Beach House Reunion

by Mary Alice Monroe

  “At my mother’s house. Before that, I rented a room for a while in a house on Sullivan’s Island that my friends own. Surf buddies—Richie and Trey, you met them. We go way back,” he added by way of explanation. “It turns out a lot of my friends are in real estate now.”

  The waiter stopped at their table to freshen their waters. “Anything else I can get you?”

  John looked at Linnea questioningly. She shook her head.

  “No, thanks,” he said.

  The waiter left, and John took the moment to drink his beer. Putting the glass back on the table, he looked at her with uncertainty. “Are you sure you want to hear all this?”

  “Very. I want to learn about those interesting developments.”

  His eyes sparked. “Anyway,” he began, “hanging around together, I heard my friends talking about work and realized real estate in Charleston was still an old-school business.” He leaned forward, intent. “That’s when it hit me: I could apply new tech practices to transform the local real estate market.”

  She smiled, stirred by his enthusiasm. “John, that’s very cool.”

  “Yeah,” he replied, grateful for her response. “That’s what I thought. I’m figuring out a way to make a real estate platform that’s going to generate leads to home sites. It will help agents, sellers, and buyers—with data analysis to boot. I can apply technology that’s already being used in other industries to leverage tools and marketing practices to increase profitability.”

  Linnea wasn’t entirely sure what all that meant, but she did understand that there was a whole lot more to this guy than his mesmerizing eyes. John relaxed and went into greater detail about his project. She learned a lot about him not only from his words, but from watching him. He began gesticulating as he talked, his eyes brightening as he explained a point.

  It occurred to her that she’d never met anyone quite like him before. He was older, true. He’d had more experiences and was more worldly than the men she knew in college. But even that wasn’t unusual. It was his brilliance hidden behind his casual, laid-back style that appealed to her. He didn’t need to advertise. He knew who he was, his worth, and he didn’t seem to care if anyone else did. And he had passion about his idea. She liked that about a man.

  “It’s been done in other industries,” he concluded modestly, then flattened his palms on the table. “But not in real estate. I’m psyched. It’s a real opportunity.” He laughed, and she enjoyed the sound of it. “I had to leave San Francisco and come to Charleston for the best idea I’ve ever had. Go figure.” He reached for his glass. “So that was a long way of telling you what I’m doing.”

  “That’s all?” she asked teasingly. “You’re creating a computer program that’s a game changer for an industry.” She looked at him obliquely. “Me? I’m a nanny.”

  “I’m living in my mother’s house,” he countered.

  “And me in my aunt’s.”

  They both laughed, sensing the attraction between them growing.

  The waiter returned and discreetly left the black padded folder on the table. Linea looked around the restaurant as John took care of the bill. It was nearly empty. They were closing down the place. It had been a long time since she’d had such a good conversation that time flew by so fast she didn’t notice.

  “Shall we go?” John asked, extending his hand.

  IN A COMPANIONABLE silence, they walked along the narrow beach at high tide. Overhead a full moon rose high, its golden light a shimmering ribbon across the sea. Linnea took his offered hand and slipped off her sandals, letting them dangle from her fingertips.

  “That’s the Sturgeon Moon,” John told her, pointing to the moon. “That was when the American Indians near the Great Lakes knew it was time for fishing.”

  She stared, feeling the majesty of a full moon rising. “I used to wonder if more sea turtles came to shore during full moons,” she said. “You know, with the tides and all.”

  “And do they?”

  She laughed lightly. “No. It’s a myth. Like more women having babies during a full moon. It seems to make sense when you think of the pull of the moon and tides. But babies and turtles both come during all phases of the moon.”

  “I love it when the moon looks like a golden road on the water,” he said, stretching out his arm to indicate the light over the ocean. “It always makes me want to try to walk it.”

  “Like following a rainbow to the end.”

  “Right.”

