Beach House Memories

by Mary Alice Monroe

  “Thank you, Cara. I don’t think there’s anything we need to worry about. Palmer’s probably just upset about the teasing.”

  “That’s what I thought,” Cara said, reassured. “There’s no such things as ghosts, are there.” She made it sound like a statement, but Lovie heard the girl’s need for reassurance.

  “No, silly,” she said, putting her arm around Cara’s shoulders and giving them a gentle shake. “Now go on and finish setting the table. We’re going to have a wonderful meal.”

  “Palmer will be sorry.”

  Lovie watched her daughter bolt off toward the kitchen, free of the burden of her secret. Lovie rose and immediately went to her desk and opened the turtle journal. She flipped through the pages, checking the dates. Her fingers stopped on Monday, August 19. She read the entry, then closed her eyes, placed her palms flat against the table, and leaned her weight against them.

  She remembered that night well. On the evening of last Monday, she and Russell had walked the beach of Sullivan’s Island to check the few nests there as an addendum to the final report. The moon and stars were particularly bright, they’d commented on it. There were only four nests, and when they were finished checking them they’d exited the beach and walked to the parking lot to their separate cars. Not seeing anyone, Russell had kissed her good-bye.

  Lovie straightened and closed the journal, remembering the expression of her son’s face when he turned to look at her at the bottom of the stairs. His blue eyes were roiling with the fire of resentment and the iciness of anger. She shivered and held the journal to her breast, thinking of the young boy she’d once held close to her heart and of the young man who had just turned his back on her.

  She and Russell had parked their cars in the lot at Fort Moultrie.

  Eighteen

  It was Labor Day weekend, the farewell holiday of summer. For Lovie, September loomed with the same dread as the hurricane roiling somewhere out in the Atlantic. This final weekend at the beach house was a time for good-byes.

  Stratton was due home from Europe on Monday and expected his family back on Tradd Street to greet him. Her beach house was packed up, ready to close tomorrow. She’d said her good-byes to friends. The turtle project’s farewell party included promises to continue the project the following summer. Most of the volunteers had already left for points north. Tonight was her last night on the island this summer, and her hardest good-bye was the one she had to say to Russell Bennett.

  Lovie lay in Russell’s arms on the faithful red-and-black checked blanket that had served them well over the past weeks as they lay together on the dunes. Countless stars put on a dazzling display in the heavens. The beach felt otherworldly, bathed in the harvest moon’s silvery light, revealing the untrammeled sand of low tide. Even the ocean had diminished its roar to serenely roll in and out, murmuring whispers of constancy along the shoreline. The air was still, as though the night were holding its breath, waiting, watching to see how the final moments of Lovie and Russell’s summer would end.

  Their lovemaking had been both tender and desperate. Now, in the aftermath, Lovie felt a calm that was born of resignation and acceptance. She had no more tears left. She didn’t want to think of her life without him. She had a lifetime to endure that reality. Tonight Russell was here, in her arms. That was all she had, and it had to be enough.

  This is how I’ll always remember him, she thought. She closed her eyes. She would make a picture of this moment in her mind. She committed the sensation of his hand idly stroking her hair, his musky scent, the sound of his heart beating in his chest, to her mind so that on nights to come, after he was gone, she would have these memories to hold on to.

  “It’s getting late,” he said.

  Her heart stopped. “No, it’s early yet.”

  “We should go.”

  She sighed and held him tighter. She heard the rattling of the tall, dry sea grasses stirring in the wind and the scuttling in the sand of a ghost crab. “I promised myself I wouldn’t cry again.”

  He took his hand from her hair and played with her fingers on his chest. “My darling, I don’t want you to cry. We knew this day was coming.”

  “That doesn’t make it any easier.”

  “No.”

  “It’s all so heartbreaking and frustrating,” she said against his chest. “I feel helpless, and I don’t like that feeling. I’m just going along with the plot as written, like some character in a tragic story of star-crossed lovers. We’re no better off than Romeo and Juliet.”

