The Bridge Between

by Lindsey Brackett

  The phone rang over the vacuum’s whine, and he snapped it off. An afternoon of basketball would have done more for his irritation than housecleaning. He snatched the phone. Thornton Coultrie showed on the ID. Yet another thing Lou needed to change. “Yeah?”

  “I hope you’re teaching the boys better manners than that.”

  “I figured you had that covered.”

  “Clearly I caught you at a bad time.”

  “Clearly.”

  “In that case, you can call back when you’re in a better mood.” She hung up.

  David tossed the phone on the couch. He rubbed his temples and fought feelings of—jealousy?

  “We’re divorced. She left you, remember?” Talking to himself was healthy, right? Might should have gone to see a therapist after all.

  A run. Cora Anne swore by those. He’d do that instead of washing the dirty towels he was sure the boys had piled on the bathroom floor.

  The phone rang again when he opened the door. He paused. Could let the machine get it. He still had one of those, even though his students said cell phones would soon usurp the house phone.

  “David?” Lou’s voice, clear and sharp, came over the line again. “I’m not sure what your issue is today, but I need to ask if you’d like to trade weekends. Dr. Whiting is coming out with students on Friday afternoon and setting up the lab. I’d rather the boys weren’t underfoot.”

  As if they were still toddlers. He rolled his eyes. Ought to tell her no and make her deal with reality. But she so rarely asked for help—

  “Please call me back when you’d like to have an adult conversation.”

