Beach House Memories (5 page)

Stratton came to stand behind her and his eyes held a spark of amusement. Lovie tilted her head, curious. He lifted his arms, and as he lowered them she felt his crisp linen sleeve against her cheek, smelled the sandalwood in his aftershave, then—in surprise—the coolness of pearls around her neck.

“Oh, Stratton . . .”

The cultured pearls were so large and lustrous—so extravagant—they took her breath away. Her hand shot up to touch them as her mouth opened in a soft gasp of surprise and a softening in her bones. She’d been wrong. Stratton
did
appreciate her efforts!

He finished clasping the necklace and stepped back to survey her appearance.

“Mikimotos,” he said, referring to the pearls. “The best of the best. They cost a small fortune, I can tell you.”

“They’re so large . . .” She turned, her joy bubbling up as she wrapped her arms around his neck to plant a big, exuberant kiss on her husband’s lips.

“One look at those babies and Bob Porter will know we’re a solid investment.”

Lovie’s smile wavered as understanding dawned. The pearls were more for show than a reflection of his appreciation for her. Ah, yes, that would be more typical of him.

“It’s an important night, Lovie. Very.” He held her gaze. “I need to make this deal. Be sure to talk to Porter’s wife, make her feel comfortable. Her name’s Ginny or Jeanne . . . I’m told she’s shy.”

“Of course,” she replied, slowly lowering her arms. She felt the pressure of her party’s success tighten her chest. “I’ve never let you down before, have I?”

He lowered to kiss her gently on the cheek. “No, you haven’t. I’m a lucky man to have you, Lovie.”

She smiled and cupped his cheek. “Thank you for the pearls. They really are lovely.”

He stepped back, his smile fading while nodding absentmindedly. His thoughts were already turned to the business he wanted to conduct that evening.

Lovie spritzed her signature Joy perfume on her neck and
wrists. The scent of jasmine and roses filled the room. “Do you think the party will run late?” she asked.

“It shouldn’t. Why? Are you tired?”

“A bit, actually. But that’s not why I asked. I’d like an early start for the beach tomorrow morning.”

“What, tomorrow?”

“Yes, Stratton,” she replied with a slight tone of frustration. “I reminded you every day this week, three times yesterday.”

“It slipped my mind.”

Lovie opened her mouth to ask how that was possible, but closed it again.

“Do we have to leave tomorrow?”

“We’ve already put it off until after Memorial Day for this party.”

“It couldn’t be helped. You know how important this deal is.” He frowned and put his hands on his hips in thought. When he looked at her again, his face was as hard with resolution as granite. “Lovie, postpone the beach for a week. The Porters will be staying in town for Spoleto. It’s a good opportunity to forge a stronger relationship with them. I was thinking we could meet up with them again later in the week for a performance and dinner. His wife doesn’t know anybody in town.”

“She’s meeting five other couples tonight!” She saw temper flare in his eyes and her stomach clenched. She didn’t want to set him off in a foul temper right before the dinner party. Stratton was quick to rise and slow to cool. He’d blame her for any tension that could mar the evening’s mood.

“Stratton, it’s just that I practically killed myself today getting us all packed. I’ve all the food prepared. The car is ready. It’d be colossal to postpone now.” Seeing frustration in his scowl, she added in a conciliatory tone, “The children are so looking forward to their vacation.”

“Hell, summer’s just beginning! They can wait a few more
days. You’re talking about vacation? This is important for my work. It puts the food on the table. And it’s not like
you
need a vacation.” He rolled his shoulders and said offhandedly, “You’re on vacation every day.”

Lovie felt her heart wither in her chest. With that one brief aside, he’d utterly diminished her. She fought the urge to rip the pearls from her neck and throw them back at him.

“Oh, yes,” she said icily. “That’s right. My life is just one jolly vacation.”

She turned away to the mirror and applied rose-colored lipstick. She was so hurt and angry her hand shook. Is that how he measured her? All the hours she spent creating and maintaining his home and family, didn’t they matter? True, she didn’t have a formal career, didn’t bring home a paycheck—no woman she knew did. Her mother had always told her that she shouldn’t work after she was married. It was demeaning to her husband, implying that he couldn’t provide. Yet did her domestic work, her countless hours of volunteering hold so little value in his eyes?

