Beach House Memories

by Mary Alice Monroe

  Lovie eyed her child and thought her sullenness went too deep for boy trouble. “What else is troubling you, Caretta? Come on, you can tell me.”

  Cara dangled her legs and stared at the cookies awhile. “Then why’re you so sad all the time?”

  Lovie breathed deep. Yes, she thought to herself. This is the thorn that needs pulling. “Because my friend died.”

  “I know,” she said, dangling her legs. “In a plane crash.”

  “Yes. Do you remember him? Dr. Russell Bennett? He was the man who helped me with the turtle project last summer.”

  Cara looked at Lovie, squinting like she was trying to remember him.

  “He took you to the nest hatching . . .”

  “Oh, yeah,” Cara answered.

  Lovie thought it was sad that Russell could already be forgotten, then thinking further, she was relieved that he didn’t make a big impression.

  “Is it hard when a friend dies?” asked Cara. “I mean, it’s not like a brother or your daddy or like that.”

  Lovie moved to sit on the limb beside Cara. “Yes, it’s hard,” she answered in a soft voice. She leaned close to Cara and lay her cheek on the top of her head, feeling comfort from the closeness. “It can be very hard, if you cared for your friend a great deal.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Like if Emmi died?”

  “Yes,” Lovie replied, “like if Emmi died. There’s an empty space in your heart.”

  “But you have other friends,” Cara said, trying to make sense of it. “And you have me and Palmer and Daddy. And Vivian.”

  “I know. And having you means so much to me. But that doesn’t make losing a friend less sad. It’s like some part of you is missing, and it hurts.”

  Cara thought about that, her face scrunched up in thought. “Mama, what do you call it when someone loses a leg but it still hurts?”

  “Do you mean ghost pains?”

  “Yeah, that’s it,” she said. “Is that what you’re feeling now? Ghost pains?”

  Lovie turned to kiss Cara’s head, marveling at a child’s perspicacity.

  “Yes, dear. Mama’s having ghost pains.”

  For three days Lovie remained in her room, hiding her grief. She’d rather her children think she was sick than in mourning. Hers was a private grief, not one to show in public. Flo took over for her on the turtle team, telling everyone Lovie wasn’t feeling well. Whether they believed the excuse or not, Lovie didn’t care. She was beyond the reach of gossip.

  Only at night did she come out, like the lifeless vampire, a walking-dead thing. She sneaked out her bedroom porch to the beach and walked for hours, crying openly, cursing the stars and staring out at the sea.

  Some people believed that the sea was a living, breathing beast. Seductive one moment, vindictive the next. Throughout history, sailors spoke to her lovingly, sensitive to her mercurial moods. Lovie knew it was true, and there were moments when she looked into the blackness of the ocean, as dark and fathomless as a spectral eye, and heard its voice calling to her, a voice that sounded like Russell’s, luring her to the mysteries and peace of its depths. On those infinite nights, Lovie didn’t know from where she found the strength to find her way home.

  As the Fourth of July weekend approached, Lovie eschewed the crowds. She couldn’t leave her cocoon, even while recognizing that she was being self-indulgent with her grief, thanks to Vivian’s support. She was in her room, curled in an armchair, trying to read while listening to Joan Baez, when she heard Stratton’s voice in the living room. She set down Archie Carr’s book and turned off the phonograph. Perched on the edge of the chair, she listened to any words she could catch outside her door.

  “Where’s your mama?” Stratton asked.

  “She’s sleeping,” Palmer answered.

  “Sleeping, huh?” Stratton said with a slur. “We’ll see about that.”

  Lovie tensed and slunk back in her chair. She heard Stratton’s heavy footsteps approach, then a scurry of more steps stopping at her door.

  “What’s the matter with you, boy?” Stratton said. His voice sounded weary and annoyed.

  “She’s sleeping,” Palmer said again, his voice shaky yet gruff.

  “I heard you the first time and I don’t care, hear? Now, git.”

