Beach House for Rent

by Mary Alice Monroe

  Then it was gone. Heather felt drained but oddly triumphant. This was her first panic attack in a long while, and she’d used her tools to get through it. Still, what a loser she was. She still stood there like a mute, unable to respond. Her pencils and notebook lay scattered on the sand. She went to fetch them and stuffed everything into her backpack. She just wanted to go back to the beach house.

  As she reached for her things, she spotted a small stone in the sand. It was a small oval pebble with a streak of black running across it—but there was a thumb-size indentation in the middle. Heather picked up the stone and held it in her hand. She lay the stone against her fingers and let her thumb slide back and forth in the depression. The movement was oddly comforting. She’d heard of similar stones used for self-soothing exercises—a worry stone, they were called. They had origins in many cultures but she’d never tried one. Rubbing her thumb across the stone did, indeed, give her comfort. Almost intuitive.

  Heather put the stone in her pocket. She would bring out the worry stone when she felt anxious. It would serve to remind her that she had the strength within to overcome a panic attack, as she did today.

  The sun was up and more people were walking the beach. She passed groups of women walking and talking at a fast clip. More dogs were running loose near their owners. Young men were setting out rented chairs and umbrellas. She’d been out longer than she’d planned. She could feel the heat of the sun through her clothes. Up ahead she spied a group of about fifteen people clustered near the dunes. Heather couldn’t deal with more people, especially not after that earlier confrontation. She lowered her gaze and headed closer to the shoreline.

  Then she saw the tracks. At first she thought they were tire tracks, but they went all the way across the beach to the dunes where the group of people clustered. One of them was the woman in the pink jogging suit with her dog. Heather swallowed her groan of annoyance, but she was pleased at least to see that the naughty Labrador had her leash on. Then she noticed that three of the women in the group were wearing pale green turtle team T-shirts. She squinted, trying to spot Cara, but she wasn’t there. Curious, Heather drew closer.

  One middle-aged woman with very short brown hair wearing a turtle team shirt stood in the center of what looked to Heather like a small crater in the sand. She guessed this was where the turtle had laid her eggs, as it was the center of focus. All the others gathered around to watch. The woman’s knees were bent as if she were doing the pliés that Heather had learned as a young girl in ballet school. In her hands was a long yellow probe stick. Time after time the woman carefully slid the metal probe into the sand. Each time Heather could sense the collective intake of breath from all the onlookers. She’d made at least a dozen holes in the sand when suddenly the metal stick slipped deeper. Immediately the woman dropped the probe and went to her hands and knees to begin digging. Everyone took a step closer, craning their necks to watch.

  After several minutes of anxious waiting, the team member lifted her arm in triumph. In her hand was a single white egg, the size of a Ping-Pong ball.

  “We’ve got eggs!” she called out.

  “It’s the first nest of the season!” another member exclaimed.

  There were hugs of shared triumph and exclamations of how this was going to be the best year ever for South Carolina nests. It was decided that the nest was above the tide line so it would not be moved. A second woman in a turtle team shirt began covering the nest back up with sand. Heather’s attention was drawn to the large shell she used to dig. It cupped perfectly in her palm. Stepping closer, she watched as the team constructed a triangle of orange tape on wooden sticks and affixed an orange sign to mark the nest as federally protected. When that was done, the group of onlookers began to disperse.

  Heather had turned to leave as well when she heard Cara’s name mentioned. She hesitated and, looking over her shoulder, saw that the turtle team was still clustered at the nest, talking.

  “I still can’t believe it,” one woman said. “Such a shock. Poor Brett.”

  “Poor Cara! She’s devastated.”

  “Talk about shock. I thought she looked like Jackie at JFK’s funeral. That vacant stare.”

  “I don’t imagine it’s sunk in yet. It was so sudden.”

  “He was too young. It’s just too sad.”

  “Has anyone seen Cara since the funeral?”

  “I dropped off some food, but I didn’t see her. Emmi answered the door. She’s the only one Cara wants to see now.”