  He brought her fingers to his lips, kissing them. “I don’t think I like that example. They died, you know. Perhaps Lancelot and Guinevere?”

  “You’re trying to make me laugh. It won’t work. Besides, I don’t want to be a nun.”

  He pressed his lips to her palm. “Better than burned at the stake.”

  “Lancelot rescued her, you know.” She clutched his shirt. “He came back for her.”

  His hand tightened around her hair as he pulled her head down so their foreheads touched. His whisper was tortured. “Don’t you know leaving you is the hardest thing I’ll ever have to do?”

  “Then don’t.”

  He kissed her then, and it sparked a violent passion. All reason and resolve was cast aside as they clung to each other with the final desperation. He kissed her face, her body, telling her he loved her, would love her always. When they made love a second time, Lovie held tight, reluctant to let go, knowing that she would never again find a love so true, so pure.

  Russell rose up on his forearms to stare at her face as though memorizing each detail. He lifted his finger to wipe away the tears from her cheek.

  “Olivia,” he said in a husky voice, “I love you. I’ve never loved anyone the way I love you and I know I never will again. Come with me.”

  “Don’t say that,” Lovie said. “You know I can’t. That you can’t. We both knew that we’d have to end this at the end of the summer.”

  “I never promised that. We never said the words.”

  “But it was understood,” she said, weakening.

  “I’m asking you now. I’m saying the words. Come with me.”

  “Russell, how can I?”

  “Move with me to Florida. Bring your children. We’ll be a family.”

  “But Russell, we never intended to break up our families. Think of the scandal. Not just for us, but for our families. How can we do that?”

  He shook his head in dismay. “Olivia, I know it will be hard. But what else can we do? We can’t continue like this. Neither of us. We have to decide. We either both leave our families and be together, or we say good-bye tonight.”

  Lovie clung to him, feeling the finality of the words. She couldn’t let him go. Not tonight. It was too soon.

  “Russell,” she said, bringing her hand to his face. His breathing was heavy and he appeared stricken. She moved to sit upright on the blanket. “I have one idea.”

  He moved to join her, sitting cross-legged. His unbuttoned shirt hung open, exposing his finely muscled chest to the moonlight. “Tell me.”

  She reached out to take his hand. “I know we understood that we’d leave here tonight and never see each other again. We decided to do the right thing and go back to our families. Neither of us wants to see anyone hurt. But I keep asking myself: What if this love we have is our destiny? Do we have the right to deny it? And why do we have to? Are we willing to give up everything we possess, even our honor, to be together? To start a new life together?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Wait.” She brought her finger up to his lips. “Don’t answer now. This decision is too big, it carries too much weight not only for us but for those we love to answer quickly.” She paused, gathering her thoughts. “I propose we make a promise. We will wait six months. Time enough for us to return to our lives, to cool our heads, and to think through all the ramifications of our decisions. Carefully and deliberately. There must be no contact until the six months are over. None
at all. No pressure of any kind.”

  Lovie counted on her fingers. “September, October, November, December, January, February, March. If in March—the Ides of March—if on March fifteenth either one of us chooses to leave our spouse, we will come back here to the beach house. If I come and you are not there—”

  “No, that won’t happen.”

  “Shhh . . . Or if you come and I am not there, there will be no recriminations, no anger, and no hatred.” Her lips trembled. “Russell, don’t let there ever be hatred between us.”

  “Never.”

  “If either of us chooses not to show up, then the other will never call again. We will abide by the decision, no matter how hard it may be to accept. Are we agreed? Oh, please say yes!”

  “Yes,” he replied, his eyes kindling with hope. “Absolutely.”

  Lovie felt her heart spring back to life. “And if we both decide to come that day to the beach house?”

  He gave her a wistful smile and smoothed the hair from her face. “We may never know if our decisions were right or wrong. That is the uncertainty of every choice. If we both show up, it will be a new beginning. If one of us does not, it will be an end. Lovie, I can’t predict what the future holds, but I can promise you this: Whatever decision you make, I will always love you.”