  “When I see a moon like that, I think of a poem I read as a girl. It’s so dramatic and I’ve never forgotten it. There’s this great beat to it, like hearing the horse galloping. It’s called ‘The Highwayman.’ ”

  John cleared his throat and recited in a baritone:

  “The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas.

  The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor.”

  Linnea, delighted he knew the poem, joined in:

  “And the highwayman came riding—

  Riding—riding—

  The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.”

  They both laughed when they finished, and Linnea leaned against him.

  “My heart still breaks for the lovers.”

  “You’re a romantic,” he said.

  “Everyone is a romantic under a full moon.”

  “So”—John stopped and faced her—“let’s do something romantic.”

  “Like what?”

  “Go for a swim.”

  Linnea looked at him guardedly and took a step back, dropping his hand. “I don’t have a suit.”

  John’s eyes lit up. “You don’t need one.”

  “Uh-uh, I’m not going skinny-dipping with you. First of all, it’s illegal.”

  “So swim in your underwear. It’s no different than a bikini.”

  “Who says I’m wearing underwear?”

  John’s mouth hung open. Linnea laughed, pleased she’d got him. “Secondly, I never swim in black water. Nighttime is feeding time for the sharks.”

  “We’re not their prey.”

  “So I’ve heard. But it’s dark in there and they can make a mistake. I’ve released a lot of hatchlings and I know how many sharks are out there.” She turned and started walking away, calling flirtatiously over her shoulder, “But nice try.”

  John trotted to catch up with her. “Linnea, I think this neighbor thing has made things awkward between us.”

  “Awkward?” she said, looking at her hands. “I thought it’s been nice.”

  “It has, but I feel like we’re like . . . pals who surf together. Hang out at each other’s houses. Laugh at each other’s jokes.”

  “Friends,” she said.

  “Yeah.”

  She was keenly aware of his closeness.

  John reached over to take her hand. Looking at it, he gently rubbed his thumb over her tender skin. Linnea’s attention was focused on the small patch of skin, each neuron aflame as the ball of his thumb grazed over it, sending sensations throughout her body. She stared at her hand too, holding her breath.

  “Here’s the thing,” he said in a low voice. “I like having you as my friend. But that’s not what I want.”

  Linnea felt a thrill ripple through her body; spreading her arms out, shoes dangling, she swirled in a circle. “What do you want?”

  His eyes were the dark green of a stormy sea. She felt she could drown in them. She felt the heat between them, felt his arms slip around her. She began to tremble with anticipation and her breath held as he lowered his head.

  “This.”

  Linnea opened her lips slightly and felt his lips, warm and trembling, gently graze hers. She lowered her lids and leaned in closer, hungry for his kiss. The moonlit world was dreamlike as he left a moist trail across her cheeks, her neck; then, at last, he returned to her lips and crushed her against him. She whimpered as she brought her arms around his neck and pressed herself against him. She felt the heat spark into a raging fire that swept th
rough her body, consuming her.

  At the sound of her deep-throated moan, he pulled back to catch his breath. They rested their foreheads against each other, breathing hard, then both laughed lightly, knowing the other had felt the explosion too.

  John leaned his head lower and said in her ear, “Want to come over to my studio?”

  Linnea took another breath with a step back and looked up into his green eyes.

  “Yes.”

  THE MOON LIT their way home.

  The garden’s iron gate squeaked when John opened it. Linnea cringed at the noise, feeling sure Emmi would hear it and come to a window. The last thing Linnea wanted was for her and John to become the hot gossip topic for the ladies. The gravel crunched beneath their feet as they walked through the moonlit garden. Flo’s roses filled the night with their heady scent.

  He led her past the main house to the rear, where the period carriage house sat nestled among hydrangeas, their white mop-heads resembling smaller moons in the distance. It was a classic Victorian design with a gambrel roof and a railed upper porch. The ground level never housed a car because it was crammed with storage. A long flight of stairs led to the second-floor apartment that Flo had lovingly remodeled as her mother’s art studio. It was Miranda, however, who’d insisted on the flamboyant Moroccan double-door entry. When Emmi purchased the 1930s Victorian from Flo, she’d painted the houses turquoise and the gingerbread trim a pale coral. Looking at the colors, Flo had shaken her head and said, “Miranda would have loved it.”

