Hatteras Girl (Heart of Carolina Book #3)

by Wisler, Alice J.

  “Actually, I have my own example. I really wanted to get into this art school about two years before I started working at the Grille. I applied and waited. But when the acceptance letter arrived, my heart had done some changing so that being molded by God was far more exciting than the acceptance.” He reaches for his drink.

  “Okay . . .” I’m not sure where Buck is going with this topic.

  He takes a sip of his chai as I wait for what he has to say. “I changed in the meantime. The thing that was so important to me when I first wanted it wasn’t as vital when it happened. God had changed my heart in the process.”

  I wonder if that’s how it’ll be with the Bailey House and me.

  “I liked the art classes,” he says. “I can see how I needed them to make me a better artist. But it turned out that what I asked God for over and over wasn’t the right thing for me after all.”

  I think of Minnie’s sorrow and her prayer for one more day with Lawrence. “How do you think God stands this mess we’ve made of the world? Do you think He wishes He could deliver us all out of it?”

  “He did,” says Buck. “He sent Jesus. Remember?”

  “I know that.”

  “He died to set us free from the bonds of this life.”

  “But why do we have to continue on, then?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “How many more generations have to carry on before God says, ‘Enough!’ How many more car and boat accidents?”

  “I don’t know, Jackie. I don’t think anyone can know that. But there’s a lot of good in the world, you know. You have to look at more than just the bad news.”

  I think of Minnie, crying alone in her room. Zane, a boy without a father to raise him.

  Buck glances at his watch and stands. He surprises me by reaching for my hand. “Ready?”

  “Is it time to go?” I take his hand and let him help me to my feet.

  “Well, we should make a run for it. The sun is coming out.”

  I look through the window to see the road glistening under a sun streaming through a cluster of bright clouds. People who took shelter in the souvenir shop across the street are filing out into the day.

  “Besides, I have to be at work in ten minutes.” His sigh is deep.

  “I thought you liked your job.”

  “I do.” Genuinely, he says, “But I hate that we have to end.”

  “Buck,” I say with feeling, “I’ve loved talking with you.”

  I hope he believes me because I do mean it.

  30

  When I get back home, Bo, our neighbor in the adjoining duplex, is sweeping his deck and blasting his music. He lifts his head, his thick black hair splaying out like a feather duster. I greet him and then enter my front door.

  I shut our door and then hear Bo’s voice. “I’ll turn it down for you, Jackie.”

  “Thanks, Bo,” I call as the volume from his stereo lowers, causing “Smoke on the Water” to now be only a mild vibration. In the kitchen, I pour a glass of iced tea.

  I settle in to imagining what it will be like to pack up this duplex and move into the Bailey House, but another thought nags at me: What if Davis changes his mind about giving me the property?

  If he and I were to break up, he could decide I’m not the best renter for the house. What if Vanessa suddenly said she wanted it? Would he tear up the papers he’s given me to sign and hand the property over to her? Quickly, I call him. The phone rings four times and then I get his voice mail. I try to make my tone cheery as I leave a message. “I want to come over to your office with the signed lease papers. Let me know when a good time will be.”

  Earlier today, as she was making her bed and asking Zane to make his, Minnie asked why I have yet to sign the papers. I told her that it was so final, so real—in a good way, of course—yet once I signed, there would be no backing out. I would owe a huge amount of money each month. It’s funny how we dream and hope and then sometimes when the dream is about to come true, right there within reach, we get scared, wanting to cower or wait.

  Thinking of my conversation with Buck, I form a prayer to God, wondering why I haven’t been asking for His guidance more often. I can hear my mother cry, “Jackie, you ask God for wisdom and He gives. Just like Bible tells me so.”

  I lie on my bed and read two chapters of the Manex Jethro biography Davis loaned me. When my cell rings, hope fills me. But it’s not him. Aunt Sheerly tells me she’s organizing a fundraiser.

  “It’s going to be next Saturday. The group wants to do this. Can you make it?” Her voice is expectant; she wants an answer now.