  “No, sir. I’m . . . I’m going to stay right here.” He cleared his throat. “I’m going to make sure Mama doesn’t fall down the stairs again.”

  Lovie’s breath caught and she brought her hand to her mouth.

  She clutched the arms of her chair, ready to leap, imagining father and son staring at one another. She couldn’t imagine what Stratton was thinking but felt sure his hand would rise and fall, smacking her son’s face for his impudence.

  “Aw, son,” Stratton said in a miserable voice. “You shame me. And I deserve it. I know it. I’m not going to hurt your mama. I promise you. I’ll never hurt her again. You have my word.”

  A moment later Stratton entered her room and closed the door. He stood at the foot of the bed dressed in his tan suit, his tie loose at the neck. His shoulders drooped in defeat.

  “You’re here early,” Lovie said. “I didn’t expect you until the weekend.”

  “I canceled my appointments and flew home early. I, uh, I heard about Bennett’s plane crash.”

  Lovie brought her knees up and plucked at some unseen lint on the chair. “Yes. It’s all very tragic. We were all stunned.”

  “I thought as much. I wanted to get home and see how you were. You didn’t answer my calls.”

  She sighed and shook her head. “I’m sorry. I haven’t been feeling well.”

  Stratton removed his jacket and tossed it on the bed. Then he sat on the mattress with a heavy sigh.

  “Was it him?” he asked.

  Lovie brought her fingers to her face and pinched her nose by her eyes. “Stop it.”

  Stratton stared at the floor. Then he brought his hands to his face as his shoulders shook.

  Lovie felt a sudden surge of pity. “Stratton . . .”

  “What more do you want me to do?” he asked in a broken moan. “I’ve done all a man can do,” he said, shaking his head. He lifted his head to face her, his dark eyes pulsing with resentment. “I stuck to the marriage when you broke the vows. That’s more than most men would do, I can tell you. By all accounts I should have divorced you long ago, but I didn’t. I stayed by you. I tried, Lovie, I tried.”

  “Why didn’t you let me go?” she cried, her own anguish breaking through at last. “I didn’t ask you to hold on. I didn’t want you to. I asked you for a divorce but you wouldn’t let me go. Why didn’t you let me go?” she cried again.

  “I was saving our family!”

  “No. You were saving your pride!”

  “You left me with precious little of it!” he roared back.

  “And you left me none at all!”

  They stared at each other, breathing hard, each feeling excruciating pain.

  Lovie rose and walked to the French doors, opening them wide. She felt the cool evening air blow in, smelled its sweetness, and gradually her heart rate lowered. What was the use of fighting? she thought as the malaise of depression returned. Lovie knew there would be no winner in this fight. Both of them would bear scars that would never completely heal.

  “All this pain could have been avoided,” she said. Lovie skipped a beat to let the tension defuse. She turned to face him again. “Even now . . . This was your moment. You could have shown compassion, shared as an equal in the pain of this failure we call a marriage. You could have asked me for my forgiveness and let me ask for yours.

  “But you stand there in your pride and arrogance to once again remind me of all my failures and faults. How I betrayed our vows. How you were the rock while I floundered. How, against your better judgment, against your very nature, you have lowered yourself to save our marriage, to save our family.”

  “I did all I could,” he replied, stunned and confused by her outburst. “I am the rock of th
is family. Are you denying that we were fine until you had your affair with Russell Bennett?”

  Hearing him speak Russell’s name aloud took her aback. She sucked in her breath and looked directly at him.

  “The trouble in our marriage began long before last summer. Russell was not the first affair in our marriage. We both know it, even if you don’t admit it.”

  Stratton averted his gaze, but there was agreement in the faint nod of his head. It spoke volumes to Lovie.

  “This is not what either of us signed up for. Stratton, I loved you when I married you. But I didn’t know what real love was. I was following the life that was laid out for me by my mother, and her mother. It was what was expected of me. I dare say that was the same for you. We are not the same young, naïve, guileless people we were then. Why do you still want to go on?” she asked him. “Do you think we can? After all this?”

