Hatteras Girl (Heart of Carolina Book #3)

by Wisler, Alice J.

  I finished my four years at UNC-Charlotte, worked at The Daily Pulse, all with the consuming desire to come back to the Hatteras area. Charlotte is a fine place if you want to live with traffic, construction, and noise. I don’t want to sound too self-absorbed, but I feel that the ocean has my name on every one of her waves. Except for the violent hurricane waves; I won’t be responsible for those. When I heard that Lighthouse Views was looking for a columnist, I sent my resume to Selena Thomas. The day she hired me, I called Minnie to let her know I was coming back home, at last.

  But Buck pretends that my parents left the Outer Banks and left me. I like to look at it as they came to be with me in Charlotte while I was in school, and then I left them to return to my roots.

  Selena calls me on my cell phone, and to minimize distractions, I take the call outside. “Jackie,” she says as I blink sunlight from my eyes. “Will you pick up paper plates on your way back to the office?”

  “Sure.”

  “Hurry.”

  “Okay . . .” I wonder why paper plates are such an urgent need for my boss. She’s usually good about honoring our lunch breaks without disturbance.

  As though reading my mind, she chirps, “Blackberry cheesecake. It’s from that new deli. If we like it, you can interview the owner.”

  As I head back into the Grille to pay my bill, Selena says, “Oh, and get forks, too. And toothpicks.”

  “Toothpicks?”

  “You never know when you might need one.” She lets out a low laugh and then disconnects me from her in typical Selena fashion.

  13

  Sheerly doesn’t need to know about my date tonight, although I’m sure it won’t be long until she finds out. This is one date she’s had nothing to do with, and although I wouldn’t admit it to her, I am more hopeful because this is not someone she has lined up for me. All day at the office, my mind focused on Davis Erickson.

  I’m taking Zane to Ropey’s. Minnie switched shifts with someone and is at the surf shop until nine, when the store closes. She says after that she’ll pick up her son at Ropey’s.

  At six o’clock, Zane whines as we drive to my uncle’s Sound-side home on Cactus Court. Zane sticks his lower lip over the top one, then yells at me that he wanted to stay at home. I tell him that we don’t always get what we want.

  Ropey greets us, slipping off the porch rocker just as my truck pulls into his driveway. He stands barefooted on the pavement smoking a cigar. Beatrice Lou is out at a board meeting at the library, he tells us. Ropey smiles at Zane and says that the two of them are going to have a great time as I unfasten Zane from the car seat. Immediately, like a ball that bounces off the ground, Zane takes off across the front lawn, running toward the back of the house.

  I yell, “Zane! Get over here.”

  “Kid has a motor that won’t quit,” Ropey says with a puff of his cigar and another smile. He eyes my beige capri pants and heeled sandals. “Who is the lucky man tonight?”

  “We better find Zane,” I say, taking long strides to the backyard. I can’t see or hear the child, and this sends a few extra beats through my heart.

  Ropey follows as we make our way over the recently mowed grass, slivers of it strewn across the driveway and tucked inside the flowerbeds. I look in all directions over the riding lawn mower that is parked near the open garage, and then head into the dark, dank garage in case Zane is hiding in there. I call his name, listen, and, hearing nothing, head out into the sunlight once more. I paste on a smile for a neighbor three houses down who waves, but I don’t see Zane. The Sound and pier are visible, and my heart rockets to my throat. No wonder Mrs. Bailey never wanted us near the water, I think, as the potential danger that lies within the waves grips my insides. I quickly scan the area, wanting to spot a blond-haired boy with way too much energy. I call his name, then walk closer toward the Sound, looking below at the marsh that stretches before it.

  “Zane!” Ropey is by my elbow.

  A barking dog switches my attention to the neighbors’ home to the right of Ropey and Beatrice Lou’s. I know their mutt isn’t fond of children. Aunt Sheerly says that dog once chased a child up the drain spout and onto the roof, but I think she was in an embellishing mode.

