Beach House Memories

by Mary Alice Monroe

  His voice broke and his eyes filled with tears. Lovie felt her heart twist in her chest.

  “And Cara . . .” he continued. “Can’t you see what’s happening to our daughter? I tried to warn you about it, but you refuse to pay it any mind.”

  Lovie listened, hearing the frustration in his words, the hint of anger lurking. He was rationalizing again, blaming the incident on her.

  “All I’ve been worried about is coming true,” he expanded. “She’s got a mouth on her and doesn’t know her place.” He shook his head, his lips a tight line. He took a breath, regaining his composure. Then his voice became pleading in tone, cajoling. “She needs her mother’s guidance now more than ever. But how can she get that with you hiding up in that room all the time? The family needs you. I need you. We’re falling apart, Lovie. Can’t you see that? God help me, I don’t know what to do.” He raised his fingers to the bridge of his nose, holding back the tears pooling there.

  Lovie could count on one hand the times she’d seen Stratton cry. The first was at the birth of Palmer. Then Cara. The third was at her bedside, when he’d witnessed what he’d done to her. And now this. Each time, she realized, she was the source of his tears.

  Reaching out, she placed her palm on his chest and patted it as gently as she would her child. “I understand, Stratton,” she said in a low voice. Her energy was waning. She felt her knees go watery at the weight of her decision. “I hear what you’re telling me and I’m taking it to heart. I’m going to the beach house tonight, to ponder all you’ve just said, and all Bobby Lee and my mother said. And I have to listen to my heart as well. I can’t do that here. There’s too much noise. I need a little time to reflect so that when I return, we can talk again.”

  Stratton put his hand over hers and wrapped an arm around her, holding her close. “You go, then,” he said with his lips against her hair. “Then you come home, where you belong. I love you. And I’m sorry.”

  Fall had come to the Isle of Palms. An early cold front brought a chill to the dawn air. Lovie wrapped a favorite patchwork wool and cashmere shawl of muted blues and creams around her shoulders, slipped her bare feet into sandals, and stepped off the rear porch of her beach house out into the still-gray morning. She lifted her nose and breathed in the heavy scent of pluff mud. It was strong this morning, and she smiled, feeling reassurance flow through her blood.

  She was home.

  She carefully made her way along the narrow beach path in the dim light. It was bordered by high walls of sand dunes that were crisscrossed with wildflower vines as thick as kudzu. September had brought two tropical storms that had wreaked havoc on the remaining sea turtle nests. But the heavy rains and the cool air had gifted the Lowcountry with brilliant color. The undulating dunes were blanketed with countless cheery heads of yellow primrose, gaillardia, and the tiny, sensual wild purple orchids she adored. She bent to inspect a primrose, her favorite, letting its soft buttery yellow blossom, damp with dew, rest in her fingertips.

  These seemingly weak flowers had deep roots, she thought. Roots that went so deep they anchored even in the soft sand. Another lesson, she told herself, and left the blossom to the thousands of migrating birds and monarch butterflies that needed its sweetness to survive.

  Her heels dug into the cool sand as she climbed the final, tall sand dune. She heard the roar of the ocean before she could see it. She reached the top and stopped as her breath escaped her. The vista of mighty ocean spread out to infinity to meet the heavens moved her to tears. She stood for a moment as the breath of the ocean washed over her, and tasted its salt. She breathed deep, feeling vulnerable and weak, never needing the ocean more.

  “Hello, old friend,” she said, near tears at seeing its breadth and power again. “I’ve missed you!”

  She walked toward the sea, attuned to its temperament. The storms had ravaged the shoreline, cutting through the dunes and leaving a long line of wrack, a foot high in places. Shells of all kind and size—some magnificent—littered the wrack beside sponges and sea whip. Any other time she would have collected them, but her mind was preoccupied, roiling like the sea.

