Beach House Memories

by Mary Alice Monroe

  Lovie slammed her car door, hating the old rust bucket that had failed her. She felt her cheeks flame with each step as she walked toward Russell’s two-story cinder-block house, painted a color somewhere between salmon and peach. It was the second home of a friend of the mayor’s and made available to Russell for the summer. It was a choice piece of property, ocean side with long, rolling dunes to the beach. But the front yard was a scrubby patch of sand, weeds, and wild grasses.

  She made her way along the narrow cement walkway that went straight as an arrow to the front porch, which was, in kind, a dreary slab of cement. No potted plant, no hanging fern, no decorative front mat broke the dry monotony of the neglected entryway. Sand piled up under the doorframe where Russell’s sandals were left. Even the door was dusty, with spiderwebs at the corner. Lovie rang the doorbell and waited, but there was no answer. She tried again and waited, peeking in the window, but the curtains prevented her view. When no one came, she wondered if the doorbell was broken. She knocked twice, harder each time.

  At last, there was a shuffling of feet behind the door and then it swung open. Russell was wrapped in a towel, dripping wet and obviously just stepping out from the shower. “Olivia!” he exclaimed. His face reflected his surprise at seeing her, then quickly changed to pleasure.

  Olivia flushed to see his broad bare chest and his wearing only a towel. “Oh, I’m sorry to bother you,” she stammered, trying to avoid looking directly at him.

  His smile slipped to reveal concern. “No bother at all. What seems to be the matter?”

  “It’s so embarrassing, but my car won’t start. I meant to take it in to the garage. Looks like I shouldn’t have waited.”

  He tightened his hold on his towel, gave it a quick hoist up. “I’ll just get dressed and we’ll take a look. Come on in.”

  Lovie followed him in, appreciating the immediate coolness and the relief of being out of the glaring sun. For all that she complained about Stratton’s need for air-conditioning, on this blisteringly hot morning she appreciated the closed shades and blissful artificial chill.

  “I apologize for the mess,” Russell said, quickly picking up a pair of trousers from the back of the chair and a pillow from the floor. “I’ve got about three projects I’m working on simultaneously.”

  “I’ll just make a call and get out of your way.” She was embarrassed to catch him unawares.

  “No hurry. Use the phone. It’s right there on the desk. I think there’s a phone book there, too, somewhere under that mess. I’ll be down in a flash.” He raced up the stairs.

  She’d been in his house back in June when she’d helped set up the program. Other than more books and more mess, the place looked pretty much the same. The rental house was typically furnished with moderately priced furniture meant to look beachy: rattan sofas, palm-printed fabrics, bad art of beach scenes and sailboats. The walls were white and the floors were a neutral brown tile, pleasant but boring. She thought she’d find it hard to stay for the whole summer without adding personal touches and color.

  Russell Bennett, it appeared, couldn’t care less about style or color. Only work seemed to matter. Every spare flat surface was covered with books, tilting piles of overflowing manila folders, science magazines, and dirty dishes and coffee cups. The dining room had been changed into a makeshift office. An enormous poster of the island hung on the wall. It was marked with colored flags that indicated the nests. Cheap metal file cabinets had been added, as well as movable bookshelves. Someone smoked, too, she thought, noticing the filled ashtrays, and wondered if it was Russell or Bing.

  She used the phone to call home. Palmer answered and she explained why she was held up. She was looking in the phone book for the number of the local garage when Russell returned downstairs.

  “Can I get you some water?” he asked.

  “Yes, please. And an aspirin? I’ve got a headache blooming.”

  Noises of cabinets opening and closing and water running came from the kitchen.

  “Here it is,” he said, coming up behind her carrying a glass of water. He handed her two aspirin and she accepted them gratefully. “You’re probably dehydrated. You’ll have to be careful to bring enough water in your backpack, especially on these hot days.”

  Lovie nodded, swallowing down the aspirin. “Thank you.” She drank the water thirstily.

  “Did you eat today?”

  She shook her head. “I try to grab something before I leave, but I stayed in bed a few extra minutes this morning.”

