Savannah by the Sea

by Denise Hildreth Jones

  “He better be glad they don’t sell guns at Target, because the way that Big Bird blow-up doll scared her, she might have shot holes in that place from kingdom come.” I was getting downright slaphappy.

  Dad was laughing so hard Pinky got to bouncing on his lap.

  “Hack!” came the sound.

  I laughed harder. “Be careful, or she is going to hurl all over you.” I tried to breathe.“Did she ever say what made her actually spray the pepper spray in her own face?”That one got me tickled again.

  Dad was holding the basket up in front of him so he could laugh without shaking Pink Toes to death. Duke was eyeing us both.

  “She said that she could have sworn that that Big Bird was Big Foot, and when she went to spray him, the bottle was turned backward.”

  “What did the paramedics say?”

  “Nice aim!” he blurted right in the little rat’s face. He finally had to set her in the driver’s seat so he could let loose. Poor man probably hadn’t laughed this much since that night.

  “Ooh . . . that is funny. Did they ever repair all the damage she did to the bicycle aisle?”

  “No. She helped repair it, remember? I made her go to work there every day for the next two weeks when she got off at the chamber.” He wiped his eyes, referring to her position as head of the Savannah Chamber of Commerce.

  “Yeah, you went with her, you pitiful old man.”

  “Ooh . . .” He tried to catch his breath. “She had suffered enough.”

  We both sighed heavily while the tension in our stomachs began to loosen.We stared back at the doors to Wal-Mart, knowing perfectly well what was transpiring inside.

  Wal-Mart on Seaside trips was where Victoria Phillips stocked up on all essentials, to be cooked under her supervision. Her shopping cart would consist of all things fresh. Fresh meats, fresh fruits, fresh vegetables, and fresh bread. She would bake a ham and a turkey and make us sandwich meat so we could have sandwiches at the beach.

  We longed for Lunchables, but the woman wouldn’t let people she loved eat pepperoni thinly sliced and packaged in plastic. She would graciously buy me an abundant supply of canned Cokes and a bag of ice. Because if I couldn’t have McDonald’s Coke from the fountain, then canned Cokes were as close to it as you could get. Unless you were fortunate enough to find the glass bottles.

  Now that Paige was with us, there would be a substantial amount of Diet Cokes and Doritos, and with Amber coming on the trip, there was no telling. The child had eaten her weight in sweets since she had come in first runner-up. A couple evenings ago she spent the night with me, and the woman finished off two pints of Purity O’Charley’s Caramel Pie ice cream without offering me so much as a spoon. I was pretty certain substantial amounts of sugars would be in her purchase.

  Jake wouldn’t require anything specific. Just enough meat to cook out. All he truly required were early morning walks with Duke down to Modica’s Market to get a paper and to share a cup of coffee with Mr. Modica before anyone else arose. He and Duke would take the scenic route home and greet the other people they had become friends with through the years. Then he would sit on the front porch and rock in the rocking chair with his best friend beside him and Vicky (okay, maybe she is his best friend). In any case, he would read his paper and drink his coffee. Mother would fix him a substantial breakfast, and they would eat outside together and laugh and talk. And you would see them fall in love all over again.

  And some evenings Dad would slip me a twenty and ask me and whoever had traveled along to go entertain ourselves for a while so they could be alone. I would have to control my own gag reflex and would refuse to look at either of them for a full twenty-four hours. The mere thought of my father and mother being intimate was just too much. You know it has to happen— you just don’t want to think about it. But something about them getting away from all the craziness of home allowed them to concentrate on each other a little differently. And even though it was disgusting and not a visual a child would want to dwell on, it was charming and provided a sense of safety. So there Dad sat, across from me, not needing to go into Wal-Mart for anything, because Victoria provided everything he needed. Happily, I might add.

  Dad and I enjoyed our hour in the car together. It would have been perfect had Duke not attempted, no fewer than ten times, to take out the canine in the front seat.

