“The turtles are all in church this morning,” he joked.
She’d laughed, feeling unusually happy to hear his voice but also glad, for once, that she had the morning free. She wrapped an apron around her waist and took stock of her kitchen. It had been a long time since she’d made corn cakes and bacon, but this morning she had the time and the fresh berries, and her mama always told her there was nothing a Southern man loved more than a hearty breakfast. Stratton, bless his heart, could make mistakes, but he was here and he was trying. So would she.
The days sped by quickly. By the time the fireworks exploded in the sky on the Fourth, Lovie thought that Stratton had slowed down to island time. He was relaxed, easier to be with, even cheerful. The children enjoyed spending time with him when he was in this gentler mood and not the martinet seeking out their flaws. Lovie felt such hope that when the time came for him to go abroad, she actually regretted his leaving and worried how their marriage would survive these long absences.
When Stratton was gathering his papers from the desk, Lovie sat on the bed folding his clothes and putting them into his suitcase. She’d given him the expensive travel bag for his fortieth birthday and loved the smell of the fine brown leather. She wrapped his shoes in tissue paper and set them beside his toilet bag. Then she laid his folded shirts and underwear neatly on top of those.
“What date will you be back?” she called out.
“Uh, I can’t remember offhand. September something. I’ll call when I check my itinerary,” Stratton called back from the living room.
“September’s a long way away. The children will miss you.”
“Uh-huh,” he replied.
Lovie smoothed his blue silk tie with her palm. She began placing it into the slim zipper pouch on the side of the suitcase when her fingers ran against papers. Taking them out, she saw that they were Pan American plane tickets. Here was his itinerary, she thought, and opened the long journey agenda. He was going to five cities in as many countries. A busy schedule, she thought. She opened the second ticket, assuming it was for Japan. She was curious to see what cities he was going to. Tokyo? Kyoto?
She paused, confused. The cities listed weren’t in Japan. They were the same European cities and the same dates. Was it a duplicate? She looked up at the name on the ticket. Ashley Cole. Lovie went cold and slowly opened her fingers. The tickets fell open into the suitcase.
She felt numb, like they say one feels after being hit with a bullet. A sting and then nothing. Then erupted a sudden fury and a hurt so scorching that her throat burned from holding in her tears as she stood there, immobile, staring with disbelief at the tickets splayed open in his suitcase.
She heard a noise beside her and saw through the blur of tears Stratton’s hand reach into the suitcase and grab the tickets. She heard his heavy sigh and waited.
“You’re reading too much into this . . .” he began.
She didn’t respond, refused to look at him.
“It’s not what you think. It’s strictly business. That’s all.” When she didn’t say anything, didn’t move, he tried anger. “Hell, Lovie, stop playing the role of the wounded wife. It’s ridiculous and beneath you. Ashley is my secretary. Nothing more. This is a big trip with a lot of business. I need her to work for me, hear? Work.”
Lovie turned and looked at him blankly. “Then why didn’t you tell me she was coming? Why didn’t you ask me to join you?”
“What? And leave your precious turtles for the summer?”
“Don’t you try and twist this around on me! This has nothing to do with turtles,” she shouted at him, losing control. “We both know what this is about.”
“It’s business!” he shouted back at her.
“Then go do your dirty business,” she cried. “Go on. Go!” She threw his tie at him. It landed gracelessly on the floor. “And don’t come back here. We were fine without you. Why did you have to come back?”
Stratton grabbed her shoulders and shook her so hard her head wobbled like an infant’s. He held her so tight his fingers felt like iron probes digging into her shoulders. They stared at each other, and for one moment, there was such anger in his eyes, Lovie feared he might strike her. He pushed her furiously away and turned and went to the closet to pull out his suit. “I can’t talk to you when you’re like this,” he told her.
Lovie walked from the room, rubbing her shoulders, and went to her refuge in the kitchen. She felt unsteady on her feet, so she bent and clutched the counter like her life depended on it. She felt if she let go, she’d either scream or go running back into the bedroom and start fighting with him again, demanding answers to all her other suspicions. But she couldn’t. He’d been drinking and his anger could be frightening.