  When she refers to “the group,” I know she means All That Glitters Is Gold. But I’m not sure why she wants me at her fundraiser. “Next Saturday? What time?”

  “The Rose Lattice at seven. I think we’ll be able to raise a lot of money for the Bailey House.”

  “A fundraiser for the bed and breakfast?”

  “That’s right. It’s our usual night to sing there, so there will be the local crowd. We’ll advertise and see if we can get more people to come. I’m going to see if folks will donate some items for an auction.”

  “Wow, this sounds great.” Given the opportunity, my family can really get things done.

  “I’ll be handing out fliers here at the shop and at Tiny’s store. Beatrice Lou has some posters she and Aggie made for the library. We can invite everyone.”

  When I put my phone back into my jeans pocket, I feel grateful that my aunt wants to raise money to help Minnie and me make renovations on the house.

  I call Minnie to tell her the good news.

  “Have you given the papers to Davis yet?” She sounds just like she did this morning.

  “No, but I will.”

  “Has he given you a key yet?”

  “No. He will, though.” I wonder why my tone sounds so defensive.

  “I’m anxious to go inside again.” Then she tells me she has to help a customer and hangs up.

  31

  I make my signature as flamboyant as I can and force a smile. This rent with the option to buy agreement is a dream coming true. So why do I feel so tense about it?

  I head to Davis’s office to give him the signed contract so that he can add his signature to it. When I didn’t hear a reply to the voice message I left, I called him today. He answered and said to come by anytime.

  When I walk into his office, my stomach does a flip as I see that Vanessa is there. She’s wearing a beige dress with a white collar and a necklace of rubies. Her dress looks like it was made for her to model. No amount of makeup or tailoring will ever make me as beautiful as this woman. I wish I had at least put on dress pants, but I’m in a pair of worn denim capris and a large Breakfast at Andrew’s T-shirt. The shirt was a promotional tool—the owner of the restaurant gave a box of them to our staff about four years ago.

  Davis smiles, but my heart feels like someone has poured vinegar over it. Even so, I return his smile over Vanessa’s silky head. He looks at her, then walks from his desk over to me. He gives me a hug, and though I hope for a kiss, there is none.

  Taking the signed papers in his hands, he lays them on top of his desk.

  “Add your signature and it’s final,” I say. I wonder why my voice has to crack now.

  Davis studies the pages, flipping through them over and over again.

  “Is something wrong?” My mouth feels as if I’ve swallowed sand.

  Vanessa straightens the gold pendant on her necklace. Her perfume lingers like a bad omen. For a second, I think she might shout, “I want the Bailey House! Let me rent it!” And then it would all be over for me because I know in my heart that Davis would choose her.

  I avoid her eyes as Davis picks up a pen. I only breathe after he signs in two places.

  “I hope you will be happy with the house,” Vanessa says when Davis has finished. “Seems like a huge undertaking.” She crosses her legs; her skirt exposes a toned thigh.

  I look at Davis. “D
o we need to get it notarized?”

  “Nah,” he drawls, “it’s all good.” He waves his hand between us. “We don’t have to be so formal about this.”

  “Okay.” My smile feels weak. “Do I get a copy?”

  “Did you bring a check for the first payment?”

  I’ve been so intent on the contract that I forgot about the required check for the first month’s rent. I find my checkbook at the deep end of my purse, open it to a blank check, and scribble in the amount.

  When I give Davis the check, he points out, “You didn’t sign it.”

  My face burns with the heat of embarrassment even after I sprawl my signature across the bottom line.

  Within minutes, he has made copies of the documents on a Hewlett-Packard printer that sits behind his desk.

  “See you later,” he says as he hands the copies to me.

  Leaving the office, I feel like I’ve done something wrong. I reflect on the words we exchanged and conclude that I said nothing out of line. Clutching the pages, I walk to my truck.

  I saw the way he looked at her.

  Inside my truck, I turn on the air-conditioner, and with each wisp of cool air that blows through the vents, disappointment mounts. The Bailey House is legally mine to rent, and right now all I can do is ask questions. What is she doing in his office if she says it’s over? How can he tell me that she’s just an old friend?

