by Mary Monroe
But, as always, Mama’s timing was impeccable. Where else would one go but home when there was nowhere else to go?
Cara tightened her grip on the steering wheel. How could her orderly life have careened so far out of control? How did it happen that, after twenty-two years of living independently, after a successful career, after complete and utter self-sufficiency, she found herself back on this damnable stretch of road limping back home?
It was her mother’s letter that had lured her. The day before, Lovie had sent the customary flowers for Cara’s birthday. As Cara gingerly unwrapped the purple florist tissue, the heady scent of the gardenias permeated her apartment. Instantly, Cara was back in her mother’s walled garden in Charleston where an ancient magnolia spread its broad glossy leaves and the white, heavily scented flowers of the gardenias competed with the climbing jasmine. She’d opened the letter from her mother and read her familiar, feathery script.
,!
Happy Birthday Dear Caretta!
I never smell gardenias without thinking of you.
Things have been in a state of flux since your father’s death. Now it is time for me to, shall we say, put my house in order. Come home, Cara, just for a while. Not to the house on Tradd Street. Come to the beach house. We’ve always had the best times there, haven’t we?
Please don’t say that you are too busy or that you can’t get away. Remember how we used to say “Take charge of your birthday”? Can’t you grant yourself this one gift of time and spend a few days with your ancient mother? Please come home, Cara dear. Soon. Your father is gone and we need to sort through years of accumulation.
Love,
Mama
Perhaps it was the scent of the gardenias that prompted the sudden loneliness, or simply that someone had remembered her birthday. Or perhaps it was her desolation at having just lost her job. But for the first time since leaving her embrace at eighteen, Cara felt a sudden, desperate longing for her mother.
She wanted to go home. Home to the Lowcountry, where once she had been happy.
Cara crossed the Ashley and the Wando rivers, took a final turn off the highway, then sped over a new, graceful arch of roadway that connected the mainland to the small barrier island called Isle of Palms. The vista yawned open before her, revealing a breathtaking view of endless blue sky and watery, greening marsh stretched out as far as she could see. She felt her mind ease as she took in the wide-open space. The hustle and honking of the crowded roads felt a world behind her. Ahead, cutting a wide, blue path through the waving grasses, was the sparkling Intracoastal Waterway and parallel to it, the smaller Hamlin Creek lined with docks, one after another, most with a boat at moor. She reached the peak of the arch.
Suddenly, looming straight ahead, like a magnificent yet serene beast, lay the vast, glistening expanse of blue that was the Atlantic Ocean. It was a living thing, pulsating power beneath the quiescent surface. Her breath caught, her body shivered and in that soul-striking instant, Cara knew that saltwater still ran thick in her veins.
She was back on the Isle of Palms. Even the name was soft on the tongue and evoked images of waving palm trees and tranquil, sunny afternoons by the rolling surf. For a hundred years, the Isle of Palms was a place the folks of Charleston and Columbia escaped to when the summers got too beastly hot. They took the ferryboat over to camp in the pine and oak forests or dance at the pavilion to big-name bands. Years later, bridges and roads were built and each summer the island’s population swelled along with the heat. Growing up, Cara had spent summer after summer here with her mother and her older brother, Palmer. Her happiest memories were of the three of them living without paying mind to a clock, letting the sultry light of the Carolina sun dictate their days.
She’d heard that back in 1989 Hurricane Hugo had turned the island upside down. But she hadn’t imagined the extent that time could alter a landscape. This used to be a sleepy island town with a grocer, liquor and hardware store clustered together beside a small stretch of post-cardish, islandy restaurants. Ocean Boulevard was but a line of modest beach cottages across from a wide stretch of sand dunes that rolled lazily along the ocean.
So it was all the more shocking to see that the dunes she’d played on were gone, paved flat for a row of mansions that formed a wall of pastel-colored wood blocking the view of the sea and dwarfing the once oceanfront cottages across the street. These beautiful new post-Hugo houses stood even closer to the water’s edge, as though arrogantly daring the heavens to strike again. Cara could turn her head left, then right as she drove and see, in turn, an eerie picture of pre-and post-Hugo worlds.
