House on the Forgotten Coast

by Ruth Coe Chambers

  “That’s cause I’d rather look at your pretty face than talk to you on the phone. In fact, why don’t you meet me at the drugstore for coffee? That way I can see the surprise on your face when you hear my news.”

  “Why not, Peyton? It’s not as though my dance card is filled these days. My keys are about to jingle, and if you’ll start for the drugstore, I’ll be right there, but, Peyton . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “You’d better have some real news, not just complaining about the millionaire Yankees moving to St. George Island.”

  “Now would I kid you? You know me better than that. Dallas? Dallas?” Damn. She’s left already. “Hey, Bobby, mind the store, will you? A beautiful woman is waiting for me at the drugstore.”

  “Sure, Peyton. You and Dallas have fun.”

  Peyton waved as Dallas parked her car and rushed over to open the door for her. “Nothing like a cup of Joe to get the cobwebs out, Dallas.”

  “Speak for yourself. This won’t be my first cup, and my cobwebs are history. I’m primed for news.”

  “Sit down, sweetheart, here it is. Sarah has sold the house!”

  “Annelise’s house?”

  “The very one.”

  “That is news. I never thought she’d let go of it. Even after she moved to Tallahassee I thought she’d just rent it, that maybe she’d move back home. Bet you hoped she would, you who were so crazy about Sarah all those years. No wonder this is such big news to you.”

  “I didn’t hope for anything, Dallas. And just for the record, Sarah is ancient history.”

  Dallas laughed. “Well the next time Sarah honors Apalachicola with a visit, I dare you to tell her that. If anybody is ancient history it’s Annelise. She’s never left us or we wouldn’t still be calling the riverboat house hers.”

  “I guess not, but Sarah should have kept the house in the family, so to speak, and not sold it to some strangers from Atlanta.”

  “You’re a hard man to please, Peyton. At least she didn’t sell to one of those millionaire Yankees you hate so much.”

  “You don’t hate them? We never had bed and breakfast places or four-star restaurants until all those millionaires moved to St. George Island.”

  “Peyton, Apalach is on the brink of a metamorphosis, and who knows where it’ll take us.”

  “I’ll tell you one place it won’t take us.”

  “And where’s that, Mr. Smarty?”

  “To the real estate office cause we’re not selling what they’re coming here to buy.”

  “Is that so?”

  “It’s so, all right. They are after a way of life, and that’s not for sale.”

  “You’re right there, Peyton, it isn’t. Thank God some things are still sacred.”

  SACRED OR NOT , MOST OF Apalach’s residents were just simple people who didn’t live in houses built in the shape of boats. Many were unaware that their town was fast outpacing them. For years Apalach had been little more than a bump in the road on Highway 98 that ran east and west straight through the heart of town. But of late, the fishing village had become a destination. Cars arriving from the west traveled through a tunnel of pines and water. Houses, many high on stilts, rose above the road on the bay side. Across the narrow highway from the water, there were breaks in the pines that supported humble dwellings and pitiful stores. This was Peyton’s favorite part of Highway 98. When Dallas had asked him why, he said it was because it had character. He could live without the eastbound highway that boasted a school, a cemetery, a Methodist church, the Coca-Cola bottling plant, several eating places, and simple wooden homes—little more to his mind than tokens on a Monopoly board. Closer to town, there were a few large, showy places, but these were recent converts to bed and breakfast establishments. “Bed and breakfast” stuck in Peyton’s throat like a serving of cold grits.

  There were plenty of people who, like Peyton, resented change, had been happy with things the way they were, but Peyton knew that most of the women who bought their shoes from him could talk of little else. For years the only thing that had changed in their lives had been the weather, and they felt helpless and a little excited in the wake of a metamorphosis, even when they didn’t like it. Oh, he heard them every day.

  “It’s just not fair that they should come in here and act like they own the place.”

  Another woman laughed. “But they do.”

  “I know they do, but I’ll never get used to it. Never! My own great-great-grandfather helped settle Apalachicola. They have no right to change things. It’s our heritage, not theirs.”

