“Whoa,” Palmer exclaimed. He paused, hands on hips, to take in the new sunroom attached to the back of the house, the new deck spreading the entire width of the sunroom, with stairs leading out to the dunes. “What have you and Brett been up to?”
“This is what I wanted to show you,” she replied, excited to show off the project that had dominated their lives the past several months. “We enclosed the old porch and gained so much more space, all facing the ocean. We just love it. And then, of course, we will finish the deck. You can see the outline,” she said, pointing to the wooden frame. “It will spread the entire width of the sunroom with stairs leading out to the dunes. Mama would roll over in her grave if we didn’t have a proper deck overlooking the ocean. And if you recall, Brett repaired Mama’s pergola every time the wind blew it down.”
“I do recall.”
“So after we enclosed the porch, Brett built this pergola in her honor.”
Palmer’s face softened. “Did he really?”
She nodded as she surveyed the thick, treated wood of the pergola. Once it was sun-cured, she’d paint it a glistening white.
“When Brett’s done with the pergola, we’ll put out the rocking chairs.” She smiled at the memory of sitting with her mother on the back porch in companionable silence night after night that final summer. “Mama would be so pleased.”
The sound of hammering drew her gaze upward. Brett was perched on top of a paint-splattered ladder, hammering nails into the pergola with focus. Brett was a big man, broad-shouldered and fit. He wore ragged tan shorts, a faded plaid shirt with rolled-up sleeves, and scuffed work boots, revealing the leathery, tawny skin of a seaman. Her mind flashed back to when she’d returned home that fateful summer and had seen him hanging on the nets of a shrimp boat, every bit as dashing as Errol Flynn. Brett Beauchamps was the love of her life, and even after ten years of marriage, bits of gray hair notwithstanding, the sight of him could still make her swoon.
She tented her hand over her eyes as she looked up at him in the fierce sunlight. “Brett!” she called. “Honey!”
The hammering stopped and he turned her way. She couldn’t see his eyes behind his Ray-Ban sunglasses.
“Palmer’s here! Come on down.”
Brett lifted his hand in acknowledgment. “Be down in a minute,” he called back. “Almost done.”
One of Brett’s strengths was his work ethic. He was tireless, pushing himself without pause. She knew he wouldn’t stop until the job was done, and done right.
Cara chuckled. “That means he’ll be a while. Let’s go inside,” she told Palmer. “I’ll show you the inside of the sunroom.”
Palmer followed her as they crossed the work zone, his gait slow and measured. Cara watched as Palmer walked around the sunroom, his head swinging from left to right to take in the new glass doors, swung wide open to admit the balmy breeze of the mercurial spring weather, the Mexican tile on the floor, the tall green plants and white wicker chairs with cushy, bright blue cushions. She’d decorated the space in clean lines to allow the undistracted eye to seek out the ocean beyond. This view was what the tourists came for, she knew. Twenty years as a successful advertising executive in Chicago had taught her a few lessons.
“Very nice,” Palmer said after several moments of silence. He crossed his arms and faced her. “Must’ve set you back a few pennies.”
Cara was disappointed by his lackluster response. “More than pennies,” she replied soberly. “We found some termite damage on the porch and figured why not bite the bullet and build the sunroom we’d wanted to all these years, instead of making do with more repairs? Look how much more space we’ve added. And that’s a sleeper sofa. So we can raise the rent a bit. We figure it’ll all equal out in time.” She shrugged. “Unless we get hit with another hurricane.”
“Always a possibility.”
“I know,” she acknowledged ruefully. “With climate change and the sea levels rising, I’ve seen for myself how much beach we lose every year. Of course, that’s the job of the dunes, to protect the inland property. But we’ve never seen the dunes just swept clear away. It’s becoming the new norm.”
Palmer rolled his eyes and put his hands up in an arresting motion. “Now, let’s not start talking climate change. We always lose some beach, and it always comes back.”
Cara couldn’t stand his patronizing tone, but didn’t want to get into another round of debate on the reality of climate change with her older brother. It wasn’t worth it, and she only ended up infuriating herself. He’d say the moon was a wheel of cheese if it sold a house. She allowed him the final word.