She remembered the one time he’d struck her. Was it two years earlier? She couldn’t even remember what the fight was about. But she’d never forget the shock of the sharp sting of his palm across her face, or the shame. He’d apologized, bought her a gift, and took her to dinner. Later, he’d blamed it all on her for getting him so mad. He swore he’d never hit her again, and he hadn’t. But she knew the anger was there, simmering like a pot on the stove. She had to mind the heat.
He did not meet her gaze when he left. He stepped close and kissed her in a perfunctory manner, told her he loved her and that he’d buy her something very special in Japan. She listened to his hearty good-byes to the children and held herself rigid until she heard the roar of his powerful Mercedes engine disappear down the road.
After he’d left, she felt an inflamed jealousy and might have hurled dishes to the floor like she’d seen in movies, except that her children were home. She fed them a picnic dinner of leftovers and allowed them all the ice cream they could eat while she stared out the window, clutching her arms so tight her fingers left bruises. It wasn’t only because Stratton was traveling with another woman, a rather young but plain and common woman, she thought bitterly. She felt hurt and envy because he wasn’t going with her. His wife. She’d asked to go.
Finally, as the sun began to set, the children skulked off to their rooms, casting worried glances at her over their shoulders and whispering to each other. They knew something was wrong, but she didn’t have it in her to reassure them, as she usually did after a family upset. She didn’t trust herself to open her mouth other than to say a shaken, “Good night, my darlings.”
Only when the house was quiet and the sky darkened did she feel the relief of the familiar steel wall of indifference begin to drop. She was quite skilled at this form of self-protection by now. She could shut and lock this imaginary door of apathy quickly. This wasn’t the first time she’d been suspicious that her husband was fooling around. She wouldn’t be the first wife of a successful man to suspect her husband was chasing skirts. After all, Stratton’s father was well known to have had a roving eye.
Lovie recalled something Stratton’s mother, Linnea, had told her one evening over sherry. They’d been talking about husbands in general, sharing congenial, even humorous gossip. Eventually the conversations had drifted to their own husbands, and along this vein, the mood had darkened.
“Successful men can have large egos,” Linnea Rutledge told her daughter-in-law. She was a slight, graceful woman with graying hair that floated like a nimbus around her head. Her voice, too, was breathless. She spoke slowly, enunciated each vowel and consonant. Lovie knew her to be kind, even otherworldly. Nothing seemed to fluster her. Largely, Lovie suspected, because she didn’t care about anything as much as she did the birds she studied and painted. She identified and painted birds with a passion that consumed her.
“I suppose they need this to succeed. Sometimes, however, a man’s ego demands more than any one woman can satisfy. It’s not love, my dear,” she hastened to add when Lovie had stiffened in protest. “Oh, no. Love is something quite different. Love and marriage are sacred. What I’m referring to is more . . .” Linnea had sighed, frustrated at finding the correct word. “More an easing of stress. A conque
st, perhaps. Men are still such boys in this way. I’m sure there are many different reasons, but never love. So sometimes, with husbands such as ours, it’s wise to look the other way if they have a . . .” Linnea lifted her chin a tad. “An indiscretion. It’s a passing thing. Inconsequential. We,” she said with emphasis, “are their wives.”
Linnea continued, “It is in our nature as women to be strong and yet yielding, like the palm tree in a storm. It bends but it does not break. This is our strength. Why we endure, and have for centuries through unspoken hardships. Southern women should never be brittle. And,” she said brightly, “we have so much, don’t we? Our children, our home, our full lives. And we have each other. We are the foundation of our family. Remember this, Lovie, and”—she sighed—“should suspicions arise, let them remain only that. Look the other way, toward your blessings.” She’d patted Lovie’s hand and said softly, “It’s easier. Trust me, my dear.”
