Beach House

by Mary Monroe

  They stared at each other in a heated silence.

  “And I never forgave him for the way he treated us, either,” Cara said at length. “Or the way he treated you, Mama.”

  Lovie’s eyes dropped.

  Cara couldn’t bear to see her mother shrink inward again. It physically pained her. This meek creature sitting at the head of the table was the mother she’d grown up with, but the woman at the beach house was someone else entirely. When she thought of her mother, she thought of words like hover and subservient. During family dinner conversations at this same long, polished table, Olivia Rutledge had usually sat quietly and listened, or moved silently from kitchen to dining room to serve. Only when asked a direct question did she participate in the debates that usually raged over some point no one could remember or even cared about. And never did she contradict her husband, no matter how cruel. For Cara and her father, debates were all about firing shots and winning. For her mother and, to a lesser degree, Palmer, it was about dodging the bullets. They thought she was so strong. What they never understood was that, for her, firing back was a means of survival, too.

  She faced her brother, the embers of an old, cold fury sparking in her chest. “Let’s not bring up the past.”

  “Unfortunately, the past has repercussions into the present,” Palmer continued, all trace of drunkenness gone. “Allow me to bring you up to speed on what’s transpired here while you’ve been away.”

  “Palmer…” Lovie broke in.

  “Now Mama, it’s clear to me that our Caretta here has no notion of the way things are. There should be no secrets. It’s not right she doesn’t know.”

  “Know what?” Cara asked. “We all knew long before he died that Daddy was leaving you the company. Primogeniture or not, in this case it was just. I didn’t want it and you deserved it. You put up with a lot and worked hard for it. I was happy for you.”

  Palmer registered this with a curt nod. “But that wasn’t all he left me, which you would have known if you’d stayed around for the reading of the will.”

  “Let’s not get into that now,” she said.

  “You need to know he left me the lion’s share of his wealth.”

  Cara looked at Lovie for confirmation. She felt disgust at her father’s final abuse against her mother. “You didn’t get at least half? But, Mama, it was your money to begin with.”

  Palmer answered. “By the time he died, it was all in his name. Even the house.”

  “No.” It came out on a breath. Cara’s face stilled and she looked again at her mother uncomprehendingly. Lovie sat looking at her hands. How could she have been so weak as to let him take everything away from her? The several odd comments Palmer had made about the house earlier in the evening suddenly made sense. Cara swung her head back toward Palmer and her voice rose.

  “You took Mama’s house?”

  Fury streaked Palmer’s features. “Hell, no. What do you take me for? Of course I didn’t take it. The son of a bitch gave it to me in his will just to spite her. I tried to give it back.” He faced Lovie for confirmation. “Didn’t I?”

  Lovie nodded and tears moistened her eyes.

  “I don’t understand,” Cara said.

  “He—” Palmer began.

  “Let me explain,” Lovie broke in. Her voice was quiet but level. “I wouldn’t take the house back. I gave it to Palmer, lock, stock and barrel.” She looked into Cara’s eyes. “You never wanted any of it, Cara. You made that point crystal clear over the years. Palmer did want it. He wanted it for Julia and the children. They took care of the house, loved it and deserved it. And they’ve been very happy here. Ultimately that’s what I wanted, too. For happiness to return to this house. For a family to laugh again in these rooms.” Her blue eyes, paler with age and illness, gazed around the room in a bittersweet sweep. “For whatever his reason, your father set this decision into motion. But in the end it was my decision. Not Stratton’s. Not Palmer’s. Mine. And mine alone.”

  Cara looked into her mother’s eyes. The hurt struck harder and deeper than she would have imagined. Not that Palmer had inherited the house. She heard her mother’s reasoning and it made sense to her—and more, it felt just. But not to even have been considered? That hurt. In her heart she blamed herself. She was honest enough to know it was all her own doing. Sure she’d been young and headstrong when she left. Who wasn’t at eighteen? But to have been ignored…? She knew her reasoning was emotional but she couldn’t help it. When her father died, she had been secure in her career and strong enough to walk away from everything. But she was on soft ground now. In less than two weeks she’d been fired from her job and dumped by her boyfriend. Now, coming home for solace, she found her family had discarded her as well.

