Last Light over Carolina (10 page)

When had it started to change? In the twilight stage of painlessness, Carolina could consider this question without the usual upheaval of emotions that sparked either fury or heartbreak. She could probe and pick, rather like the dentist was doing with her tooth, to seek out the roots of decay.

She’d have to say that it began with the
Miss Carolina.

Bud had always wanted to build a fiberglass boat. It was a relatively new concept in McClellanville in the seventies. The guys had read about them in the trade magazines and seen a few in Florida, but no one had anything but a wood hull that fell victim to the worms. Bud’s was the first—and Carolina knew him well enough to realize that was part of its charm. He was a proud man. This boat would be
his,
not a hand-me-down.

For two years, he’d spent every spare moment and all of the off-seasons in the abandoned horse arena owned by his friend in Georgetown. The trawler was built hanging upside down inside the facility. She used to joke that she was jealous of that boat, but in hindsight she saw plainly that the building of the boat marked the beginning of his long hours away from her. Her husband spent more time stroking the frame of the hull than he did his wife.

She couldn’t deny she was proud of the boat. All the days, months, years of backbreaking work, stinging hands, sunburned skin, pinching pennies came to fruition when Bud arrived with their new trawler in McClellanville. Carolina had stood on the dock with friends and family, cheering at the first sight of the beautiful boat. Her voice silenced in her throat when she saw, boldly emblazoned in berry red on the hull of his dream, the name
Miss Carolina.

Bud had honored her in the seaman’s tradition. It was a validation of her hard work, her support, and his love. She’d blushed and told everyone he ought not to have done it. Inside her heart, however, she was beaming with pride.

Then Carolina became pregnant. Not that she didn’t want a baby. She and Bud were both overjoyed at the news. But it marked the end of her shrimping days. She’d tried to continue, but early in the pregnancy she’d slipped on deck, and it scared her. Carolina remembered the day she’d stood on the dock, one hand over her swelling belly and the other lifted in a wave as she watched the
Miss Carolina
carry Bud away down Jeremy Creek with Pee Dee as his crew.

Her heart had broken that day because Carolina knew she was watching her dream of living on the water sail away with him.

She was still Bud’s wife. She loved him, tended his house, and raised his child. But ever since the day she was left behind, some vibrant essence of the bond they’d forged on the water had begun slipping away.

Carolina felt a violent tugging and pulling in her mouth. It felt as though roots that went deep into her soul were being ripped out. She gripped the sides of the chair. There was a soft sucking noise and, with a final, prolonged pull, the tooth was out. Immediately, her tongue sought the soft, bloody space where the tooth used to be. Probing, delicately touching the bruised gum, tasting the salt of blood.

All that remained was an empty hole.

September 21, 2008, 11:00 a.m.

McClellanville

L
izzy closed the
door of T. W. Graham’s behind her and tugged the elastic from her ponytail. Her hair fell loose around her shoulders, easing the headache that was forming. She walked toward the docks, stretching her legs and breathing in the balmy September breeze. She smelled rain in the air, full of green and coolness and a hint of moisture.

McClellanville was a village straight out of a Mark Twain novel. She made her way along narrow sidewalks that were cracked and split, especially in spots where the great roots of
live oaks burst through like bunions through shoe leather. The sweeping, graceful limbs laden with moss stretched over the streets. Some of the wood houses were grand dames more than one hundred fifty years old, their front porches crowded with rockers and hanging plants. Like White Gables, many showed their age. Other homes were modest cottages supported by bricks or cinder blocks. Here on the coast, rust, rot, and wind were harsh on house and land alike. It was a constant battle of nip and tuck that the owners could not always afford.

This was a community of working families who could trace their ancestors back to the original owners of these historic houses. The families had survived wars and hurricanes, economic downturns and upturns, recessions and the Great Depression. The foundations of the homes were rooted deep in the ground, forever a part of the landscape. Neighbors knew each other’s names, were helpful in times of need, and celebrated together in times of joy.

Yet as she walked down the main street, Lizzy saw that the clothing store had closed its doors and two more houses had posted
FOR SALE
signs on their front lawns.

The wind gusted, tossing her hair. She reached up to smooth it from her face. Above, cumulus clouds were gathering, fat and gray. She strolled past the Village Museum and the Town Hall and through a gravel parking lot to where the land turned to marsh at Jeremy Creek. A professorial-looking man wearing a wrinkled brown corduroy jacket with leather elbow patches, khaki pants, and boat shoes was setting up his easel.
He seemed keen to position it for the correct angle of light. When she drew near, he turned his head, and she saw his blue eyes sparkle in welcome behind his heavy-framed glasses.

“Hello, Mr. Dunnan.”

“Lizzy! What a nice surprise.”

