by White, Karen
Mason offered a stick of gum to Linc before putting one in his mouth. “Good luck with that. These dunes are protected. You’ll have every environmental group breathing down your neck—from the turtle people to the wackos who love plants more than people—if you so much as bring a measuring tape to these dunes.”
“Yeah, that’s what Mrs. Michaels said. She called right after Lessie did. News travels fast on the island.”
Mason wedged a toe of his boot into the sand, being careful to avoid a thatch of seaside spurge. “Yup. Sure does.” His sunglasses looked up at Linc again. “So, what do you think you’ll do? I’ve got a list of all the environmental groups that will need to have their say, but I figure you’ve probably already covered that.”
“Yep. I’ve already navigated my way through a lot of the red tape involved in renovating the two houses here and a few I’ve done in Charleston.” He watched as Mason neatly folded up his gum wrapper and stuck it in his shirt pocket. “I’ve got some people from the South Carolina Department of Health and Environmental Control coming tomorrow. I’m not sure if they’ll agree, but I’m thinking I’ll have to fill in the hole with more sand, but not until I make sure that whatever is under there is completely collapsed first. I have a feeling that if I’m going to do any more exploring, it will have to come from inside the house—assuming there’s a connection.”
Mason moved to the side of the large pit, staring into it. “Lessie is convinced there is. There are three other houses that were built at about the same time as this one and Jillian’s. All three have either a secret room or a small tunnel that runs from the inside of the house down to the beach, to give the residents an escape route. With all the erosion, though, the tunnels are mostly underwater now. Not that it stopped one of the owners during Prohibition.” He grinned at Linc. “High tide flooded his tunnel, but it didn’t hurt his moonshine bottles, so he’d just leave them in there until the boat arrived at low tide to take them away.”
Linc tilted his head back and looked at the silhouettes of the two houses against the cerulean sky. He’d always felt that houses, particularly old ones, talked to him. He seemed to know instinctively where the wood rot was worse, where the roof leaked, and what floor joists were cracked. It was as if they released their secrets to him in dreams, knowing that a part of him was a part of them, that his builder’s hands would be able to help them. He stared at the two silhouettes again. But not these two; they kept their secrets, held tightly against old plaster and faded wood.
He thought of Grace and of her screaming when she’d seen the pit. God’s footprint. The skin on the back of his neck inexplicably tightened, and he rubbed his fingers over it. “I’ll figure it out somehow. And don’t worry—I’ll work with the environmental people on this to make sure I don’t harm a leaf on any plant.”
Officer Weber removed his sunglasses and stuck them in his shirt pocket. “Just keep me informed about what’s going on here.” He reached toward Linc again and shook his hand. “You look real familiar to me. Have we met before?”
Linc faced him and noted that the officer’s eyes were a soft, un-threatening gray. “I don’t know. Anything’s possible, I guess.”
Mason dropped his hand. “You do look familiar. Just can’t place the face, that’s all. It’ll come to me eventually. Always does.” He smiled broadly, not fooling Linc for a second with its casual warmness. “Well, that’s all for now. Just keep me posted, and I’ll come check on the progress every once in a while. People are supposed to stay off the dunes, but I’m going to bring out some warning signs just in case.”
“Thanks. I appreciate it.” Linc slid his own sunglasses on and stared at the retreating back of Officer Weber before turning to gaze back into the pit again. God’s footprint. He could almost hear Janie Mulligan’s voice in his ear, standing behind him and mixing with the soft ocean breeze. He stared at the steep impression in the sand, at the uprooted sea oats and grasses, and at the small puddle of water that had been left from the tidal storm surge. Leaning over, he caught his blurred reflection and that of the sun behind him, and wondered what it was that had sent little Gracie Ryan into a screaming fit.
Jillian stepped out of her car, then adjusted the straps of the baby carrier on her shoulders, feeling the soft warmth of her son against her chest. She reached in for the plate of lemon bars as Grace climbed out from the backseat, closed the car door, and leaned against it.
“Come on, Gracie. Let’s go see Miss Mulligan.” Jillian held out her hand.