Lovie had followed her mother-in-law’s advice. When she’d first married, she didn’t believe she could have contemplated such an arrangement. Her father had been kind, honest, and true. Lovie couldn’t imagine him ever having an extramarital fling. Or, for that matter, having the energy for one. He’d always worked so hard. But she also knew it was against his nature. Her mother used to joke how she could leave Michael in a room full of naked women and he’d not cheat. Dee Dee, for all her love of being social, was equally chaste. When she dressed up at night, she did so for other women, not men.
So it was hard for Lovie to accept that Stratton could be unfaithful. He made her believe there was something wrong with her—she wasn’t pretty enough, sexy enough, or good enough in bed. Especially as she grew older, had children, and her muscles softened. He’d never said so in words, but he was disappointed that she didn’t want to try certain positions or use erotic toys that embarrassed her to even talk about, much less bring into her bed. She wished she had someone she could talk to about such things, but it was hardly like discussing a new recipe, was it?
For fifteen years, Lovie had looked the other way so as not to see what she didn’t want to see. Was this what some called turning the blind eye? Yes, most likely. Was it cowardly? Perhaps. Yet some days she felt that it took far more strength and courage to do just that, to keep the family going, than to raise a fuss.
So now, hours after Stratton had left, all Lovie mustered was a chilling, apathetic blend of anger and regret.
Later that night, the song of the insects swelled in chorus, a sweet, steady breeze blew in from the ocean, and the wine was chilled. It was a perfect evening for a heart-to-heart with her best friends. Yet Lovie found it hard to concentrate on Miranda’s difficulties with her current painting or Flo’s upcoming plans with Dr. Bingham Wolitzer. Eventually, the table grew quiet while Flo and Miranda exchanged worried glances.
“Okay, kiddo, spill the beans,” Flo told her. “What’s bothering you? Or are you going to make us get you drunk first?”
Lovie wanted to laugh but didn’t have the heart. With these two women, she could be honest and know that her words wouldn’t be broadcast around the island the following morning.
“You know that Stratton is going to Europe,” Lovie began, staring at her wine.
“Yeah. And Japan. He travels all the time now,” Flo said slowly.
“With his secretary.”
Flo’s eyes widened. “No, he is not!”
“Oh, yes he is. I found the tickets in his suitcase. I don’t think he meant to tell me, but there they were. So he blustered right through, going on and on about how he needed to bring her because he was forging new business and he had so many meetings to conduct, new people to meet, follow-ups, et cetera, et cetera. It all sounded plausible enough. Perfectly innocent.”
“But you don’t believe him.” This came from Miranda.
Lovie paused, considering her words. It was all still so fresh. And yet not. These suspicions were hardly new. How could she explain all the doubts and feelings of shame that had whirled in her these past few hours?
“I’ve thought about it at length and . . .” She paused. “I choose to believe him,” she replied.
“You choose to believe him?” Flo shook her head in disbelief. “What the hell does that mean? How do you choose to believe or not? Mama, explain it to me, because I don’t get it.”
Miranda reached out and patted her daughter’s hand. “You’ve never been married.”
“As if that’d make a difference,” Flo sputtered. “And I can tell you right now if that’s what marriage is about, I don’t ever want to get married. Girl, if a man did that to me, I’d kick the old coot in the balls so hard he’d be singing soprano.”
“Flo!” Lovie exclaimed with a shocked chuckle.
“I mean it. Hell, Lovie, where’s your gumption? Your self-respect?”
“What choice do I have?” she cried, stung. “He’s my husband. The father of my children. I’m not going to leave him, so I might as well choose to believe him. I don’t want to know the truth.”
“So you can sugarcoat it.”
“He’d never do anything to embarrass me or the family. He cares for me too much.”
“He cares for his own reputation too much,” Flo fired back.
“Yes,” she admitted. “And his family. And his family name. And, I like to think, my reputation, too.” She sighed. “Oh, Flo, it is what it is. What choice do I have? Please, don’t badger me. Not tonight. I’m trying to hold on to what little self-respect he’s left me. To make the best of it.” She closed her eyes and took a long swallow from her wineglass, emptying it.