  “And me,” the oldest woman in the group corrected.

  Heather recognized the woman as her neighbor, the deeply tanned gardener with the bright white hair.

  “Well, of course she’ll see you,” the woman hastily corrected herself. “Flo, she’ll always see you. You’re like a second mother to her.”

  “And I worry about her like a mother,” Flo said sadly.

  “Cara’s strong,” the woman offered in a comforting voice.

  “On the outside,” Flo said. “On the inside, she’s tender. When her mama died, she was prepared for it and could grieve properly. But this . . .” Flo shook her head. “How does anyone prepare for news like that? He was too young.”

  “Someone should stay with her.”

  “Well, of course someone’s been staying with her,” Flo retorted. “Emmi’s been there since Brett died. But Cara wants her to leave. And you know Cara. She’ll get what she wants. I reckon there’s nothing more we can do other than keep bringing her food and checking in on her. She just needs time.”

  Heather turned away, stunned by what she’d just heard. Cara’s husband had died? She couldn’t believe it. She’d just seen her a week ago! It was no wonder she hadn’t heard from her since.

  “Can I help you?”

  Heather turned swiftly at the voice. It was her neighbor, the woman with the white hair. The team members had packed up their gear and were heading out en masse.

  “Oh. No, thanks,” she replied nervously. “I was just passing by and saw all the excitement, thought I’d stay and watch.”

  “Your first turtle nest?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re lucky to be here today. First nest of the season,” the woman said with pride. “Yes, sir, the season’s begun. And about damn time, too. Folly Beach already has two nests.” She wiped sand from her hand and offered it to Heather. “Hi, I’m Florence Prescott. One of the turtle team. Everyone just calls me Flo.”

  Flo had to be about eighty years of age. Deep lines coursed through her leathery, tanned face, but one’s gaze was drawn to her eyes, blue and bright as a summer sky.

  “I’m Heather,” she said with a swift smile. “Actually, I believe we’re neighbors. I’m renting the beach house next to yours. For the summer.”

  Flo’s face lit up. “So you’re the young woman who’s moved into Lovie’s house? Well,” she said with pleasure as her eyes scrutinized Heather’s face, “I was hoping I’d meet you. Haven’t seen you puttering about outside. I would’ve brought you a pie to welcome you, but”—she shook her head—“it’s been a difficult week.”

  Heather paused then asked, “I, uh . . . I didn’t mean to listen in, but . . . but did I hear y’all say Cara’s husband died? Cara Rutledge?”

  Flo’s smile fell and she suddenly looked her age. “Yes. Lord, but that’s sad news.”

  Heather lowered her head, feeling again the swift sadness the news brought. “Oh, I’m so sorry.”

  “We all are. We’re still in shock, really.”

  “What happened?”

  The old woman shook her head sorrowfully. “A heart attack. He was out jogging and suddenly collapsed. Right in the street. He was dead before they reached the hospital. He couldn’t have gone too far. Someone in his neighborhood saw him fall down and ran out and called nine-one-one. The ambulance got there right quick, but . . .” Her voice trailed off. “They said he didn’t suffer. That’s something, I suppose.”

  “Was he older than Cara?”


  “No, same age. Just turned fifty. Cut off in his prime, he was.”

  It was always sad to hear of a death, but the passing of someone so young seemed all the more tragic. “I-I’d like to send her something. Flowers or . . .” She shrugged. “Would that be all right?”

  “I’m sure it would be,” Flo replied kindly. She looked over her shoulder, noting that all the other members of the team had left.

  Heather smiled quickly, liking the older woman immensely. Kindness exuded from every pore, supported rather than dispelled by her forthright manner. Heather got the feeling that with Florence Prescott, one always knew where one stood.

  “You headed back?” Flo asked Heather.

  “Uh, yes,” she replied, flustered by the sudden question.

  “I’ll walk with you, if you don’t mind. We’re headed to the same place.”

  Heather took a breath and began talking to herself, listing reasons not to be anxious. She was meeting her neighbor. A nice woman she could call if she needed help or a cup of sugar.