Grace continued to stare at the small pink-painted cottage—a four-room structure built on squat brick pillars. Slowly, she lifted her hand and allowed herself to be led up the broken-shell path to the house.
After Jillian knocked, it took a long time for the door to be opened, and she was about to turn away when she heard the latch turn. It only opened a crack at first, and Jillian spotted Janie’s deep brown eyes gazing inquisitively at her.
“It’s me, Miss Janie—Jillian Parrish, and Gracie. I brought the baby, too, since you didn’t get to see him for very long when you came to visit.” She held up the plate in her hands. “And I brought lemon bars. Martha Weber told me they were your favorite. It was the least I could do to thank you for the beautiful hat you gave Ford.”
Janie stepped back slowly, opening the door enough to let them pass. She held her finger to her lips. “Shh. Baby’s taking her nap, so try not to wake her.”
Quietly, they followed Janie past a small portable crib where the rag doll lay facedown on a teddy bear quilt, then through the house to the back deck. Once they were outside again, Janie turned to them with a smile. In her breathless voice she said, “Come see my garden.”
Jillian put down the lemon bars on a patio table before following Janie down the deck steps.
Janie’s house backed up to the marsh, and the briny odor and soft breeze left Jillian feeling slightly bereft, a painful tug of returning home after a long absence. She mentally shook herself and turned to Janie with a smile.
She had been to Janie’s house with her grandmother many times as a child, but she didn’t remember anything about it. She thought that maybe she had been too terrified of the rag doll that Janie treated as a real baby to notice much of anything else.
Gracie giggled, and Jillian turned around to see, noticing in amazement the brightly colored flower beds that hugged the outline of the house and clustered around the deck steps and back brick pillars. There were begonias and gardenias, and even a small splash of sunflowers, all gazing garishly back at the still brown-and-olive marsh like ladies of the evening sitting in the back pews of a church.
Jillian moved toward a low bush of tea roses the color of the setting sun and stooped, holding Ford’s head so it wouldn’t fall backward, to sniff the sweet rose aroma. She sniffed hard, but smelled nothing but wet earth and marsh air.
Gracie giggled again, and Jillian turned around in confusion. “They’re not real, Jilly-bean. They’re all pretend.” She put her hand over her mouth and giggled again, looking up shyly at Janie.
With her finger and thumb, Jillian touched a rose petal, amazed at how real it felt against her skin.
Janie came to stand next to her. She held her fingers together and swung shyly side to side. “They’re silk. I buy the fabric when Miz Weber takes me into Charleston, and then I make them all by myself. It takes a long time.”
“I imagine it does.” She bent closer to examine the tiny seams and the intricate folds that so closely resembled a real flower. “But how do you keep them looking so lovely out here? Doesn’t the weather and the sun damage the fabric?”
Janie’s eyes widened as she nodded with self-importance. “Oh yes. I have to be very careful. I bring them inside when the weather gets nasty. And I cover them when the sun is too strong or when the wind blows too hard. They’re my children. I have to keep them safe.”
Ford stirred, and Jillian nuzzled his head with her chin and he settled again. She didn’t know where she’d learned t
hat and was still amazed how just her touch could settle him. Janie’s soft brown eyes watched her closely. Turning from the intense gaze, Jillian noticed how the beds of flowers were actually carefully arranged pots, each overflowing with blooms.
“You mean you lug all of these pots in and out of the house, depending on the weather?”
Janie nodded solemnly, her voice breathless. “Of course. If I don’t take care of them, who will?”
Jillian turned to stare into the face of a realistic sunflower, its brown stamens individually rolled cords of silk. Gracie moved up beside her and slid her hand into Janie’s. “It’s okay, Janie. She said it was okay.”
Janie squatted so that she was face-to-face with Gracie. No more words passed between them, but there seemed to be some form of communicating, an understanding that needed no spoken words. It occurred to Jillian to think it unusual, this immediate connection between her daughter and Janie Mulligan, an odd but thoroughly harmless woman who seemed as lost in the world as Gracie. Her child had always kept to herself, never making friends easily, and to see this friendship blossom warmed her. Jillian had always blamed herself for Grace’s inability to fit in, to be like other children, as if her own inability to remember what it was like to be a child had somehow been passed down unwillingly to her daughter.