“I didn’t mean it that way,” Stratton said, his voice muffled as he put a cigarette in his mouth. He bent to light the tip, inhaled, then shook the flame out. Exhaling, he added, “You know I didn’t.”

Did she? Lovie glanced in the mirror to watch her husband smoking in a distracted manner.
Who was this man?
she wondered. He stood a few feet behind her, though the distance felt much farther. She didn’t know him anymore. Worse, she didn’t feel anything for him. Though they shared the children, the house, the business, and a whirlwind of business and social engagements, they didn’t share any interests or hobbies. She couldn’t remember the last time they’d had a good discussion or even shared a joke. Their dialogue was similar to that of a boss and his secretary—confirming dates on a calendar, gathering information, approving purchases.

Still, he was her husband and she felt sure time together at the beach house where they’d had such happy times would bring them closer together again. The months of summer were a relaxed hiatus for the family, a slower time that allowed for bonding. He’d drive to work from the island and return at night for a swim in the ocean with the children. The summer holiday at the beach house was as etched in tradition as Christmas on Tradd Street.

“You can always bring the Porters to the beach,” she suggested. “It would be a nice change for them. I’ll make barbeque. Won’t that be nice?”

“Maybe . . .”

Lovie kept her silence.

“All right, you go ahead,” he said summarily. “I’ll manage here for a few days and come out later.”

He looked her way. “You know, it’s not a bad idea to bring the Porters, too. You’ll be leaving Vivian, of course?”

“Well . . . she was going to join us at the beach house next week as usual. Then she takes her vacation.”

“She’ll have to change plans. I’ll need someone to look after me while you’re gone. Not only for this week, but later in the summer, too. I’ve got that trip to Europe in July, remember.”

She did remember the trip. Six weeks across the Continent—and he did not invite her to accompany him for any leg of the trip.

“Oh. And I may go to Japan.”

“
Japan?
”

He nodded in acknowledgment, his eyes gleaming. “That market is exploding now. There are a lot of opportunities. I want to get in there, and Bob Porter is my key to opening that door.”

“Stratton, that’s wonderful! Imagine, Japan! I’d love to go there with you someday. Could I? It’s so exotic.”

“Why, sure, honey. Not this trip, of course. This one is exploratory. Later, though. For sure.”

Lovie felt a twinge of disappointment but shook it off. No wonder he was so preoccupied and terse tonight. Business always put him on edge. Perhaps she should postpone her trip to the beach house another week, she thought. If she could just help him a little more, he’d realize how valuable she was.

Her guests were due to arrive soon and she couldn’t dwell. She’d discuss it with him later. “I’m going to say good night to the children now.” She paused, a hand on the doorknob. “Don’t you want to come along?”

“I’ll come by later. I’ve got a few things to tend to before dinner. Oh, that reminds me. I’ll be going to the club with the boys after dinner.”

Lovie felt her face heat with the sudden flare of suspicion that he would not be going to the club with
the boys
but with one particular woman. Gwendolyn Archer was an overprimped, underappreciated wife of a well-known Charleston lawyer. Charleston was a small town, and gossip flew fast.

“Careful there,” she said, eyes on the floor. Then, lifting them, she determinedly sought his gaze. “Don’t drink too much.”

Stratton’s eyes blazed and he growled out, “What are you implying? I’ll drink as much as I damn well please.”

Lovie tightened her lips, feeling slapped. She turned and, without another word, left the room. She held her shoulders tight as she walked down the hall to her children’s rooms. She heard the high note of excitement in their laughter, anticipating their trip in the morning. Their innocent joy brought a smile to her face. Tonight, she would do her duty and play hostess at her husband’s business dinner. She would be gracious to Jeanne Porter—for that was her name—tidy the house afterward, and dismiss the hired staff. Tomorrow morning she would rise at dawn, tuck her children into the car, bid farewell to her husband.

Then come hell or high water, she would escape to the beach house.

The red-and-white Buick station wagon made its unhurried way under cloudless skies out of the city of Charleston toward the sea. It drove low to the ground, loaded down with overpacked suitcases, an odd assortment of dishes, books, and paint supplies, brown paper bags filled with groceries, coolers, and chatting away in the backseat, her two children.

Lovie glanced from time to time in the rearview mirror. Palmer was thirteen but apparently not too old to refrain from mercilessly teasing ten-year-old Cara, who was crouched in the corner, back to her brother, obstinately trying to read. Palmer was complaining how she always had her nose stuck in a book. Lovie sighed and held her tongue, choosing her battles. In the city, her children were always testy with each other, quarreling over insignificant things.

