by White, Karen
The sun chased light and shadow on the gold band on Jillian’s hand as she rocked in and out of a slice of shade on her back porch. The lull of the salt air coupled with an evening spent with a fretting baby that had kept her up most of the night was quickly pushing her eyelids closed. Even the sounds of power saws next door couldn’t seem to convince her to stay awake.
The back door swung open and then slammed shut as Gracie rushed through it, a Mason jar held aloft. “Jilly-bean! It’s hatching!”
Fully awake now, Jillian’s eyes popped open. Gripping the arms of the rocking chair, she said, “What’s hatching?”
Gracie thrust the Mason jar at her. “My caterpillar from my school project. She’s trying to come out of her cocoon, but I think she’s stuck.”
“Let me see.” She took the jar in her hands and held it up. The once green chrysalis was now a smooth, clear shell with a split at the bottom. The folded orange-and-black stripes of an emerging monarch butterfly’s wings could be seen clearly, offering glimpses of a miracle from the mundane world.
Jillian smiled at her daughter. “You’re right. I guess it figured it was time to come out.”
Gracie frowned. “Maybe I should call Mrs. Michaels and ask her what I’m supposed to do now. I think I need to help my caterpillar. How is she going to get rid of that cocoon all by herself?”
Jillian felt Linc’s presence before she saw him turn the corner of her house, a large bundle slung over his shoulder. She and Gracie watched him approach until he stopped at the foot of the porch steps. He dropped the bundle and indicated the jar with his chin.
“Is that Constance Caterpillar?”
With a worried frown, Grace nodded vigorously. “I think she’s stuck.”
Jillian looked from Grace’s face to Linc’s. “Constance Caterpillar? And who came up with that?”
Grace took the jar from Jillian and handed it to Linc. “Linc did. He said that since my caterpillar was a girl, we needed to come up with a girl name for her.”
Jillian tried not to smile. “It’s a good thing Linc can tell if caterpillars are boys or girls. His talents never cease to amaze me.”
Linc glanced at Jillian, his eyes alight with amusement. “What can I say? It’s a gift.”
She moved to stand next to him, and peered into the jar. “So, Mr. Expert, can you tell us what we need to do now? Gracie seems to think she needs to help Constance with the process.”
Her gaze shifted to his long, beautiful fingers gripping the jar, before looking up to meet his eyes. She could see the stunning contrast of dark lashes against gray eyes, and the way he seemed able to see deep inside her to the person she was meant to be. It had always been that way between them, an understanding they had never shared with another person. Even Lauren.
He squatted, and she followed so that they were both eye level with Grace. Linc’s face was serious when he spoke. “As hard as it is to believe, your butterfly is completely equipped to set herself free. If you broke the chrysalis yourself to let her out, you would damage her.”
Grace sputtered in protest. “But, Linc, I’d be very careful. I wouldn’t want to hurt her.”
Linc smiled at her, and something in Jillian’s chest seemed to flip over. “I know. What I meant is that the butterfly has to find its own way out. See, the whole process is designed to strengthen her wings and get her ready for flight. She knows that after she comes out, she needs to hang around a little longer to squeeze stored fluid into her wings and let them dry. If she doesn’t struggle through the small hole she makes in the cocoon, she’ll skip that whole step and never learn to fly. And what sort of life would that be?”
Jillian watched her daughter’s face, seeing the understanding pass over her small features, and realized that she actually knew what Grace was thinking. It was a small connection, but more than she had once thought possible. She clasped her hands together, feeling the press of her grandmother’s ring.
Slowly, Grace took the jar and set it on the floor of the porch by the door. With her elbows on her knees, she peered in at Constance. “They’re kinda like people, huh?”
A stiff ocean breeze blew in over the dunes, twisting Grace’s hair behind her back. “Smart kid,” Linc said.
Jillian stared at Grace as if seeing the wonderful person she was growing into for the first time, and felt profoundly blessed to be allowed to witness it. It was as if the angels of her childhood had not deserted Jillian at all but had instead passed into her safekeeping this small token of love and hope.