“How about some sweet tea? I made a fresh batch for Brett. Put a sprig of mint in it, too. My herbs are up. God, I love spring.”
She led Palmer from the sunroom into the main house. Here nothing had changed since their youth, save perhaps for there being fewer of the knickknacks, family photographs, and books that her mother had cluttered the house with. Like many women of her generation, the older Lovie had got, the more reluctant she became to throw anything away. Every photo had to be saved, every memento ensconced on a shelf. When Cara inherited the house she’d promptly cleared away the clutter, painted the rooms a soft ocean blue trimmed neatly with clean white, replaced the family oriental rugs with ones made of grass, and selected only a few pieces from her mother’s vast art collection to remain on the walls. But she’d kept the timeless chintz chairs and sofa with their Palm Beachy flowered pattern. The result was a house still filled with her mother’s furniture, art, and most prized possessions, but with a younger, fresher feel.
“The place looks good, Sister,” Palmer said.
“Why thanks,” she said, striding with her long legs to the small galley kitchen.
Here changes had been made as well from when the house had been under Lovie’s purview. Even while her mama was still alive, Cara had repainted the old white wooden cabinets, but over the past few years she’d replaced all the old appliances with gleaming stainless steel ones. She opened the fridge and pulled out the pitcher of tea. Although she’d provided a new set of white dishes for the rentals, she still kept her mother’s old china locked in an out-of-the way cabinet for her own use on the few nights she came here to sleep in her mother’s bed. Cara retrieved a key from the back of a drawer and unlocked the cabinet. Smiling at seeing the mismatched china and crystal her mother had enjoyed using at the beach house, Cara reached for two of the old Waterford cut-crystal tall glasses. She quickly added ice, poured two glasses of tea, and handed one to Palmer. She watched, pleased, as he drank thirstily. When he finished, he released a long, satisfied sigh.
“Sister mine, you make some good sweet tea. You ought to give the recipe to Julia.”
“She should already have it. It’s Mama’s recipe. It’s making the syrup first that’s the secret.”
“Ah,” he said with a sigh of understanding, adding with a sorry shake of his head, “she won’t do it. She’s always adding that fake sweetener to my drinks, telling me I’ve got to lose weight.” He patted his belly. “I don’t need to lose weight. Hell,” he said proudly, “this paunch is a symbol of my prosperity.”
He laughed, a low, throaty chortle that prompted her to join in even as she inwardly agreed with Julia. Her brother had gained at least fifteen pounds in the last decade, but Cara wasn’t going to be the one to tell him. She suspected Julia told him often enough as it was.
He took another long swallow from his drink, then smacked his lips, his gaze sweeping the rooms again. “This house isn’t worth putting any more money into.” Palmer turned to face her. His blue eyes shone under brows gathered in concern. “I’ve told you time and time again, the value of this place is in the land.”
Cara groaned loudly, shaking her head. Here we go, she thought. Their mama had once told her that Palmer was the sort of person who was always hungry for more, in both a literal and a figurative sense. He was never satisfied. Palmer was like their father this way. Palmer had been angry
when he’d learned that Mama was leaving Cara the beach house, even though he’d already inherited the big house on Tradd Street and all its expensive contents. But Palmer wanted the beach house, too. Not because he loved it, but because he’d always had big plans for developing the property.
“Hell, one of these days you’re going to listen. Look at that empty lot out there. It’s a gold mine.”
“And one of these days you’ll accept that lot can’t be touched,” she fired back. “Russell Bennett left that land in conservation.”
“We might could get around that,” he said with a dismissive wave. Whenever her brother slipped into the vernacular, she knew he was deep in thought. Palmer looked out at the empty lot in front of them the way Cara looked at the ocean. Where she saw beauty and felt a near-spiritual sense of awakening, he saw dollar signs.
