Beach House Reunion

by Mary Alice Monroe

  “Where are you?” Linnea called to her father.

  “Let him be,” her mother hissed as she lifted her hands to her rain hat. She shook the water off with brusque, angry strokes.

  “In here,” he called back.

  Linnea walked to the living room, following the sound of Palmer’s voice. The thick silk drapes were closed against the storm. Not a gleam of light came from the large crystal chandelier hanging in the middle of the room. Only the small light positioned above the portrait of her grandfather Stratton Rutledge shone on the massive, ornately framed painting.

  Linnea had never really known her grandfather. He’d died while she was young. Nonetheless, she’d heard the stories of his ruthlessness, and thus was a little afraid of him. She’d often wondered why her mother never took the painting down after he died, knowing how she felt about the man. One of a pair of blue velvet wing chairs had been moved to sit in direct line of view of the portrait.

  “Daddy?” she called softly, approaching. She peered around the tall back of the chair, and then her shoulders slumped. Palmer was sitting in the chair, his meaty hands on the armrests. In one of them was a tumbler half-filled with a brown liquid. “What are you doing sitting here alone in the dark?”

  Palmer glanced up at her briefly, his eyes red and swollen with grief, then turned his gaze back to the portrait. “I’m ruminating.”

  She’d never seen him like this. Almost manic. He’d obviously hit the bottle the moment he got home. Linnea didn’t know if she was more annoyed or frightened.

  “Julia!” he bellowed.

  Linnea startled at his outburst and swung her head to look at her mother out in the foyer. Julia straightened, but her face was impassive. Cold. She stood staring into the room but didn’t reply.

  “You’ve been gone all day,” Palmer called to her in a belligerent tone.

  “You left,” Julia said accusingly. “You left your son lying in the hospital.”

  Linnea stood frozen between her father and her mother. Outside, the wind was howling. Inside, Linnea felt a storm building in the room, as fierce as the one outdoors. The tension was thick and conditions were tempestuous. Her mind flashed warnings.

  “Do you hear me, woman?” Palmer shouted, rising to a stand. He rocked on his heels with the effort, sticking out a hand to balance himself on the tall back of the wing chair.

  Something in Linnea snapped. She couldn’t take any more. She threw caution to the wind and reared up. “She’s not some woman. She’s your wife!” she shouted. “She spent the whole night and all morning with Cooper. Leave her alone!”

  Palmer rounded on her. “Watch your mouth, little girl.”

  “I’m not a little girl and I will not watch my mouth!” she cried. She wiped a droplet of rainwater from her forehead. “In fact, I wish I hadn’t been so meek before. Maybe if I’d spoken up, Cooper wouldn’t be in the hospital now.”

  “Linnea . . .” her mother said in a warning tone. She moved into the room to stand a few feet from them.

  “I knew he wasn’t himself,” Linnea cried. “Yes, he was drinking. But it went way beyond social drinking. And it wasn’t boys will be boys drinking, either. He was drinking to get drunk. He was taking drugs to escape. He was doing it because he couldn’t face his life.” Her chest rose and fell with emotion, making it difficult to get the words out. “You told him all that bullshit about what it meant to be a Rutledge. How you went to the Citadel and Granddad went there. Why couldn’t you just once ask him what he wanted to do?”

  “He wanted to go,” Palmer countered, almost pleading his case. “He enrolled, didn’t he? He’s just having a tough first week. Knobs have it hard. But, hell, it’s part of the system. Makes you a man.”

  Linnea put her palms to the sides of her head and shrieked as loud as the howling wind: “You’re still not listening! He. Did. Not. Want. To. Go!”

  No one spoke. Behind the curtains, the windows rattled from the force of the wind. It sounded like some ghost trying to get in.

  Linnea felt spent. Her hands dropped to her sides. “You never listen. That’s the problem. Neither of you,” she said, turning to include her mother. Julia’s face drooped.

  “And I’m no better,” she continued. “I pretended it wasn’t my problem. That he was a big boy now and could figure this out for himself. I should have helped Cooper find a way to speak up for himself. To stop hiding his feelings and tell you how he felt.”