Still, some things never changed, she thought as she spied a line of pelicans flying overhead looking like a squadron of bombardiers on patrol. She opened her window to the balmy island air and breathed deeply. Dusk was setting in, and with each moist breeze she felt a page of her history flutter back, recalling the days when she was young and pedaled this road on her bicycle, feeling the wind toss her hair like streamers behind her. She drove another two blocks south, scanning. Her breath caught in her throat when she saw it.
Primrose Cottage. As pale a yellow as the delicate evening primroses that surrounded it, the 1930s beach cottage sat back from the road perched on a small dune. In contrast to all the meticulously landscaped properties of the newer mansions, her mother’s house appeared as a wispy memory of the past glowing in the twilight among waves of tall grasses, brilliant pink phlox and yellow primroses for which it had been named. Although a bit wind worn, the old frame house with the low spreading roof and the wide, welcoming verandas seemed as indigenous here as the palmetto trees. It had been twenty years since she’d laid eyes on this house. So many years since embarking on the journey from little girl to middle-aged woman. Pulling up to the curb to stare, it occurred to her that while she’d been busy with her life in Chicago, oblivious to the goings-on of the island, this charming little house was here, patiently waiting for her.
She shifted into gear and slowly drove around the block to the back of the house, pulling into the winding gravel driveway, careful when the wheels dug past the thin layer of gravel to hit sand. She released a short laugh to see the old, shiny gold VW convertible parked beneath the porch. Mama was still driving The Gold Bug? That old ragtop was like a flag. Everyone knew if The Gold Bug was in the driveway, Olivia Rutledge was in residence and ready for visitors.
Coming to a stop, Cara could feel the miles still moving in her veins. She stared out the windshield at what had always been home and wondered if she was now a visitor at Primrose Cottage, too. Did blood alone earn her the right to call it home? Did hours of pulling weeds from the flower beds and boarding up windows against storms, or years of swinging on the front porch count for anything? She sighed and pulled up the parking brake. Probably not. Besides, she remembered how, in a fit of youthful passion, she’d made a point of shouting to her mother that she wanted nothing at all to do with her, her damn father or anything connected to them.
Yet the connection tugged, pulling her out from the stale confines of the car into the cool offshore breezes spiked with the heady scent of honeysuckle. She stood, one foot on the sand, the other perched on the car, feeling the undertow sweep her back, back from the shoreline of the world she’d left behind.
Her memories were crowding her now and she anxiously eyed the remaining feet to her mother’s door. She wanted to go in but years of anger rooted her to the spot. So she leaned against the car, formulating what she would say that could break the ice yet still allow her to keep a modicum of self-respect. She’d stay one week, she told herself, gathering courage. Maybe ten days. Any more than that and her mother would drive her crazy and they’d fall back into that pattern of bickering and harsh words followed by long, sulking silences. Oh, God, she thought, rubbing her forehead. Was it a mistake to come back at all?
All around her the sky darkened to dusky purples and blues and the birds called out their final warnings to go home. A dog howled somewhere in the di
stance. Then, from around the house, she heard the high melodic hum of a woman’s voice.
Cara moved to peek around the corner. Ambling up the sandy ocean path she saw a diminutive woman in a big, floppy straw hat, a long, faded denim skirt and bright-red Keds. Bits of the tune she was humming carried in the breeze, nothing recognizable. In one arm she lugged a red plastic bucket, a telltale sign of one of the island’s Turtle Ladies. Cara’s heart beat wildly but she remained silent, watching. From this distance she might have mistaken the woman for a young girl. She seemed utterly carefree and oblivious to anything save for the field of wildflowers she passed. She paused en route to stoop and snip a flower, then, resuming her hum, she continued up the path toward Primrose Cottage.
A million things that Cara had meant to say, a thousand postures she’d meant to strike, evaporated as quickly as sea foam once it hits the shore.
“Mama!” she called out.