  “The house used to be white,” Linnea told John as they climbed the stairs. She couldn’t resist adding, “How do you feel about living in a turquoise and pink house?”

  He didn’t miss a beat. “It’s sea blue and coral,” he replied, straight-faced. “Caribbean cool.”

  “Ah,” she said in mock understanding. When they reached the door, Linnea marveled at the intricate trompe l’oeil tile pattern that Miranda had drawn around the doors.

  John opened the door and she stepped into a single large room with a vaulted ceiling and large, multipaned windows. Moonlight poured in through them, blanketing the floor in silver. She had to blink when John turned on the electric lights, so harsh in contrast.

  “I’ll get the wine,” said John.

  While he went to the tiny galley kitchen across the room, Linnea slipped off her sandy sandals and looked around. It was surprisingly neat for a man’s apartment. She clasped her hands behind her back and strolled around, captivated by Miranda’s murals. Linnea had visited Flo and Emmi’s house for many years as she grew up, but she’d never been inside the apartment. After Miranda died, it had been used for more storage.

  Cara had described Miranda as a charming eccentric, an artist with flamboyant strawberry-blond hair that was, in fact, alarmingly pink. She wore flowing clothing, long shawls, and dangling earrings. Everyone adored her. She’d taught Emmi and Cara art in the studio in the summers. The girls had sat behind easels with the big Moroccan double doors flung wide open, looking out at the sea. Miranda would encourage the girls to ignore the rules and paint whatever they felt in their souls. That was a far cry from the school art teachers of the time, who scolded them if their trees didn’t look like trees. Miranda was larger than life, and Cara had confessed that she better understood Flo’s penchant for plain pants and T-shirts.

  Miranda’s other passion had been sea turtles, something Flo claimed was imprinted on their DNA. Turtles had bonded them with their neighbor, Lovie. So it was no surprise to see that Miranda had painted the walls of the studio in a glorious ocean theme. Nothing Disney-like here: the dolphins, loggerheads, pelicans, jellyfish, and shrimp were incredibly lifelike, swimming around the blue walls of the studio. Linnea thought it would be like living under the sea.

  She ran her fingers over the old Victorian sofa covered in green velvet, worn and no doubt lumpy from years of use. Most of the furniture in the studio had been Miranda’s collection of mismatched favorites, and they weren’t all old-fashioned. The artist had a modern streak. Breuer cane chairs clustered around a painted farm table. And she’d bet money that was an original Mies van der Rohe chair. Her vintage antennae were twirling.

  Linnea walked to the large desk that sat in front of a window overlooking the side yard. Peering through the window, she was intrigued to see that it provided an excellent view of the beach house—her bedroom, in particular.

  John returned with the wine and handed her a glass. She took a sip and relished the cool, citrusy flavor of the sauvignon blanc.

  “Thanks. It’s perfect.” She swirled the wine and said, “I can’t help but notice your view.”

  John looked out the window, then back at her with a sardonic smile. He had the grace to laugh. “I sometimes just stare out the window. I mean, the beach house happens to be right there.”

  “Uh-huh . . .” she said, not buying it.

  He shrugged in a French manner. “I admit that—occasionally—I’m hoping to catch a glimpse of you.”

  “That’s sweet, if a bit voyeuristic.”

  “Not at all,” he said, putting his hand over his heart in a wounded display. “I don’t have X-ray vision and can’t see through your bedroom curtains. I assure you, all is completely innocent.”

  “That’s good to know.”

  “Though when the windows are open, I can hear Cara’s canary singing.”

  She laughed. “We all do.”

  “It’s that neighbor thing again,” he said in a more serious tone. “You’re so close. And yet . . .” He let the familiar phrase dangle.

  She felt the change in tone thicken the air between them. They were back here . . . the reason why they’d strolled from the sea to this small studio. He was waiting for her decision. Linnea took a small breath.