“It’s got to be the only waterfront lot left on this entire island. Even if you don’t build on it, you’ve got this house with guaranteed views. His eyes were brightening as he got deeper into his sales pitch. “The real estate market has bounced back, and strong. The demand is high. Now’s the time to act.”
Cara didn’t grace him with a reply. She picked up her glass and turned her head away to look out the window as she sipped her tea.
Palmer sighed and put his hands on the table. “Okay, okay. I’ll give up the hard sell. But listen to me, Sister. The reason I’m trying to get you to sell the beach house now—aside from the fact that it’s a good idea—is because I’m involved with a new business venture that should reap big profits.”
He paused and waited for her to look back at him. His eyes gleamed.
“I’m talking really big. This one investment could put you in high cotton. For life. Now,” he drawled and lifted his palms. “What kind of a brother would I be if I didn’t share the opportunity with my beloved sister?”
Cara looked at him with thinly veiled interest. “What business venture is this?”
Palmer leaned in and talked in a lower, more urgent voice as though in secret. “It’s a new housing development.”
“I thought you just flipped the occasional house. This sounds risky.”
He shook his head. “No, ma’am. The location is going to explode. It’s all hush-hush until word of the new highway extension is announced. But the inside scoop is that it’s a done deal. I know this town and I’m telling you, I’m all in.”
Cara listened, chewing her lip. She’d love nothing more than to get in early on a deal like this. Palmer had good contacts that went deep in the city’s politics. The kind that were forged in school days. God knew, she and Brett needed the money. But their financial situation wasn’t such that they could consider big investments.
“We don’t have any money to invest,” she said. “Frankly, we’re strapped.”
Palmer leaned back, clearly disappointed. “I’d loan you some. That’s how much I believe in this project. But all my money is already tied up in this deal.”
“Doesn’t matter,” she said with a hint of annoyance at her situation. “We couldn’t pay you back. Our money’s completely tied up in the business.”
Palmer turned his head to spear her with a no-nonsense gaze. “So I’m left to wonder . . . why are you wasting good money fixing up this old cottage, when you could make a fortune tearing it down and selling the land.”
When her brother talked like this, his tone and body language eerily reminded her of their father’s. And a more pugnacious, proud, callous man she’d never met.
“Palmer, just stop,” she shot back in a tone that brooked no argument.
A voice broke the sudden, awkward silence. “Palmer, are you still trying to convince Cara to sell this house?”
Brett stood at the sunroom entrance, a lazy grin on his handsome face. His long arms stretched out as he leaned against the doorframe. The man filled the doorway with his size. His face was flushed from exertion, but Cara immediately recognized the relaxed manner that always came from having finished a tough job to his satisfaction.
Palmer walked toward his brother-in-law with his hand extended and the two men shook hands warmly. Friends since they’d been surfing buddies in their youth, they’d followed diverging paths as adults when Palmer assumed his role in old Charleston society and Brett, indifferent to the social hierarchy, followed his passion as a boat captain on the sea.
“Brother, don’t you have any control over your wife?” Palmer asked jovially.
“Brother,” Brett replied with a slap on Palmer’s back, “don’t you know your sister yet? Nobody has control over her.”
“At least over her pocketbook.”
Cara was practically seething, but Brett just laughed. The guy was unflappable, just one of the many reasons she loved him. “She runs the books, did you forget?” Brett stepped to Cara’s side and slipped his arm around her waist, as though sensing she needed the extra comfort. “So what’s up?”
“I’m trying to convince the little lady that she needs to sell this place before dumping any more money into it.”
Cara knew he was prodding her, using phrases like “little lady,” knowing they’d find their mark. “It’s our money. Don’t worry about it.”
“If you get off your high horse and sell the beach house and invest in this deal, you can make a fortune,” Palmer urged. “Hell, even if you don’t do the deal, you’d make a small fortune just selling the house.”
Brett dropped his arm from Cara and put his hand on his hip and looked at Palmer more attentively.
“Seriously?”
“I’m telling you . . .”
“The market’s that good?” Brett rocked on his heels. “How much could we get for this place? Just a ballpark figure.”
