by Angel Lawson
“What? No.” I feel my throat closing up, a sign I’m about to start crying. “Fuck, Mason. It’s over. Go back to your life, your job. Your students. Forget about me like I’m trying to forget about you.”
“I don’t know why you have to be such a bitch about all of this. I made a mistake. Does that mean I have to be punished forever?”
“It’s not a punishment. It’s reality.”
“You’re upset. I know that if we could talk in person everything would be okay,” he attempts to back the anger out of his voice. “You’re not the only one this affects, you know.”
“Understatement of the year,” I tell him and disconnect just as Justin walks up to meet me.
My hands shake and I drop my phone, flinching when it clatters at his feet. He picks it up before I do; checking the screen to make sure it didn’t crack. “Everything okay?”
“Fine,” I say, steeling my voice and taking the phone back. We don’t know one another enough for him to pry and I’m thankful. I feel the phone buzz in my pocket and I ignore it, instead flashing a smile at Justin. “What’s next?”
“Lunch—hungry?”
I nod, overlooking the terrible knot in my stomach.
“Let’s go then,” he says, directing me toward the docks.
“Um, the Jeep is over there.”
He turns to face me while walking backwards. “We’re not going in the Jeep.”
I follow him down the dock past all the different boats. Some are huge, with multiple levels, while others are basic, small fishing boats. He walks up to a small but nice boat and hops over the side. “Is this yours?” I ask, climbing over the edge and holding on to the seat for balance.
“My uncle’s.” He reaches out to steady my waist. Through my shirt I can feel the heat of his fingers and the current spreads outward. I twist from under his touch, unsure how to handle all this. Friendly behavior? Flirty?
“Thanks,” I say. Avoiding eye contact, I sit in the first empty seat I find. “So you work at his marina and drive his boat…anything else I should know? Is that his Jeep?”
Justin begins removing buoys from the side of the boat, tossing them on the floor. When he’s finished he sits behind the wheel and cranks the motor. The first couple tries don’t take. He frowns and tries again and the motor flares to life with a low rumble. “I live at his house.”
“Not at the campground?” I’d just assumed he did.
“Nope, the guys and I share a house, one with real plumbing and everything,” he jokes.
“Har, har,” I say, but I’m surprised, although I guess I shouldn’t be. Everything about him has surprised me. Justin maneuvers the boat away from the dock and drives out into the waterway. Ahead I can see the big bridge that we took from the mainland to the island the other day. This helps me get my bearings. “So this goes past the campground?”
“Yep, a couple of miles up the waterway.”
He keeps a slow pace, careful of the other boats and docks jutting out into the water. We pass a variety of houses, some new and huge, others older and more modest. I lean back in my seat to enjoy the warm sun and breeze.
Justin settles into his own seat and points inland, slowing the boat to a crawl. “That’s my favorite house.” I follow his hand and see the bright blue house sitting on a point. Huge trees surround the property, shading the house from the hot sun. There’s a tree house perched over the edge of the water and a dock with a wide covered platform.
“It’s beautiful,” I agree. “You could have awesome parties there.”
“I’d put a swing off that tree house right over the water.”
He shifts gear and we move faster—a lot faster, plowing past other boats and countless docks. The motor and waves make it impossible to talk, but I notice him gesture ahead and I stand up for a better view. I smile when I see what he’s pointing at on the horizon. Ocean Beach Family Campground.
I lean over the edge for a better view and sure enough, Anita and the kids are playing by the water’s edge. Justin honks the boat horn and she looks up. She gives a short wave until she sees me waving back and her arm stops moving. I see her mouth something, and I yell to Justin, “What did she say?”
“I think she said, ‘What the hell?’”
I sit back in my seat and laugh because I think he’s right. I can only imagine the field day she’s going to have asking me about this when I see her next. I turn around and see her watching us as we drive away. I wave one more time. She holds a hand up but I don’t think the gesture she sent me in return would be considered friendly.
Just past the campground I see where the mouth of the waterway channels into the Atlantic. We keep going until I see a big peach-colored house on the edge of the water. “What’s that?” I ask, inhaling deeply. The scent of fried everything floats through the air.
“Lunch,” he says, cruising the boat toward a dock.
* * *
Three hours later, I’m standing by the Jeep trying to figure out what to do next. I smell like greasy food and my hair is matted into a rat’s nest from the boat ride and my face is burned again. Even so, I can’t stop smiling.
“Thanks for dragging me out of the house today,” I tell Justin when we’re both out of the car.
“You’re welcome,” he says, running a hand through his hair. It’s equal parts perfectly windblown and stylish disarray, his face is tan and smooth, and the flat stomach I saw at the beach the other day seems immune to the amount of fried shrimp and other garbage I watched him inhale.
I learned a lot about Justin over lunch. Born and raised in Ocean Beach, a business major at Clemson, with plans on taking over the marina from Richard in the next couple years. The information is hard to reconcile. He looks and acts like a southern beach bum, but there’s a lot more going on underneath that dirty ball cap. He’s smart and motivated. I tried not to let on that I’m impressed by his academic achievements but I’m pretty sure he caught on.
“So is that where you take all the new girls in town?”