  “Yes,” he replied firmly, with typical bravado. “You’re still my wife. We’re still a family. I won’t let it all go. I can’t.”

  Lovie looked at her husband, listened to his words, and understood all. I won’t let go.

  Every man had his breaking point. For some, it would have come with the admission of an affair. The loss of face would have been all it took for a vain man to boot a woman out of the house. For others, the loss of something that was his, or worse, having someone else take something he treasured from him, was an act that a controlling man could never allow. Stratton fell into the latter category. If she looked at the situation through his eyes, it was simple. She was his. The children were his. He claimed everything, and his ego couldn’t conceive of admitting defeat.

  To be fair, she knew this about him when she’d married him. She’d relied on his strength and determination to build her home. He was her sole support. She depended on him.

  She looked at her husband’s face and saw the years they’d shared in the lines that coursed down his face and gathered at his eyes and in the gray hairs that blended with the brown. She had her gray hairs, too, she thought. Lord help them, there was no villain in this marriage. There was blame enough to share. They’d married so young. They hadn’t yet realized that they were not the best match. Lovie approached her husband and reached out for his hand.

  “It won’t be the same,” she warned him. “We have to set new boundaries. We can never go back to where we were.”

  He sighed and looked at his hands splayed across his thighs. She instinctively knew he looked at his wedding band. “So,” he said, his voice low with defeat, “what are these new boundaries you need?”

  Lovie returned to her chair and crossed her legs Indian style, her mind racing. She wasn’t prepared for this discussion. Not yet. She ran her hands through her hair, pushing it back from her face, and looked at her husband.

  “I don’t know all the answers,” she began. “But I do know what I need. And that’s my summers at the beach house. My work with the sea turtles is nonnegotiable. It’s important to me, and more, it’s important to the turtles. I must be here early May. And I will stay until the last nest emerges. I’ll manage with the children’s school schedule somehow.”

  “I won’t see you for months.”

  “You’ll be traveling during this time anyway, Stratton. This schedule works for us.”

  He pursed his lips and met her gaze, measuring her resolve. This was a man known for his power of negotiation. She stared back at him, unbroken. She had come too far to retreat now. He must have seen her determination because he nodded in agreement.

  “Will you be returning to our bedroom?” he asked pointedly.

  Lovie’s whole body stiffened at the thought of sharing his bed. “It’s too soon to make that decision, Stratton.” Then, remembering another discussion at another time, she added, “Let’s take it day by day and see where we end up.”

  Stratton’s shoulders drew back and he looked out for a long while at the sea. Lovie didn’t press him but waited as tense as a cat curled on the chair.

  “All right,” he replied at length. “I can start with that.”

  Lovie’s muscles uncoiled, and she moved one step closer to truce. “Those are the conditions that I need, Stratton. But I ask only one thing.”

  He didn’t scowl or get angry, as she thought he might. Rather, his face was open, willing to hear her. She took heart.

  “Stratton, we need counseling. I’d like us to talk more and to really hear what we’re saying.”

  He shook his head obstinately. “I won’t go to therapy.”

  “It’s marriage counseling,” she clarified. She pressed her hands together and spoke calmly and deliberately. “Stratton, I’m afraid of your anger. I can’t live in the same house with you, afraid you’ll strike out at me, or our children.”

  “It kills me to hear you say that. I’m so sorry I struck you, Lovie. I’ll never strike you again. I swear,” Stratton said with urgency.

  “If I didn’t believe you, I couldn’t go back. But my fear is still there and it will take time. And there are other issues,” she said, choosing not to throw his drinking and infidelity in his face now. “I know you have your issues, too. Please, Stratton.”

  He reached far forward across the distance between them to take her hand, so small in his. Then he patted it. “If it brings your forgiveness, we can try.” He half smiled. “And see where we end up.”

  She returned his smile. “Yes, Stratton. We can try.”