  The vision of Cooper sitting in the dayroom of the mental hospital, blankly staring out the tall windows, haunted her. Tears flooded her eyes. “He’s lost.” She hastily wiped her eyes. “You know what I think?” she asked her parents. “I think he did take an overdose deliberately. It wasn’t an accident. And do you know why? Because if he did overdose, he’d get kicked out of the Citadel. Cooper was willing to risk his life rather than tell you face-to-face how he felt.”

  “Linnea, don’t say that!” Julia cried, her voice broken.

  “You’re making this all up,” Palmer said belligerently. His hands fisted and relaxed nervously at his sides and he stuck his jaw out in defense. “Cooper said he didn’t try to hurt himself. The doctor confirmed it. You heard it.” He turned to Julia for confirmation.

  Linnea shook her head and huffed out a short laugh, feeling some of Cooper’s hopelessness. “It doesn’t matter, does it? It almost killed him. But, hey!” She lifted her palms with exaggeration. “He got you to listen.”

  Her father’s hands went still.

  “And you know what?” she said by way of challenge. “I’m going to speak up too.”

  Palmer’s eyes flashed like lightning. He crossed his arms as though to barricade against more hurt coming his way. “All right, missy. I’m listening.”

  It was said as a threat. Linnea’s mind screamed out warnings to stop, but she’d gone too far. Cooper was strong; now she had to be. It was now or never. She steeled herself, lifting her chin.

  “I’ve got news,” she announced. “I’ve found a position in my field and I have an interview. And if they offer me the job, I’m going to take it.”

  Palmer’s face reflected his surprise. Clearly this wasn’t what he’d expected to hear and it took the wind out of him. “Well,” he said, and wiped his face with his palm. He looked exhausted, and seemed at a loss for words. “That’s good. Real good.”

  “Let me finish,” Linnea said.

  Palmer’s smile froze and he tilted his head, puzzled.

  “The job is in California,” Linnea continued. “San Francisco, to be exact.”

  “What?” Julia’s voice was stunned. “When did you decide this?”

  “Just this week.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked, sounding hurt.

  “Oh, Mama, you had Cooper on your mind today. I didn’t want to add to your burden.”

  “You don’t have to protect me,” Julia said, standing straighter. “I should protect you. I should protect both my children.”

  Palmer broke through with bluster, having caught a second wind. “You’re not going to San Francisco.”

  “Yes, I am,” she replied, facing him with equal conviction.

  Julia stepped closer. “Where would you live?”

  “I have a place to stay,” Linnea said.

  Palmer frowned. “Where is that?”

  The wind gusted again, stronger now, whistling outside the windows. The brittle branches of the old oak tree rattled like claws at the window. Linnea felt her courage waver.

  “A friend’s.”

  “Who?” he asked, stepping closer.

  Linnea met her father’s unblinking gaze. “Emmi Peterson’s son, John.”

  She heard her mother suck in her breath.

  “I’m not a little girl anymore,” Linnea rushed to say.

  Palmer’s eyes widened. “You’re going to California with a man?”

  She swallowed hard. “He has an apartment there. I’m going to crash at his place until I find an apartment of my own.
He’s being a good friend.”

  Palmer snorted unkindly. “I’ll just bet he is.”

  She tried for reason. “That’s all we are. Friends. But if I want something more, you need to trust me that he’s a good man and I’m making the right decision.”

  He shook his head. He was having none of it. “You’re not going! And that’s that.”

  Linnea felt no fear and spoke in a monotone that was, oddly, more effective than a shout. “I leave as soon as the storm is over.”

  The tension skyrocketed with a sudden fierceness. He was blowing up, his rage building to a tipping point, and she felt her own anger swell like feeder bands of the hurricane.

  “Hell, no!” he roared, stung to the core. The wind gusted, rattling the window, and the lights flickered. The storm was upon them.

  She stared at him, mouth agape. She didn’t know this man, and he frightened her.