Her gaze captured the bloodred blooms of a Confederate Rose, and Jillian stepped toward it, completely amazed at its authenticity. She reached for the stem, then drew back sharply as the prick in her skin started to bleed. “Ow!”
Janie appeared at her side, Grace’s hand still held in hers. “That’s a real one.”
“I could tell.” Jillian raised her finger to her mouth and began to suck, the coppery taste of blood in her mouth.
Janie handed her a clean tissue from her dress pocket. “Don’t tell the others,” she whispered, indicating the beds of potted artificial plants, “but these are my favorites. I love the others, but these are real.” She looked down at where Jillian was wrapping the tissue around her finger. “Even though the real ones can make you bleed.”
Jillian looked out at the brown marsh, teeming with insects, reeds and mud, then turned back to the roses. “How on earth are these growing here? And this early in April, too? You must truly have a green thumb.”
Janie blushed at the compliment and awkwardly knelt in front of the bush. “I dug the hole myself and filled it with dirt I had Mrs. Weber order for me from New England. I fertilize and prune and talk to them every day.” She looked up at Jillian, shielding her eyes with her hand. “Sometimes our children are put into places that are very hard to survive. I’ve had a lot wilt and die, and it makes me so sad. But some do very nicely. I think the fight makes them stronger. I think it makes them better roses.”
Jillian stood as Ford squirmed again, finally opening his eyes with a loud yawn. Janie smoothed the back of a finger along his cheek. “He sure is cute—just like his big sister.” She winked down at Gracie, who was squatting down in front of the rose bush. Her eyes smiled into Jillian’s. “You just fertilize, prune and talk to them. And in all that taking care of them, you find that your own heart is just about full to bursting with love and pride. It’s no big secret.”
Jillian felt her eyes burn, and for one horrifying moment, she thought she might cry. She blinked and turned away from Janie’s scrutinizing gaze. “Come on, Gracie. We need to get going. Thank Miss Janie for showing us her beautiful garden.”
Gracie surprised her by throwing her arms around the older woman. “Thanks, Miss Janie. You have beautiful flowers. Can I come back some time and help you take care of them?”
Janie squeezed her back. “That would be fun. You just need to make sure it’s all right with your mama.”
“Jilly-bean, please? Please?”
They both regarded her with identical pleading expressions, and it made Jillian want to laugh. “Sure. We could both help. It looks like a big job.”
Janie let out an exaggerated sigh. “Taking care of children always is.”
They went around the house instead of cutting through the inside, because Janie said that Baby was still sleeping. As Jillian buckled Ford into his car seat, she looked back to where Janie stood at the rear of her house, a corner of her garden visible from the road. As they pulled out, Jillian waved, watching the woman amid her bright-hued children disappear in the rearview mirror.
CHAPTER 12
JILLIAN SAT NEXT TO LAUREN ON THE WINDOW SEAT IN LAUREN’S room, watching the April sun glint off the silver bracelet Mason had given her as a sixteenth-birthday present. She was painting her toenails with Lauren’s fuchsia polish and trying to pretend that nothing had changed between them since the summer before. She looked up from her big toe and watched Lauren pacing the room.
“Look, why don’t we go swimming? I’ve been here for two days already, and we haven’t gone down to the beach once. I want to see all the damage from the hurricane last November. My dad wouldn’t let me come up with him when he came to check on the house at Thanksgiving—he said he could barely recognize the shoreline because of the storm. Besides, spring break is only a week, so we just have until Sunday to hang out.”
Lauren stopped her pacing and folded her arms across her chest. “I don’t want to. Besides, none of my bathing suits fit me anymore.” Almost reluctantly, she added, “I’ve gained some weight.” She flattened her hands against her abdomen, outlining a roundness Jillian had never seen on Lauren before.