  “Yep, bunch of damn Yankees. Never did envy them towns filled with tourists, and now we’re getting some of the overflow.”

  “Oh, they’re not tourists. They live here!”

  Peyton listened and kept his own counsel, knowing they were totally unaware that for years people in neighboring towns had been looking down their noses at them. In the 1940s and ‘50s, people would have said you were crazy if you’d predicted such a change in a place so backward. There’d be no renaissance for Apalachicola! Not again! Not in a million years.

  Theirs was a mixed population of Italians and Greeks, human succulents drawn to the water, and merchants who were mainly English. They’d blended over the years. They got along. The Greek men who had come there in the 1800s to harvest sponges, those golden-bodied fishermen, were something to behold. More than one woman said you could gaze on such men all day, and your eyes would never grow tired.

  While the men were hauling in nets of shrimp and harvesting oysters, their wives stayed home and cared for the babies. And then it seemed Howard and Weston wrote a song just for them. Shrimp Boats. They claimed it, and it was part of the air they breathed, a whispered prayer at bedtime, a reason to get up in the morning. They transformed bad days by singing that song and believing it. And because there were lots of bad days, they sang and sang. They would continue to sing the shrimp boat song as long as a shrimp boat existed. That song made them feel famous. Boosted their spirits. Made their un-air-conditioned houses less oppressive in the summer heat. Even tired wives noticed once more what handsome husbands they’d married.

  This was the way life had been for more years than anyone cared to remember. Change was a bitter pill to swallow, more permanent than a summer storm. Many of their favorite restaurants closed or changed hands, their owners happy to be bought out for more than they’d ever dreamed the places were worth.

  “You won’t believe what that sap-sucker paid me for this café. Why, the plumbing is bad and the electric downright scary, but who am I to turn him down if he’s in such a hurry to be parted from his money? Never thought I’d live to see the day . . .”

  Locals had known the name of every proprietor in town. Waitresses knew what a customer would order before he picked up a menu. Knew who liked grits and who didn’t. Knew who’d empty the pot of coffee before he left the café on Saturday morning. Barely a handful of the old timers were left any more. Who could say where the metamorphis would take them?

  4

  The nearer the time came for their move, the more Elise retreated to her room, trying to imagine life in a fishing village. Wouldn’t it be ironic if I like it there? What if I’m actually happy? What’s it like, though—being happy?

  All Elise had known of happiness had been as a young child, when she retreated to the secret, unseen world of her playmate. His world was quiet as a dream, a place where she felt safe. He was older than Elise and protected her, but her parents brought his visits to an end.

  Edwin had shamed her for thinking only of herself. Shaking his finger in her face, he told her that each time her playmate visited, the boy became weaker and would soon die if she didn’t quit seeing him. She cried herself to sleep every night, afraid to even think of him for fear of the harm she might do. All those years ago, and she missed him still.

  Unlike their daughter, Margaret and Edwin Foster had no trouble defining happiness. Happiness was a comfortable income, yearly vacations,
a home in the right neighborhood, a successful law practice for him, a career in interior decorating for her, expensive bourbon, imported wine . . . They might have been lifted from the pages of Southern Living, a family portrait waiting to happen. Yet, in the boldest move of their entire lives, they were moving to a fishing village, to seclusion.

  If they enjoyed their new locale half as much as they enjoyed the cocktail party attention their plans sparked, it would be yet another good decision in a long line of highly successful ventures. Business associates and friends alike couldn’t seem to get enough of them. The Fosters complained that they were nearly exhausted from so many farewell parties, knowing all the while they coveted the attention. They couldn’t help it. They loved being envied.

  Only occasionally did doubt nudge the edge of Margaret’s consciousness. “They do envy us, don’t they, Edwin?”

  “They sure as hell do. They wish they had the guts to strike out like this. Why, all these parties. They just hope to catch a whiff of the stuff we’re made of.”