  Suddenly, we see a little boy nearing the fence that circles their aboveground blue swimming pool.

  Motioning to Ropey, I march over to the house.

  Zane’s eyes meet mine when I get halfway to him. He yells, “No!”

  “Get back here!” I cry, and that sets Zane running, away from the pool, and zigzagging back toward Ropey’s yard.

  Ropey, his face red and beaded with sweat, storms after the kid.

  “No, no!” Zane flings his arms up and down, propelling himself once more toward the Sound.

  Ropey is slow; the donuts and cigars have not helped.

  Determined to end this charade, I dash ahead of Ropey, my feet twisting out of my shoes. I gain my balance and race to catch up to Zane. Right before he reaches the pier, I grab his arm, miss, and reach for it again. This time my fingers squeeze his elbow. He falls onto the ground, pulling me down. We tumble onto the grass, inches from the swampy marsh, breathing hard.

  “Zane, you’re a bad boy.” I sound like my mother.

  Ropey stands above us, his breath coming in short pants. Removing his glasses, he wipes them with a limp handkerchief. He places them back on, adjusts them, and says, “Got my exercise for the week.” Then he extends his hand, and I take it.

  Standing, I see that my capris are stained with grass. I move closer to Zane, and as I walk, a pain shoots up my right leg. Wincing, I say, “Zane, get up now.”

  “No. I don’t want to.”

  I pull a blade of grass off my hair, brush at a green spot on the knee of my capris. Now I’ll have to go home and change clothes. I don’t even know if I have anything clean; my laundry basket is plump with dirty clothes in my closet.

  Ropey helps Zane up and places his hands on the boy’s shoulders. “Zane, you can’t do that again.”

  “I can! I will!” His words are loud, yet he does not try to squirm away.

  I try a calmer tone. “Zane, you can play with Ropey. Watch TV. It’ll be fun.”

  “I want my mommy!”

  “She’ll be here soon. Just have fun playing.”

  There is a sob to his voice as Zane announces, “I want my daddy.”

  Ropey and I just look at each other.

  “I’m leaving for a little while,” I say.

  “No.” Now the child is clutching my hand, digging his short fingernails into my palm.

  Anger rises to the point that I feel I could snort it out of my nostrils. The mounting pain in my leg consumes me. I push aside my own urge to sob. I grab Zane’s hand and start to hobble toward my truck.

  Ropey gives me a questioning look.

  Forget the date. I feel worse than I did a month ago when Selena tore into my piece on the new barbecue restaurant by the Wright Brothers Museum.

  “Zane, do you like to tie ropes? Can you use a glue gun?” Ropey is treading after us, trying to find a way to make Zane stay.

  “I’m taking him home.” I pull Zane along, picking up the pace.

  “What about your date?” Ropey calls.

  I shake my head.

  At home, I send Zane to his room. After a large glass of iced tea, which cools my dry throat, I call Davis. “I’m sorry,” I breathe. “I can’t be there tonight.”

  “Why not?” Davis’s voice holds concern.

  “Remember Zane?”

  “The boy?”

  “That would be him. He’s got some issues to deal with. He wouldn’t stay with my uncle tonight while his mom is working.” I omit the part about falling into the grass and hurting my leg.

  After another glass of iced tea and three aspirin, I almost call my mother and ask her to FedEx me that bear chair. At this point, I’d like to glue Zane’s little butt to it.

  Maybe Zane is a normal kid and I’m just not cut out for childre
n. Perhaps I should marry someone who doesn’t want any children. We could be happy together and just roll our eyes when other couples’ kids disobey or throw a tantrum. Ours could be the life that looks down on parents who let their children bump into strangers without offering apologies, parents who let their children dribble juice down high chairs in restaurants and then cram crackers into the crevices.

  I call Minnie, tell her everything, ashamed that my annoyance shouts so loudly at her. Her sigh fills my ear through the phone.

