Reunion Beach

by Elin Hilderbrand

  She felt her heart beating erratically again and turned toward the siren call of the sea. She stared out at the vista and felt the familiar pull. She closed her eyes and heard the sea whisper in the waves, There, there. You know where you are. Who you are.

  When she opened her eyes again, she breathed deep and felt as serene as the gentle waves lapping the shore. She was ready. Turning back toward the beach path, she saw a young woman step out from it. She stood at the top of the dune. The breeze lifted the ends of her shoulder-length hair, the same thin, wispy brown as her own. She was quite thin, almost shapeless in the pale blue shift she wore. The brown leather purse hanging from her shoulder seemed too big for her frail body.

  Elinor stood motionless as the young woman’s gaze scanned the beach. She wanted to call out, but her voice wouldn’t come. She felt time stand still. Then the young woman turned her way and she knew the moment she spotted her. Her thin shoulders went back and slowly, deliberately, she removed her large sunglasses, revealing impossibly large blue eyes.

  It was like looking in a mirror. Elinor’s hand darted up and she found her voice. “Kristina!”

  Her child, her baby, was moving now, toward her. The tug of the umbilical cord was a force of nature. Elinor couldn’t take her eyes off Kristina’s face. She saw tears glistening in her daughter’s eyes, as they did in hers. She opened her arms.

  Elinor closed her eyes as her daughter stepped into her outstretched arms. Once empty, now filled. She embraced her child, rocking side to side, feeling Kristina’s arms tighten around her. She smelled her scent, inhaled it, knowing it. Her reaction was visceral.

  The gulls cried overhead. Yet over their taunting, raucous laughter Elinor heard one word cried close to her ear. Two small syllables, a child’s alliteration, that she’d waited a lifetime to hear.

  “Mama.”

  About Mary Alice Monroe

  Mary Alice Monroe by Mic Smith

  MARY ALICE MONROE is the New York Times bestselling author of twenty-seven books including her latest novel The Summer of Lost and Found (May 2021, Gallery Books), and her first middle-grade book The Islanders (June 2021, Aladdin Books).

  Monroe’s books have been published worldwide. She’s earned numerous accolades and awards, including: induction into the South Carolina Academy of Authors’ Hall of Fame; Southwest Florida Author of Distinction Award; South Carolina Award for Literary Excellence; RT Lifetime Achievement Award; the International Book Award for Green Fiction; and the prestigious Southern Book Prize for Fiction. Her bestselling novel The Beach House is a Hallmark Hall of Fame movie.

  Mary Alice Monroe is also the co-creator and co-host of the weekly web show and podcast Friends and Fiction.

  Monroe found her true calling in environmental fiction when she moved to the Isle of Palms, South Carolina. Captivated by the beauty and fragility of her new home in the Lowcountry, Monroe’s experiences gave her a strong and important focus for her novels.

  Monroe and Dorothea Benton Frank were Lowcountry neighbors. Dottie—as she was called among friends—lived across the inlet from Isle of Palms on the neighboring Sullivan’s Island. Together they became part of a small tribe of Lowcountry writers who gathered together over the years for meals and conversation supporting each other’s careers and personal lives. Dottie’s energy and spirit will be forever missed.

  Also by Mary Alice Monroe

  Stand-Alone Novels

  The Summer Guests

  A Lowcountry Christmas

  The Butterfly’s Daughter

  Last Light over Carolina

  Time Is a River

  Sweetgrass

  Skyward

  The Book Club

  The Four Seasons

  The Long Road Home

  Girl in the Mirror

  Beach House Series

  The Summer of Lost and Found

  On Ocean Boulevard

  Beach House Reunion

  Beach House for Rent

  Beach House Memories

  Swimming Lessons

  The Beach House

  Lowcountry Summer Series

  A Lowcountry Wedding

  The Summer’s End

  The Summer Wind

  The Summer Girls

  Children’s Books

  The Islanders

  A Butterfly Called Hope

  Turtle Summer

  Lowcountry Stew

  Cassandra King Conroy

  Before Nellie Bee gets here, I look again to make sure every little thing is lined up exactly as we like it. When she and I first met, we’d bonded over the similarities of our detail-obsessed personalities—which our husbands call neurotic, of course. Low-slung canvas chairs positioned exactly so? Check. Icy pitcher of mojitos? Check. Two silver julep mugs? Check. Both of us like our mojitas strong, with extra lime, and we like our chairs placed right where the waves recede so the hot foamy water washes over our feet without splashing us.