  When Minnie calls, her pleasure at hearing that the house is ours diminishes my worries. We talk about how much our room rates should be, and she agrees that omelets and banana bread would be a fine first breakfast to serve.

  I drive through the minuscule town of Salvo and see the shop with the crooked sign: Ocean Floral. A week ago, Buck asked me to stop by here and talk with Kelly. That same day, he asked me to promise to get an inspection of the property before signing anything with Rexy Properties. Since I failed with the inspection suggestion, I will at least try to find Kelly.

  The scent of flowers is strong when I open the door with a tinkling bell. The store’s interior feels damp, but the colorful flowers dazzle the floor and shelves.

  At the counter, a woman in a floppy white hat arranges yellow roses and baby’s breath in a glass vase. Using shears, she clips off the end of a stem and a few stray leaves.

  “Hi,” I say. When she acknowledges me, I add, “I’m Jackie Donovan.”

  She gives me a tiny smile, her round face and cheeks showing youth. “Hi.”

  I wonder why Selena hasn’t suggested that we interview the owners of this shop. I note the bins of white daisies and zinnias. As I think of how pretty vases of each would look on the tables in the Bailey House, I ask if the store delivers.

  “Yeah, we do.”

  “Are you Kelly?”

  She nods, the hat bobbing like a buoy. “And you’re from the Lighthouse Views, right?”

  “I am.”

  Softly she says, “I recognized you from the photo of your staff.”

  I watch her continue with the arrangement. I didn’t think anyone ever looked at the photo of our staff that is in each issue of the magazine.

  “You wrote the article about Davis Erickson.”

  “Yeah. Do you know him?”

  Hesitantly, she says, “My husband and I rent from him.”

  “Oh, so do I. I mean, I will. I just signed papers for the Bailey House.” My enthusiasm cascades around the room almost as brightly as the yellow roses shimmer in the sunlight.

  With a solemn look, she nods.

  The door opens and two women breeze in, exclaiming how nice it feels to be inside a cool place. “We’d like to order flowers for a wedding bouquet,” the shorter one says as she approaches the counter. She appears to be about twenty-five.

  “I can talk with you in just a minute,” Kelly replies, adding another rose to the vase.

  The older woman looks at me and says, “My daughter is getting married next May on the beach. I think it’s a crazy idea, but I’m just the mother.”

  “Oh, Mom.” The daughter lets out an exasperated sigh. “It doesn’t matter where you get married as long as you’re happy.”

  When I imagine my own wedding, it takes place in a church sanctuary like Minnie and Lawrence’s. I can almost hear the organ play and see myself in a flowing gown, taking small but confident steps toward the altar. Yet I have no idea who the groom will be. A month ago I might have pictured Davis standing beside me, but now I can only imagine him with Vanessa.

  “Good luck,” I say and then bend over to get a whiff of sweetness from a bin of gardenias. If I ever do marry, I want these flowers.

  When Kelly talks to the two women, answering their bouquet questions, I leave the shop. Confusion sets in on the drive home. Why did Buck want me to stop by and speak with Kelly? I feel as if I’m viewing one of those detailed pictures where the instructions are to find ten hidden items. What have I missed?

  32

  On Saturday, The Rose Lattice in Buxton, a modest restaurant that serves up fried food and music every weekend, is drawing a crowd. I’m amazed at how many people my aunt has gathered for this event. Minnie and I aren’t the only people who want the Bailey House to reopen, I guess. I see people I’ve never met, only seen on TV. There’s the man who gives the weather forecast on the local news and the mayor’s sister. From a cluster of women, I recognize the owner of a Hatteras realty office, the one who had no clue about the Bailey House when I inquired three years ago. Tiny and Beatrice Lou smile at me from across the restaurant floor, and Ropey invites Zane to sit with them.

  Zane asks me, “Is that okay? Will you be lonely?”

  I don’t tell him that I would love for him to sit away from me, as far as he can. I’m supposed to be delighting in his little-boy ways.