  “I’m sorry,” she says. “I hate having to work these crazy hours. Jackie, it will get better, I promise. Once we own the bed and breakfast, everything will be better.”

  When she gets home at nine twenty, I’m in my room eating a bowl of Cocoa Puffs. I’ve let Zane eat a bowl in his room, as well. Minnie walks into Zane’s room and firmly closes the door.

  Davis calls me later when I’m almost asleep. The sound of his voice calms the rough edges, hemming me in. “We’ll go out another time,” he says. “There’s a great Italian restaurant in Arlington.”

  “Arlington? As in outside of D.C.?”

  “Yeah, it’d be fun to go there together one day, don’t you think? My parents took me to northern Virginia a lot as a kid.”

  I try to imagine him as a child. I wonder if he raced across lawns or had to spend time in a bear chair. “Do you want children?” I ask. “I mean, ever?”

  “Kids are better when they belong to you. Someone else’s are rarely fun.”

  “But do you want kids?”

  “Not right now,” Davis says, making me laugh.

  The next day my leg smolders with pain and I’m still annoyed with Zane. I’m mad at Minnie for having to work all the time and for needing me and others to take care of her child. Above all, I’m fed up with Lawrence for dying and leaving behind such a mess.

  “God, why do these things happen?” I ask as I stand in front of the bathroom mirror, keeping my weight off my aching leg, and brush my teeth. I suppose that ultimately I’m frustrated with God for not stopping Lawrence’s boat from being capsized and for not moving the motor just a little bit before Lawrence hit his head on it. Why couldn’t Lawrence’s arm have hit the motor instead? Or he could have missed the motor altogether, as his fishing partner, Dek Brimmer, did. Both men then would have been able to signal for help, and when the Coast Guard barge found them in the midst of the giant waves, they would have had complete relief, not despair that one was not going to make it.

  There are those who say God can do anything, and I believe it. I’ve never doubted that He hears our prayers, even the selfish and lame ones. Ever since I was little I’ve held awe for God. “He made the sea and all that’s in it,” my Sunday school teacher told our first-grade class.

  But today I do not understand how God can stand all the chaos and confusion in this world and not be so overwhelmed that He would just want to weep, and then step down here to gather his people and cradle us all the way home to heaven.

  14

  Bert slaps his computer while Cassidy mixes soy milk with a ginger and avocado paste. She says that the infomercial claims this concoction curbs the appetite and makes skin softer. Maybe it’s as miraculous as my mother’s ginseng.

  I’m in the middle of writing a list of what I’m grateful for, thinking that it might help me deal with the anger and frustration that have taken hold of me. On four lines I write Mom, Dad, Ron, and Minnie. I place the names of all my Hatteras relatives after them. I toy with writing Zane’s name. Then I see Minnie’s face when she holds him, the light in her eyes and the way her smile spreads over her cheeks whenever he kisses her. I suppose I’m grateful that he makes her happy. I add Zane’s name.

  I lean back in my chair and turn on my computer. I have to admit that writing the list did help. Another point for Dad, king of the lists.

  Bert asks if I know where his stapler is. “Did you borrow it?”

  “I have my own,” I say.

  Distress lines his face; I let him borrow my Bostitch.

  He doesn’t say thank-you because he’s aggravated that he can’t find his. He continues to search under stacked notebooks and folders on his desk. Soon he’s peering under his desk, but all he finds today are three paperclips and a dried-out highlighter.

  Right before noon, Davis calls to ask me out for this Friday. Bert hears portions of the conversation, even though he acts like he’s occupied at his computer. When the call ends, he says, “So I take it the interview with the realty man held more than what we see written in your article?”

  I give him a Mona Lisa smile.

  He responds with a sour look. I wonder if he’s still upset over his missing stapler. Rising from his desk, he makes his way over to me. “You know,” he begins, lowering his voice. “About this Rexy Properties man. I hate to break it to you, but—” He’s interrupted by his own ringing cell phone.