  “You should eat. You’re getting thin.”

  She was surprised that he’d noticed. She had been losing weight, but it wasn’t intentional. She was simply running around so much she sometimes forgot to eat. She pulled the elastic from her hair and released her braid, removing the constriction from her aching head.

  “You also look exhausted.”

  “I am a little tired.”

  He took her glass and refilled it. Then he gave her a banana from a selection of fruit on the kitchen counter. “A little potassium would do you good, too. And here’s a salt shaker. Sprinkle some on your palm and lick it. It’ll help restore your balance. You eat while I go out and take a look.”

  She ate the banana with her eyes closed and rubbed her temples. A short while later Russell returned, shaking dust from his pants with one hand and studying a green liquid on his other.

  “Bad news, I’m afraid. There’s an enormous puddle of coolant under there. It’s bad. If it was just leaking a bit, I’d fill it with coolant and follow you to the nearest station. But this car’s not going anywhere. You’ll have to get it towed.”

  “Towed? Oh, Lord. That could take hours.”

  “Prepare yourself. It’s the water pump. I just hope you haven’t damaged your engine. You might have quite a job on your hands. It could be awhile till you get your car back.”

  “But I have to have a car. I’m alone here.”

  “You could rent one.”

  She nodded, bringing her fingertips to her temples.

  Russell grabbed the phone. “What’s the name of the station on the island?”

  “The Isle of Palms filling station.” She handed him the scrap of paper she’d written the number on.

  Russell smirked. “Of course.”

  “They’re good,” Lovie replied, scrunching up her lips from the salt. “Ask for Pop.”

  The tow was arranged in short order. “He’ll be here in fifteen minutes.”

  “I feel like such an idiot,” she said.

  “Why? Because your car broke down? It happens to the best of us.”

  “Perhaps it’s a sign. The car has over a hundred thousand miles on it. I’ve been thinking about getting a new one, but Stratton says it’s still got a lot of life left in it.”

  “I notice he’s not driving it,” he replied. “How do you feel about it?”

  “It’s been a good car.”

  “But do you like it enough to keep it?”

  “No, I hate it!” Then a reluctant smile eased across her face. “But it does have a lot of life in it, at least as far as memories go. I’ve driven everywhere in that old beast—car pool, to church, back and forth from the beach house to the city, to the children’s recitals, graduations, games. And countless turtle nests over the years. That car has been true blue. It’s just getting old. And it did try to warn me . . .”

  “So you’ll fix her up and keep her?”

  “To be totally honest, I’ve been longing for a smaller car, something sporty and easier to park for the island. I admit I’ve been a little jealous of your Jeep. Maybe it’s time for me to look around a bit.”

  Russell rubbed his jaw, then reached out his hand to her. “Come with me.”

  “Where?” she asked, surprised.

  “Are you up to going back out for a little while? How’s your headache?”

  “Better. But . . .”

  “Can the kids spare you for a bit longer?”

  “I already called them. Th
ey’re fine. Cara’s at Emmi’s and by now Palmer’s at McKevlin’s surf shop.”

  “So we’re good to go.” Grabbing his keys, Russell opened the door, and Lovie stepped out into the piercing wall of sun and heat. Suddenly, she heard a high-pitched voice.

  “Hello! Lovie!”

  She turned to see a tall, broad-beamed woman in a bright orange flowered Hawaiian muumuu and matching orange floppy hat walking toward them. Beside her was a short, wiry man with a leathery tan and fisherman’s cap. He walked with a rolling gait like he was still on a boat.

  “Hello, Ada,” Lovie replied, cringing inside. Ada would stop you in the street and chat forever.

  “Why, you’re the last person I expected to see here,” said Ada, drawing near. Her large blue eyes slunk from Lovie to Russell in scrutiny.

  Lovie plastered her hostess smile on her face. “Ada and Wally Blair, allow me to introduce you to Dr. Bennett. He’s come to conduct the turtle research project here on the island. Surely you’ve heard about it?”