Miranda bided her time as the candle flickered between them. “You mean,” she said in a more even tone, “you won’t even talk to him about it?”
“Oh, I’ll talk to him,” Lovie said. “Of course I will. But not now. Not this summer. He’s off to Europe.” She felt her eyes fill with tears and took a moment to tamp down the quick spurt of emotion. She looked out toward her old ally, the sea. The inky sky shadowed the vast ocean, but from the velvety blackness she heard the steady roll of the surf as a friend whispering there, there in a comforting rhythm.
“Do you want to know the truth?” Lovie said at length, turning her head to face Flo. Flo’s face and torso were barely visible in the light of the candle. The darkness made the talking easier. “At some level, I was glad to hear he’d decided to go to Japan. Because that meant he’d be gone longer. That sounds awful, doesn’t it? But it’s true. That was my first thought. I wouldn’t have to deal with him snipping at my heels all summer, complaining about my being gone so much, especially when I started going out to the nests at night, too. I can hear him now. ‘You’re going out again?’”
Flo chortled in the darkness.
“You know I’m right.”
Flo lifted her glass and sipped. “Yeah.”
“You said it first. I’m really free this summer. This project might mean nothing to him, but it means everything to me. And I’m going to do whatever it takes to do it right. Russell Bennett is a great teacher.”
“Even if he is a jerk,” Flo interjected.
Lovie huffed but ignored that comment. Flo was still angry that he hadn’t taught her how to move a nest yet. “Try to understand, Flo,” she said. “For me, it’s like being in graduate school and an internship all rolled into one. I’ll never have this chance again. And what’s more, Dr. Bennett respects my records, my work, and my ideas. This is more than a hobby to me. It’s a vocation. I’m proud of my work. I’m proud of me! Not because I’m Mrs. Stratton Rutledge, or Palmer and Cara’s mother, or Michael Simmons’s daughter. But because I’m Olivia Rutledge.” She laughed. “The Turtle Lady. This work is mine.”
Flo was silent a moment. Then she reached out to fill Lovie’s wineglass and handed it to her. She picked up her own glass.
“I have to say, I’ve never heard you talk like this before. I’ve never heard such conviction. Well, good for you. I’m proud of you, too, sugar.” She raised he
r glass. “Here’s to you. And the best summer ever.”
Later that evening, as Lovie lay in her bed, she felt restless. The breeze stirred the curtains at the window, its salty scent luring her thoughts to the sea—and Russell. He had only been gone for a few days but she was surprised at the emptiness his absence had left in her life.
True, he was a taskmaster. Keeping records had become demanding. Russell wanted more information than she’d ever collected before—the measurement of tracks and description of any similarities like the scraping trail of a barnacle or the lopsided evidence of a missing flipper. He wanted a description of all the field signs, the moving of nests, recording the number of eggs, the success rate, and predation by ants, raccoons, crabs, and more. Yet even with all his demands, his occasional ornery comments, and his indefatigable energy—she missed him.
She reached over to the bedside stand for her sea turtle journal. Opening it, she began to write.
Sea Turtle Journal
July 10, 1974
Dr. Bennett demands that I act the expert I am. He expects the best out of me and pushes me to set higher goals and to believe in my ability to achieve them. This kind of mentorship is, I know, rare. So in the end, with all these records, the turtles have taught me to observe closely, to trust my instincts, and to pay attention to the smallest of details.
A few days later, Flo was beaming. She’d just moved her first nest, and her feet were barely touching the sand.
Lovie let Flo carry the bright red plastic bucket, which had somehow morphed into an honor. Last summer, Lovie had spotted the bucket on her porch. She’d figured that the light weight would make the bucket the handiest carry-all for the sticks, plastic tape, and other paraphernalia she needed for nests. Little did she know it would also be the official transportation for eggs.
Beach House Memories Page 17