“Yeah, she sure is,” Jillian answered, sitting heavily in her rocking chair and wondering if Grace’s presence in her life had not been an accidental whim but was rather meant to be all along.
Linc felt a tug on his pants leg. “My daddy’s coming for a visit.” Grace’s face was serious, a small furrow in her brow.
“I bet you’re excited.” He stole a glance over at Jillian to catch her expression. She didn’t look up at him, but fiddled with the gold ring on her right hand.
Somberly, Grace nodded. “I am. I don’t think Jilly-bean is, though. She thinks it’s okay since Daddy hasn’t seen Ford yet, but she’s glad he’s not bringing that slut Joanie with him.”
Linc held back a laugh as Jillian jerked to a stand and faced her daughter. “Gracie! Where do you come up with these things?”
Gracie considered her mother soberly for a moment. “From you. Those were the exact words you told Mrs. Weber on the phone last night. You thought I was in bed, but I got up to get a drink of water and I heard you.” After a brief pause, she asked, “What’s a slut?”
Jillian crossed her arms over her chest, her cheeks darkening. “You’re not supposed to be broadcasting personal conversations to other people.”
Grace focused her attention on the struggling chrysalis again, already bored with the conversation. “But it’s only Linc!” Her expression made it clear that she assumed everybody would understand why Linc should be included in all personal matters.
Linc watched as Jillian fought for composure. “Grace, please go pour us all some iced tea. And don’t forget to wash your hands first. And remember to refill the ice tray after you take out the ice.”
With a heavy sigh, Grace stood and stomped her way toward the door, her displeasure at being dismissed evident in the slamming of the door.
“Don’t slam the door—you’ll wake the baby.”
The only response was a loud groan.
Jillian shoved her hands into the pockets of her shorts and she smiled weakly at him. “Sorry about that. I don’t mean to get you involved in all our dirty laundry.”
He noticed the pink sunburn on her nose and cheeks, and how her hair was pulled back from her face in a ponytail, and he was silent for a moment, stunned at the effect she seemed to have on him.
He cleared his throat and grabbed hold of the bundle he’d dumped on the porch. “Grace told me that when Ford fusses at night you come out here to calm him down. I figured one of these would come in handy.”
Jillian’s face brightened. “A Pawleys Island hammock! Oh, Linc—it’s wonderful!” She moved toward him and held out her hand to grasp the heavy white rope knots before surprising him with a hug.
The hammock slipped from his grasp onto the sandy ground as his arms reached around to hold her. She smelled of sun and baby and milk; so different from the old Jillian, but still very much the wonderful girl he’d known. He held her tightly for a moment, holding close to the good memories before letting go.
Her arms fell back to her sides, and he could tell she felt the same embarrassment he did. They were like two ships facing each other on the ocean without clear signals as to how to pass.
She blushed again. “Sorry. I can’t tell you the last time somebody gave me a present. And it was real sweet of you.”
He bent to pick up the fallen hammock, wondering yet again why he was there. He’d been in his car, heading for his Charleston office, when he’d passed a store selling hammocks. The next thing
he knew, he was standing on Jillian’s back porch, getting ready to hang one for her. He straightened. “Actually, I have an ulterior motive. I’ve been sleeping with my windows open and didn’t want a baby’s crying to keep me up at night.”
She shifted her weight and grinned up at him. “Yeah. That’s what I thought. But it was sweet of you, anyway.”
Feeling oddly pleased, he reached for his tool belt that he’d brought with the hammock. “Just show me where you want it.”
She folded her arms across her chest for a moment and walked slowly down the length of the porch. Finally stopping in the far corner, she said, “Right here. It’ll get the late-afternoon sun, but be in the shade during the hottest part of the day. And at night, well, it’ll be perfect.”
Pulling out the screw eyes he needed, he dragged the hammock to where she wanted it, trying not to notice the long, bare legs she’d pulled up as she sat in a chair, or the way a hint of abdomen showed below her short top. He couldn’t remember the last time a woman had pulled at all five senses like this woman did. He’d dated many, but none that had haunted his thoughts daily like Jillian did. Not since Lauren.