Her mother stopped short and swung her head in her direction. Bright-blue eyes sparkled from under the broad rim of the hat and her mouth opened in a gasp of genuine pleasure. Dropping her bucket, she held out her arms in a joyous welcome.
“Caretta!”
Cara cringed at hearing the name she despised, but closed the distance quickly, following the age-old path of a child to her mother’s embrace. Taller by a head, she bent her knees and felt like she always did beside Olivia Rutledge—like a clambering bull next to a porcelain doll. Yet when her mother’s arms flung around her and squeezed tightly, Cara felt a sweeping flush of childlike pleasure.
“I’ve missed you,” her mother said softly against her cheek. “You’re home again. At last.”
Cara squeezed back but too many years of silence choked all words. She released her hold and, stepping back, it struck her like a fist’s blow how much her mother had changed. Olivia Rutledge had become an old woman. Beneath the cheery straw hat her skin was pale and seemed to hang from her prominent cheekbones. The brightness of her blue eyes had dimmed, and though always small and trim, she was now painfully thin.
How could it have happened so quickly, Cara wondered? Only eighteen months ago at her father’s funeral Olivia still retained that timeless quality to her beauty and grace. At sixty-nine she wasn’t young, of course, but Cara couldn’t think of her mother as old. She was one of those lucky women born with a girlish, slender body and a face that was as scrubbed fresh and naturally pretty as the wildflowers she adored. Her father used to say that he married Olivia because she was as sweet as she looked—and it was true. Everyone loved Olivia Rutledge, “Lovie” to those who knew her well. But her daughter knew the price that ready smile had cost her mother over the years.
“How are you?” Cara asked, searching her face. “Are you well?”
“Oh, I’m fine, fine,” she said, dismissing Cara’s tone of concern with a flip of her hand. “Nothing much one can do to stop the ruins of Rome. I’ve given up trying.” Her eyes brightened as she looked up at her daughter. “But look at you. Don’t you look wonderful!”
Cara looked down at her rumpled white shirt and dark jeans that pinched her waist. She’d woken before dawn that morning, splashed cold water on her face and dressed in a hurry, not taking the time for makeup and allowing her dark hair to hang in disarray to her shoulders.
“I do not. My clothes are a wreck and I smell of fast food.”
“You look wonderful to me. I can’t get over it. You’re here! I about fainted when you called to say you were coming. Thank the Lord.”
“Mama, the Lord had nothing to do with it. You wrote me a letter asking me to come and I came.”
“That’s what you think. I’m old enough to know better. Now let’s not argue,” she chided, linking arms, squeezing gently. “I’ve prayed that you’d come back home and now my prayers have been answered.” They began to walk slowly toward the house. Lovie turned her head to peer into Cara’s face. “Why do you look at me like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re in shock.”
“I don’t know. You seem different. So…happy.”
“Why, of course I’m happy! Why shouldn’t I be?”
Cara shrugged. “I dunno…I guess from your letter I expected you to be rather lonely. Maybe a little depressed. It hasn’t been that long since Daddy died.”
Lovie’s expression shifted and, as usual, Cara couldn’t read the emotion behind her smile.
“I didn’t mean for my letter to sound sad. Wistful, perhaps.”
“Do you miss him?”
She brought her hand to Cara’s cheek. “I miss you. Especially here. We had good times on the island, didn’t we?”
Cara nodded, touched by the emotion in her mother’s voice. “We did. You and me. And Palmer.” She refrained from adding her father’s name. He’d rarely come to the beach house, preferring to stay in the city or to travel. And though it was never discussed among them, it was quietly understood that the summers were all the better for the arrangement.
“Oh, yes,” Lovie said with a light chuckle. “And Palmer, too.”
“How is my wild and crazy brother?”
“Neither wild nor crazy. More’s the pity.”
Cara’s brows rose. “Well, that’s a bit out of character for you. I seem to remember you and Daddy holding tight the reins whenever Palmer rode the wild roads and waves of his youth. I’ll have to mull that one over—once I get over the shock of you criticizing the royal heir.”
Her mother only laughed. “How long can you stay?”
