Beach House Memories (19 page)

She looked into those impossibly blue eyes and saw acceptance, and something more she couldn’t name—validation? “Since we’re partners, please call me Olivia. Or rather, Lovie. That’s what everyone calls me.”

“Everyone calls you Lovie when you have such a beautiful name? If you don’t mind, I’ll call you Olivia. If you’ll call me Russell.”

“Not Russ?”

He laughed and shook his head. “Only Bing calls me Russ, to rile me.”

“Okay, Russell.” She smiled, almost shyly.

“Okay, then, Olivia.”

Lovie sat in the Jeep and looked straight ahead, sipping cool water from her thermos. She and Russell didn’t speak on the ride home, but there was none of the awkward tension one often felt in silence. Rather, it was comfortable riding beside one another. Something had changed between them this morning. Their earlier friction had altered to something deeper, certainly friendlier. Definitely positive. She didn’t dare glance at him for fear he might be looking at her with the same wonder she felt sure was on her face.

She glanced at Russell as they pulled into her drive. He’d taken off his brown baseball cap, and his short blond hair had curled slightly in the humidity. He turned and smiled when he
put the car into park. “Good-bye,” she said, climbing from the Jeep as gracefully as she could carrying a bucket full of sticks and a backpack. She clumsily slammed the heavy, creaky door and rounded the Jeep’s enormous hood with the bucket banging against her leg.

“So, I’ll see you later this afternoon?” he called out from his window.

She turned to face him. “Uh, yes, of course. Around two okay?”

“Perfect.” He smiled again, and she wondered if he had any clue of its power. “See you then. Olivia.”

She waved, unable at that moment to call him Russell.

She staggered up the stairs to the porch and unloaded her gear in a pile to be dealt with later. She was sweaty, plastered with sand, and smelled of rotten eggs, but inside she was glowing.

“I’m home!” she called out, closing the door and walking straight to her bathroom. She stripped off her damp clothes, casting sand like a sea turtle, and stepped directly into the luxuriously cool shower. She sighed as the water cascaded down on her. It felt like half of the beach washed from her skin and hair.

Soaping up, her mind circled around the conversations of the morning. There had been so many powerful moments. Especially at the end . . . Lovie could tell that it was hard for Dr. Bennett—Russell—to give in on the issue of the raccoons. She smiled. Once again, she was being that pushy, pesky turtle lady. But he’d borne it well, with kindness, dignity, even respect. He didn’t yell at her or say that she didn’t know what she was talking about or tell her not to get involved in things she didn’t understand, as Stratton would. She thought that was what mattered most to her. Russell had listened to her. He considered her his equal. It was his respect for her that swung the argument in the end. She squeezed the water from her hair and paused. It had been a very long time since she’d experienced that.

When she returned to the living room, she felt cooler, more herself. It was after ten o’clock and she hadn’t had breakfast. She went first to the kitchen to pour herself a cup of stale coffee, craning her head for sign of the children. She found them out on the porch with Emmi Baker, eating enormous wedges of watermelon. Juice dripped down their chins as they took turns spitting seeds over the railing in an age-old game. She paused at the window to drink in the sight of them, tanned, relaxed, talking—and not fighting. This mood, she thought, was what summer was all about. She cocked her ear to overhear their conversation.

Palmer spit a seed and landed a good one. He chuckled smugly and leaned against the porch railing. “Beat that,” he said, wiping the juice from his chin with his arm.

Lovie knew Cara wouldn’t back down from a challenge. She watched as Cara slurped up a big bite of melon, singled out one seed, and fired. It fell short. Her face flamed as Palmer guffawed. While the girls spit round after round to beat him, Palmer ate his fruit with an eye open for any cheating. He knew better than to turn his back on Cara during a competition.

“Hey, what do you girls think about a game of hide-and-seek, over at Fort Moultrie?” Palmer asked.

“Not today,” Cara said. “It’s too hot.”

“Maybe it’ll cool down later. It’s breezy up there on top of the fort.”