  “I’m here now.”

  His eyes kindled and he set his wineglass on a nearby table. Without speaking he reached out for her glass, and likewise set it down. She wasn’t the least bit nervous. She felt comfortable here, in this place, with him. It felt right.

  He took her hand again, the same hand he’d held on the long beach walk. In a flash the memories converged—the connection she’d felt matching the rhythm of her step to his, bumping hips and shoulders, the sound of his voice against the rumble of the waves, the feeling that they could keep on walking all night. He brought her hand to his lips, looking into her eyes, then turned it over and kissed the palm. Linnea sucked in her breath. She’d never realized how sensitive that patch of skin was. Then he let his fingers slide up her arm to cup her face. He smiled at her, a smile of promise and reassurance.

  She smiled back, coy, flirtatious, her eyes signaling yes.

  His head slowly lowered, his gaze holding hers until, at last, his lips met hers. This second kiss was more assured, more demanding. A moan rose in her throat, and again she leaned into him, surrendering.

  Once more he took her hand, and led her to the back corner of the studio. Under a dramatic round window and a mural of dolphins arching was an antique sleigh bed made of beautiful mahogany with ball-and-claw feet. The bed was unmade, the pillows dented with the memory of his head.

  Her fingers nimbly undid the covered buttons of her pale-pink blouse. He stood motionless watching her, his arms hanging at his sides. When she was finished, he stepped closer to bring his fingers to her shoulders and slide the blouse away. Then, in a rush, he pulled his own shirt off over his head and reached again for her.

  “Wait,” she whispered against his lips.

  He froze, uncertain.

  “Turn off the lights,” she said, yearning for the moonlight.

  He took a few steps away to flick off the lights. Instantly the room was once again flooded with silver light. Looking at him now, standing motionless with his finely muscled chest creating shadows, he was like a marvelous statue carved from a single piece of marble.

  “Linnea?” He asked so much in saying her name.

  “John.” Her answer spoke volumes.

  He st
epped forward, wrapping her in his arms. This kiss ignited a fire that went beyond foreplay. Now they lunged for each other, tearing off clothes, kissing bare skin revealed. They fell back onto the bed, never for a second releasing each other. His hands trembled as they rounded bare shoulders, slid along the curves of her back, then up again.

  In the moonlight Linnea felt part of the mural, floating in the sea. As the kisses deepened, she felt the smaller waves hit. She let them glide over her, gasping for breath. Higher they rose, steeper and steeper. She felt herself paddling hard, moving forward with strong, deliberate strokes, closer to the breaker. His lips were everywhere, his hands holding her firmly, guiding her to catch the wave. Suddenly she felt it coming. She moved faster, pacing herself to his cues. When the great wave hit, she let go, and with a gasp, she caught the wave. She was riding high, soaring, letting the wave take her home.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Twenty inches under the sand, the hatchlings begin to pip, or break out of their eggs, using a small temporary tooth called a caruncle. They work together to rise up like an elevator. Once at the top, they remain for a number of days and absorb their yolk, which is attached by an umbilical to their abdomen. Often called the lunch pail, this yolk will provide them the much-needed energy for their first few days when they make their way from the nest to offshore waters.

  A TRIPLE-DIGIT JULY HEAT wave hit Charleston, and the turtle team discovered that the nests were hatching early, some as early as forty-seven days. And as always, whispers of warm water fueled fears of hurricanes.

  On the first day the heat wave broke, dropping to the low nineties, Linnea hopped into her Mini Cooper and met her brother for lunch at Saffron Café on East Bay, not far from the family business. It was part bakery, part restaurant, and they’d eaten there for as long as she could remember. Linnea welcomed the blast of air-conditioning as she stepped into the café. Cooper was already there, flagging her down from a table by the window. He was dressed in a faded dress shirt and black jeans, his effort at respectability at the office, and his dark hair was longer than usual, curling around his ears. He already had a tray full of food.