  The beach is perfect today—or as perfect as the Atlantic Ocean gets. Before moving to the Lowcountry, I’d swum in the Gulf of Mexico on frequent family vacations to Corpus Christi, but not the Atlantic. Being in the Atlantic is such a different experience. There’s even a different texture to the water. Bram looked skeptical when I observed that gulf water feels silkier on your skin, like someone’s added bath oil. And he calls my notion absurd that the water here feels and tastes saltier than the Gulf. But he does agree about the color difference. The Gulf of Mexico looks like emeralds left to melt in the sun, while the Atlantic’s the grayish-green of a swamp. At first I wasn’t keen on the daily swims my new husband insisted on, but I, too, have come to love them.

  Nellie Bee and I won’t be swimming here, though. We seldom do, unless it’s in the pool. Our beach visits are always at water’s edge and fortified with strong drink. When I hear a stroller on the beach call out “Hi, Nell!” at my sister-in-law’s approach, I turn my head to watch her trudge across the sand, trailing the towel she brings for wiping her feet. Even though I know Nellie Bee’s here to “talk some sense into her idiot sister-in-law” (or so she said on the phone), I grin and wave to her. She sees me, but she’s paused to look out over the ocean and doesn’t return my wave. I think she’s more exasperated with me than angry—or at least I hope so. In the five years we’ve known each other, we’ve never had a cross word and I don’t want to start now.

  Toting her shoes in one hand, Nellie Bee’s still dressed for golf in jaunty little skorts and a blue polo with the Fripp Island logo. That woman and her golf! It’s another of her obsessions, she says, but at least healthier than mojitos. She stands motionless for a long moment to breathe in the brisk salt breeze, and behind the sunglasses, I imagine she’s closed her eyes. It’s late afternoon, and the sun still hangs high above the horizon, its blinding glare obscured by wispy streaks of clouds. Low tide, and the waves lap against the shoreline with a soft swishing sound. I watch sandpipers retreating from them, spindly-legged, then I turn my gaze back to Nellie Bee, trying to gauge her mood before she joins me. We usually get together once a week after one of her golf games. But today she’d called to convene what she referred to as an emergency meeting, and had asked me to make our drinks extra strong. I took that as a bad sign.

  My sister-in-law and dear friend, Nell O’Connor (called Nellie Bee by the family), bears such a strong resemblance to my husband Bram that they’re sometimes mistaken for twins. Twenty months apart, they’re Irish twins, but Nellie Bee’s quick to remind everyone that she’s younger. Plus, she was the one born in South Carolina; since her “twin” was born in Ireland, he’s more Irish than Southern, she says. It’s the distinctive coloring that makes them so much alike, what Bram calls the black Irish: the dark hair, bright green eyes, and milky skin. In the past few years his hair’s become heavily threaded with silver, but Nellie Bee’s only slightly streaked, like pricey highlights. Nellie Bee gripes, saying she looks older, but to me it makes her even more striking. The resemblance between her and Bram has more to d
o with their strong personalities than with physical appearance: Bram’s a force of nature, one of those dynamic people who lights up a room when he enters it and turns heads wherever he goes. His sister’s the same, though she pooh-poohs the idea that she has anything like his charisma. Squaring her shoulders, Nellie Bee turns abruptly from her reverie and heads my way, a scowl on her face.

  “Sister-woman!” I call out when she plops down in the chair next to mine, trying to lighten her mood. She’s not having it.

  “Don’t you be sister-womaning me,” she says, tossing her golf shoes on the sand. “Not till I have a cold one in my hand, anyway.”

