“No, ma’am. We have quite a few rentals around here. Is it oceanfront?”
“Yep.”
“In Pawleys?”
“I believe so, yes.”
“That narrows it down some. Let me get you some flyers that might be helpful.” She walked towards the door and surveyed a library of brochures offering dining, shopping and entertainment options. She pulled a few out and brought them over. “Here’s a few of our more prominent real estate companies. I believe they all manage vacation rentals. If you have a computer with you, you can look up their websites and search for the house. If not, there’s phone numbers and their offices should all be open.”
Leslie smiled. “You’ve been so helpful, thanks.”
She devoured the meal and asked for a refill of Pepsi. Pushing her plate away, she flipped through the brochures and pulled out her cell phone. After three calls, she hit success on her fourth.
“You manage the rentals of The Old Gray Barn?”
“Yes, we do. When were you interested in it, and how big is your group?”
She laughed. “I don’t think I’ll be renting it – I’m traveling alone.”
“Oh my, no,” the woman on the phone said. “It sleeps twenty one. You don’t want to stay there alone, I’d guess.”
“Twenty one! Well, I believe it. We used to rent it every summer when I was a kid, and we had loads of people in there. In fact, that’s why I’m calling. I’m in the area for the first time since I was a child, and wanted a trip down memory lane. I’d like to drive by, maybe stop in and see it. Is that all right?”
“Sure. In fact, it’s not rented this week. We’re doing some light renovations.” She gave the address and Leslie jotted it down on the brochure. She left a few dollars on the table, then jumped up to pay her bill. She made her way to her car with an unmistakable sense of excitement in her heart.
The GPS led her directly to it. Fuzzy memories over thirty years old sharpened little by little as she approached. When the machine announced, “You have reached your destination,” Leslie had no doubt. It had hardly changed with the passage of time. She slowed to a stop, sat on the thin road and gazed at the house where so many pleasant family memories originated, as well as a few unpleasant ones. Her hands tingled as her heart raced with her glee at finding it, unharmed by the many years that had passed.
She pulled into the driveway – still sand mixed with tiny broken seashells. She remembered sitting cross-legged with her cousins on the tiny patches of driveway not occupied by cars, lifting handfuls of sand and tossing them into colanders borrowed from the kitchen, watching the soft, white sand fall through, capturing the seashell remnants in the Tupperware device. Occasionally among the broken pieces, a perfect miniature conch shell rested there, a treasure to be saved in the dormitory bedroom, and hauled back to Pittsburgh at summer’s end.
She left the car and climbed the rustic wooden stairway that led to a wide front porch, now home to a half dozen wooden rocking chairs, and the front door. Not finding a doorbell, she knocked on the old door with her knuckles, waited, then tried again with her open palm. No one answered, but it didn’t deter her. Now that she knew where the house was, she could come back with a request to tour the inside. But the least she could do was walk around to the back and enjoy the gorgeous ocean view.
Back down the stairs, she walked around the left side. There was the outdoor shower, complete with a wooden stall built to provide privacy. As kids, she and her cousins would always use it to hose off sand and salt from their bathing suits and skin before going into the house, but a person could actually take a nude shower with soap and shampoo without fear of being seen. In fact, one of her older cousins, Joshua, did just that – claiming the shower as his own. She remembered his mother, her Aunt Patty remarking that if it weren’t for the novelty of an outdoor heated shower, and the audacity of her teenage son taking a nude shower outside, she didn’t believe he’d bathe all week.
A smile played on her lips as she rounded the side of the house and took in the view she’d been aching to see: the direct access to the ocean. Her heart exploded with joy and she broke into a run toward the water. A path led through a patch of waving sea oats, an oasis of green growth before reaching the clean tan sand. She leaned down to untie her shoes, then kicking them off helter-skelter, and her socks after, she continued her trek to the ocean. When her toes hit the waves, she shivered. June was early for this part of the Atlantic, and it would continue to warm over the coming months of summer. But it was still delicious.