John Dunnan was a local artist and a good friend of Lizzy’s mother. He could often be spotted by the docks, painting the boats and the wildlife. Lizzy couldn’t figure him out. His paintings were in galleries and museums all over the world, but he preferred to live in the white clapboard house along the creek that had been in his family for generations. She knew if she had his money, she’d be traveling to those places where his pictures hung. But her mama had told her that Mr. Dunnan had lived the high life and had been to all those places and now was happy staying where he was. Growing up, Lizzy and her friends had called him the Guru because he’d spent years in India living in some ashram. And because when he smiled, as he did now, he made you feel that he really cared.

“What are you going to paint today?” she asked, trying to be neighborly.

“Oh, I don’t know. I never arrive with a notion of what I’m going to paint. I let the inspiration come to me.”

“What if the inspiration doesn’t come?”

“Then I wait.” He chuckled as he struggled with the tripod legs. “But what’s not to be inspired by?” he added, gesturing broadly toward the docks. “I’m inspired by gazing out to sea, or feeling the breeze of an oncoming storm, or watching the birds soar in the air and the boats lined up at the dock.
I’m inspired by people, too—all types of people. I find I get inspired all the time. I just have to open my eyes and really look.”

Lizzy wrapped her arms around herself and looked out over the marsh. She wondered how that kind of inspiration made you feel.

“You seem troubled today, Lizzy. Is anything wrong?”

She shrugged. “I lost my job.”

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Me, too. It’s no one’s fault. Graham’s is closing.”

He nodded slowly, and she had the feeling he already knew.

“What’s going to happen to us?” she asked. “I mean, shops are closing and houses are for sale. And look out there. See how many boats are docked and for sale? I used to see twenty, thirty boats off the harbor, and now there are only a few. And I’m not that old.”

“You sound worried.”

“Of course I am.”

“And afraid?”

“A little.” She felt a deep insecurity well up, almost overwhelming her. “Why does everything have to change? Why can’t things stay the same?”

He bent to finish tightening the legs of his easel. “Change is a natural part of life.”

“Well, I don’t ever remember so much changing so fast.”

He straightened his easel on the gravel, then slapped the dust from his hands. “Sometimes it does seem that a lot hits all at once.” He turned to face Lizzy, his expression fatherly. “There’s
always change. It breaks our routine, and that shakes us up a bit. We get nervous and afraid because we aren’t sure what’s coming next. But change is nothing to be afraid of. It’s all in how we face it. If we accept change, it opens us to new possibilities we would have missed if we’d clung to the status quo.”

“So change is a good thing?”

“It can be. It can also be hard to face. You have to be willing to sweep away the past and welcome whatever comes in the future. That takes courage. And faith. And love. When it comes to change, there’s only one word that matters.”

“What’s that?”

“Yes.”

“Yes?” she repeated, a little disappointed. She’d expected something more profound.

“Think about it. When you say yes, you are surrendering yourself to change. That’s a powerful commitment.”

He squinted and looked out at the sea, his thoughts momentarily captured, perhaps by some memory. When he turned back, he sighed and looked into her eyes. “So don’t say yes unless you mean it with your whole heart and soul.”

Her father thought Mr. Dunnan was some kind of out-there hippie. Her mother thought he was a brilliant eccentric. All Lizzy knew was that when he spoke, he made life seem so clear and simple.

She smiled weakly and tucked her hair behind her ear. “Thanks, Mr. Dunnan. I’ll see you.”

“Nice talking with you, Lizzy. Say hi to your mother.”

He went back to setting up his canvas and paints.

Lizzy walked a few steps, then turned and called over her shoulder, “Do you think a person can change?”

Mr. Dunnan looked up, smiled, and nodded. “Yes. People do—all the time. Oh, and Lizzy? Sometimes change is nothing more than a second chance.”

Lizzy waved, then turned and walked to the edge of the small park to sit on the dock. She tucked her arms around herself. Beyond was the Intracoastal, and beyond that the Atlantic for as far as she could see. The shrouded sun seemed to hover between the silvery clouds. Out in the vast steely blue, she saw two shrimp boats with their nets lowered. They bobbed in the ocean like pelicans. It was a sight she’d grown up with, one she’d taken for granted would always be there. Now she wasn’t sure.

She leaned back on her arms and looked out and wondered—as she so often did when she saw a shrimp boat offshore—if that was Josh’s boat out there and if he was having a good day. She thought back to the last day they’d spent together. Has it been over a month ago already?

August 8, 2008

McClellanville

“Well. Here we are.” Josh pushed the gear of his pickup into park. The muffler rumbled, then quieted. He exhaled and
wiped his palms on his jeans. As soon as the air-conditioning quit, the steamy heat of an August morning began warming the cab.

Lizzy glanced at him. She felt as nervous as he obviously did. He’d called the night before, his voice shaking with excitement.

“I have something to show you,” he’d said.

She was hesitant. She didn’t want to encourage him. But he’d cajoled and begged her to come, and she could tell that whatever it was, it meant a great deal to him. So she’d agreed. When he came by the house to pick her up, she was surprised to see him showered and shaved and wearing an ironed white shirt. He’d taken pains to tamp down his thick, dark hair. The damp locks were brushed flat against his head, and she knew it was only a matter of time before they sprang up again. His dark brown eyes were bright with anticipation, and he was acting as high-strung as he had on their wedding day eight years before.