  Ah, the last jab. Lou was good at those.

  ~~~

  The run cooled his head enough that when he found Mac’s math book under the couch—he was good about making them do homework at least—he tossed it in the Jeep and drove over to the farm.

  Lou met him at the screen, arms crossed. “Can I help you?”

  He held up the book.

  She raised her brows. “Is your phone broken?”

  “No.”

  “It’s common courtesy to call before you visit someone.”

  “It’s impolite to let someone stand out in the cold.”

  She huffed and shoved the door open. “What’s the matter, David? Finally get tired of the slow life?”

  He’d memorized the dance steps of this argument long ago. But might be time to make her lead. “Nope, just got in a mood earlier. I guess you’ve been entertaining?” He nodded at the coffee cups on the table alongside paperwork and maps detailing rivers. He knew enough South Carolina geography to recognize the Edisto River. It cut like a lifeline through the lower part of the state until it split and surrounded this island. Separating its inhabitants into another way of life.

  Lou lifted one shoulder in her familiar noncommittal shrug. “Liam and I had to work out a few things.”

  “Aha.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  She moved next to him, anger heating her cheeks. He smelled the freshness of the soap she must have recently used. Lavender. Desire rose in him and he stepped back. How he could still want her after—

  “You sure you’re all right?” Her hand slid under his elbow.

  She hadn’t shown concern like this in quite awhile.

  He laid his hand over hers, fingers brushing together, and watched as her cheeks flushed again. This time, he was sure, not from anger. “I’m fine. Sorry to take my bad mood out on you.”

  She pulled her hand away. “I guess I deserve it sometimes.”

  As close as she’d ever come to saying she was sorry. He slid an arm around her waist and pulled her in. An embrace of friendship, yes that’s all he needed. She circled her arms around his neck and let him hug her. They’d fought about this too—his need for contact versus her need for space.

  “Whoa, you guys are being weird.” Mac came in the kitchen, and the moment shifted from David’s grasp. His son raised his brows in an expression exactly like his mother’s. “I left my math book at your house, Dad.”

  “Yeah, I brought it over.” David nodded at the table. Lou had moved back to the sink and turned on the water for dishes, the expanse between them wide as ever.

  “Thanks.” Mac took his book and backpedaled out, still looking at them both with a furrowed brow.

  “Did you get my message?” She held out a dishtowel. A wordless offering, but he took it.

  “Sure, they can come over.”

  “I know they’re not toddlers—”

  He hid his smile, concentrating on drying a glass as she continued.

  “—but I’m already having a hard time focusing and I know they’ll get me distracted and flustered.”

  Lou hated being flustered, how well he knew. “Not a problem.”

  “I thought, maybe …” She plunged her hands in the soapy water. “Liam suggested an oyster roast at the end of the month. Said it was one of his fondest memories when he worked here with Daddy.”

  David twisted the cloth inside a cup already dry. An oyster roast. Her parents used to give one every February, and when she finally invited him to one, he knew they’d turned the tide. From her silence to the way she continued swishing flatware in the water, David figured Lou hadn’t forgotten quite as much as she pretended.

  “Sure.” He set down the glass. Reached for another. Kept his tone light. “Sounds fun. Guess you’re asking for some help?”

  “I’ll have to haul tables out of the barn, clean out the fire pit …” She glanced over her shoulder at the closed door of what had once been the maid’s room off the kitchen. “And I guess I need to set myself up an office of sorts so the kitchen table’s not always so messy.”

  “My services might cost you.” He enjoyed the way her lips pursed as if trying to decide if he was joking or serious.

  “What’s your price?”

  “Enchiladas. Mac says the Taco Bell doesn’t cut it.”

  “I should think not.” She tugged the dishtowel from his hand. “Let’s switch. My hands about can’t take another round.”

  “Let me see.” He cupped her hand in his and ran his thumb over her reddened knuckles. She let him trace the lifeline of her palm, before curling her fingers and pulling away, as if she was afraid of what he’d seen.

  Chapter 17

  Edisto Island, Summer—Christmas 1976

  For their first date, Patrick took Grace for an upscale dinner in Charleston. She wore a pink dress and rolled her hair. On the way home he put the top down on his fancy convertible. Curls streaming, Grace imagined all her worries being carried off with the wind.

  Because one date changed everything.

  The next afternoon he appeared at the Dockside soon as her shift ended. He took her out to the family plantation at Cooper Creek—this time in his work truck—and fetched a picnic supper Lula May had packed. The housekeeper stood on the back porch clucking her tongue at Pat, telling him in a mix of Gullah and drawl that his “mama weren’t gonna like ’is.”

  Patrick smacked her cheek with his lips. “Aw, Lula May, you worry too much.”

  She crossed thick arms, dark and shiny against the starched white of her apron. “Somebody’s gotta worry about you.”

  They motored down the creek in a little johnboat barely big enough for two and the basket. She sat with her back against his knees. When the rocking tide made her queasy, he hooked his arm around her shoulders and held her still.

  Three days ago she only knew his name. Now she figured Patrick Ravenel Cooper Watson was the type of steady man she could fall in love with.

  So she did.

  One Saturday night he took her dancing at the Pavilion. When the air inside became close and stale, they wandered down the boardwalk stretching over the water. A ribbon of moonlight sparkled on the waves. She leaned over the railing, quoting “The Highwayman” while Patrick held her waist. His soft chuckles tickled her ears.

  “Pat?” A woman’s voice said his name
with a familiarity that made Grace’s spine tingle.

  They turned, but he kept his arm around her. “Hello, Lou.”

  She wasn’t short, but next to a man whose elbow crooked around her neck and kept her tucked beneath his chin, she appeared so. Dark hair, wide eyes. Grace saw no threat, except in the way Patrick’s jaw tightened.

  “This is David.” Lou gestured between the men. “Patrick Watson.”

  David loosed his arm and held out his hand. Pat grasped it. The other man smiled, as if he knew a secret. “Nice to meet you.”

  The current between them pulled, like a riptide. Pat broke free first. “Likewise.” He took Grace’s hand. “Grace, this is Louisa Coultrie.”

  Lou acknowledged her with a nod and lifted her fingers in farewell. “Have a good evening.”

  Patrick slid his arms around Grace again, propelling her around. “We are, indeed, having a good evening.”

  She wanted to ask him about Louisa, but she already knew the answer. And right then, she didn’t want to know more.