  “No, no I haven’t,” she replied, eyes still on Russell. She looked like she was going to gobble him up for breakfast. “But we’ve only just got here. We’re a little late this year.” She looked at Russell and asked pointedly, “You’re staying in Hank Harrison’s house, Dr. uh, Bennett, was it?”

  Russell stood with his hands behind his back. “It is, and I am.”

  “Then we’re neighbors. Isn’t that nice? Wally, we won’t have a house of screaming kids or drunks next door to us this summer.” She smiled sweetly, then asked, “I don’t imagine you’ll have too many wild parties?”

  “No, ma’am. I’m the quiet type.”

  Lovie thought the old harridan almost looked disappointed.

  “So, you say you’re working on a project for sea turtles?” she asked. “Which one is that? I swear, I’ve never heard of a turtle project on Isle of Palms. Lovie, don’t you just walk the beach all on your lonesome? What do they call you? Oh, yes.” She smiled sweet as sugar. “The Turtle Lady.”

  Russell’s lips tightened and he didn’t reply. Lovie could tell he wasn’t about to, either. She sighed inwardly and launched into a quick description of the project, then had to bring Ada up to speed on the potential sale of the northern portion of the island. Her husband, Wally, stood as still as a bird dog with his eyes fixed on the ocean. Beside her, Russell wore the polite expression of attentive boredom.

  “Mercy, that’s a lot of news. I suppose that’s why you two had so much to catch up on—off the beach, that is.” Ada waved her hand in front of her face. “Isn’t it hot?”

  “Exactly,” Russell interrupted. “Mrs. Rutledge is expecting a tow truck. Her car broke down in this heat after the turtle patrol. I’m sure you don’t want to stand in this sun any longer than you have to. You’ll excuse us. A pleasure to meet you both.”

  Without waiting for their response, Russell took hold of Lovie’s elbow and guided her away from the Blairs.

  “Thank you for that,” Lovie said sotto voce. “We could’ve been stuck there all morning.”

  “She’s insufferable,” Russell said. “Her innuendos were about as subtle as a sledgehammer.”

  Lovie hoped that Ada would be peeking from her window to witness the tow truck. Surely that gave her an excuse for being seen coming out of Russell’s house midday. Mercifully, the tow truck arrived a few minutes later and, after a quick discussion, towed the station wagon off to the garage.

  “Okay, hop in. I’ll take you home. But first, I want to show you something,” Russell said, guiding her toward the Jeep.

  Lovie looked over her shoulder at Ada’s house. As she suspected, she saw a hand holding back the curtain at the front window. “It won’t take long, will it?” she asked, buckling up.

  “Depends,” Russell replied with a wink.

  They drove only a few blocks to the town’s shopping strip. Instead of turning in, Russell crossed the street and parked the Jeep beside the big PALMS MOTEL sign.

  “Here we are.”

  “Russell,” she began, and cleared her throat. “What are we doing here?”

  “I want to show you something. It’s right over there. Really, how long can it take to look? Come on.”

  Lovie puffed out a plume of air and pushed open the door. She walked around the Jeep and spotted a small, gold VW bug with a red store-bought FOR SALE sign in the windshield.

  “It’s the car we saw in the street,” she exclaimed. “The one with all the flags.”

  “Right. I saw it again the other day with the FOR SALE sign, so I followed it.”

  Up close, she saw with some alarm that the gold paint contained a faint glitter that sparkled in the sun. But the cream-colored canvas convertible ragtop was adorable. Inside, the car had a matching cream-colored leather and snazzy black trim. It was old but in surprisingly good shape.

  “I already checked it out. It’s in amazingly good condition with very low mileage. It’s hard to believe, but it’s actually owned by the proverbial little old lady who only drove it on occasion. She bought it on a whim and had this custom paint job done. She kept it in the garage most of the time.”

  “With that glittery paint job, I can see why. How much does she want for it?”

  “Take a look at the sign.”

  Lovie walked closer and bent over the hood to peer at the price. She raised her head, incredulous. “You’re kidding?”

  “I know! It’s a steal. I don’t even need a car and I thought about buying it for Pippi.”