For the first time, Jillian scrutinized her friend, noticing the baggy T-shirt she wore. So different from the tank shirts and halter tops Lauren always liked. “So what if you’ve gained a little weight? I didn’t notice anything. Besides, you could afford to gain a little. You hardly eat anything anymore—like you’re starving yourself on purpose or something. Come on—let’s go to the beach. You can keep your T-shirt on over your bathing suit, if that makes you feel any better. I promise not to pay any attention.”
Lauren stared at her for a few moments, and the look on her face alarmed Jillian. It was a look of desperation and misery—the look of someone caught in a riptide who was slowly being dragged out to sea.
Jillian stood. “What is it? Tell me, Lauren—what’s wrong?”
Lauren opened her mouth to answer, but stopped when the front doorbell rang. She walked quickly to her closed bedroom door and put her ear up close to it, motioning for Jillian to stay quiet. Jillian heard Linc’s voice below, talking with Mrs. Mills.
After a moment, Jillian heard Mrs. Mills climb the stairs and knock on the bedroom door. “Lauren, it’s Linc. Will you see him?”
Lauren pressed her forehead against the door and squeezed her eyes shut. “No, Mama. I don’t want to see him. Tell him I’m not here.”
There was a pause on the other side of the door. “This is the third time he’s been here today, Lauren. You’re going to have to see him sometime—it might as well be now.”
Lauren’s voice sounded frantic. “No! I don’t ever want to see him again. Tell him that. And tell him not to come back.”
There was no answer, just the sound of Mrs. Mills’ footsteps retreating back down the stairs.
Lauren moved back to the window seat and peered out. Jillian joined her. They didn’t wait long until the top of Linc’s dark head appeared below them as he made his way down to the beach. When he reached the boardwalk, he stopped and turned. Jillian ducked back behind the curtain, spying at him through a crack in the fabric. But Lauren stared down at him from the window, leaving no doubt that she wanted Linc to see her.
He stared up at Lauren, but there was no malice in his expression. Only hurt and confusion. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he turned around and disappeared down the beach, not looking back again.
Something heavy and awful pressed at Jillian’s heart. How could this be happening? She depended on the closeness she shared with Linc and Lauren as much as she needed air to breathe. The thought of not having them here on the island to return to each summer felt as if
somebody had set her adrift on the ocean, in a boat without an oar. “What’s wrong?” she heard herself ask in a voice she barely recognized.
Lauren avoided her eyes. “I broke up with Linc. I don’t want to talk about it.”
Jillian tugged at her arm, forcing Lauren to face her. “Are you sure? Maybe I can help you make up with him.”
Lauren pulled away. “It’s not that easy. Besides, I don’t love him anymore. I told him that, but he doesn’t want to believe it.” She smiled at Jillian’s wide look of shock. “Look, it doesn’t mean that you can’t be friends with him anymore. It just means that Linc and I won’t be spending time together, that’s all. But you can still be friends with both of us. That part won’t change.”
There was something else. Something Lauren wasn’t telling her. Something that made Lauren avoid looking Jillian in the eye.
“Is there somebody else?” Jillian’s voice came out in a whisper.
Lauren didn’t say anything for a while, and Jillian had begun to think she wouldn’t answer her when Lauren finally spoke. “Yes. There is.”
“Who?”
Lauren sat back down on the window seat and stared out, not answering.
“Is it Mason?”
Lauren smiled a little and shook her head. “No. Mason and I are just friends. Besides, I think he’s only got eyes for you.”
Jillian blushed but didn’t look away. “Then who?”
“Somebody who’s different from any boy I’ve ever dated. For one thing, he’s more mature and treats me as a woman and not a girl.” She smiled softly. “A lot of people think he’s cold and unfeeling, but with me he’s warm and caring.”
Jillian moved closer, a sick feeling in her stomach. “Who is it?”
Instead of answering, Lauren got up from the window seat and motioned Jillian to do the same. Then, kneeling before it, she lifted the lid, the brass hinges squeaking softly. “I want to show you something.”