  He placed his other hand over hers and held them tight, his thick gold band catching the last of the day’s light. He bent to kiss her forehead, sealing their pact. Then he released her hands, rose, and went to the door. Opening it, she caught a glimpse of Palmer’s and Cara’s faces peering in before they quickly darted back. Stratton looked over his broad shoulder and offered her a ghost of a smile.

  After he left, Lovie walked across the room and leaned on the doorjamb, peering out. She saw Stratton sitting on the front porch with Palmer and Cara on either side of him, talking. She rested her cheek against her hand, breathing in the sight. She watched him leave, her heart beating as softly in her chest as the wings of a dove.

  “I’m going to take a walk,” she told Vivian, then ventured a tired smile. “I need to think. Don’t wait dinner for me. I’ll be late.”

  Twenty-five

  Lovie walked the beach and wrapped her patchwork shawl closer around her shoulders. In the distance, a lone cargo ship cruised toward a port far across the ocean, its line of red lights bobbing like lightning bugs. At her feet, a ghost crab skittered across her path. Breach Inlet was a tempest tonight, whitecapped waves churning in the dangerous currents.

  She approached the turnoff for the path to the cottage. To the left was the small dune. She had not had the strength to return to it, nor the desire. She stood at the foot of the dune, as a summer full of memories flitted through her mind, one more vivid than the next.

  Their last night together had been a night very much like this one. Sultry, with a full moon that spread its silvery light across the sand. The stars ahead were dazzling, the air so still it had felt otherworldly.

  Olivia.

  Lovie went still. She heard Russell’s voice in her head, calling her name. She felt the hair on her neck tingling and felt suddenly afraid. Was she losing her mind? Was her grief so desperate? But it had sounded so real . . . She waited another moment, listening intently, but heard only the gentle roar of the surf.

  She shook her head, clearing it. She was tired, she thought. Imagining things.

  “Enough,” she said to herself. No more fears. Tonight was a night for decisions and reconciliation. She had to claim her life back, not only for her own welfare but also for that of her family.

  Putting one foot before the other, she began to climb the dune. It was such a small dune to hold so many memories, she thought as her heels dug into the cold sand. It was wreathed with green vines and dotted with clumps of strong, unyielding sea oats, the roots of which went deep, holding the dune firm. This was whe
re she and Russell had spread out the red-and-black checkered blanket and held each other while listening to the roar of the surf and the sea oats rustling and the beat of each other’s heart.

  She reached the top of the dune, awash in memories. Every year the dunes altered in configuration with the ravaging wind of winter storms. But her little dune persevered, she thought, letting her gaze cross the gentle contours of sand.

  Her attention was caught by a small red flag sticking out from the sand. It was the same kind of flag that she and Russell had used to mark the false crawls during the project. Curious that the flag was way up here, she walked closer. A nest had never been laid here. It didn’t make sense for a flag to have been planted on this dune. Who would have put it here?

  As quickly as she had the thought, she knew the answer. Lovie’s deadened heart felt a spark of life. Russell would be just this clever. She dropped to her knees and began to dig, like a dog on the scent. Every fiber in her being was on alert as she probed deeper, faster, the tiny shells in the sand scraping her tender skin and the sand pushing under her nails. When her fingers hit metal, she wasn’t shocked.

  Lovie pulled a small tin box from the hole and brushed away the sand. With a twinge in her heart, she recognized it. The box was decorated with perforations in the metal. It once had held shells on her back porch. Her heart beat harder in her chest as the realization of what this all meant bloomed in her thoughts. With trembling fingers, she opened the box with reverence.

  There was a letter. The paper was fine and slightly yellowed from age and the elements. She opened it. A breeze caught the edges as she tilted the paper in the moonlight to read. She immediately recognized Russell’s slanted, elegant penmanship.

  March 15, 1975

  My darling Olivia,

  I don’t blame you in the least for not coming to meet me. I know better than most the complicated bonds that tie us to our responsibilities. Yes, I confess I had hoped that you would come. I waited at the beach house all night, masked by the dark like the thief that I was, hoping against hope to steal you away.