“Brett,” Cara interjected testily, trying to ward him off the topic.
“No harm in asking,” Brett said.
Palmer was like any fisherman who feels the first tug on the line. He rubbed his jaw and took a step closer to Brett. When he spoke, it was in that man-to-man tone that set Cara’s teeth on edge. Palmer didn’t even realize he’d turned his back on Cara.
Or, more likely, he absolutely did.
“Hard to be exact. Depends on whether you want to build a house yourself—and you could, you know,” he added in an encouraging tone. “The land alone is worth over a million dollars. The house . . .” He gave the rooms a cursory glance, then sighed. “It’d be considered a teardown.”
“That’s it,” Cara said sharply. “Don’t even suggest that.”
“Stop being so sentimental,” Palmer said, and this time his voice wasn’t teasing but more persuasive. “You’re just going to turn down all that money? And for what? You don’t even live in the house! You spend year after year patching the old place up. What for? The measly rent? What are you hanging on to? Mama is dead, God rest her soul. No one misses her more than me. But she isn’t coming back to this house, Cara. She’s never going to see everything you’ve done and tell you she’s proud of you for it. Mama’s gone. You’ve got to face that.”
Cara swallowed hard. These rooms signified more than a house to her. This house was not just her mother’s touchstone, she realized. It was hers as well. If she sold the beach house, she’d be selling a part of herself. The best part.
If Palmer had left it at that, peace would have prevailed.
“Besides, Cara, who are you saving this old beach house for?”
The pain came so quick and sharp Cara sucked in her breath. She felt Brett’s arm settle on her shoulder with a reassuring squeeze. Palmer was unaware of the dagger he’d thrown. The father of two children, he couldn’t understand her and Brett’s sense of loss. Not having children was their single greatest regret.
Cara couldn’t stop the anger that sparked from the comment. She stepped out of Brett’s hold toward her brother. At five feet ten inches, Cara was eye-to-eye with her brother. Cara had moved on from her corporate life. Even though in the past ten years she had adopted Brett’s more laid-back lowcountry li
festyle, vestiges of her former ball-busting self still emerged when pushed. Cara stared Palmer down with an icy glare that would have sent shivers through her former colleagues in the boardroom at Leo Burnett.
“Let me make myself perfectly clear,” Cara said, her voice more strident than she’d intended. She pointed a digit near his face. “This house is not now, nor ever will be, for sale. Got it?” Her rising emotion brought her to a shout. “The beach house is for rent!”
Chapter Two
THE SKY WAS deepening from periwinkle to purple by the time Cara and Brett locked up the beach house that evening and headed home. Overhead the birds were silent as a great hush settled over the lowcountry; in the cab of Brett’s pickup truck, things were just as silent.
The rumbling truck made its way north on Palm Boulevard to the back of the island. It was a short journey that felt like many miles amid the pensive, heavy mood that permeated the cab. Yes, they were both exhausted from the day’s work. But Cara suspected their prolonged silence had more to do with Palmer’s visit and less with fatigue.
Brett turned off before a small stucco house partially hidden from the street by an enormous live oak that spread its thick, twisting boughs like a fan. The house on the creek had been Brett’s home back when they were dating. The first time Cara had seen it, she’d laughed out loud at the cotton-candy-pink façade. Only someone as confident in his manhood as Brett could have a pink house, she’d remarked, giggling. After they’d married, they’d decided to live there and rent Cara’s beach house. The income was greater for a place with an ocean view. But more, Cara wasn’t ready to live in a house she’d always felt truly belonged to her mother.
The slamming of the truck doors echoed in the quiet night. They made their way up the tabby walkway to their front door. The house was painted a soft gray now, at Cara’s urging, and trimmed in white to create a clean, tranquil aesthetic. Black shutters bordered the windows, and azalea bushes along the front porch held buds that would soon burst into color. Cara had painted the front door a bold cherry red. She was comfortable here and it felt like home. Brett unlocked the door and held it open for her. They both were moving slowly after the long day of physical labor and emotional gymnastics at the hands of Palmer.
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