs. Rutledge.”

  “I’m aware of that,” she snapped back. “But this isn’t just any beach to me. It’s my beach.”

  “You refer to the beach, even the turtles, as yours. That kind of territorialism can be dangerous in research.”

  She felt slapped. “There you go again, Dr. Bennett. Taking the imperial stand of one who knows so much more, has so many degrees, has traveled the world. Well, good for you! You’re a man. You had that choice.” She pointed to herself, feeling her heat rise. “I took another path. I never had that freedom.”

  “It’s not an issue of male or female. I have several female colleagues,” he argued.

  She walked farther away from him, turning her back. “I realize that. Of course. Yet, from where I stand, I see things differently. Perhaps it’s because I am a woman, I stayed in one place. I tended the beaches as an animal might tend her nest.”

  She turned to face him. “I doubt you’ll understand what I’m about to say, but any woman would get it immediately.” Lovie began pacing across the porch, searching for words for something that she’d never had to explain before. What she did was so instinctual. She didn’t have words on the tip of her tongue.

  “It’s rather like housework,” she began. “No, that’s not quite right. I mean . . . How can I explain it? When a woman is in her home, she’s always looking, or more, scanning, wondering if the pot’s boiling, if she’s out of milk, if the children are in view, if the doors are locked.” She was talking as much to herself as to him.

  “We women walk around our houses every day, day after day, picking things up, patting things down, observing patterns, changes. We tend our nest by being fully present. We pay attention to the details, over and over. Our motions are circular. Nonlinear.” Lovie looked at him, earnestly hoping he’d follow her drift.