She waded into the water until it reached her knees, then turned to her right and walked the length of two more houses till she reached a twenty-foot line of stacked rocks, a breakwater jetty that on this private beach, had been built every three house-lengths or so, to protect the shoreline from erosion by redirecting the water currents. As children, the adults lectured her and her cousins to stay clear of the jetty. When the waves got big, their small bodies could be thrown uncontrollably against the rocks, causing disaster. Now, as an adult, she stood gazing before turning back.
She strode through the water till she returned to the patch of ocean in front of The Old Gray Barn. Her skin had adjusted to the chill of the water, and she stood still and soaked in the beauty and thrill of returning to such a treasured childhood spot. She closed her eyes and let her most vivid memory of this vacation locale flow through her head.
Leslie and her cousin Margaret had taken a long inflatable raft and made their way out beyond the white water break of the waves. They rested comfortably, Margaret lying on top of the raft with a big toe sticking luxuriously in the water, Leslie’s bottom half completely submerged, leaning her arms and upper body on the raft beside her cousin. They chatted. Leslie didn’t remember the topic of conversation, but she did remember that at that age, she idolized her cousin Margaret with her long, shiny straight black hair, her easy smile and laugh. She was probably trying to impress Margaret with her knowledge of some topic, either real or made up, when suddenly, an electric sear of pain ripped through her leg, around the circumference of her knee. She screamed and kicked her legs frantically. The fire of the pain shifted to her other leg, and she shrieked with shock before breaking into sobs.
Margaret alerted, tried awkwardly to sit up in the plastic raft to help. But soon, Margaret screamed too. Leslie’s and Margaret’s moms, sitting on towels on the beach, stood, gazing out at the mishap in the waves. Leslie’s memory of how exactly she made it in out of the ocean to the sand was unclear, but between Margaret, her mother and her aunt, she made it to the beach, wailing in pain.
When her mom saw Leslie’s leg, her eyes grew wide and her mouth dropped open. “What happened? What did you do?”
Leslie’s tears and sobs continued as her mother took her by the shoulders and dragged her over to the towel. Margaret tried to offer an explanation but no one had any idea what had caused angry red strips of swelled, burnt skin around her knee and down the front of her shins. The same phenomenon appeared on Margaret’s big toe.
She remembered the attention and tender loving care she received later from all the moms and aunts, as well as most of her cousins. Everyone felt terrible about the unknown, unseen sea creature that had attacked Leslie and taken away her innocent joy of swimming in the ocean, oblivious to the dangers lurking there. Although she would return to swim in the waves again, many times, she would never again do it without recalling the searing pain of what was determined by the adults to be the electric sting of a Portuguese Man O’ War the girls had ventured upon in their aimless floating. Leslie’s mother consulted with other vacationers and created a soothing poultice which Leslie wore wrapped around her legs for three straight days. No ocean, sand or sun for her – her vacation took on a completely different tone while she was in her enforced recovery, staying in the shady safety of the house, reading stacks of books she selected from the local library.
“Hello?”
Leslie shook her head, dispensing the vivid memory,
and turned her attention toward the beach. A man stood on the sand, a dark ball cap on his head, waving a hand at her. Leslie waved and strode toward him. As she approached, she saw he was middle-aged, most likely in his early 50’s. By the looks of him, he’d taken good care of himself. Fit and fluid, she imagined he loved the outdoors and had spent a lot of time there. The bill of his cap shaded a handsome face lined naturally from the sun and a lifetime of smiles. His body was tall and sturdy and she thought there probably wasn’t a job he couldn’t do if it involved physical labor and he put his mind to it.
He brought his other hand up to shield his eyes from the sun and she caught the tightening of his bicep peeking from his tee shirt sleeve. His skin, in early June, was already the color she strived for after a summer full of careful trips to the pool with a bottle of SPF 25. “Hi,” she called.