  ~~~

  By Christmas, Grace had met Patrick’s parents, Charlotte and Temple Watson, a handful of times, each colder than the last. Frostbite, explained Patrick, was his mother’s preferred expression of disapproval.

  She knew they didn’t want him working construction on Edisto, dreaming of environmentally sustainable building practices and his own company. Made sense they wouldn’t care for her—a nobody girl without a lineage of pride. Grace thought she had stumbled into a feud between parents and son, but she hoped to shift Charlotte’s opinion about her at least.

  Until Christmas when she realized why she couldn’t.

  Over a simple family dinner at the plantation—only Patrick’s mother could call standing rib roast simple—Charlotte said, “Is Louisa home for the holiday season yet?”

  Pat’s cheeks colored, but his voice remained smooth. “I don’t know, Mother.”

  “One would think,” Charlotte’s eyes grazed over Grace who sat to Pat’s left and longed for invisibility, “you would keep up with a woman you tried to marry.”

  Grace heard Lula May’s breathing—as if she was the only one in the room not holding her breath to see what would happen next.

  Patrick laid down his fork and placed his napkin on the table. His plate was full and his eyes furious. “That was not necessary, Mother.”

  “Oh?” Charlotte lifted her wine glass and nodded down the table to Pat’s father. “We assumed you told Grace about her. After all, the Coultries are old family friends.”

  When Pat stood, he towered over his parents, Charlotte cool and calm, Temple placidly eating, letting her run the show, as he always did. His face contorted into a man she almost didn’t recognize. “I hope then, Mother, I treat my friends with more respect than you do yours.” He put a hand on Grace’s shoulder. “Let’s go.”

  She took his hand, ice in the pit of her stomach that for once had nothing to do with Charlotte.

  They drove back to the beach in silence, the December night so mild he left the top down again. This time Grace wrapped her hair in a scarf and covered her legs with an afghan. She kept her face tilted up against the wind so she could see the stars.

  They were close enough to smell the pluff mud of low tide before Pat spoke.

  “I guess you want to know.”

  “Not if you don’t want me to.” She meant that. If he couldn’t tell her this time, that would be all the answer she needed.

  His hand found hers and clasped it. “Louisa Coultrie’s mother and mine were old friends. They had a falling out years ago—before we were born. But that didn’t stop me when I met her at a Pavilion dance. She was in college, had big dreams of graduate school and medical research, but mostly she wanted off this island. Her parents raised her here, and you know…” He pressed her fingers. “We don’t always see the beauty that’s right in front of us.”

  “So she left?”

  “We dated that summer. Wrote letters when she went back to school. And if you think my mother doesn’t like you, you should’ve seen her with Lou.” He chuckled a bit, and Grace’s heart quivered. She wanted that laugh to belong to her, to be a memory of moments only they spent together. “We fed each other’s rebellion until the day I asked her to marry me.”

  “She said no?” Grace wondered about his words—what if she was only another pawn in this game he played with his parents?

  “Lou wanted to leave. I wanted to stay. It really was that simple of an impasse.” He pulled into the dark drive of Patsy’s family home where Grace stayed as housekeeper, keeping the place ready for weekend getaways. Someday, she wanted a home of her own.

  Pat turned to her, moved his hands to her shoulders, and pulled her close. “But Grace, I’ve never been so glad she left as I was that day you smiled at me at Dockside.”

  Leaning into his kiss, she faded into him, her choice made.

  And one by one, the stars winked out of the sky.

  Chapter 18

  “David, I already told you, I understand.” Lou shifted the phone to her other ear, so the cord would stretch the extra few inches she needed to peer out the kitchen window. In the yard, tables and chairs stacked askew. She was nowhere near ready for this event.

  “We’re short two teachers and an administrator. Can’t leave the basketball tournament in the hands of a first-year coach.” David’s voice strained with frustration.

  “I know. You’re the best choice.” She’d perfected this speech when they were married. Except this time, she was trying to mean it, and recognize it wasn’t always his fault when he got called in to cover a duty. Though she didn’t have to like it. “Go do your job, and I’ll figure this out.”