  At her mother’s insistence, Elise agreed to accompany them to a party hosted by Edwin’s business partners. “Maybe Ronnie will be there,” Margaret encouraged.

  Elise nearly laughed. A lot I care if Ronnie’s there. Oh, why must I hate my life? Of course, I wish Ronnie would be there.

  “Elise, quit staring at me like that. It won’t kill you to do something for us for a change. I expect you to be ready at seven Saturday night.”

  Elise shrugged and turned to walk away.

  “And for God’s sake, Elise, don’t shrug when people talk to you.”

  RONNIE WASN’T AT THE PARTY , and Elise didn’t know if she was relieved or disappointed. People smiled and a few attempted to talk to her, but as the evening wore on and more drinks were consumed, she found herself alone. She was a voyeur, drunk on overheard conversations.

  “A regular Stepford family,” someone remarked and Elise nearly laughed.

  Smug with things she’d heard people saying about her family, she wandered to another room and heard someone else ask, “Haven’t the Fosters always led charmed lives?”

  “Except for Elise,” a man replied.

  “Shhh.”

  Elise turned her back, hoping to be unnoticed in the dimly lit room.

  “Well, it’s true,” the man continued. “Margaret is a stunning woman, a bit of a bitch, but stunning. Edwin’s no dog either, but Elise, she’s strange. Nothing like them. Nothing.”

  A woman with a throaty voice said, “My niece says she doesn’t have a wide circle of friends, and her sarcasm is legend. Surely that comes from Margaret.”

  The man looked at her. “No doubt. Edwin has the personality of stale crackers.”

  There was a ringing in Elise’s head, but she couldn’t move, couldn’t stop listening.

  “I don’t think Edwin’s her father. I heard Margaret was married before.”

  “Well, that figures.” The spiteful man again. “Elise is the only chink in their ideal existence.”

  “Do I detect a green-eyed monster? I thought you liked the Fosters.”

  “I do. In a way. It’s just that everything is always so perfect for them.”

  “Do you really believe Margaret and Edwin are perfect?” The woman hesitated briefly and lowered her voice. “Do you think leaving a major city for a fishing village is normal? Makes me wonder if life is as grand as they’ve made it out to be. Maybe it’s all an act. It’s bizarre if you ask me. Downright bizarre. I can’t imagine it.”

  The man cleared his throat. “There was that business with

  Edwin a year or so ago. Remember when he was sick? Emory wasn’t good enough for him. Went to a hospital out of state for some tests, Mayo or some place.”

  “I’d forgotten that. It all seemed so casual, nobody thought much of it.”

  “That was just a bump in the road for them, I guess, but yeah, I know that nobody’s life is perfect, not really. I don’t care who they are. There has to be a skeleton in the closet someplace.”

  The woman laughed. “You hope, but maybe, maybe not. At any rate, they’ll be gone soon, and we’ll be none the wiser.”

  “Oh, my God,” someone said, and they moved away. Elise supposed they’d seen her standing beside the potted palm.

  5

  T’s a combination graduation/eighteenth-birthday gift, Elise,” Margaret said and handed her a small square package.

  Hesitantly Elise opened the burgundy velvet box. She was stunned by the beauty of the long strand of creamy pearls set off by a half dozen emerald and diamond roundels. The color drained from her face as she spread the necklace over her lap and looked up quizzically. Pearls but not college? Her eyes were bright with unshed tears.

  “Why, Elise,” her dad began, “we thought . . . we hoped you’d like them.”

  “Oh, they’re lovely.” She hesitated only briefly, trying to steady her voice and conceal her disappointment. “I just never expected anything so expensive, not with the move and all.”

  “They aren’t new, darling,” Margaret said soberly but with a hint of vinegar on the darling.

  Puzzled, Elise looked at her mother.

  “These pearls belonged to your paternal grandmother. She willed them to you before she died.”

  “My real father’s mother?”

  “Edwin is your real father, Elise, the only father you’ve ever known, really.” Must I explain this to you now! “Gene was your biological father. You were just a baby when his parents died. These

  I“were Ingrid’s, Gene’s mother’s pearls. We had them restrung. It was Edwin’s idea to add the roundels.”