  Her mother’s eyes were filled with concern. “If there is something you want from the house, a piece of furniture, a painting, whatever…”

  “Why sure, Cara,” Palmer interjected. “Just tell me what you want.”

  She glanced at him, unable to respond to his offer of a small afterthought that represented her worth in the family. Cara felt a deadening inside that she recognized as a time-tested self-defense mechanism. It was as though a steel wall dropped down between herself and them, one that had saved her from spears many times in the past. The first time it dropped was at this very table twenty-two years earlier. She was just eighteen and had informed her father she was going to Boston University. Her father was sitting where Palmer was now, drunk again, his eyes seething. Her mother sat at the opposite end, where she sat now. As usual, her eyes were cast down at her plate. Palmer was frozen across the table from her, begging her with his eyes to be quiet and to just go along.

  “Who the hell do you think you are, little girl?” her father had roared. “You’ll do as I say. And if you step one foot out of this town—out of this house—that’ll tear it between us, you hear? You are not going north and that’s final. I’ll not tolerate this arrogance. Especially not from some blunt mouthed teenage girl who won’t act like the lady she’s been bred to be. You’re an embarrassment to your mama. And to me. Where do you think you’re going? Come back here! Caretta Rutledge! You leave and you’ll not get one dollar, not one stick of furniture, not so much as a nod of the head when you pass the street from me, hear?”

  Instinct reared now as it did then. She knew that no matter how much she’d admired, even treasured, the family antiques, if she took one piece it would be like a heavy stone tied around her ankle, dragging her under. As much now as then, she needed her freedom.

  “Thank you, but no,” she said in a steady voice. “It was given to you and Julia. I don’t want anything. Thank you for explaining things to me.”

  All she wanted now was not to humiliate herself further. The oppression she’d always felt in this house closed around her, choking her, and she was afraid lest she lose control and release either a bitter laugh or a painful cry.

  She ended the labored silence and stood up. She woodenly went through the usual polite motions and mutterings of a farewell. Toy was called, Julia came down to join them, and flanked by Lovie and Palmer, Cara walked blindly through the house. At the door, Palmer bent forward to kiss her cheek.

  Before the door closed behind her, she heard the sudden gust of wind as the mocking howl of a ghost.

  If the site doesn’t feel right or she encounters a root or rock, or if she senses an intruder, the loggerhead will return to the sea without laying her eggs. This is known as a “false crawl.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  They rode home in silence. Perhaps because too much had been said already, or perhaps because not enough. In any case, no one felt compelled to talk as they drove back over the rivers and across the still marsh and Sullivan’s Island to the Isle of Palms. The clouds were low and thick and few house lights pierced the velvety blackness.

  Lovie sat in the back seat with Toy and saw the silhouette of her daughter in the dim car. Cara’s shoulders were back and she held the steering wheel with a tight
grip. Lovie knew this pose so well. When she was upset as a child Cara would become quiet and rigid, thoroughly unapproachable. Palmer used to cry and make a fuss, but if anyone asked Cara how she was, she’d simply look away and reply, “Fine.”

  When they arrived at the cottage, Cara politely opened the door for her mother, then moved quickly into the house, avoiding any discussion. By the time Lovie was inside, Cara had a glass of water in her hand. With a quick “Good-night” and a wave of her hand, she slipped into her room and closed the door.

  “Well, I guess I’ll go to bed, too,” Toy said, cool and distant.

  “Are you all right?”

  “I’m just tired,” she replied, but kept her eyes averted.

  Lovie watched her leave, saw the sway of her hips under the increasing weight of her growing baby. “Good night then, dear girl.”