  Lovie felt like waltzing along the beach path as she made her way back to the beach house. She felt the moon’s silvery light on her shoulders as her toes dug into the sand that was gloriously cool. She felt buoyant inside, her hope rising in her chest like helium, making her feel dizzy with joy.

  She knew she would keep that date with Russell. It all seemed so easy now. She would return home to settle her affairs with Stratton. A divorce would cause a scandal in Charleston, her family and friends would never forgive her, but she was willing to risk that. She would take Palmer and Cara, and they’d live somewhere else with Russell. Florida, first. And if he traveled, they would go with him. Who knew where? What did it matter? Wouldn’t the children love that? She would ask nothing from Stratton but her freedom. He could take the house, the furniture—he could have it all. That’s all he wanted, anyway.

  She felt so free. Her heart was aglow with light. Her hair flowed freely down her back. She lifted her arms and twirled in the sand, laughing, feeling the weight of her decision lift from her shoulders. She felt brave and confident, once again the young girl who had made it to the Point. The girl who bought her own car. The girl who kissed in the waves. Her path was clear, she thought, as she danced home.

  She saw her pale yellow beach house perched prettily on the dune. The wild grass, yellow primroses, and gaillardia blanketed the earth and sand that rose and fell in an undulating pattern. She would miss her dear cottage, she thought with a tug of her heart. Perhaps someday she could return, after the scandal died down. She would return like the turtles, every few years, arriving under the cloak of the darkness. What changes the hatchlings must face when they return home to the beach of their birth after twenty-five or thirty years. What would Isle of Palms look like in ten years, twenty, thirty when the forest was gone and the resort was finished and more and more people moved in? Would it still be her quiet little island?

  She couldn’t worry about that now, she told herself as she walked up the porch stairs. She had enough changes to handle right now. The future would take care of itself. She had so much to do to leave the day after tomorrow. She wondered when Stratton would arrive home. How would she tell him that she was leaving him? She chewed her lip in thought as she set her canvas bag on the porch floor, then slipped off her sand-crusted sandals and shook some of the sand from her clothes. A mosquito hummed at her ear. She swatted at it, not wanting the pest to come inside. The door creaked as she swung it open.

  Lovie’s mouth froze open in a silent gasp when she saw Stratton sitting in the wide, cushioned chair with a glass of scotch. He stood and set the drink on the table when she entered the room.

  His face was pale with restrained fury, and his eyes were dark. His shoulders were hunched, his meaty fists were clenched at his sides, and he was panting through his mouth, like a pierced bull about to charge. Lovie held tight to the doorframe, in part to steady herself from the shock of finding Stratton here at the house, tonight, and in part because she was a breath away from running.

  That one second seemed to last minutes as a million thoughts raced through her mind. What was he doing here? Why was he so angry? Oh, my God, what time was it? Uppermost was relief that she’d come home alone. Russell had wanted to walk her back but she’d refused and said her good-bye at the beach. Surely he couldn’t know about Russell, she thought in a breathless panic. How could he?

  He knew.

  It was the way he looked at her, his dark eyes narrowed and his teeth showing like one of his hunting dogs when it catches the scent. And it made her very afraid.

  “Stratton! You’re home.”

  “Where were you?” he ground out through thin, white lips.

  She forced a look of innocent surprise on her face. “Why, I was at a turtle nest. I go out to check on them most nights.”

  “All alone? So late?”

  “Of course. I do it all the time. It’s quite safe.” She feigned a relaxed attitude, but her voice sounded tinny and high. She brushed a bit of sand from her shorts as she moved into the house. “What a surprise to see you home at last! I’m sorry I wasn’t here to greet you. I would have picked you up at the airport. Did you have a good flight?”

  She was babbling. She had to stop herself. Flo’s words came back to haunt her, You’re a terrible liar. Lovie raised her hands to pull back her wild hair. Her hands shook as she pulled the elastic from her wrist over her hand to make a sloppy bun. Bringing her hand down, she noticed that her Tiffany diamond and wedding band were off her finger. Her eyes darted to his, and in that second she saw that he’d noticed, too.