  He pointed to her, his face red, spittle at his lips. “You’re not going anywhere! Who do you think you are? Goddamned beach house. What happens to women out there? My mother. My sister. Her damn friends. And now you? A bunch of radicals, all of them! Enough, I say! I’m your father, and I want you back home under my roof, hear? Where you belong.”

  Linnea glared at him, then turned away. “I’m out of here.”

  “Don’t you dare turn your back on me!”

  It was all so fast, Linnea would never recall exactly what happened.

  From the corner of her eye she caught sight of her father raising his hand in anger. Her breath hitched.

  At the same moment, a deafening crack erupted just outside the house, and amid the terrible sound of ripping wood she heard her mother cry, “No!”

  Linnea yelped and cowered, arms up over her head. Her heart pounded wildly.

  Julia stood in front of her daughter, shoulders back, fists at her sides, eyes blazing. “No!” she shouted again in a resounding voice.

  Palmer stared back at her, eyes wide, his hand still in the air. His face sagged and he staggered forward like a speared bull. His hand dropped to reach out to Linnea. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t touch her!” Julia shouted at him.

  Linnea straightened, staring at her mother. She was a lioness, roaring, empowered.

  Palmer had the thousand-yard stare of shell shock. His gaze drifted from Julia to Linnea, then back to Julia. His face contorted with anguish. In a sudden, swift move he turned and grabbed the crystal glass from the table and, with a guttural cry of anguish, hurled it at the portrait. It hurtled, spewing a trail of bourbon, to crash against the painting. Glass splintered and the seeping brown liquid spread over the old man’s face.

  Linnea slipped her arm around her mother.

  Palmer staggered across the foyer to the front door and opened it. The wind howled through the room like the cry of a ghost. He turned and looked once more at his wife and daughter.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, and stepped out into the storm.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Florida is the most important nesting area in the United States for loggerhead, green, and leatherback turtles. A staggering 80 percent of loggerhead nesting occurs in six Florida counties. A twenty-mile section of coastline from Melbourne Beach to Wabasso Beach comprises the Archie Carr National Wildlife Refuge, the most important nesting area for loggerhead turtles in the western hemisphere. A thousand nests per mile are recorded.

  TWO DAYS LATER the storm had passed and the sun rose on a calm but changed shoreline. Cara hovered over news reports, shocked at the photographs of waves crashing the sea wall of Rainbow Row in Charleston, the severe flooding and the battered dunes on Isle of Palms.

  As soon as the all-clear for Isle of Palms was declared, she packed the car back up, eager to return to the beach house. David asked her to stay in the mountains longer, but with Cooper in the hospital and Linnea not answering her texts, Cara was anxious to get home.

  Her fingers were dancing on the wheel by the time she drove up to Primrose Cottage. Her eyes hungrily devoured it, scanning quickly. There were the usual fallen palm fronds and torn screens on porches, but she blew out a plume of relief at seeing no damage. She realized how very much this house meant to her—no, even more, what the beach house symbolized for her: a strong foundation, grace under pressure, continuance, resilience.

  “We’re home!” she called out to Hope.

  Moutarde chirped from his travel cage at hearing the joy in her voice.

  The front steps were still damp and covered in leaves and mud. The torn front porch screens flapped in the wind and her plants had been knocked over, spilling dirt and geraniums. These she scooped back up as best she could; then she laid a blanket on the front porch for Hope to play on while she unscrewed the aluminum panels covering the front door. It didn’t take too long. Lifting Hope into her arms, she pushed open the front door.

  Inside, the house was dark and humid and had that shut-in staleness of an attic. She flicked a light switch. Nothing. So, she thought with dismay, the electricity is out. She couldn’t open a window because of the hurricane shutters. Still, enough light peered through the cracks that she could tour the house with Hope in her arms, searching for any leaks or damage. Her last stop was the rear porch. This had been Brett’s last project. He’d been very proud of the design of the sunroom with a wide deck in back. Cara sighed with relief to see that all was intact. No puddles on the floor.