  She had never seen a more beautiful morning on the beach, she thought with a sense of wonder. A fiercely pale blue sky was covered with a thin layer of pearly gray, wispy clouds, like lace over a gown. The turbulent ocean reflected the gray color, mysterious, even threatening. Yet in the distance, hints of pink fringed the horizon, promising dawn. The tide was going out, leaving a wide watery sheen on the sand that was aglow in brilliant rose reflection.

  Lovie tugged the shawl tighter around her shoulders as she felt the dawning of hope pierce her dark despair. Despite the storms and incessant rain, another day dawned. The tides rolled in and out with the constancy of a metronome. The piercing cry of an osprey drew her attention toward Breach Inlet, where it circled, gliding, searching for a fish. A flock of pepper-and-salt sandpipers ran on skinny straight legs, poking their little black awls into the sand with an urgent hunger. Above, a laughing gull seemed to mock her pensive mood. She half smiled.

  She’d spent the night curled in her bed, the lights out, the porch doors open, listening to the low roar of the ocean as the snore of a beloved. This morning she’d awakened at first light, having slept little but eager to rise, dress, and get to the ocean to see the sunrise.

  The message of dawn was that life went on.

  She looked over her shoulder back at the dune where she and Russell had made love during those glorious days of summer. The sea oats had been young and green then. Now it was fall and they were tall and amber, their long, dangling panicles catching the wind and sending tawny seeds out to colonize the dunes. Life, death, and rebirth, she thought. Beginnings and endings. Nothing remained the same.

  She recalled Russell’s words that they would take it day by day and trust that they would know what to do. This morning, Lovie knew what she had to do. The landscape might be changing around her, but what would never change was her responsibility to her children. Nothing mattered more to her than Palmer and Caretta.

  Stratton didn’t understand his daughter, but she did. Cara’s challenging spirit defined her, and Lovie admired it, treasured it, and, perhaps unknowingly, fostered it. It was a quality Lovie knew she’d had once upon a time but had never nurtured. Russell recognized it. This past summer with him, she’d rediscovered glimpses of that adventurous, independent girl. It was as if part of her—the part she most wanted to be—was gaining strength with each success and each validation.

  Stratton sensed this, he’d sniffed it out from the start, and it threatened him. By ordering Lovie to train her daughter in the social arts, he was reminding her not only of her obligations to her daughter but also of his expectations for his wife.

  But Cara was not her! She wanted to channel her daughter’s independence, not suppress it. If she did, Cara would grow up bitter and angry, a reflection of her father’s worst qualities, as well as her own. Over and over during her troubled sleep she revisited the scene of Cara standing up to Stratton, defying him. She saw again the raised palm a breath away from a strike. That vision haunted her. What had flickered in Stratton’s mind in that millisecond to still the hand? Was it Lovie’s cry? Was it Cara’s crouching in fear? Or was it the moral voice of his conscience?

  Cara’s defiance could be contained only so long. One day, Stratton would push her too far, and her natural rebelliousness would come bursting out in all its fury. Then, Lovie knew, she would have to be there to protect her. No matter what she wanted for herself, Lovie could not leave Cara to live alone with Stratton. After last night, she knew that one day, that hand would fall.

  She had come to the beach house to quiet the noise and to listen, really listen, to the ageless wisdom she’d found here, on the beach, with her old friend. The myriad sounds of the waves, the hope of a new dawn, the castanet trembling of the grasses, the second spring of the wildflowers spoke to her. She understood the language of the changing seasons with the lessons of mig
rating birds and butterflies. Most of all, she heard the voice of the turtles in their constancy, their loyalty to instinct, their commitment to return.

  Turtles had been a constant in her life. She’d forged a bond and made a vow to protect their nests. For nearly thirty years—from Cara’s age until now—she’d protected the nests. She’d stood her ground with her brother. She’d gone toe-to-toe with mayors, councilmen, and now developers. She wouldn’t back down to Russell with the raccoons, and she’d fought Stratton year after year to not sell the beach house. Protecting the nests is what she did. Her vocation defined her.