“Only the ones willing to help me carry trash to the dumpster,” he jokes. I helped him throw out the trash before we left the marina. To my surprise, it was kind of fun. Everything we’ve done together has been fun. I wonder what Mason would think of that.
I internally chastise myself. Why am I thinking about Mason right now?
“I’m putting that on my resume. Expect a call for a reference someday,” I laugh. There’s a bit of awkward going on right now because this feels kind of like a date, but I’m pretty sure it’s not a date. Which is good. If he asked me on a date I’d definitely say no. But just hanging out? I can totally hang out. “I guess I’ll see you around, you know…later.”
“Let me walk you back,” he says. I start toward my camper, using the gravel path that runs between lots. Just as we reach the back of our silver monster, I hear my mother talking to someone. I grab Justin’s arm and stop him. He gives me a questioning look and I just hold my finger up to my lips.
“I can’t believe you showed up here,” my mother says, angrily.
“What did you think would happen? That I’d stay away? It’s been thirty years, Julia,” a man says in return.
Justin’s eyes grow wide. He looks down at me and mouths. “Richard.”
So my mother and Richard are fighting? I guess Justin was right about their past.
“I’m here to write a book. Not open old wounds.”
“If you ask me, those two things are one and the same.”
Justin kicks the gravel and coughs.
“What the hell?” I whisper, because we were just getting to the good stuff.
“Summer,” he says, giving me an amused look. I guess he has better standards than I do because he pushes me forward, around the corner of the camper.
They must have heard Justin’s warning. My mother sits under the shady canopy. Completely composed and drinking wine. With Richard.
“Oh, Summer,” she says, when she sees us. There’s an awkward be
at. “You met Richard at the party, right?”
“Yes, at the cocktail party.” I turn to him. “Justin and Pete showed me around the marina today. Very impressive.”
“Thank you,” he says. He’s dressed casual again. Shorts and a golf shirt. I’d expect more tension between him and my mother but I’m not catching any.
My mother holds up her glass. “If you got Summer out of bed before dawn to go work, then I’m impressed. Did you have fun?”
I glance at Justin but his eyes are on his uncle, and some communication passes through them that I can’t interpret.
“We did. Boat ride and everything,” I say.
Richard lifts an eyebrow and stands, while taking the last sip of his drink. He places the glass on the small patio table when he’s finished. “Thank you for the drink, Julia.” He turns to his nephew and asks, “Can you give me a lift back?”
“Sure,” Justin says, his eyes flicking in my direction. Guess our date-not date is over.
“Nice to see you again, Justin,” my mother says as the two walk away.
The minute they’re out of sight I turn to face my mother. “What’s going on with that?”
“Just two old friends having a drink, that’s all.” She stands up and collects the empty glasses. “I could ask you the same thing.”
I reach for the camper door knob and twist it open. “I’ll let you know when I figure it out,” I tell her, walking into the cool trailer.
I hear the door open behind me as I start tossing my dirty clothes on the bed. I expect her to say something else smart, but instead she places the glasses in the sink and says, “Same.”
Chapter 9
No. No. No. I flip through the racks and racks and racks. No. Definitely not. No. Flip, flip, flip. I find a blue and green flowered tank and bottom and hold it up for Anita.
“No.”
This is never going to work. “Anita, you say no to everything I’ve picked.”
“Well,” she says, shifting Sibley to the other hip, “you say no to everything I pick.”
“You’re unwilling to compromise.”
“Me?” she asks, rolling her eyes. “Right. I’m unwilling.”
“Fine, I’m unwilling to look like a hooker on the beach.”
She holds up a white and pink bikini. “This does not look like something a hooker would wear.” She points across the room to a mannequin dressed in a white bikini with a marijuana leaf embroidered over each boob. “That is trashy. This,” she holds it up to my chest, “is nice.”
I shake my head. “It all feels too revealing. I’m not used to showing so much skin.”
“What, no slutty Halloween costumes?”
I make a face. “No.”
“Ivy wore this nurse outfit last year. It was killer.” She sighs. “I should have gone to college.”
Just then I spot the black, halter-tied bikini top with matching boy-shorts. “How about that?”
She lets Sibley loose on the floor and picks the suit off the rack. After inspecting it for a minute, she hands it back. “Perfect. Go try it on.”
Twenty minutes later, I’m paying the cashier and ignoring Anita’s smug grin when my phone rings. This time I check before I answer.
“Hey, Mom,” I say, taking my bag off the counter.
“Are you nearby? I’m about to leave.”
“Anita and I are still shopping. I’ll see you later?”
“I want you to come with me.”
“Where? And why?” I follow Anita out of the store and into the parking lot. I stand outside the car while she fights with Sibley over the car seat.
“That woman from the other day called me back. She’s ready to talk.”
“Really?” I ask in surprise. I have to admit, I’m curious. “Well, yeah, I can be there in about twenty minutes. We’re just at the surf shop near the island.”
I hang up the phone and get in the car next to Anita. “I guess we’ll have to try out that suit later on. I’ve got Donald Gaskins’ family members to harass this afternoon.”
“Boo,” she whines. “So you’re like the George or Bess to her Nancy?”