  As they began to walk, Flo spoke again. “I just have to ask. Do you have birds? When I’ve been out in my garden this past week, I could have sworn I heard the loveliest birdsong. I swanny, it’s like a chorus from heaven.”

  A short laugh escaped Heather. She always felt relief talking about her canaries, a subject she knew so much about. “Yes, that would be my canaries.”

  “Canaries! I should’ve known. Well, I’ll be. I haven’t seen a canary in”—she tossed up her hands—“I can’t remember how long.”

  “I have three.”

  “I’ll have to come by and see them,” Flo said. “With all this sad news, I could stand to hear some birdsong to cheer me up.”

  Heather’s heart started racing at the thought of Flo just dropping by. “I—”

  “Now, come along, dear,” Flo interrupted, striding off down the sand at a fast pace and leaving Heather nothing to do but follow in the older woman’s wake.

  Chapter Nine

  HEATHER HEARD THE sound of hammering as she and Flo neared the beach house. Coming up the beach path, she recognized the broad shoulders of Bo Stanton as he bent over the new stairs of the deck. She was surprised to see Bo back at work, since she hadn’t seen him since her first day at Primrose Cottage.

  He straightened when he saw the two of them approach. Removing his work gloves, he wiped the faint sheen of sweat from his face with his forearm.

  “Hey there,” he called out.

  “Hi,” Heather responded shyly. She stared wide-eyed for a moment, trying to think of something to say. “You’re back.”

  She cringed inside. You’re back? Why had she said that? It sounded critical. Idiot!

  “Sure. I’m back,” Bo replied good-naturedly. “I’m not done, am I?” He turned to face Flo. “Morning, Miss Flo.”

  “Bo! What are you doing here?” asked Flo, clearly pleased to see him.

  “Working on the new deck. Brett hired me to finish it three weeks ago and, well . . .” He gave a slight shrug, his face suddenly filled with emotion. “I just wish he could see it when it’s all done.”

  Flo patted his arm and sighed. “It’s all so horribly sad, I know. How sweet of you to honor his memory by finishing a project so close to his own heart. He loved Miss Lovie, you know. By the way, Cara appreciated all you did to help with the funeral. Getting all the rental furniture and dishes picked up and put out, and the tent . . . We all did.”

  Bo bowed his head. “Of course. It was an honor to be asked to be an honorary pallbearer. You know, Brett was a mentor to me. We worked on a lot of projects together, and he taught me so much.”

  Heather suddenly understood where Bo had been the past week. His helping out friends in need spoke a lot to who he was as a man.

  Bo said, “I still can’t believe he’s gone.”

  “Life goes on,” Flo said, reaching up to give his shoulder a slight shake of encouragement. Her hand was large, her fingers slightly bent with age. “One of the hard-won wisdoms of old age.”

  Heather was eager to avoid any further conversation. She was exhausted from the confrontation with the dog lady and would only make more inane comments if she stayed. She started to shuffle off toward the house, mumbling something about needing to check on the canaries. Her surreptitious retreat was cut short.

  “What in heaven’s name is being delivered?” Flo suddenly asked, pointing toward the road.

  Heather turned her head to see a large delivery truck pulling a long trailer attempting a sharp turn into the narrow driveway of the beach house.

  “I wonder what that could be,” Heather mused. It looked like the truck was going to hit the small loquat tree on the way in. She held her breath as the big front hood cleared the tree by mere inches. The truck emitted a roar and rolled up the drive, spitting gravel. On the trailer was a bright and shiny silver golf cart.

  “Looks like you’ve got a delivery,” said Bo, stepping closer.

  She stared at the truck. “There must be some mistake. That’s not for me.”

  “Too bad,” Flo said with a shake of her head. “Those things sure do come in handy on an island like this. Always wanted one for the turtle team. Not that we can drive it on the beaches, of course. Still, I always wondered if we could get a permit for one of those four-wheelers.”

  The truck stilled and a man in a brown uniform jumped from the cab and approached them carrying a clipboard. He looked hot and tired as he flipped through the pages. Nearing the small group, he looked up and searched their faces.