“Maybe,” Cara replied, then spit again. “How about the mud-hole?”

Palmer snorted. “Not with you.”

“Why not?”

“’Cause you’re a girl. Duh.”

“Who says a girl can’t go to the mudhole?”

“Nobody.” He scowled. “But it’s weird. You’ve gotta stop tagging along everywhere I go.”

“I’m not,” Cara shot back. “I like to go to the same places you do. That’s all. Right, Em?”

Emmi nodded.

Lovie moved closer, listening to every word. Stratton had told her that Palmer had complained that Cara was hanging around the boys too much, and now she wondered if it was true.

Cara asked, “You gonna try hiking to the Point this summer?”

“I guess,” Palmer replied. “I do that every summer.”

“Me, too,” Cara said.

“But you never make it . . . every summer.”

Cara stood straighter, indignant. “I’m going to make it this year. You just watch me.”

“You say that every year, too.”

“I almost made it last year.”

“Oh, yeah? Well, close is no cigar. You got to make it all the way to the Point and sign the book. Or it don’t count.” Palmer lowered his voice and attempted a scary drawl, “Nicodemus is waiting for yoooooou.”

Cara angrily spit out a seed. It was a sad attempt that landed on the railing.

Lovie felt for her little girl who wanted to compete with the boys. She was faster, smarter, even taller than most of them. How could she help her daughter see that she could be all those things and more—as a girl. And yet, Stratton and her mother urged Lovie to mold her into the kind of young lady who wouldn’t want to make it to the Point or swim with the boys in the mud-hole.

“You’ll see. This summer, I’ll do it,” Cara said, squeezing her melon so tight her fingers dug into the fruit. “Won’t we, Em?”

Emmi bit into her melon and nodded unenthusiastically.

Palmer gave a smug laugh. “You’re a girl. You won’t make it.”

A spark of pique rose in Lovie, and she opened the porch door. The children’s faces showed surprise that she was home.

“I’m glad you cut yourself some watermelon,” she said to them in a cheery voice. “How is it?”

“It’s a good ’un,” Palmer muttered as he took another bite.

Lovie went to the table to cut herself a piece of the melon. “You know, Palmer, girls make it to the Point, too.” She picked up her wedge and walked over to join the children at the porch railing. She could tell by their shifting glances that they were uncomfortable that she’d overheard them.

“Oh, yeah?” Cara asked, eyes bright. “Who?”

“Yeah, who?” Palmer asked it as a challenge.

Lovie heard a hint of Stratton’s smug superiority in Palmer’s voice and she didn’t like it. “
Me
,” she replied.

She thought it was time her little boy was taken down a peg or two. She looked out over the sandy grass for the seeds that lay farthest away. Taking a bite of the watermelon, she saved a seed in her mouth. Then leaning over the railing, she gathered her air and spit out the seed. It sailed far beyond Palmer’s best shot.

Cara and Emmi cheered and clapped.

Lovie laughed and looked at her scowling son. “Not only did I sign the book, but your uncle Mickey and I were some of the first ones. We were part of the gang that started the challenge. Go check the book if you don’t believe me.” She wiggled her brows. “If you dare go back.”

She glanced at Cara and Emmi. Their eyes were wide with astonishment and awe.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me,” Lovie said, dabbing her mouth with a paper napkin. “I’ll make lunch.”

“You actually moved an entire nest? You
touched
eggs?”

Flo’s eyes were agog as she sat forward, chin in her palm,
across the teak table from Lovie. There was an unspoken agreement that every evening the three women—Lovie, Flo, and Miranda—gathered during the season on Lovie’s porch to toast the sunset with a glass of wine. The sky was darkening, and the children were inside. Peace was restored at Primrose Cottage.

Lovie launched into a colorful description of the morning’s experiences, embellishing details, knowing she had an appreciative audience. When she was done, Flo sat back in her wicker chair, swirled her wine, and scrunched up her face in a frown.

“Now I’m mad.”