  The three women returned with enough groceries to feed a family of ten for no less than a month. Amber had been privileged to partake of liquid. Paige had a Diet Coke herself. And Mother had a smile. She had just spent money, hadn’t she? And in what should have been no more than a six-hour trip, we entered Seaside, Florida, in a mere nine, each of us holding three Wal-Mart shopping bags on our lap. The Beverly Hillbillies had officially arrived.

  I rolled down my window and smelled paradise.

  My cell phone snapped me out of it.

  “You think Sylvia Lancaster is home?” Paige asked from the other side of the car.“Maybe she could go check the door.”

  I reached behind Amber and slapped Paige on the back of the head. “It’s fine. Your door is locked. You’re on vacation. And no one is going to run away with your paintings. Now look out the window and enjoy the view.”

  “A little pent up?” Amber asked.

  “It’s called anal retentive,” Paige said.

  “If I hear those phones again, I will throw them out the window.” So Mother’s offer still stood.

  A cell phone immediately started chirping. Both Paige and I swallowed hard as we looked down to check our caller IDs. It wasn’t us. The chirping continued. Dad turned his head in the direction of Mother’s rather large and obscenely expensive handbag.

  “I think it’s for you,” I said with a huff toward the big brown eyes that had turned around to stare at me. Then I turned to give Duke a brief glance. He gave me a nod and turned his gaze back out the window. At least one of us cared to look at the world we were entering.

  I turned my attention back to the highway.There was something almost magical about turning on Highway 30-A off of County Road 283 that takes you into the quaint recesses of Seaside. It hits you as soon as you pass Criolla’s that life has just changed. Maybe it’s the bike path that parallels the street, or the coastal dunelands that sneak up on you and offer a peaceful preview of the ocean that awaits. Whatever it is, when you hit the white sand dunes just across the first small bridge, a smile creeps across your face. And when the first tin roof comes into view, well, every part of your body just melts into the leather that surrounds you. You roll down your window so you can smell the salt. And when you do, your entire being enters vacation mode, and every being in the car, human and animal alike, exhales.

  Today was especially beautiful. Because those tin roofs, picket fences, front porches, and towers perched atop many homes that overlooked the ocean meant liberation from this bench seat.We had officially started our working vacation. And everyone knew it. Seaside had grown immensely since we started this journey over twenty years ago. When we first started coming, there was nothing on 283. But now the colored shops of Grayton line the highway. And on 30-A, Grayton Market has taken over the corner, hiding Pandora’s restaurant.

  But the most noticeable difference is how the entrance to Seaside has changed. Used to be you were welcomed by the Seaside sign and the yellow home on the left with the peach and seafoam-green trim. It was the first house you would see before you took a step back in time. But that all changed in February 2002, when Water Colors was created, a seaside resort that made luxury retreats available to working families. But Water Colors arrived with condominiums as well as a beachfront hotel, and a few more fabulous restaurant selections to add to 30-A. It brought quaint little shops and a market of its own. And in spite of the excitement of the development’s arrival, the certain familiarity about Seaside remains, making it feel almost like home.

  And then we saw it, the small, rust-colored, stained wooden sign with white letters spelling out Seaside. The three little re
d and white umbrellas let you know what life here is all about: sun, sand, and sleep. Amazing what one little sign and the beginning of white picket fences can do for a weary soul.

  The large beachfront homes that line the street are each named. And each plaque bearing their names makes a clear declaration of what that home represents to the family that owns it. Names like Four the Girls, Same Time Next Year, and Julie Got Her Way. But the names change through the years as the owners change. And though Seaside boasts many more actual year-round residents these days, most homes are rented out to pilgrims like us for the majority of the year.

  We drove right through the heart of Seaside, the spring sun reflecting brilliantly off the tin roofs, a standard in Seaside and the perfect complement to a rainy evening.

  Amber crawled over me and planted her perfectly reconstructed nose against the car window.“Ooh, what’s that?”

  I spat her hair out of my mouth.