  Staring at my computer screen, I wonder what he wanted to tell me. His voice sounded concerned.

  When the call ends, he’s rushing out the door. Excitedly, he says, “Got an interview. Selena’s going to love this.”

  “With whom?”

  “That family from Vietnam that moved here last month. They’re opening up a new restaurant on a ferryboat. Very posh.”

  “Maybe we’ll get invited to the grand opening,” I muse. One time Mom’s Vietnamese friend in Charlotte had our family over for spring rolls and steamy noodles in a tasty broth, sliced scallions dotting the surface. Suddenly, I’m hungry.

  Bert’s last words come out quickly. “They want to use the profits to save the whales.”

  I interview regional storeowners; Bert’s job with the magazine is to write features about history, facts, and events taking place around the Outer Banks. At times, he’ll talk to old-timers on their back porches, gleaning history about the region. He actually doesn’t mind spending time swapping stories with Casey Luweigneson, but he brings his own beer, not favoring Casey’s selection. Bert’s good at what he does, I think, as the tires on his ancient Chevy sputter gravel, heading out of the parking lot. Even if he can’t keep up with his stapler.

  At five thirty on Friday, I’m trying to decide what to wear for my evening with Davis when Aunt Sheerly calls. A light wind blows through my open bedroom window. Alone at the duplex, I’ve turned off the air-conditioning and let freshness seep in. I smell grass, just cut. The sweet scent of wild onions sashays through the screen as birds call out to each other in the distance and a cat responds with its own cry.

  But Sheerly does not add softness to the enjoyable scene. Desperation sucks the life out of each word as she exclaims, “How could I have forgotten? How in the world did I let this happen?”

  “What?” I’m suspicious because this is how she reacted when she left her tomato pie in the oven too long, fuming with disgust at its burnt edges.

  “Lord, help me.”

  “What did you forget?” I ask. Mom and Dad’s anniversary isn’t until November. Sheerly’s daughter, Mary Rose, who lives in Asheville, was born in May. My birthday is a month away. None of my other relatives have birthdays around this time.

  “I am really getting old.” Sheerly lets out a sigh as I wonder which pair of shoes to wear. The black ones with heels add two inches to my height, but Davis is over six feet, so that would put us at about the same height.

  “Why is it that getting older takes years off your life?” This line is one my aunt often repeats. No one has ever given her an answer for it. “Forgetful, forgetful,” she chides.

  Gradually, I find out what is making her fret. She’s forgotten that today is the annual songwriting competition in Kitty Hawk, her favorite event of the whole year.

  Quickly, she lays out why she’s called. “Jacqueline Cate, I need to ask you to watch the salon for me this evening.”

  Immediately, I think that she should ask one of her employees, like Minnie. But my aunt, as if reading my mind, reminds me that it’s Minnie’s day off, and Minnie and Zane are
visiting Irvy. My aunt doesn’t realize she’s asking me to break another date with a man who could be The One.

  As I stare at a scruffy pair of tan sandals at the bottom of my closet, I hear Mom’s voice in my head: “Family do these things for each other. Family do, and not expect anything.”

  I can and have dismissed my mother’s voice, but this evening the word that comes into my mind—no—never makes it to my mouth. Instead, I say, “I’ll be there to help out.”

  “Jacqueline Cate,” my aunt says, “you can help me celebrate.”

  “Celebrate what?”

  “When I win!” My aunt is giddier than Minnie or I ever were as teenagers. I ask what song she’s going to be singing, but she’s already hung up.

  She’s dressed in a pink blouse and white slacks and waiting in the parking lot of the salon when I pull up. I open the door of my truck to get out, and she’s instantly by my elbow saying, “Now, the UPS delivery hasn’t arrived yet, but when it gets here, can you restock all the boxes? We might be inspected next week, so can you clean a little? Just make sure the floor is swept and dust off the hairdryers.”