  Lovie cast a wide, sweeping gaze around the beach and breathed deep with the certainty of decision. She knew who she was, where her history lay, and how deep were her roots. She would protect her nest. It was as simple and clear as that. Her role as a mother was bigger than her personal needs.

  She would be there to raise her son and her daughter, to teach them their heritage, to reveal their Southern roots, to water and nourish and guide them to grow up and to scatter into the world as the adults they were meant to be. There could be no turning back from this commitment.

  Lovie slunk to the dunes and brought her knees close to her chest, wrapping the shawl around herself. Her heart felt lifeless in her chest and tears streamed down her face. She stared out at the sea for a long time as her decision settled in her mind, heavy and somber. Out in the distant sky, the fringe of hopeful pink pushed back the gray clouds, allowing the brilliant blue to fill the sky. Lovie watched the dawn rise and felt none of the usual inspiration from the sight. She was cold, numb to its beauty. To her, today the sky appeared gray. This was, she knew, just the first of a long series of gray days she’d have to endure.

  She rose and walked back across the beach, retracing her own long line of footprints in the sand. At the entrance to the path, she turned and looked once more across the shell-strewn beach that glittered now in the morning light.

  “Good-bye, old friend,” she whispered to the sea. “Good-bye, Russell.”

  Twenty-three

  The Ides of March blew in with a nor’easter. Bitter cold winds whipped the Lowcountry, spitting out icy drops that clung to trees and scattered the early azalea blossoms to the streets. South of Broad, windows were rattling. The sky had darkened so much that lights glowed in the windows at three in the afternoon. Inside the Rutledge house, yellow light spilled out on the floors from lamps but did little to brighten the mood.

  Vivian carried a tray to the guest bedroom of Tradd Street, Lovie’s room now. She knocked gently, then pushed the door open. Lovie was standing at the window, still as a statue in her blue flannel bathrobe and clutching a thick black woolen shawl around her shoulders. Her long blond hair hung loose and limp down her back.

  “It sure is a day to stay indoors,” Vivian said in a cheery voice. “I brought you some nice hot tea to take the chill off. And some of those pimento cheese sandwiches you’re so fond of.”

  Lovie didn’t respond.

  Vivian frowned and shook her head, and set the tray on the table beside the upholstered chair. She wrung her hands in worry. The wind gusted again, shrieking through the windows like bad spirit. Vivian’s dark eyes warily scanned the shadowy room as though she thought there was some voodoo in the air today.

  “Miss Lovie, come away from that window and sit a spell. You’ve been standing there for hours. You gotta be tired.” She walked closer and said, in a cajoling voice, “Please, Miss Lovie. Just some tea. It’ll warm you up good.”

  Lovie brought her lips together. Just the thought of eating made her stomach clench. She knew Vivian was just trying to be helpful. She’d been bringing in all her favorite foods since morning, as though food might be the tonic for what ailed her. Lovie tightened her shawl around her and shook her head. “Just set it down, Vivian. Maybe later.”

  Lovie glanced over her shoulder to see Vivian poking at the logs in the fireplace, stirring up the sparks. There weren’t enough logs in Charleston to warm her today, she thought, returning her gaze to the storm. The boughs of the live oak tree were shaking in the wind, scraping at her window like a ghost. Lovie shuddered and closed her eyes tight, feeling the howl of the ghost swirling in her chest.

  The phone rang and Lovie let out a breath, welcoming the intrusion. She turned to Vivian, who stood unmoving, looking at the phone like a hunting dog pointing out the prey. Lovie had told her that she absolutely wasn’t taking any calls today. Her lips pursed in annoyance as the phone continued to ring and ring. Vivian started wringing her hands again and looked to Lovie for instructions. Whoever it was just wasn’t going to give up. With a sigh, she said, “Oh, go ahead and answer it. But take a message.”

  Vivian practically ran to the phone beside the bed. “Rutledge residence. Oh, Mrs. Simmons,” she said, glancing to Lovie.