“Who?”
“Nancy Drew’s best friends? Duh.”
“Oh!” I think about it for a second. “Which one was the heavy one who always wanted to eat pies?”
“I think Bess. George is really tough.”
“Hmm, I need a third category. The last time I went with her I tried to hide in the car.”
She laughs. “That’s okay. I was thinking you could debut it tomorrow anyway. We’re taking the boats out around noon.”
I laugh. “I doubt there’s any need for me to make a grand entrance or anything, but sounds fun.”
“Hmmm,” she hums, turning onto the beach road. “I think there will be more interest than you expect.” I roll my eyes but she flashes me a grin. “Well, it’s true.”
“Whatever,” I tell her, refusing to take the bait for whatever she’s trying to imply. “I’m happy to go to the beach party tomorrow. And wear my new suit. If my mom and I survive our trip to the middle of nowhere.”
My mother, full of surprises lately, lays another one on me when I get back to the camper. Nick leans against the SUV door, fussing with his camera.
“Hey,” I call, walking up.
He gives me a quick smile. “Hi.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I called him,” my mom says, exiting the camper. The door screeches and slams behind her. “Anita told me Nicholas is a very good photographer. I thought it’s be good to document our investigation.”
“Awesome,” I say, considering that having a linebacker, or whatever-the-hell position he plays, with us is a great idea.
We pile in the SUV and Nick sits in the back, quietly answering my mother’s millions of questions about growing up in Ocean Beach, football, and the Citadel.
“Long ago, I went to a few military balls in Charleston,” she confesses.
“You did?” Add another piece of information about my mother I didn’t know.
“Yes, you know all the boys in the family attended, whether they wanted to or not. It was tradition. Over the summer their classmates would come to visit. We’d hang out in Myrtle or sometimes Charleston. Sugar and I were popular dates for our cousins’ classmates.”
“Mrs. Barnes—” My mother cuts him off.
“Julia.”
“Julia,” Nick begins again. “How did you get interested in writing? Especially true crime?”
We’re barreling down Highway 29 surrounded by tobacco and corn fields. My mother has answered this question a million times but I’m shocked to see hesitation flicker across her face. It’s gone as fast as it came. “Henry Gaskins haunted these roads when I was your age. I’d long been curious about his motivations. When I started writing, he wasn’t a big enough name—not sensational enough for my publisher to be interested, so I went for higher-profile cases. Now I have the clout to write what I want and…well…here we are.”
“Did you always know you wanted to be a writer?” he asks. I turn in my seat. Nick has soulful brown eyes—a contrast to the size and scope of his body. “I just feel like I’m going to have to put my photography aside for a while. Focus on football and my military obligations.”
Mom catches his eye in the rearview mirror. “I thought I wanted to be a wife and mother. I focused on those things for a long time. But eventually it wasn’t enough.” She glances at me. “Not that being a mother wasn’t enough for me, but when being a wife didn’t work out I had to find a job. I had to work. I fell back into what interested me the most.” She smiles at Nick. “Hold on to your dreams. You never know when you’ll be ready to start them again.”
“Summer, what do you plan on studying in college?” Nick asks. My mother listens.
I have nothing to offer. Nothing to say. I’d been so caught up in my relationship with Mason I’d lost part of myself along the way. When I can’t answer, my mom reaches for my hand and
squeezes, letting me know it’s okay.
I stare out the window, at the farms and hot, baked land and wonder if that’s true.
Will it be okay?
* * *
An hour later, we’re sixty miles away from Ocean Beach. My mother took the green and white floral armchair and Nick and I sit together on the lumpy love seat of Donald Gaskins’ long-lost niece.
“Would you like something to drink? I have Pepsi,” Darlene asks. We’re past the formalities of the weather, how nice her home is, and how long our drive was. Darlene stands near the kitchen door, obviously nervous about our visit.
My mother says, “No, thank you. I’m glad you called me, Darlene. I know this is a difficult subject to talk about. I can only imagine the effect it had on your family. Devastating.”
Darlene nods and her hands move to the tiny cross at her neck. “I spoke to my sister. We both agreed that talking to you about Donald isn’t a bad thing. Keeping this story buried in our family has hurt us more than it ever helped us. In fact, I think the secrets our family kept only allowed him to continue to hurt people. It’s time to talk about it.”
“I’m glad you feel that way. Please understand, I meant what I said on the phone, I never want you to feel like I’m exploiting the situation.” My mother sounds sincere. From the look on her face, I think she is.
Darlene sits across from us in an arm chair identical to the one my mother is perched on. “I’m happy to answer your questions, although I’m really not sure what I can tell you. I mean, I knew about him but he was in jail a lot, and the rest of the time we didn’t see him. By the time he was executed, our family had washed our hands of him.”
“I’m just going to ask some basic questions, to kind of get a feel for what it was like to be related to him, how the family felt about the situation. I’m writing this book about Donald and his crimes, but your family should have a voice, too.”
Darlene continues to shift nervously in her seat but she seems willing to talk. “My mother spent her life in fear of her half-brother. Obviously, he was unstable, but he proved more than once he was willing to kill family members.”