  “That’s Central Square.” Dad began his commentary of the town he loved. “That’s the heart of Seaside. It’s actually modeled after places like Charleston and Savannah. Or like Italian piazzas. It was built as a gathering place to offer all of the people around here the opportunity to get to know each other.”

  “Kind of like shopping,” Amber said.

  “Amen, sister,” Mother offered.

  “And food, because that brings people together too,” he continued.

  “Preach it, brother!” Paige shouted from the backseat.

  Amber pointed.“What’s that grassy area there?”

  I tried to catch a glimpse of it with my left eye.That was the only thing that wasn’t obstructed by her rather looming mass.

  Dad’s tour continued.“That grassy hill there in the middle of all the stores is the amphitheater. It’s also called the Town Center, and it’s the only actual grass you’ll find around here. All the front yards are filled with native plants. But this is where they’ll show movies, or the rep theater that started a few years back will perform a play. And people just head out there with their lawn chairs or blankets and wine or coffee . . .”

  “Or Coke,” I offered.

  “Or Coke. And enjoy the production of the evening.”

  “Like a drive-in without the cars,” Paige interjected, still examining her phone. Paige was an old pro at Dad’s tour too. She had come with me almost all of the thirteen years since we had become joined at the hip.

  The amphitheater lay nestled inside the curvature of the heart of Seaside. It was the place where all the action happened. A semicircle of shops and eateries, it had matured beautifully through the years.

  The small silver camper Frost Bites, which offered frozen delights, sat on the edge of the amphitheater. A delight for hot beachgoers.And then we passed the small post office that sat on the edge of the road in front of the amphitheater.

  “See that little post office?” Dad pointed, causing Maggy to duck. Poor thing would need years of therapy just to recover from this car ride.“Mr. Davis, who designed Seaside, actually designed this post office himself. If my memory serves me correctly, this is actually one of the most photographed post offices in the nation.”

  “So you can send postcards and torture those you love with where you are and they aren’t,” I retorted.

  Paige closed her phone and looked out the window. “I always hated postcards. Who wants to be reminded of all the fabulous places someone else is? What do they think you’re going to do? Hang them on your refrigerator or something?”

  Amber turned and looked at her.

  “You have postcards all over your refrigerator, don’t you?”Paige asked the long-tressed species hanging over me like a baboon on a summer day.

  “You’ll never know,”Amber offered through pursed lips. She turned her head back to the Town Center.

  “For a long while, all that was there was Modica’s Market and Dreamland Heights,” I said, pushing her back over to her seat while I finished off the tour.“They filmed The Truman Show here, you know.”

  Her eyes grew wide. This was a woman who dreamed of being famous. Or infamous. I’m not sure it would matter. “That movie with Jim Carrey?”

  “Yeah, that’s the one. And when they started the production, they built quite a few of these buildings. Like the one that we just passed with the spa and the pottery place.”

  I made a mental note to visit the spa. Why not? I was already worn-out.

  “Are there a lot of famous people that come here?”

  “You see a few every now and then,” I responded.

  “I saw Susan Lucci once,” Mother mused.“She looked much older than she does on television.” I was certain that made Mother feel better.

  “Most are just your everyday people,Amber,” Dad said, rubbing Maggy’s head while he surveyed the landscape. “A lot of people save up all year to have a vacation here that their family can enjoy. You do have some who have a lot of money, and these are their summer homes. A few have made this their permanent residence. Then there are others like us who come once a year, every year. You get to know people that way, which is nice. But for the most part it’s just a place where people come to get away from life and its pace.”

  “It looks expensive.” This from a woman who had clothes from the most expensive boutiques in Georgia.

  “It’s not cheap. But few vacations are.”

  I brought us back to the tour at hand. “And those buildings back there with the bookstore and the other little shops were all built for the movie set as well.”