  He lifted one brow as his gaze bored into hers. “Where’s your ring?”

  “Oh, I never wear that big ol’ thing to the beach. It collects too much sand and I’m afraid I’d lose it when I dig . . .”

  “Who is he?” His voice was low, like thunder, and his eyes flashed like lightning.

  Lovie’s heart hammered as she stared into the dark abyss of his eyes and instinctively knew this was a turning point. She had to trust Russell and their love enough for honesty. She had to find the courage. If she was going to tell him the truth, now was the moment. Come what may.

  Her eyes darted around the room. It was just the way she’d left it a few hours earlier. Tidy, everything in its place. Too perfect. She had the numb feeling she often got right before a hurricane hit. It all could disappear in an instant. In a breath of time, all she loved and treasured could lie scattered and irreparably broken. She looked up again at Stratton’s eyes. He took a step forward.

  “Who is he?” he repeated. He spoke in a low voice, but it resonated in her body like thunder.

  She took a breath, and in her mind, she ran.

  “Who?” she replied. Even as she spoke, she knew she was damned.

  It all happened so fast. He swooped down upon her like a hurricane.

  “Who is he?” he roared, grabbing her shoulders and shaking her.

  She felt her head whip back and forth, like a branch in the fierce storm’s wind. Lovie was shaken, afraid, but still she refused to tell him. Some instinct told her never to mention the name.

  Stratton released her with a disgusted shove. “Tell me, goddamn it!” he shouted, and swung his arm.

  She felt the sharp sting of his hand against her cheek and fell back against the desk with a muffled grunt. She held up her arms protectively over her head. “Stop!” she begged him. “Stratton, no!” But her cries only seemed to urge him on. Her defiance was like oil on a flame. He screamed at her to tell him the name, hitting her each time. He asked her many times. Her wails rose up like the cry of a wounded animal and she tasted blood on her lips.

  Her hair sprang loose from its hold. He
grabbed a fistful and yanked her to her feet. The pain exploded in her head.

  “Tell me his name, or by God I’ll kill you,” he shouted at her. His face was inches from her own, and she felt the heat of his breath and smelled the stink of drink. When she didn’t speak, he bunched his fist, reared back his arm, and landed a punch against her face so hard her world exploded in white. She went sprawling over the desk, then tumbled in a heap to the floor. The desk, her papers, the lamp all came crashing down around her. She knew she was hurt, she could feel something was very wrong. Moaning, in a panic, she tried to crawl away from him, she needed to get away from the source of pain.

  The door flew open, and from the corner of her eyes she saw Flo burst into the room. She ran to Lovie and stood in front of her, wide legged. All Lovie could see were the bottoms of her rose floral pajamas. Craning her neck, she saw that Flo was carrying a baseball bat.

  “Don’t you touch her!” Flo screamed at the top of her lungs. She stood glaring at Stratton, wielding the bat threateningly.

  “Get out of my house,” he shouted back at her.

  “You’re the one who’s leaving. Now! Get the hell out before I call the police.”

  Stratton stood, breathing heavily, but reason slowly returned to his face. He looked at Lovie for a long moment, then again at Flo.

  “You’re her best friend,” he said bitterly. “Suppose you tell me what’s been going on this summer.”

  “I’m not telling you squat.”

  “You’ve just told me all I need to know.” He teetered as he waved his hand in disgust. “And you’re protecting her? I had a right to be angry.”

  “A right? You have no right to hit a woman like this. For any reason!” Flo shouted at him. She was so angry her chest heaved. “Now get out of here. Go on back across that bridge. You hate being here anyway. Go on! We don’t want you here, you wife-beating son of a bitch.”

  Stratton staggered forward, Flo raised the bat, and Lovie cringed.

  The door opened again and Miranda rushed in, her long pale orange hair flowing wildly down her scarlet Chinese silk robe. She stopped short when she saw the overturned furniture and Flo standing with a bat confronting Stratton before a huddled Lovie.