  Elise looked at Edwin with surprise, snippets of unkind conversation from the cocktail party drifting like confetti about her head. As sarcastic as you are, you still have to kiss him. He’s done something very nice. It felt awkward, but she leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. “Thanks,” she swallowed hard, “for such a beautiful gift.” I’m sure emeralds and pearls will be all the rage in a fishing village.

  “I hoped you’d be pleased. You really are my daughter, you know.” He hesitated only a second, but it was enough for Elise to notice. Stale crackers indeed. “And I love you. It’s important that you know that. I chose emeralds because they’re the color of your eyes, and . . .”

  Margaret’s laughter interrupted his fine speech. “Why, Edwin, Elise has blue eyes! But be glad of the mistake, darling. Emeralds are very expensive.” Margaret continued to laugh quietly for several minutes.

  Elise stood holding the elegant necklace, not knowing quite what to do.

  Edwin was beet-red and clearly flustered. “Well, they always seemed green to me. Maybe I’m colorblind. Or maybe your eyes are blue-green.”

  Margaret couldn’t let it drop. “In that case, Elise, hold out for aquamarines next time.”

  Edwin was clearly annoyed now. “As I was about to say, Elise, the emeralds complement the diamonds. I just wanted to do something really special for you,” he looked defiantly at Margaret, “to give you a gift from Gene and me both.”

  It was Margaret’s turn to blush. “Edwin!”

  “It’s only fair, Margaret. He was her father, and now that I think of it, Gene’s eyes were green.”

  “Hazel,” Margaret said, “not green.”

  Edwin ignored her and turned to Elise. “We don’t often say it, but we do love you,” he looked back at Margaret, “regardless of the color of your eyes.”

  It was quite a speech coming from her stern, taciturn father, and she felt worse for what it said about their relationship than for him not knowing the color of her eyes. For the first time in her life, she actually felt sorry for him. It was never pleasant being on the receiving end of Margaret’s wit.

  Elise stood on tiptoe and gave him another quick kiss before turning to hug her mother, careful that she didn’t disturb her hair. “I’ll always treasure them.” Her voice was choked with emotion that had nothing to do with the pearls. Edwin had actually menti
oned her father. His name was seldom uttered, was deliberately avoided. She was surprised when it surfaced again a few weeks later.

  THINKING OF THE UNCERTAINTY AND hope for happiness that their move might bring, Elise was shocked that she was overcome with sadness when Edwin locked the front door of their home for the last time. The only memories she had of her real father were behind that door. Would the house hold her memories, the echoes of her past? She longed to run back inside and clutch something of him to her. How could they just drive away and leave him like this? Surely her mother had memories too, but Margaret walked to the car without a backward glance. Elise stood motionless, her head tilted back, looking at the window of her parents’ second-floor bedroom. She imagined she saw her dad looking down at her. You can’t come with us, can you?

  “Blow the horn, Edwin. We should have left hours ago. We need to get started if we’re going to make that stop in Tallahassee. Now why do you suppose Elise is staring at the house like that?”

  “This is the only home she’s ever known, Margaret. It has to be hard.” He blew the horn anyway.

  Elise jumped and her heart pounded, but she turned and started toward the car. Why am I afraid to mention him? Why has he always been a forbidden subject? She didn’t know how old she was when she realized that, but she lived with the fear that she might forget and say her dad’s name.

  The wheels turned on hard blacktop; the speedometer inched higher and higher, taking them closer to the fishing village, to their new home.

  The drone of her parents’ voices reached Elise in the back seat, but their words were muted and lost.

  Margaret lowered the visor and looked at Elise through the makeup mirror. “Aren’t you at all interested in the scenery?”

  Elise looked up from her book and caught a brief glimpse of Margaret’s face in the mirror. There was a bright flash, and she quickly closed her eyes and turned away. The old, familiar headache returned and she spoke to the window. “The scenery gets boring.”