He turned his back on her and began working the screw into the wood, not wanting her face to soften the memories of her father’s accusing glare, or the thin mattress of the cot he’d slept on during his two nights spent in jail.
He reached for the second screw eye he’d clamped between his teeth. “Do you remember that box I made for Lauren? The one with our initials on the top?” The screw fell from his mouth onto the floor of the porch, where it jammed itself between two boards. Cursing silently, he tried to yank it out, only scraping up his fingers for his efforts. He grabbed another from his tool belt, then straightened to face her.
Some of the color had bled from her face. Her brown eyes were wide, her mouth slightly opened. Slowly, she lowered her legs and leaned back in the chair. “Of course I remember it. I was the one who bought you the edging tool you needed to carve the initials.” He watched her swallow. “I gave that to you for your seventeenth birthday.”
He could almost feel the hard metal of the tool in his fingers as he stabbed the stubborn wood, and then the feel of it slicing into his hand and the warm blood dripping down his fingers as he refused to quit working. And then Lauren had been there, cleaning the wound and bandaging it. Linc looked down for a moment at the screw he held in his scarred hand, at the puckered ridge of pinkened skin, and squinted in confusion. No, it hadn’t been Lauren. It had been Jillian.
He looked at her again, forcing himself to continue. No matter that he knew he was pressing on old bruises that had never healed. His youth had been stolen from him, and it was past time for somebody else to share the pain. “Do you know what happened to it?”
She shook her head as he watched her chest rise and fall as if she were struggling to stay calm. “She cherished it. I know she would have made sure she put it somewhere safe.”
“How safe, Jillian?”
She met his gaze without flinching. “She had her reasons. Maybe one day you can ask her yourself.”
He studied her for a long moment, waiting for her to say more. When she didn’t, he turned his back to her again and finished hanging the hooks for the hammock, trying to push back his disappointment. What was in the box? For a brief moment, he wished he’d accepted it when Gracie had handed it to him. Then he’d know—what? He’d find out eventually. He had all the time in the world.
When he was done hanging the hammock, Jillian joined him standing next to it. “Thanks, Linc. I know I’ll use it often.”
He grunted his acknowledgment as he hoisted his tool belt again and slid his hammer back into its slot.
As he turned to leave, she put a warm hand on his arm, pulling him back. Her face was close to his, close enough for him to read the apology in her eyes. “Are you coming to the Webers’ boil next Saturday? Gracie has been helping me practice my shag steps. You and I could really show them how it’s done.”
He hadn’t planned to. Martha Weber had asked him, and he’d already made up an excuse just out of habit. He remembered as a boy sitting on an abandoned dock and looking across the creek to see cooking fires and clusters of island neighbors laughing and talking. He and his mother had never been invited. Instead, he had sat alone, an outsider looking into a place he could never call his own.
But now he looked at Jillian, at her bright eyes and wide smile and the promise of a dance. He remembered to shrug first. “I don’t think I’m doing anything else. I might as well.”
“Gee, Linc, you really know how to flatter a girl. But I’m glad you’re coming.”
“Do you need a ride?”
She shook her head. “Mason’s picking us up.”
He tried to ignore the feeling of disappointment as he slung his tool belt over his shoulder. “Now that I know you’ll be expecting me to dance with you, I’ll wear my steel-toed work boots to protect my feet.”
Her retort was interrupted by Ford’s crying on the baby monitor. Jillian opened the screen door and looked back at Linc. “Stay here for a few minutes—Gracie’s bringing out the iced tea. She’ll be disappointed if you leave after she’s gone through all that trouble.”
The door banged shut behind her, and he stole a glance at her retreating backside through the screen. A moment later, the door opened again as Gracie backed her way out of it, a dripping glass of iced tea in each hand. Moving forward, Linc took a glass.
Taking a sip, he nodded appreciatively. “Thank you, Grace. Hanging a hammock is hard work.”
Grace smiled up at him as the ice banged her teeth. “Did you find Lauren’s hiding place?”