“Why?” Lovie asked, feigning innocence.

“I want to switch jobs with you. While I’m out there hoofing it in the heat, you’re up in the sky getting a personal tour of the island with Mr. Blue Eyes. Then he gives you private tutoring on how to move a nest. Which, by the way, I’m not sure we should do. Really, Lovie, where does he get his authority?”

“From the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service,” she replied dryly.

“Oh, well.” Flo swallowed her wine. “It’s still not fair.”

Miranda swirled her wine in her glass. “You sound just like you did when you were ten.”

Flo jokingly stuck out her tongue at her mother. “I feel like I’m ten. Lovie gets to do all the fun stuff.”

Lovie giggled at Flo’s excellent imitation of their fights as children. “I know it’s not fair. But hey, it’s my job.” She lifted her chin in mock superiority. “And the boss likes me. Or my work, anyway.”

Flo wagged a finger at her. “You know, kiddo, if word gets out to the other ladies on the team who get hot and flustered at the mere thought of spending an hour alone with the dashing Dr. Bennett that you’re going out with him solo every morning, there’ll be mutiny.”

Lovie sipped her wine and leaned far back in her chair. “Don’t worry, Flo. He’ll teach you, too. I’ll make sure of it.”

“You will, huh? You sound like you’re walking in high cotton all of a sudden.”

Lovie laughed into her wineglass. “Maybe I am. And maybe I’m just happy.”

Flo smiled but looked at her suspiciously. “Are we still talking turtles here?”

Lovie only shook her head to throw off the comment, but when she looked back at them over her wineglass, her eyes glimmered.

Sea Turtle Journal

June 16, 1974

What a day of firsts! First plane ride. First moving of eggs. There are several nests on the north end of the island. And seeing the vista of so many miles of pristine white beaches fills me with hope. My idea of what I can do to help turtles has expanded, like seeing the coast from the sky instead of simply on foot.

The bummer was the old problem of raccoons. We returned with wire mesh and secured it over the nest to prevent further invasion. Archie Carr predicted that the biggest threats to the loggerhead population were raccoons and real estate development. Since I’m now faced with both, I have to ramp up our defense. I may not make a big difference, I may not make headlines, but I
will
take a stand on my island. Someday we’re all going to have to make a decision—do we want to save the sea turtles?

Nine

S
o it began. By the following week, the Sea Turtle Project was officially under way. Lovie and Russell had met at Russell’s house several times over the first few days, poring over her notes and a large map of the island he’d put up on his wall. They walked the beaches to check out the conditions of the dunes and the accessibility of the beach by foot, especially on the northern end where the forest grew thick. For three days she’d returned from hours on the beach sweaty, with sand stuck to her like a second skin, and scratches from briars on her arms and legs. Russell looked as bad, but he seemed indefatigable.

For her part, Lovie’s phone tree had yielded a rich crop of volunteers. The project was the talk of the island, as was the dashing Dr. Bennett. Twenty-one additional women and five men—husbands roped in by their wives—signed up, to bring the total number of volunteers to thirty-eight. Forty if Russell Bennett and Lovie were included. To Lovie, that number was a boon, more than she’d ever thought possible.

At a hastily assembled meeting at the Exchange Club, Russell and Lovie presented the details of the project to the volunteers and assigned specific days and locations they were to walk early
in the morning to search for turtle tracks. It was a simple plan. Lovie and Russell were the core team of the project. When the volunteers found tracks, they were to call Russell, who in turn called Lovie. Then the two of them would investigate the nests. At the end of the meeting, Russell handed out brown cotton T-shirts emblazoned on the left side with I
SLE OF
P
ALMS
S
EA
T
URTLE
P
ROJECT
encircling a green turtle. All the volunteers were delighted, and Lovie thought it was a great unifying tool. For her, Russell also ordered a matching brown baseball cap with the same emblem, to make up for the hat that had been destroyed by its dunk in the sea. Lovie was ridiculously pleased to wear it.