  I pour mojito into one of the engraved silver mugs Bram gave me for a wedding gift (at her suggestion) and pass it to her. She has a set of them, which I’d admired. Presenting his gift, my new husband announced his sister ordered him to marry me, or else. Even if his twinkling eyes hadn’t betrayed him, I would’ve known he was joking. No one tells Bram O’Connor what to do. Nellie Bee had hooted when I repeated what he’d said. “He’s so full of it” was her response. “I told him the opposite. I wouldn’t wish him on anybody, let alone a sweetheart like you.” Unlike her brother, she was only halfway joking. She adores her brother but claims I’m a saint for putting up with him.

  I remind her of that after she clicks her mug against mine and we chant our favorite toast: “‘Balls,’ said the Queen. ‘If I had ’em, I’d be King.’” After taking a long, thirsty drink, I say, “You can save your speech, sistah. You were the one who warned me not to hook up with your brother.”

  Nellie Bee gulps her drink then sighs in satisfaction. “God, that’s so good. And yes, I did. Though it shouldn’t have been necessary. I figured no woman in her right mind would marry a man named Bram Stoker.” She and Bram have told me how shamelessly their mother, a Stoker from Dublin, had played up her kinship with the infamous author of Dracula.

  “Wife number one did,” I say with a sly smile.

  “I said in her right mind.” To my surprise Nellie Bee drains her glass and holds it out for a refill. We always limit ourselves to two drinks that we sip slowly to make them last. “You’d better refill yours, too. You’re going to need it.”

  “So you’re upset with me then?” I say it lightly but with a rush of anxiety. I treasure her friendship and hate to think of us at odds.

  “Oh, honey.” She pushes her sunglasses to the top of her head and turns her gaze on me. The blue shirt turns her darkly fringed eyes to aquamarine, a lovely contrast to her pale skin. Anyone else who spent so much time on the golf course would be deeply tanned; she freckles instead—arms, legs, and across the bridge of her nose. Her expression’s troubled. “You know how much I adore you, Chris. But you’re a damn fool for agreeing to this reunion. And my brother’s a bigger one for putting you in such a position.”

  “He didn’t pressure me, sweetie. I agreed willingly.”

  While true, it lacks conviction. If I know one thing about my husband of five years, it’s his power of persuasion. It’s one of the ways he reached the top of his game—and TV ratings—before age thirty and stayed there for twenty years. Now, despite his retirement a few years ago, reruns of his cooking show, Southern Heritage, are still much in demand. As are pleas for him to film a new series. We both know that’s behind this Return to the Lowcountry special the food network has talked him into doing. One reason I agreed to be a part of it—even after hearing the details—was curiosity. When we married, Bram retired from the show, tired of all the traveling involved. Plus he wanted time to write a food memoir, which he’d been hard at work on ever since. Does he want to do the show again, despite his swearing otherwise? If not, then why the enthusiasm for this special? Nellie Bee and I have different answers to that, and she’s here to argue hers.

  “Bram didn’t pressure me, either,” Nellie Bee admits, rattling the ice in her glass. We’ve had this discussion before. Nellie Bee and her husband will be part of the special, too, since the show will feature Bram hosting a family get-together. The thing is, it not only includes Bram’s son, wife, and new baby, but also Bram’s ex-wife, whom Nellie Bee detests.

  “I was all for it until I heard she’d be here,” she tells me. “Therein lies the problem. The return of the spider woman.”

  I lean back on the canvas chair and sigh. The sun’s not unbearably hot yet, early June. Matter of fact, it feels good, warm and nourishing on my face. I’m slathered with sunblock but still shouldn’t be sunbathing, I know. I push my sunglasses up on my head, then squint against the glare. “Well, you know Michael won’t participate unless the mama bear’s included.”

  Nellie Bee snorts. “That’s an insult to bears the world over. That woman doesn’t have a mama bone in her body. And Michael’s a fool.” I feel her eyes on me but don’t turn to meet her gaze, knowing what I’ll see. Her tone tells me that she’s more upset than I realized. She goes on with a litany against her nephew that I’ve heard before, though not quite so fiercely. “Michael’s a sweet boy but too easily influenced. Always has been,” his aunt declares. “Especially by the fair sex. First it was his mama and now his prissy wife, the princess. Obviously he inherited his daddy’s taste in women.”