The warm day seemed to turn suddenly cool, and he felt the hairs on his arms stiffen. “What hiding place, Gracie?”
“The one in her room. Jilly-bean knows it’s there, but she couldn’t get it open.”
“No, I haven’t. Where is it?”
But Grace had already shifted her attention back to the glass jar with the emerging butterfly. “How long do you think it’ll take before Constance is ready to come out?”
Linc placed his empty glass on the side railing and moved closer. Squatting, he studied the oblong shape of the chrysalis, hanging by mere threads to the twig that held it. The small split in the side was larger now, the subtle movements shifting the chrysalis on its thread.
“I’m not sure. Maybe a day or two would be my guess.”
Gracie put her head close to his and peered into the jar. “I think it should take years. It’s a big thing to go from crawling to flying, don’t you think?”
He stared at her profile for a long time, contemplating the wisdom of youth and how little of it adults seemed to retain as they moved away from childhood.
“Yep, it’s an amazing thing to see, that’s for sure.” Linc stood and thanked Grace for the iced tea again before saying good-bye. As he turned to leave, Gracie said, “Are you really going to wear steel-toed boots?”
He smiled. “Is there anything you don’t hear?” Shaking his head, he said, “No, I’ve already got plenty of protective calluses on my feet. They’ll survive dancing with your mother.”
Sticking her hand in her glass, Gracie pinched an ice cube between her fingers and brought it out. “Lauren says you’re the best dancer.”
Again, he felt as if a cold hand had touched the back of his neck, and his smile faded. “Who is Lauren, Gracie?”
Mischievous brown eyes stared up at him. “You know.”
“No, I’m confused. Tell me.”
They both turned at the sound of Jillian coming down the wooden stairs. Leaning up, Gracie stood on her tiptoes to whisper in his ear. “Look in the window seat.”
Before he could question her, Jillian came out onto the porch, carrying Ford. He said good-bye again, then left, his thoughts churning between caterpillars and butterflies and of a girl he used to know—a girl whose face kept blending with the face of a woman he couldn’t seem to stay away from.
CHAPTER 16
LINC STARED AT THE CARCASS OF THE BLUE CRAB, ITS WHITENED belly exposed to the warm late May sun, its claws supine in wordless supplication. He nudged it with the toe of his shoe, shuffling it until it fell into a dip in the sand. Then, slowly and methodically, as his profession had trained him to work, he kicked sand over the dead crab, not completely sure why he felt the need to do it, only that he felt a strong pull out on the dunes to bury the dead.
A dark-haired child chased the surf on the beach as his mother started to pack up coolers and sand pails, the father busy filming with a video camera. The mother raced after the little boy with a large towel, her shoulders pinkened from the sun.
Linc shifted his gaze down the stretch of sand, noticing a scattering of beach chairs and umbrellas, like flowers in a desert garden, their bright colors harsh against the paleness of the sand. The spring visitors had come, and soon the summer tourists would arrive. The island would be awash with people again.
Panning his gaze out over the ocean, he savored its vast emptiness, hearing the liquid music that had always brought him home to this place of tidal marshes and swollen dunes. His mother had moved him from apartment to apartment during his childhood, but here, out amid the pelicans and sea grasses, he knew he was home. The sun settled low and bloodred on the late-afternoon horizon, waiting to be swallowed by the ebbing tide. Linc felt the pull, as if he were a grain of sand or a discarded shell, much as he imagined his own ancestors had. They had been marauding pirates who had once haunted this part of the South Carolina barrier islands, men determined to take what they could not earn: ownership and respectability. He kicked more sand over the dead crab, and sometimes wondered if he wasn’t all that different than his infamous ancestors.
He ducked under the yellow CAUTION tape that encircled the collapsed dune, being careful to test for firm footholds as he neared the sinkhole. He hadn’t yet received permission to use heavy equipment to dig, so he’d ordered the long and arduous job of excavating the site by hand. Shovels and trowels were now stabbed into the sand like slender grave markers around the perimeter of the gaping hole.