Beach House for Rent

by Mary Alice Monroe

  “I’ll make a salad,” Cara offered automatically, setting her bundles of painting equipment and purse on the chair by the front door.

  “I’ll start the grill.”

  Brett followed her into the kitchen to grab a beer from the fridge. She heard the soft pop of the cap flipping off. Husband and wife fell into their pattern: he grilled, and she made the sides. So much of their life had slipped into a comfortable routine, she thought, from what time they awoke and went to bed to who slept on which side of the bed. Who did the grocery shopping and who went to the hardware store. Who took out the garbage, who got the mail. It was all unspoken. Comfortable. Predictable. As she approached fifty, Cara wondered if this was what it meant to grow old.

  After washing her hands, Cara carried dishes to the dining table. It wasn’t so much a dining room as an eating area outside the kitchen. In the ten years they’d lived together, Cara had turned Brett’s bachelor pad into their home. They’d opened up the walls and created a lovely, light-filled area in which to eat and look out over Hamlin Creek. Brett’s scant, mismatched furniture had been replaced with contemporary pieces in clean lines that suited them both. Cara had redone the kitchen using stainless steel appliances, but she’d opted for brown and white tile for Brett’s sake instead of the all-white tile she’d installed in the beach house. The three-bedroom house wasn’t large, but big enough to afford them each an office. They’d never needed a nursery.

  “Want a glass of wine?” Brett asked, already uncorking the bottle. The question at the end of a long day was more a polite formality.

  “Love one.”

  As he poured the rich red liquid, she foraged through the fridge looking for salad ingredients, locating the omnipresent kale and leftover greens. All the vegetables looked as tired as she was. Brett drew near to hand her a glass. She immediately took a sip, enjoying the full, robust, fruity flavor of her favorite Malbec.

  “You know what, let’s order out,” she said. “I’m not in the mood to cook and I can’t face another piece of grilled chicken.”

  “Fine with me. I’m pretty tired myself.”

  Over the rim of her glass she watched Brett move to the drawer where they kept a folder filled with take-out menus. His large hands were tanned and crisscrossed with scratches from the day of construction and a lifetime on the tour boat he captained. She’d put her life into those big, capable hands. Her decision to marry Brett had meant giving up her executive corporate position in Chicago to settle on Isle of Palms. But if she was being honest, she’d wanted to come home. Even needed to.

  For ten years she’d managed his ecotour business. Together they’d watched the business grow along with the local tourism. They were not rich. But they lived a good life.

  She turned and carried her wineglass to the back of the house. While Brett phoned in an order for pizza, Cara stood at the French doors and looked out over Hamlin Creek. The world was all purple-and-gray shadows streaked by the brilliant crimson color of the sunset. Squinting, she could barely make out their dock that stretched out over the deep water. Brett’s johnboat was tied to the dock, bobbing as it strained against the strong current.

  She was feeling introspective, a mood brought on by Palmer’s comments. As well as by the inescapable fact that her fiftieth birthday was around the corner. Tonight Cara felt like that little boat, struggling to launch into the strong current, yet held tight to terra firma by an unbreakable bond.

  “Pizza on the way,” Brett announced.

  When she didn’t answer, she heard his heavy footfalls on the wood floor as he drew near. He put his hand on her shoulder and pulled her gently into his chest. She acquiesced and leaned into him, felt his strength, the warmth of his body. She caught the scent of beer on his breath when he spoke.

  “You’re quiet. What are you thinking about?” Brett asked.

  Cara continued to stare out the window and said in a low voice, “If the rope on the johnboat broke, where would it end up?”

  Brett thought for a moment, then said, “Who knows how far the current would carry it? Maybe out to the ocean. Maybe to the harbor. Maybe a few feet before it got stuck by the dock next door.” She felt him move as he looked down at her. “That’s an odd question. What’s up?”

  She took another sip of her wine, not knowing how to answer. Being at the beach house today—cleaning, tending—had stirred up a lot of memories. Especially of her coming home from Chicago for a weekend that ended up lasting the rest of her life.