  As soon as I let out a hoot of laughter, she realizes what she said. When I tease, “Oh, thanks a lot,” she tries unsuccessfully to suppress a giggle. It’s the opening I’ve been waiting for, and I press on. “Listen, I know you’re just trying to protect me, and I appreciate it. More than that, I love you for it. But the whole thing will only take a few days. And trust me, I intend to avoid the dragon lady while she’s here. Doing this will be good for all of us. It’ll give me a chance to meet the baby and get to know Michael better. Bram needs to spend time with his first grandchild. How can that not be a good thing? Bram’s finally on good terms with his son, and now this chance to solidify their relationship has come up—”

  “Or have it blow up in his face.” Nellie Bee snorts. “Which is what I’ve tried to tell Bram. Despite having to tolerate Her Highness, his daughter-in-law, filming the special would be a perfect chance for him to be with Michael and the baby. But once I heard that Jocasta was coming, that soured the whole thing for me. You don’t know that woman like I do.”

  “I don’t know her at all.” I’d met Bram’s ex-wife, Jocasta, at Michael and Missy’s wedding in Atlanta, three years ago. Aside from forced pleasantries, Jocasta and I’d had little interaction, but my impression of her lingered like cloying perfume. It wasn’t her stunning blond beauty; I’d seen pictures and expected that. Nor was it the charm; Bram’d told me that his ex could be quite bewitching. What surprised me about Jocasta was the extent of her flattery and fawning, as if she set out to lure everyone she met into her silken web. How could a man as astute as Bram not have seen through such artifice? After her initial curiosity about me, she turned her full attention to captivating Missy’s high-society parents. Every time I caught a glimpse of her, she was either posing for pictures with them or hanging raptly on their every word. They appeared equally enamored with her, but why wouldn’t they be? Jocasta Wainwright’s from the cream of Charleston society, making her their social equal. All of them, cut out of the same gold-threaded cloth.

  Nellie Bee peers in her empty cup with a frown. “God, I want another one bad. But, gotta resist. I’m driving home. Matter of fact, I need to get on back now.”

  “Why don’t you stay over, have dinner with us? Call Charlie to come out. You know Bram will fix enough to feed half of Fripp Island.”

  She’s shaking her head before I finish. “If I do, we’ll just keep fussing about this TV thing. I don’t want to get my brother riled up, and I don’t want to be at odds with you. I just want you not to do this. It’s not going to turn out like you expect.”

  I eye her with amusement. “And what do you think I expect?”

  “You know damn well,” she says with a snort. “The saintly, widowed therapist—who the jaded TV chef had the good fortune to marry—steps in to save the da
y and mend the well-publicized rifts of his screwed-up family.”

  “I’m not exactly a therapist,” I correct her. “A child psychologist who works with migrant families doesn’t get to do much therapy. I’m more of a social worker these days.”

  “That’s therapy in my book,” she says tartly. “The thing is, you might fool a lot of people, Christina O’Connor—”

  “Murray.” I correct her more playfully this time, but she ignores me.

  “My point is, you don’t fool me. You’re a lot more vulnerable than you appear.” Nellie Bee picks up her towel to wipe the sand off her feet, and I stare at her in surprise.

  “What does that mean?” I demand. “When have I ever claimed not to be vulnerable? I’ve always been vulnerable and not afraid to show it.”

  She turns flashing green eyes on me. “Oh bull crap. You put up a good front, acting so calm and composed. But I know it’s an act. I’m worried about you, Chris. Really worried.”

  “Worried about me? That’s ridiculous.” Like her brother, Nellie Bee’s intensity can be a bit overwhelming. But you know where you stand with her. Then it hits me that something else is bothering her, something she’s hesitant to say—which is not like her. “C’mon, Nellie Bee; spit it out. What’s this really about?”

  We stare at each other until she throws her hands up in the air, flapping the towel dramatically. “Okay, okay. I didn’t want to say anything but—”

  “I knew it! What?”

  “I think this reunion thing’s an elaborate ploy to get Bram back—”

  “Is that what’s bothering you? I’ve known that all along. No reason for you to worry, though. If he decides he wants to return to the show, I’ll play the good wife and be supportive of his decision.”