He nodded at her. “I saw your car in the drive, then I saw you in the ocean. I wanted to tell you, in case you didn’t know, uh, this is a private beach.” He dropped his gaze to his feet, then looked back at her face.
His tone was gravelly and masculine.
“My name is Leslie Malone.” She stuck her hand out. He shook it. “I’m visiting here from Pittsburgh. I used to come to this house every summer when I was a kid. I thought it would be fun to stop by and see if it’s changed.” She turned and looked back at the house. “It hasn’t. Not at all.”
His lips curled in a lazy grin. “My name’s Hank. And I’ll take that as a compliment. It’s my job to work on these old beach homes to make sure they stay in good shape.”
“Oh, how interesting. Then thank you for keeping my childhood vacation memories intact.”
His easy expression made her imagine the same attractive smile on a younger face by thirty years. “You’re welcome.”
They stood in the sand for a moment of silence, then Leslie turned to find her discarded shoes and socks. “Do you mind if I come inside for a quick tour? I called the management company and they told me it was fine, since there are no renters this week.”
He shrugged. “Help yourself. I’m working on the back porch. You’re welcome to slip inside and take a look around.”
She followed him up the wooden stairs onto the back porch. He picked up a hammer and resumed his work, reinforcing the porch boards with new nails. She walked through the back screen door and as it slammed shut behind her, she laughed out loud. How many times had her mom or one of her aunts yelled out, “Don’t slam the door!” when she or one of her cousins had entered the house from the beach?
The back door led directly into the great room. It had been refurnished, of course, and a modern flat screen TV sat along one wall, but the room materialized unscathed right out of her memory. On one wall hung four photographs combined into one wooden frame, showing the effect Hurricane Hugo had on the house back in 1989. While surrounding houses were damaged or downright destroyed, the Old Gray Barn stayed intact. The stilts the house sat on saved it from massive flooding, as the ocean waters devoured the beach and rolled heavily under the house. Somehow the jarring winds didn’t destroy the gray frame house. It held its ground, and survived.
Leslie ran her hand over the photos and said a word of thanks to God. She peeked into the parents’ bedrooms off the great room, then into the kitchen where many a simple summer meal was prepared. Then, up the stairs and into each of the dormitory-style bedrooms. Funny, they seemed so much larger in her childhood memory than gazing at them now as an adult.
She sighed and returned to the back porch. Hank was pounding a new nail into one of the floorboards. He stopped when she approached.
“Thanks for letting me in. It really brings back a lot of memories. We had such good times here.”
He nodded. “I’m glad. Pretty cool to meet someone who knew of this house – how long ago?”
She laughed. “Oh my. Thirty five years? Long time ago. And being here brings back so many wonderful memories. Oh, and some not so wonderful ones.” She told him the story of the Portuguese Man O’ War.
“Ouch. Do you have a scar?”
Leslie looked down at her knees, ran a finger across the back side of them. “No, not that I’ve ever noticed.”
“That poultice did the trick, then.”
“Yeah.” She stood, looking down at him as he kneeled. His eyes were the azure color of the ocean, she saw, now that she was close to him. A vivid, amazing blue she could lose herself in, if she stared much longer. Maybe he reminded her of someone. A celebrity? Which one?
Well, now she was making him uncomfortable because he came to his feet and stood there in an awkward silence. She gave herself a mental shake.
“I’ll leave you to your work. I’m sorry for the interruption.” She held her hand out to shake again.
“Actually, I was going to stop for an iced tea. Care to join me?”
“Sure!” She was sure her reply was too quick and too enthusiastic for such a casual invitation, but the thought of staying here with him and sharing a drink made her happy. And being happy around a handsome man was one of life’s pleasures she hadn’t experienced too often lately.
“Have a seat. It’s sweet tea, I should add. It’s the south, you know.”
“Sounds delicious, thank you.”