  As Zane scampers toward my relatives, Buck comes over and gives me a hug. He’s wearing his Hurricanes cap and a hint of aftershave. “Thanks for being here,” I say.

  “Of course. How could I miss an event featuring the Hatteras Girl?” he teases.

  “It doesn’t feature me,” I say. “Sheerly planned it all.”

  We find seats together on the back row behind women I’ve seen at Sheerly Cut. I think these three women come in every Tuesday to get a cut and color. They also drink cupfuls of the hot tea Sheerly provides.

  Then Whistlin’ Walt, who gained his nickname because of his ability to whistle any tune while delivering the mail, joins the ladies. He looks a little heavier tonight without his postal service uniform and hat. The ladies don’t mind. They ask how his mother is doing, and if he thinks it’s going to rain tomorrow.

  On a typical night, the Lattice has tables and chairs, waitresses and cooks. Tonight, the chairs have been placed into rows, there is a cover charge at the door of five dollars, and punch, cubes of cheddar cheese, crackers, and sugar cookies sit on a large table behind the chairs.

  Sheerly welcomes us to the evening through a mic she holds with ease in her manicured hand. As she speaks, conversations are reduced to murmurs, people shift into chairs, and then the room is quiet.

  All I can think of is Buck’s left shoulder. This shoulder, clad in a T-shirt and smelling of aftershave, is touching mine.

  Sheerly, tiny yet filled with pep, announces to her audience before her, “We are gathered here to join in raising some money for a landmark that signifies the epitome of our region. Here’s to the Bailey House!”

  When the music starts—two guitars and a saxophone—Sheerly’s soprano voice fills the room. Within a few lines, I recognize the song, one she wrote about being a hair stylist, called “Mama Don’t Like My Hair.” My nose starts to itch. I scratch it with my left hand so that my right shoulder remains snug against Buck’s left shoulder. I glance over at him; his eyes are on the band.

  Sheerly, L. J., Little Clemmens, who is only five-three, and Jack Junior, an elderly man who used to be a pilot with the Air Force— the entire cast of All That Glitters Is Gold—stand before us and belt out the song:

  “Mama do
n’t like my hair, says it’s too red;

  Mama don’t like my hair, says it’s not for me;

  Mama asked the stylist and the stylist said,

  ‘It’s the fashion, and you gotta let this fashion be.’ ”

  We clap, and I feel the movement from Buck against my own arm. This is ridiculous, I think. Davis is the one I’m interested in. He’s successful, handsome, savvy, and not just working as a waiter at some restaurant, being vague about a carpentry job he used to have with his dad.

  When the next song starts, I shift in my seat so that our shoulders are not together in any way. I glance to my left and then try not to stare. Waving at me a few rows over is my cousin Aggie, and seated next to her is none other than Douglas Cannon. His right arm is draped around her shoulders, and she looks content, like the woman dining on the New Orleans poster at the Grille. I give Aggie a smile.

  She pushes strands of wavy hair away from her face and smiles back.

  “Buck,” I whisper, directing his attention to the couple, “look. They seem happy.”

  “Who would have thought it?” Buck says with a grin, before turning to focus once more on the band.

  Later, over punch and cookies, Buck tells me he’s flying out to San Diego on Monday to spend time with his cousin.

  “How long will you be gone?”

  “Two weeks.”

  Two weeks. I stuff a cookie into my mouth and wonder why I suddenly feel sad.

  Vanessa approaches us. She’s wearing a cream-colored dress with a tan leather belt that emphasizes her tiny waist. “Hi,” she says to Buck and me. In the evening light, her silver earrings shine like the chrome on a polished car, the chrome on Davis’s car. Even the air around her smells sweet—peonies on a warm spring night.

  “Hi,” I say, trying to block out the memory of the last time I saw her at Davis’s office.

  “This is a great fundraiser.” She takes a glass of punch from the table.

  Somewhere in my head, I hear my mother’s advice: “Be appreciate, be appreciate, Jackie.” I hope my smile looks genuine as I say to Vanessa, “Thanks for being here.”