  “It’s just setting up the tables and chairs, right? I can come over in the morning and finish it.”

  By now her mama would have had everything arranged just in case a guest dropped by for a cocktail the evening before. She might strain her back hauling that heavy table into its correct place, but morning wasn’t good enough. “I said I got it, David. Just feed the boys a decent supper, at least.”

  “I’m sorry, Lou.”

  She’d heard that before too.

  Hanging up the old phone, Lou shrugged into her fleece. She could do this. Strategy was all she needed. And muscles. Maybe she could call Tennessee and ask for help—

  A vehicle rumbled down the drive. Liam Whiting’s Land Rover, which he exited easily, boots crunching on the gravel. “Evening, Louisa. Thought I’d come by and see if you needed an extra hand.”

  Embrace opportunity. Yes, indeed. She put on her best hostess face. “You are always welcome—and just in time for set up.” She pulled on a pair of gloves that would protect her hands from cold and splinters. “My mama wouldn’t approve of me accepting help before offering you a drink, but daylight’s fading fast.”

  “I remember these.” He hefted one end of the plywood table and helped her reposition it parallel to the side porch. “Eaten many a good oyster right here.” Liam grinned at her.

  The knot of tension in her neck eased as she returned his smile. Tonight he wore faded dungarees and a flannel work shirt. His dark hair needed a cut and curled just over the collar. For no explicable reason, Lou thought of David and his clean-cut blond trim. Hopefully he wasn’t letting the boys eat too much junk at that ballgame.

  They unfolded chairs into a semicircle around the fire pit. “How many shucking knives do you think we’ll need?” Lou had counted a dozen in the kitchen drawer that morning.

  “Hopefully someone told my students it’s good etiquette to bring your own.” He’d invited his class, and she’d extended invitations to what felt like half the Presbyterian Church as well as her family—and Grace. All in all, there would be at least thirty people.

  “There’s plenty of gloves.” She’d found a trunkful cleaning out the barn so Liam could use it as the lab.

  “Stop fretting.” Liam laid a hand on her shoulder and she stilled, the easygoing contact ra
ising goose bumps on her arms. He squeezed her shoulder. “You don’t have to do this the way your mother did. I’d say, given your last six months, it’s a wonder you’re doing it at all.”

  “You want to stay for supper?” The question burst from her.

  Liam’s eyes sparkled like the lights overhead. “I thought you’d never ask.”

  Chapter 19

  Edisto Island, February 1977

  Lou had explained the science behind when oysters were best. But David preferred her father’s everyday knowledge.

  One didn’t eat oysters in months without an r.

  Mr. Coultrie had a lot of practical know-how David appreciated. His own father could catch trout by the stringerful and rebuild an engine, but his applicable skills ended there. Of course, based on his turbulent job history, Dad’s skills were no match for his temper.

  They’d lasted only one season in Boy Scouts. His father could build a fire just fine in a metal garbage can with plenty of lighter fluid, and David never learned another way.

  Until now.

  “You lay the sticks over one another like this.” Mr. Coultrie crossed the narrow branches in the fire pit. “The air’s got to circulate. Fire’s got to have oxygen to breathe.”

  David, squatting in the dirt beside him, grinned. “Like us.”

  T.C. Coultrie cut his eyes sideways. “You don’t want to be like a fire, son.”

  Despite the forty-degree weather, he started to sweat. Lou’s daddy evidently wasn’t much on metaphors. “No, sir, I—”

  Mr. Coultrie pulled a matchbook from his shirt pocket. “You know what happens when I light this?”

  David licked his lips. “Yes.” The narrowed eyes again. “Sir.”

  “What then?”

  “The fire starts.”

  “Nope.” Mr. Coultrie flicked his wrist and the flame sprung to life. “Looks hearty right now, but when I put this little heat right here on this kindling …” He poked the match down into the teepee of sticks. Smoke curled up. “It takes work to make that spark into a fire.”