  “Which one of you is Heather Wyatt?”

  “I am,” she replied, surprised that he’d called her name.

  “Got your golf cart here. Sorry it’s a bit late. We’ve been backlogged for delivery. Just sign here and tell me where you want it.”

  “Wait,” Heather said, confused, not accepting the clipboard. “I-I didn’t order a golf cart.”

  The deliveryman appeared concerned that she wasn’t expecting it. He referred back to his papers. “Says here it was ordered by a Mr. and Mrs. David Wyatt for Miss Heather Wyatt at this address.”

  Heather flashed back in her mind to her father’s telling her that he and Natalie had sent her a gift. “It sure isn’t a Crock-Pot,” she muttered to herself with a light laugh.

  “No, ma’am,” the deliveryman said, all business. “And it’s not really a golf cart, either. It’s one of them street-legal carts. It’s got all the bells and whistles.”

  Heather flushed. She hadn’t intended for him to hear. “It’s very nice,” she blurted out.

  “Let me get it down and I’ll show you. Where you want it?”

  “Uh . . .” Heather quickly glanced around, and pointed near the porch. “Somewhere over there, I guess.”

  “Lucky you!” Flo exclaimed, sidling closer. “Isn’t it cute? I’ll let you take me for a spin, what do you say?”

  Heather couldn’t say anything. She was speechless. She hadn’t asked for the golf cart. She didn’t even want it. Bo came forward to help the deliveryman ease the cart off the transom. The man drove it with ease right up to the side of the house. It wasn’t large; it could hold two people in the front and two facing the back. He handed her a thick packet of papers, then began walking her around the cart, pointing out all the features. Heather was silent and tried to keep up as the deliveryman raced through the explanations. She got that there was a windshield and wipers, electric lights and turn signals. But she was unsure what he’d said about the batteries. It all was very overwhelming.

  After she’d signed the papers, the deliveryman managed to extricate his truck from the driveway and drove off in a hurry. Heather turned back to see Flo standing with her arms crossed, grinning, apparently finding the whole experience very entertaining.

  “I best be off, too. Have fun with your new toy, dear,” Flo called to Heather with a wave, and headed through her fence gate toward home. “Don’t be a stranger, hear?”

  Bo waved to Flo, then
turned to look at Heather. Suddenly aware that she was alone with him, she felt that dreaded awkwardness that left her tongue-tied. He appeared equally unsure. He slipped his hands into his back pockets and she thought he wanted to say something, but he only waved and told her, “I’ll be out back.” He turned to leave.

  Heather stood for a moment staring at the golf cart with the heavy feeling that she was collapsing into a sinkhole. The panic attack had walloped her self-confidence, and now something as straightforward as a golf cart was overwhelming. The straw that was bending—if not breaking—the proverbial camel’s back.

  “Heather?”

  She startled and turned to find Bo at her side. His eyes searched her face, and he seemed to read all the emotions she was feeling.

  “I was wondering,” he began, and scratched behind his ear to appear casual. “Do you know how to run one of these things?”

  She looked helplessly at the golf cart. “No,” she admitted. “Not a clue. Do you?”

  “A golf cart? Sure. What’s to know? It’s a piece of cake.”

  “Really?” she asked, with a flicker of hope.

  “I’ll show you.” He approached the cart. “Hop in.”

  Heather walked to the passenger side and started to climb in.

  “Oh, no, you get in behind the wheel,” he told her. “You’re the driver.”

  Heather felt a sudden panic. “But . . . I’ve never driven one before.”

  “And that’s what I’m going to teach you,” Bo said in a tone that implied it was all very simple. Not giving her a chance to back out, he pointed to where the ignition key was still in its proper place, then climbed into the passenger side of the cart. “Come on, we’re wasting daylight!”

  Heather stood there flummoxed for a moment, then gathered her resolve: she would just have to be brave enough to master the art of golf carts. She climbed behind the wheel, very aware that Bo sat only inches away.