  She settled Moutarde back in his large birdcage, then went outdoors and around to the back to remove the shutters from the sunroom. Her eyes scanned the roof, the trees, and the broad deck that Bo had constructed. Thank God all was unscathed. There was work to be done to get the house opened, but they were blessed.

  From around the house she heard the rumble of tires in the driveway next door, followed by car doors slamming, then footfalls in the gravel.

  “Hello! Anybody home?”

  Cara walked toward the voices. “I’m in the back!”

  Emmi rounded the corner of the house first, her mouth stretched across her face in a grin. She looked disheveled and wan, but ran to Cara to embrace her in a sisterly hug. Flo ambled up more slowly, but her arms were strong with emotion. The three women formed a circle, arms around each other, love flowing from one to another.

  “We made it through another one!” Flo exclaimed.

  Lastly John stepped onto the deck like a knight in shining armor, brandishing not a sword but a battery-operated drill. He grinned, his cheeks shadowed in stubble. “I’ll get those panels down for you in no time.”

  While the other women opened their house and John was busy removing shutters, Cara sat on the deck while Hope played and tried to reach Linnea, then Julia, and finally Palmer. But none of the calls went through. She ran her hand through her hair, sick with worry. She’d seen on the news the terrible flooding the city had, especially around the hospital. She could only hope they’d all had the good sense to stay home and wait out the storm. There was some comfort in knowing that Cooper, at least, was safe in the hospital.

  Before too long the hurricane shutters were removed, the electricity had been restored, and a fresh pot of steaming coffee was made to bolster the troops. The first thing Cara did was to go from room to room and push open all the windows of the house. The musty odor dissipated as salt-tinged ocean breezes blew through, balmy and fresh. She enjoyed the domesticity of sweeping the deck and walkways, dragging yard debris to the street. There was a serenity to everyday chores, a kind of Zen. Cara laughed as she worked, watching Hope try to keep up with her on her chubby legs. Cara began feeling that peace had been restored at Primrose Cottage.

  She was preparing a picnic dinner of food scavenged from the fridge and cabinets when she heard more car wheels in the driveway, followed by the honking of a horn. Who could that be? she wondered as she put down the bread slices and walked to the kitchen window to peer out. Her heart skipped in joy.

  “Linnea!” she called out. Cara rushed to pick up Hope from among her toys. “Linnea�
�s here,” she told her, and scurried out the back door to meet her on the deck.

  Linnea ran to kiss Cara, then swept Hope up in her arms and twirled her around, squealing with happiness.

  “I was so worried!” Cara said, her gaze hungrily devouring every inch of Linnea’s face. “I couldn’t reach you. I didn’t sleep a wink for worry.”

  “I’m sorry. We couldn’t get service or the Internet. I tried texting you on the way over.”

  “How did you get here? I saw the flooding on TV. It’s horrible.”

  “I know,” she said wearily. “Some of the roads are like rivers. Mama called the city Venice. But there were side roads that we could use to get through the city. It took forever.” She kissed Hope and handed her back to Cara. “Thank goodness we were driving Mama’s tank. My little Mini Cooper would never have made it.”

  “Linnea, how’s Cooper?”

  Her smile slipped. “He’s doing better. He’s in the psych ward.”

  Cara frowned with concern. “Oh.”

  “It’s really okay. We couldn’t get back to the hospital because of the flooding.” She rolled her eyes. “Mama was fit to be tied. But we called this morning and he’s doing better. There’s a big bright room where they can keep an eye on him. It’s not like he’s locked up in a cell or anything. Cara, I’m glad he’s there. He’ll get the help he needs right now. And he can’t go anywhere even if they released him. The hospital area is a lake. We got out just in time, or we’d still be stuck there. The doctors and nurses are coming in by boat!”

  “It was unbelievable. I—”

  She stopped when she heard her mother’s voice.

  “Hello?” Julia rounded the house. Despite the long, ragged night, she appeared strong and steady, dragging two suitcases. She stopped when she saw Cara and Linnea grinning and laughing.