  Toy only nodded and went to her room.

  Lovie walked slowly to the kitchen stove to light a kettle for tea. She laid out two mugs, spooned out the herbal tea into the pot, then she wiped her hands on the towel. When done, she leaned them against the counter and lowered her head with a ragged sigh. Her heart was breaking. These silences between herself and Cara were no good. There had been enough silence between them over the years. Too much, if truth be told. She couldn’t be weak any longer. Flo was right that they needed to talk. And there was no more time.

  With new resolve she walked across the sisal rug directly to Cara’s door and knocked once. “Caretta?”

  There was no answer.

  “Cara?”

  She heard the sound of footfall, then the door opened. Cara appeared in pale-blue silk pajama bottoms and a cotton camisole top. Her face was scrubbed clean and her dark hair gleamed from a good brushing. Behind her on the bed Lovie saw a suitcase spread open. It was half-packed. Cara ran her hands through her hair, then let them drop with an exasperated sigh.

  “What is it, Mama?”

  “I thought we might have that chat.”

  “Now?” She paused, looked up at the ceiling, then shook her head. “I couldn’t. I’m too tired.” But, seeing the disappointment on Lovie’s face, she added more gently, “You must be, too. You look exhausted.”

  “I am, rather. But I won’t sleep a wink unless we talk.”

  “Talking has never been our forte.”

  “No, it hasn’t.”

  “Why now? Why tonight?”

  Lovie’s gaze moved to the suitcase. “I should think it’s obvious. Besides, better to start late than not at all.”

  “Maybe it is too late.”

  “It’s never too late as long as there is breath in us to speak. Come. I’ve got a kettle on.”

  They carried their mugs of steaming tea to the living room. Lovie turned on two small lamps that created soft, yellow pools of light and made the room feel cozy. Cara went to the sofa and eased onto the plump upholstery, curling her long, slender legs under her catlike in the corner. Her beautiful, dark eyes were watchful and wary. Lovie took the armchair across from her. Sinking into the cushions, she suddenly felt the weight of her fatigue and yawned.

  “Do you want to do this tomorrow? It’s almost eleven o’clock,” said Cara.

  “No, no, I’m just getting comfortable.”

  “You should have told me,” Cara said when her mother settled.

  How like her, Lovie thought, to jump right in and voice what was on both their minds. “I know. I meant to. But I hardly thought it would come up tonight.”

  “Palmer thinks the reason I came home was to collect the family goods.”

  “He’s a dear boy, and I don’t know what I would have done without him these past years, but he does keep his hand in the cookie jar. It’s his insecurity, I suppose. I’m partially to blame for that. I’ve given him whatever I could because Stratton…Well, you know how your father was. As hard as it was for you being his daughter, it was doubly hard for Palmer as his son.”

  “Mama, I realize all that. But he is far too heavy-handed. Why do you put up with it? I mean—” she dropped her hand in exasperation “—it was one thing with Daddy. But Palmer is your son! Don’t you ever want to be independent? To know where your own money is?”

  “I couldn’t care less where my money is,” she replied with astonishment. “I never have. Why should I? It’s nothing but a hassle and a headache. Your father always took care of the finances and bill paying when he was alive, and now that he’s gone, Palmer continues to do it for me.”

  “And look what good all that trust has done you.”

  “Palmer’s a good boy. He’s been here, Cara, all these years while you were away. I’m not saying that to berate you for your choice, but to defend Palmer.”

  “Dear, dear Palmer.”

  “Cara…”

  “That’s always been the problem, hasn’t it? You taking Palmer’s side against mine.”

  “I’m not taking sides,” she said wearily.

  “Yes, you are! You just don’t realize it. You’ve done this all your life and it drives me crazy. You just sit there, Mama, and let them run over you. I can’t stand by anymore and watch you just cave in to the men in your life. Why can’t you be stronger?”

  “Like you? I’m not like that. You’re very much like your father in that way.”