  She’d always been what her mother called a “solitary swimmer,” like the loggerhead sea turtle for which she’d been named. But tonight she wondered if the solitary swimmer was not adventurous but rather merely swimming in a pattern, following the great current, stroking one flipper after another, as generations had before her. Was this all there was left in her life?

  “Maybe Palmer’s right,” she said in a despondent tone. “Holding on to the beach house, I’m just holding on to a memory.”

  “So that’s what’s wrong,” Brett said with understanding. “Don’t listen to Palmer. You’ve never done so before. Why start now?”

  Cara swirled the wine in her glass. “Because my birthday is coming up. That’s why.”

  Brett scoffed. “I’m fifty already. So what?”

  Cara slipped out of his hold and turned to look up and meet his gaze. She studied the sharp contours of his handsome face, coursed with new lines that only added to his appeal. Brett was a naturalist, born and educated. Though they’d both grown up in the lowcountry, Cara, the daughter of a privileged Charleston family, had gone to private schools. Brett was the son of a harbor pilot and had attended local public schools. In high school, Brett’s reputation as a football star was well known in every school in Charleston County and beyond. He’d been a popular jock as well as a good student. Cara, by contrast, was an academic who eschewed the popular boys. They might have had friends in common, but they definitely didn’t hang out in the same circles.

  So when Cara had returned to Charleston ten years earlier at the ripe age of forty, she was surprised—even stunned—that Brett was not only still single, but also that he’d known who she was. Theirs was an unlikely courtship that seemed destined from the start. Brett, always a romantic, claimed he’d been waiting for her to return.

  In the past decade she’d seen all sides of the man she’d married in haste. The man who repaired and rebuilt her mother’s beach house out of kindness, the man who never said no to a friend in need. He’d helped Cara to appreciate a simpler life than the fast-paced, high-style one she’d lived in Chicago. Being a naturalist, he’d also guided her to appreciate the beauty of what was wild not by preaching but by taking her fishing and baiting her line, helping her cast a shrimp net so it unfolded like a blossom over the water, pulling up crab pots full of snapping claws, and cuddling together under a blanket on the dark beach watching the Perseid meteor shower. She thought of how many times he’d gone shopping unasked, brought flowers home for no particular reason, woken her up with a cup of coffee in hand. How Brett had waited on her hand and foot when she was bedridden through each of her five miscarriages, never complaining, always supportive, even while his heart was breaking. He was a good man. Her best friend.

  And on top of all that, the man was plain gorgeous. His brown hair that caught glints of red was now also streaked with the first strands of gray. His brilliant blue eyes were sometimes covered with eyeglasses now, which she thought only added to his attractiveness, making him appear clever. It was brutally unfair of God to allow men to improve with age while women suffered the indignities of gravity. They were an unlikely couple. Brett was the man she’d never looked for when she was young, which was why it had taken her so long to find him. But she had at last. Thank God.

  “I don’t like getting old,” she said with a slight whine.

  “Fifty is still young. And you’re still beautiful.”

  She made a face. “I’m not talking about my looks. Lord knows that’s a losing ba
ttle. I’m talking about me. Who I am, what I have yet to offer. I’m beginning to feel like my best years are behind me.”

  “Cara, we have a lot of years left. Some twenty, thirty years. Or more! A lifetime. Spent with me. Does that sound so bad?”

  Cara stared at him, vaguely shocked at the concept of so many years. “When you put it like that, it sounds like a long time. Another lifetime. You’re right.” She tilted her head looking at the situation differently. “In that case, the question I have to ask myself is—how do I want to spend the next twenty, thirty years of my life?”

  Brett whistled softly. “It’s kind of . . . freeing.”

  “Exactly,” she said with heart, glad he understood. “If I sold the beach house . . .”

  “But you just said you’d never sell it.”