She sat in one of the wooden rockers occupying the porch and he soon returned with two big chunky glasses full of tea and ice. He removed the ball cap and wiped a strong hand over his face, then back through his hair, damp with sweat. He took a series of gulps and she admired the bobbing of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed. She took a sip of hers, and the tea was so sweet she felt her teeth floating in sugar. “It doesn’t disappoint. Delicious. Did you make it?”
His laughter came out in a self-derisive snort. “No. I do a lot of work in kitchens, but not the kind of work that produces food. Or drink.”
She smiled and sipped again. “So you work for the realty company?”
He shrugged. “Indirectly. I’m an all-around handyman. Had my own business for as long as I can remember. I work on houses mainly, but I’ll do commercial, too. Restaurants, offices. Wherever the work is.”
“It’s great to be so handy. I wish I had some skills.”
He leaned back in the wooden chair beside her and set it to rocking. The wood on wood scraping sounded like it could be a percussion section in a country anthem. “I’ve always been pretty good with stuff like that. You know, putting things together, fixing what’s broken.”
“I cringe when I have to assemble something. I pull out the instructions, read them through, but it’s like reading Greek.”
He laughed. “With experience, you find there’s a certain rhythm to that stuff. A pattern. Once you’ve done one, they all tend to follow the same logic.”
She turned her head toward him. He squinted toward the ocean, making his cheeks ball up in rosy bumps. “Let me guess, you don’t even read the directions, do you?”
He looked her way, his raised eyebrows teasing her with the answer. He shook his head. “Only as a last resort.” He took a long drag from the tea and drained his glass. “These vacation homes are good jobs. They’re generally older, like this one here, so they need a lot of upkeep. And there’s plenty of them.”
“Job security.”
“Yep.”
Leslie stretched her legs out in front of her and crossed them at the ankles. “How big is your company?”
He shook his head. “Just me.”
Something about his clipped response made her look his direction. Frown lines creased his forehead. His glass set on the porch beside him. “Would you like a refill?” she asked. “I’ll get it for you.”
His gaze paused on her face. “Sure, why not?”
She retrieved the glass, bringing it back a few minutes later with fresh ice and tea. As they sat in companionable silence, he took a deep breath. “My son used to work with me. He was more interested in the business side, and he had plenty of ideas of how to grow and expand. But ….”
She wait
ed, the calmness of the ocean waves carrying a familiar, beloved sound to her ears. “It didn’t work out?” Seagulls cawing in the distance filled the gap in conversation. “Sometimes bringing a child into a family business works, and sometimes it doesn’t.”
He nodded. “It worked for a good while. Jeremy was my office manager, promoter, client-getter. He even hired a few more workers so I could be the crew boss, leading the bigger jobs.”
“That’s great.”
He stood and wiped his hands on his jeans legs. “Well, I guess this porch won’t get done by itself, huh? I’m here all week. Long list of jobs to do on this old house. Better stay on schedule.”
Leslie came to her feet. “I can’t thank you enough for the opportunity to look through the house. And for keeping it in such great shape. It looks like it walked right out of my memories. Oh, and for the iced tea.” She lifted her glass, then reached for his. “I’ll drop these off in the sink on my way out.”
As she headed into the kitchen, she added in her head one more thing to thank him for, the first nudging of physical attraction she’d felt for a man in more years than she could count. Although she had absolutely no intention of acting on the urge, it felt somehow reassuring to know she was capable of noticing hormones when they were dancing through her body.
She walked toward the front door and turned to take one last look at the main floor. She startled when she saw he’d followed her to the door.
“Drive safe now. Nice to meet you.” He frowned a moment, then smiled. “Leslie.”
“Yes, you too, Hank.” She stepped onto the front porch and made her way toward the stairway.
“Where are you staying, by the way?”
She shrugged. “Haven’t decided yet. I made it to town and had lunch, then headed straight over here.” She squinted up at him. “Do you have any recommendations?”
“How long are you staying?”
“I know it sounds crazy, but I have no idea. Just following my whim on this trip. Wherever God leads me.”
Pawleys Island Paradise boxset, Books 1 - 3 Page 8