  Cara stiffened as though slapped. “I am nothing like him.”

  Lovie blinked at the vehemence of Cara’s response. “Does the comparison bother you so much? I’d always thought you preferred being compared to him rather than to me. Powerful rather than weak.”

  “I’d rather not be held up to anyone for comparison. Least of all him.”

  “Well,” she said dazed, exhaling a puff of air. “Well, well, well. Good for you. I don’t mean that snidely, I’m being quite honest. I wish I had been as strong when I was your age.”

  “You should have been.”

  Lovie closed her eyes.

  “I’m sorry, Mama,” Cara said after a beat, her voice beginning to rise with emotion. “I know the way he was. I know you loved him. I just never understood how that was enough for you to put up with his goddamn abuse for so many years.”

  “You couldn’t understand,” her mother said in a strained voice.

  “Why couldn’t I? I’m not a child. You loved him. I know that.” She brought her hand to her forehead and closed her eyes tightly before tearfully blurting out, “But I hated the son of a bitch.”

  Lovie’s breath stilled, then she replied evenly, “Why, so did I.”

  Cara dropped her hand and swung her head up. Neither spoke as they stared at each other, their thoughts journeying on separate paths. With a jerky motion, Cara turned to stare out the window.

  Lovie quietly observed her daughter’s profile. With her proud, straight nose, high cheekbones and full lips, she strongly resembled the father she claimed to hate.

  “Cara, can’t we talk through some of our misunderstandings?”

  Cara wiped her eyes, then turned around again to face her mother. It pained Lovie to see the tears. She could count the times on one hand she’d ever seen her daughter cry.

  “I came home hoping for just that. I actually had some silly vision of a mother-daughter bonding. Imagine that?” Her quick smile fell and she added wearily, “It’s okay, it doesn’t matter.” She took a deep breath. “I’m going back to Chicago tomorrow.”

  Lovie heard the north in her voice already. “So soon?”

  “It’s clear you don’t need my help here and frankly, I left a mess I need to clean up at home. I can’t sit around here any longer.”

  “Oh, Cara. You’re hurt.”

  “No. I’m fine. I just need to refocus.”

  Lovie took a long shuddering breath. “You think you’ve been abandoned. That everything has been handed to Palmer and nothing to you.”

  “Mother, please…”

  “You asked me what I meant when I wrote to you that there were things to sort through. There are.” She drank some tea, was comforted by it, then set t
he mug on the table. She felt secure in this little cottage, better able to speak her mind than in the Charleston house.

  “After your father died,” she began, “I decided to move out here to the beach house. It wasn’t an impulsive decision. It was a promise I’d made to myself long before. Sort of a gift that I kept in the back of my mind to unwrap and think about in difficult times.”

  Cara looked into her mother’s pale-blue eyes and wondered about those difficult times. “Why did you wait so long?”

  “I had my reasons. But I planned for it. Why do you think I redid the kitchen years back?”

  “I’d assumed to make it a rental.”

  “That’s what I told Stratton. I knew he’d agree if I presented it as an investment.” She smiled conspiratorially. “But it was for me. I wanted to live alone and the beach house is much more manageable for someone my age. Without all those fussy antiques. Here I’m free of all the…” She sighed, grasping for the word.

  “Hassles?” Cara prompted.

  “Distractions. You always understood that, I think. You never put much store in a house or furniture. I admire that about you.”

  Cara was surprised by the unexpected compliment.

  Lovie’s expression shifted as she reflected on private thoughts. “I spent forty years in that big house,” she said slowly. “And let me tell you, those charming old houses everyone always admires are not easy to maintain. I was a slave to it. There’s always painting or wiring or plumbing or plasterwork that needs doing. I promise you, a good plasterer is worth his weight in gold in this town. Women I’ve known for years have gone to the grave without whispering their source. I’d had enough of worrying and dusting antiques and drawing shades against the sun. And Lord knows I’d had enough of entertaining.”