  “I know. Mostly I wanted Palmer off my back. But ever since we left the beach house, I’ve been thinking of the possibilities that money would open up to us. I mean, we’re relatively free. We could move anywhere. Travel. No responsibilities. We have nothing to hold us here. No . . .” She paused before entering into tender territory, then pushed on. “We have no children.”

  Brett pursed his lips. “There’s my business.”

  “Well, yes,” she acknowledged. She rested her hand on his arm. “But we could sell it.”

  “Sell it?” Brett’s face appeared thunderstruck. “I’m not ready to sell. Not yet anyway.”

  Cara felt a crushing disappointment and slowly removed her hand. “When would you be ready?”

  Brett shifted his weight. “I don’t know,” he ventured, caught off guard. “Ten years, maybe?”

  Ten years sounded like one hundred to her tonight. “So long? ”

  “As you pointed out, I’m fifty.” His smile was wry. “No matter what you’re thinking, fifty is not old. I’m not ready to retire. Besides, I love my job.” He added carefully, “Cara, I’m content with our lives just the way they are.”

  Cara looked at him sharply. “You’re content,” she repeated, and set down her wineglass. She gazed down at her hand. Her wedding band was the only jewelry she wore. She felt a crack in her composure as an old hurt resurfaced. She crossed her arms. “And me?” She shrugged. “Not so much.”

  Brett’s brows gathered as he suddenly understood the conversation had taken a dangerous turn. “What? You’re not content?”

  She looked away and brusquely shook her head.

  Brett pushed out a plume of air. “Well.” He put his hands on his hips in thought. “That’s news to me.”

  Cara turned to face him. The silence lay thick between them. Outside a dog began barking.

  “I thought we were pretty happy,” he said at length.

  “You’re happy,” Cara said. “I know that. You’ve always loved working for yourself. You have your own business that you love. You’re out on the water all the time, doing what you trained to do. What thrills you. Why wouldn’t you be happy?” It came out like an accusation, which she didn’t mean. But she couldn’t take the words back.

  Cara stepped closer and cupped his face in her palm. “I love you. You know that.” She let her hand slip with a slight shrug. “I’m just feeling a bit unmoored about the direction my life is taking.”

  “It’s your business, too,” he said as though trying to convince her. “If it weren’t for you, it never would have grown the way it has. It was entirely your advertising plan. Your PR ideas. Your business sense.” He ventured a half smile. “Did you forget my accounting system?”

  She laughed shortly and shook her head. Brett’s idea of accounting before Cara came along had been shoving records, bills, and receipts written on yellow sticky notes into a file drawer.

  “It’s still your business. Your dream. I just helped. You could have hired anyone to do my job.”

  “I hired you.”

  Cara smirked. “You married me.”

  Brett smiled smugly and kissed her lightly on the lips. “Call me lucky.”

  Cara wanted to smile as she kissed him back, wished she could cast off the heaviness in her heart—but she couldn’t. Her feelings went deeper than just the fact that she worked for Brett’s company. Far deeper.

  Cara reached for her wineglass and took a long swallow. She felt the liquid slide down her throat, reviving her. “The ecotour business was never my dream,” she began. “It was something I could do while raising our children. That was the plan.” She paused and looked up at him, gauging his reaction. “But that plan didn’t pan out, did it?”

  Brett’s eyes reflected his sorrow as he took a long drag from the beer bottle.

  She turned away and walked toward the bottle of wine on the side table, needing to create a distance between them. She didn’t want to hurt him. Didn’t want to fight. They both knew that the subject of children was their trigger point. Bad feelings quickly ignited after years of heated arguments and shouting matches that left them drained and desperately sad. Though it had been years since they’d stopped trying, the hurt and frustration still bubbled under the surface like hot lava ready to spew out.

  She poured a second, generous serving of wine into her glass, spilling some in her haste.