“A week.”
“Is that all? Cara, dear, you’re always so busy. Please stay a bit longer.”
Cara slowed down to consider. She really had no deadline and her mother seemed so anxious. It might be nice to relax a while. “Maybe I can take a bit more time. That’s what’s nice about driving. No ticket to ride.” She paused. “Is it all right to be open-ended?”
“It’s more than all right. It’s perfect.” She patted Cara’s arm, leading the way across the sand-strewn path into the house. “Come inside. You must be exhausted after your long trip. Are you hungry? I don’t have a meal ready but I’ll scrounge around and find something.”
“Don’t go to any trouble. I’ve done nothing but nibble in the car for fourteen hours.”
“What time did you leave Chicago?”
“Before five,” Cara replied, stifling a yawn.
“Why push yourself so hard, dear? You should have taken two days, maybe three, and stopped at a few places along the way. The mountains are so beautiful this time of year.”
“Yeah, well, you know me. Once I’m on the road I like to get where I’m going.”
“Yes, you do,” her mother replied with a teasing glint in her eye. “You always do.”
Looking at the house as she climbed the porch steps, Cara saw further signs of the house’s age. It was worse than she’d first suspected. The back porch was sagging, the border shrubs were a jungle of overgrowth, a shutter was missing and in spots the paint had peeled clear to the wood. “The old place looks like it could use some work.”
“This poor old house…It takes a lot of abuse from the weather. Always it’s nip and tuck, nip and tuck.”
“It’s a lot for you to do alone. Doesn’t Palmer help you keep things up?”
“Palmer? Well, he tries, but the main house keeps him pretty busy with its own list of chores. And then there’s the business. And his family.” Her brows knit and her lips tightened, a sign she was holding words back. “He has his own troubles. I get along well enough on my own. Oh, look at my primroses,” she exclaimed, pointing at a nearby clump. “Aren’t they beautiful this year?” She closed her eyes and sniffed. “Can you catch their lemony scent?”
Cara couldn’t decide if her mother had adroitly changed the subject or was just easily distracted. But she could feel the miles she’d driven that day weigh as heavily as the suitcase hanging from her arm and the last thing she wanted to do was stand in the enveloping darkness and smell the fl
owers.
“I’m bushed. I’d really love to drop this load and have something cold and wet and alcoholic, if you’ve got it.”
“How’s a gin and tonic sound?”
Cara almost purred.
They passed through the screened porch, cluttered with old rattan furniture, a mildewed canvas beach bag loaded with miscellaneous beach supplies and assorted rusted garden tools. Lovie paused, resting her hand against the wall as she slipped her feet from her sand-crusted running shoes. Cara noticed with a start that there was a small, pale space on her mother’s ring finger where a band of gold and a large, Tiffany-cut diamond had rested for forty-two years.
“Mama, where’s your wedding ring?”
Flustered, her mother looked down at her hand, then began swatting the sand from her skirt. “Oh, that big ol’ thing? I took it off after your father died. I only wore it to please him. I never much liked wearing it. It got in the way and was such a bother here at the beach. I expect I’ll leave it to Cooper to give to his bride someday.”
Cooper was Palmer’s young son, and true to form, her mother was doting on the only male to carry on the proud Rutledge name.
“Scrape your feet, hear? I’ll never get used to the amount of sand that gets tracked into the house.”
Cara obliged. “What were you doing on the beach so late?”
“Why, we’ve already had two turtle nests!”
Cara’s eyes glittered with both amusement and resignation. “I thought you looked for tracks in the morning.”
“We do. I just wanted to check that everything was in order. You know me. I’m always a little excited when the season starts.” Her face scrunched in distress. “I didn’t move this nest and I’m not sure if I shouldn’t have. Ordinarily I would have. It’s a bit low on the tideline.” She tsked and shook her head. “The Department of Natural Resources is quite strict these days and doesn’t want the nests moved unless it’s urgent. Oh, I don’t know….” she fretted. “If the tide comes in high, the nest could be ruined. Maybe I should have moved it.”