  Her bleary, aquamarine, contact-colored eyes lit up as this world of brick streets, bicycles, and bathing suits began to engulf her. Odd for people who live so close to the beach to get excited about coming to one? Yes. But going to the one nearby just feels like a Saturday. Coming here, to this haven in the middle of the Florida panhandle, feels like, well, dare one say, paradise.

  “I think she’s going to be sick again,” Dad said, holding up the heaving pink-gingham picnic basket.

  Well, as close to paradise as we’d ever see this side of glory.

  CHAPTER NINE

  I can share a room with Savannah!” Amber declared as our luggage hit the bottom of the steps.

  “No, we want you to really be able to relax, after all you’ve been through.” Paige placed her arm around her. I love Paige. “You deserve your own space for the week.”

  Amber rested her head on Paige’s shoulder, a rather contortionist type of move considering their height difference. “Thank you, Paige.That is so sweet of you.”

  One of the beauties of Seaside is that you can come for years and never have to stay in the same house. So each year we would pick one with enough bedrooms for us and usually some friends and make it home for a week. Mother preferred to stay in Savannah Sands, and not because it was on the ocean. If that wasn’t available, she’d take any house big enough on Savannah Street. Such things need no explaining.That is, until the String of Pearls was built on Seaside Avenue. Then Vicky found her resting place.

  String of Pearls was Mother’s favorite. Truth be told, it was my favorite too. Vicky loved it because it was painted cream. Her favorite color. Not that I think cream is a color. I loved it because of the French doors stained a rich pecan that lined the front of the house on both floors. And because of the magnolia tree in the front yard, which reminded me of home. Everything about it was clean and pristine, just the way I desired my life, yet a far cry from how it actually existed. So, at least for a week, I could pretend my life was as perfectly aligned as the eight Adirondack chairs in a row on the front porch.

  In no less than ten minutes, Paige and I were settled in and unpacked. We peeked into Amber’s room, and she was unpacking a wardrobe that made grown women lust. Two that I knew of specifically.

  “Where did you get this?” I asked, running my hands across a soft polished-cotton sundress. “It’s beautiful.”

  “I got it at Saks. It was for . . . my . . . my . . .”—the tears and wails started coming before
she could finish—“queen’s breakfast at the pageant.”

  Paige snatched the dress from her hand and hung it in the closet for her, and then wrapped her arm around her shoulder. “Come on, Miss Amber, me and Savannah are going to take you to get a bathing suit. That will make all of us feel better.”

  “But I already have a . . . ”

  “Oh, don’t argue,” Paige said, bringing her toward the door. “You need a bathing suit with no memories attached to it.”

  “You think?”

  “We’re certain,” I assured her.

  Amber’s eyes held sincere appreciation as she batted away the tears.“I probably need to get a complete new wardrobe to get rid of all my memories.”

  “Ooh, that many, huh?” Paige glanced back at me as we descended the stairs.

  I offered her a shrug.

  “Worse. I even have memories of other people’s wardrobes.”

  Paige and I looked at each other but didn’t even bother.“We have no idea when we’ll return,” Paige hollered out to my mother and dad. “Absolutely no idea,” she whispered to herself.

  “We have dinner reservations at seven,” Dad informed.

  “Well, then we’ll be back by six forty-five,” Paige shouted as we exited the building.

  PER-SPI-CAS-ITY Market caught Amber’s eye first. It was the first outdoor market to open in Seaside in the summer of 1981. Originally it was called the Seaside Saturday Market and housed a few tables shielded from the intense southern sun by canvas awnings. But with the brutality of summer’s humidity, it changed into the Seaside Saturday Sunset Scene.

  Eventually, though, in 1983, architect Deborah Berke arrived and designed multiple stalls that looked like tin-roofed beachfront cottages. And it is there that now a woman can find any item necessary to enjoy a week at the beach. Each clothing cottage offers linen dresses, hats, belts, straw bags, and flip-flops. It is a woman’s paradise.

  “Maybe I should just go total bohemian,” Amber said as she stopped to fondle a pair of woven flip-flops.