  Brett released a long sigh, then pulled out a chair from the table and lowered into it, stretching his long legs out. Catching her eye, he held out his hand, indicating a chair across from him. Cara hesitated. She really wanted to take a shower before the pizza arrived, ached for the swell of warm, soothing water to wash away the sweat and dirt from the day’s exertions. But she saw the vulnerable look in his eyes—and the determination—so she obliged and slid into the chair.

  “Okay,” Brett said in that tone that told her he was being serious and wanted to get to the heart of the matter. “You’re not happy.”

  It sounded horrible when he put it like that. “I’m happy with you,” Cara amended. “Let’s say I’m not content with my career.”

  “Okay,” Brett said, accepting her clarification. “You’re not content with your career path. So, you’re considering selling the beach house. Right?”

  Cara nodded.

  “What would we gain by selling it? Aside from money, of course.”

  Cara took heart that he was open to discussing it. She often found that if she could air out her thoughts, it released tension and frustration, allowing her to think more clearly.

  “Well,” she began, leaning forward against the table. She set her wineglass down and let her fingers tap against the surface. “For starters, I’d quit Coastal Ecotour. It’s a great company and I’m mad about the boss.” She gave him a little wink, and Brett allowed a small smile in response. “But I want to do something that I am passionate about. If I’m going to choose what I want to do for the next twenty years, I figure I damn well better love it.”

  To his credit, Brett nodded in understanding. “Agreed. Okay. So . . . what would that passion be?”

  “That’s the problem,” she said hesitantly. “I don’t know. I—”

  The doorbell rang.

  Cara’s mouth snapped tight.

  “That’s the pizza,” Brett said, and pushed back from the table to amble toward the door, pulling out his wallet en route.

  Cara leaned back against the hard chair, oddly relieved at the interruption. She had no clue what her passion was. None whatsoever.

  The aroma of hot cheese, oregano, and sausage sparked a sudden ravenous hunger after the day’s physical labor. The red wine flowed while they ate, and as the evening darkness deepened, the candle she’d lit at the center of the table glowed brighter. Cara felt the tension of her worries lessen as her stomach filled and the wine swirled through her bloodstream, and decided to put the conversation on hold for the time being. Maybe this new feeling of being unmoored, of lacking purpose, would right itself after a hot supper and a good night’s rest. Going around and around in her head—or with Brett—would just make her crazy.

  Instead, she tilted her head and listened as Brett talked about two young boys on the
ecotour that week. Brett was a natural storyteller. He related in colorful detail how he’d taken a family from Ohio out to Capers Island and taught the two little boys how to fish for crabs using nothing but a string and a chicken neck. The older brother, ten years old, attracted the first crab. When he pulled the chicken neck out of the water, however, the boy freaked at seeing a crab clinging to it with a claw and let go of the string. But his six-year-old brother was fearless. With Brett’s guidance, he caught four crabs and was proud as a peacock.

  “A born fisherman,” Brett concluded with a soft smile.

  Cara saw the pride in Brett’s face that he’d taught the boy how to catch his first crab. Brett’s ability to instruct was almost as innate to him as his storytelling gift. It was that passion thing again, she realized. He truly loved his work as a naturalist. For him, heaven meant being out on the water with his boat filled with tourists who hailed from all over the world, including those from South Carolina who’d simply never been out on the ocean. He loved to reveal the secrets of the sea, bringing people up close to crabs and shrimp, to sharks and dolphins. To reveal the majesty of the tides, the mysteries of the mudflats, and to impress upon adults and children alike a reverence for the natural world, believing that if his students experienced the wonder of the wild, they would carry that revelation in their hearts and fight to protect it.

  She thought again what a wonderful father Brett would have made. Cara took a deep, slow breath, then leaned back and watched while Brett ate the last of the pizza. She glanced at the wine bottle and noted that they’d finished it off. They were both tired. Cara knew if she lingered any longer, they’d slip back into the conversation that they’d both assiduously avoided during dinner. She loved Brett, but she wanted time to herself to figure things out. Maybe she’d skip the shower and instead soak in a hot, scented tub, letting the aches of a day spent painting ease away.