Yet they were different at the beach house. There, they lived their lives not by the dictates of a clock but by the whims of the sultry summer sun. They rose when the bright sun’s glare shone like a bugle’s call, and once awake, the children were free to explore wherever their hearts led them, needing only to show up at Mama’s table for dinner. They fell asleep when the sun lowered, exhausted after a day of swimming, surfing, bicycling, fishing, or boating.

Lovie was a different mother at the beach house, too. She was more relaxed, more at peace without the constant stress of her busy schedule. She smiled more, found she could be more patient, and as the children didn’t argue as much, she rarely had to scold. Nor did she tell them to keep their feet off the furniture or to mind that they put a coaster under their glasses. At the beach house, there were no fussy antiques. Only the “not so good” antiques and dishes were at the beach, suitable for damp swimsuits, the ever-present sand, and impromptu visitors. The fridge always
held a pitcher of sweet tea and the cookie jar was filled with sugar cookies.

Lovie crossed over the narrow Grace Bridge from Charleston to Mount Pleasant and felt the tension ease from her chest with each mile past the Cooper River. Coleman Boulevard was a quiet road that led to the long, narrow Ben Sawyer Boulevard, which traversed a great, yawning expanse of green marsh. There was something magical about crossing this vast wetland that separated the mainland from Sullivan’s Island. She often felt like she was leaving all her problems behind where the earth was rooted and solid. Ahead was the ephemeral sun, sand, and water—so much water! The glistening current of the Intracoastal Waterway raced behind them and just beyond lay the mighty Atlantic Ocean.

She turned off the car’s air-conditioning and they all rolled down the windows to breathe deep the salty air. The breeze was warm on her face and immediately she felt the familiar tug of the islands. The tide was low, exposing mudflats spiked with sharp oyster shells, and the cordgrass where white egrets hunted. She sniffed, smiling when she caught the unmistakable, pungent scent of pluff mud. Anyone who didn’t like that odor didn’t belong here, she thought. Pluff mud and salt air smelled like home to Lovie.

Lovie crossed the Ben Sawyer Bridge to Sullivan’s Island and continued past several quaint cottages with hanging baskets of flowers on the porches. In the yards, laundry flapped in the breeze, and in one, a large black dog slept in the sunlight. Her fingers danced on the wheel in anticipation when she reached the third and final bridge she’d cross this morning. The narrow Isle of Palms Bridge stretched over Breach Inlet, where many British soldiers had drowned in the treacherous water during the Revolutionary War. They were trying to attack Fort Moultrie on
Sullivan’s Island, crossing the inlet by foot when the unsuspecting force fell victim to the powerful currents.

In no time the station wagon was over the bridge and she was back on the Isle of Palms! Looking in the rearview mirror, she saw her smile reflected on Cara’s and Palmer’s faces. They were silent now, their eyes eagerly seeking out familiar touchstones. To their left was Hamlin Creek, lined with docks with boats at moor. The current was racing, and she felt her blood match the pace as she turned the car windward down the gently sloping road.

In a breath, she saw Primrose Cottage. She guided the car off the pavement to where the gravel was so sparse the wheels dug into sand as she parked. She turned off the engine, the car rumbled, and she sighed in the resulting silence.

“We’re here.”

In an explosion of cheers and yelps, the car doors flung open as Palmer and Cara leaped out and ran like wild Indians across the dunes to the beach beyond. Lovie laughed and placed a hand to her heart as memories played in her mind. That was just what she and her older brother, Mickey, used to do. Now, years later, her children loved it here as much as she did. She pulled herself from the car and set her hands on her hips, lifting her face toward her house.

Primrose Cottage was perched high on a dune overlooking the sparkling blue water of the Atlantic. It was the same pale yellow color as the primroses that grew wild on the dunes. With its blue shutters and doors, it looked like another of the wildflowers that surrounded it—purple petunias, sassy Indian blankets, and the lemon yellow primroses for which the cottage had been named. She lifted her hand over her eyes like a visor and searched for signs of wear and tear. The prevailing salt winds and the long winters were harsh on a house. A bit more paint was
peeling, sand was thick on the stairs and porches, and there was yard work to be done, but all in all, the little house had survived another winter.