  Lovie raised her hands and waved them in the universal signal that she wasn’t here.

  “Miss Lovie isn’t feeling well, Mrs. Simmons. She’s sleeping.” There was a pause, and Vivian rolled her eyes. “The weather is so bad, you might not want to come out just now. I hear the streets might freeze. Yes’m.” Vivian hung up the phone and glanced at Lovie.

  “Mrs. Simmons says she’ll call again later.”

  “Thank you,” Lovie said with a slight smile.

  The chime from the doorbell rang out. “Lord above,” Vivian muttered. “There’s no rest for the wicked. I’ll be right back,” she told Lovie. “See if you can have some tea while I’m gone.”

  Lovie held herself rigid, wondering who could be at the door. She wasn’t even dressed. She’d deliberately not put on clothes so she wouldn’t be able to run out of the house on a whim. Oh, go away, she thought bitterly. I don’t want to see you, whoever you are. I don’t want to see anyone. Except Russell . . .

  Today had been the longest day of her life, and she knew tonight would be equally tragic. She’d prepared for today, not trusting that she’d have the strength to abide by her decision and not run wildly, crazy with joy, to the beach house to meet Russell on their assigned date. March 15 had been so long in coming. She’d been so strong, so committed these past months. When she’d returned from the beach house in October, she’d sat once more with Stratton in the walnut library and told him that she wanted to stay, to try to make their marriage work, for the sake of the children.

  When she remained in the guest room, she’d expected him to rant and rail and demand that she return to their shared bedroom. But he did not. They never discussed the subject, and Lovie believed it was because he was content with their new sleeping arrangements, knowing that she had consented to so much more. Other than that, the family had fallen back into its normal routine. Lovie’s injuries had healed and she was once again active in her home and community. Palmer was more engrossed than ever in his friends and sports but, sadly, not in studies. Cara complained daily about cotillion, but she’d found a few good friends in the drama and debate clubs at school.

  Lovie had managed her days with grace and dedication. Her nights, however, were haunted by dreams of Russell and longing for what might have been. She’d sometimes awaken in the early hours of morning, sobbing, her pillow wet with tears.

  So often she recalled her and Russell’s last night together at their dune. It was an exquisite kind of torture. She’d lain in his arms and made him promise.

  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. If on March fifteenth either one of us chooses to leave our spouse, we will come back here to the beach house. 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?

  He had vowed to abide by the promise, as had she.

  “Oh, stupid, hateful promise!” Lovie cried
, clutching her robe at her heart. Why did she ever come up with such a Machiavellian scheme? They should have said their good-byes that night, as they had planned. To give each other hope was cruel. Instead she’d lived each day dreading the Ides of March. It had loomed before her like a death sentence in her self-constructed prison.

  She began pacing the room, her thoughts running wild. What was he thinking now, she wondered? Where was he? Could he be on his way to the beach house at this very moment? Flying in this storm? What did he call himself? Lancelot to her Guinevere? Where are you? Lovie wondered, going to the window and looking out at the storm. She plastered her hands and cheek against the cold glass, feeling her heart splinter. “Russell, come back for me!”

  Weeping, she sank to the floor and covered her face with her hands. She had to stop crying, she told herself, pulling herself to her feet. She had to hold herself together. She was strong enough to live through this night.

  She looked out the window at the dark storm and shuddered at the sleet splattering at the window and the thin coating of ice forming on the branches. No, Russell, do not come tonight, she told him in her heart. It’s too dangerous. And too late. She thought of the warm days they’d spent together in the summer and hoped that for him their love was a passing fancy, or at the very least a summer love he could forget once the winter’s light made his commitments icy clear. She didn’t want him to suffer as she did, to be overcome with regret.

  The wind gusted and shook the windows, mocking her pain. And yet a part of her hoped he did suffer—bitterly and painfully—as she did. She clung to the belief that despite the pain, what they’d shared was real and not imagined. That regardless of whether they could be together, their love would endure in their hearts and minds for the rest of their lives.