  “Oh,” she said, slightly disappointed. “Then you should buy it.”

  “No, you should. Pippi probably wouldn’t accept a car from me right now. Besides, you desperately need a car and you just said you had in mind something small and sporty. I admit, the paint job is a little, well, over the top, but mechanically it’s sound. One of us should buy it. And soon. She just put it out last night and it’ll go fast at that price.”

  Lovie stood back and looked at the car through the eyes of possibility. It might be a tad embarrassing to drive a sparkly gold car, but on the other hand, it had a certain je ne sais quoi that was appealing. It was small, it would be easy to park by the beach access paths, and with the ragtop down she’d be opened to the outdoors. It wasn’t a Jeep, true, but it was decidedly more feminine. Easier to handle. And the price was right.

  “Stratton might get angry at me for making an impulsive purchase,” she worried aloud.

  “Don’t you have pin money, or mad money, or whatever you call it tucked away somewhere?”

  Lovie drew back her shoulders, feeling a prick of pride. “I have my own money.”

  “Well, then?” He leaned against the front hood and crossed his arms. “It seems to me it’s your decision, then, isn’t it?”

  Lovie swallowed. She realized she’d never considered the money she’d brought to the marriage as her money. Stratton had always taken charge of their finances. He was very good with money, and it was the way it had always been done in her family. He’d put her on a budget and went over the bills carefully. In fact, she thought of the money as his money. But at the very least, it was their money. And he was off to Europe, she thought, feeling the old anger rise up once again. He didn’t consider her opinion when he bought something, like that big black Mercedes he’d brought home from Germany last year.

  “Yes,” she replied, “it is my decision.”

  “Well, this car has personality. If you take it, you’ll need to give it a unique name.”

  “You mean something to make all that glitter pretend to have a purpose?”

  “Exactly,” he said with a chuckle. “How about Lucille?”

  “As much as I love Chuck Berry, that’s not what I was going for. It’ll come to me.”

  “Then you want it?”

  She felt a bubble of excitement and nodded. “Yes.”

  “Good decision. Let’s call the number and settle the deal right away, before someone scoops it up from under us. And then,” he added, “I thi
nk we need a night off. No nest is imminent and we’re both tired.”

  She walked around the car, letting her fingertips slide along the golden steel, grinning, feeling a little of its gold sparkle sprinkle on her.

  Sea Turtle Journal

  July 22, 1974

  The 300-plus-pound loggerhead has a powerful shell over 3 feet in length. Although sea turtles cannot withdraw their heads into their shells, the adults are somewhat protected from predators by these great shells.

  There is always the worry of gossip, especially in a small community. But the turtles have taught me to develop a hard shell against gossips, naysayers, or those who want me to fail.

  Thirteen

  Lovie couldn’t remember the last time she’d slept past six or got to bed before eleven with sand still in her eyes that no shower ever seemed to wash away. There was enough sand at the bottom of her shower stall for a sandbox. Turtle duty for July was round-the-clock; the turtles were kicking butt.

  And Lovie couldn’t have been happier.

  She and Russell spent so many hours together. They were comrades more than colleagues. He’d seen her sweaty and coated with sand with her arm shoulder-deep in a nest, scratched and bloodied by brush, her hair a tangled mess, even her teeth unbrushed.

  She rolled out of her gravel driveway in her sporty new car and drove along Palm Boulevard, enjoying the soft growl of the engine, the breeze in her hair with the top down, and the easy pace of the morning. Her gaze wandered to check the ospreys’ nest on the platform that her pal Clay Cable had set up on Goat Island, just for her. Last year the nest had been marauded by a hungry great horned owl. It destroyed any eggs that were there, and the bereft parents flew off. For Lovie, it was hard to accept that nature was survival of the fittest. Or, as Clay had said, “Honey, the owl has to eat, too.” Ospreys were site loyal, however, and Lovie was relieved when the lovebirds returned in February to try again. Clay and Lovie were hopeful that the young osprey couple would have better luck this year. The two small heads she’d spied in the spring peeping over the rim of the nest were now as large as their parents’.