Lizzy looked out the window, curious. They’d parked in front of old widow Baldwin’s house. She’d died a few months earlier.

The truck door squeaked open as Josh climbed out, then trotted around the front to open her car door. Instantly, she felt the crush of hot air. It was like walking into an oven. Josh offered his hand to help her out. She took hold of his fingertips, murmuring her thanks, impressed that he was making such an effort with his manners. They’d dated throughout high school and married right after. At some point in those years,
he’d stopped being the gentleman about such things as holding doors open and assisting her out of the truck.

Their marriage hadn’t lasted long. It wasn’t so much that they’d drifted apart as that Josh’s eyes had the bad habit of drifting to other women. He was too good-looking for his own good, and he couldn’t resist a sultry come-hither. They’d divorced after only three years. Josh had left McClellanville to try his luck shrimping in Beaufort. She hadn’t heard much from him in the following years. She knew little of his daily activities, who he dated, or whether he was making a good living. Nor did she inquire. Josh had broken her heart, and a woman didn’t heal from that kind of pain readily. But he was dependable with his child-support payments, and she was grateful for that.

Then, without warning, a year ago he’d shown up back in McClellanville with an old rehabbed shrimp boat he’d called the
Hope
. She couldn’t deny that he’d grown up a lot in those years he was away. He’d stopped his wild ways and drinking, worked hard, and went to church on Sundays. And he began calling on her, taking her and Will on outings. After every visit, Lizzy had to remind herself why she’d divorced him in the first place and to ignore the pattering of her heart whenever he came near.

Lizzy stepped onto the gravel path and instantly released his hand. The fabric of her short skirt clung to her thighs and she self-consciously shook it free. Looking up, she saw that Josh was standing with his hands on his hips gazing with a hungry air over the Baldwin property. To her mind, the cottage sat on the prettiest acre in town.

“What are we doing here?” she asked.

“You’ll see. Come on,” Josh replied, taking her hand.

His hand was warm and clasped hers tightly as he led her up the winding gravel path to the front door. Her mind was racing with questions as she took in the old dark-wood cottage. Though solidly built, it needed a lot of work. The front steps slanted dangerously, the paint around the windows was flaking, and a jungle of jasmine, clematis, and trumpet vines seemed intent on climbing the front-porch lattice to devour the roof. He dug into his pocket and pulled out a set of keys affixed to a paper tag.

“Josh, what’re you up to?”

He turned to face her, pale with nervous excitement. “Lizzy, I bought it. This house is mine.”

Her mouth slipped open in a silent
Oh
.

“I closed yesterday. It’s mine!” he repeated, pride shining in his eyes. “You’re the first person I told. Come in. I want to show you around.”

Lizzy licked her lips, too stunned to speak. She glanced back at the small cottage, seeing it with a whole new appreciation now.

Though dark on the outside, the cottage held more light than she’d imagined it could. Dust motes danced in the shafts of sunlight that poured in through the many windows. It was the house of an old woman without means, permeated with the stale scent of an infirmary. The once-cream-colored walls were dingy and checkered with the outlines of vanished paintings. Most of the furniture had been removed and parceled
out to relatives, but a small round table holding a vase of flowers and a wood rocker sat by built-in bookshelves made of the same wood as the floors. Mrs. Baldwin had lived in this house for more than fifty years, thirty of them as a widow on a fixed income. Despite the neglect, there was a homey, welcoming feeling to the house. It held promise, possibility.

“Oh, Josh, it’s wonderful.”

He exhaled in relief, and she realized he’d been holding his breath. He grinned broadly and began pacing the room, gesturing animatedly as he pointed out the maple floors, dentil molding, and working fireplace. He took her through each room, talking nonstop about his plans to gut the bathrooms, to update the kitchen, to add new plumbing. Lizzy craned her neck from left to right, keeping up with his heady pace. She couldn’t help but be caught in his whirlwind of enthusiasm. Josh knew carpentry and, like her father, had a good head for mechanics. She could believe in his dreams.

It was the garden, however, that set her heart yearning. Stepping out on the back porch, Lizzy counted seven majestic oaks on the property. Their branches hung low, laden with silvery Spanish moss. Mrs. Baldwin had been the head of the garden club for almost as long as she’d lived in the cottage, and it was clear this was where she’d spent her money. She’d died in June, and the ensuing summer of neglect had left the garden in a shambles.

Lizzy leaned against the porch railing. Her experienced eye could see where a sharp spade and a determined will could
restore the prized daylily bed and instill order among the host of perennials that circled the murky black pond, the crusted stone fountain, and the tilting, rotting pergola.

As intrigued as she was by the house and garden, Lizzy had spent more time during the tour glancing at Josh’s flushed face as he spoke. Hope made his eyes shine like the stars he was trying to reach. And he was reaching for her; she saw that in his eyes, too.

She thought of the bowerbird, an amazing Australian bird that built an elaborate nest of twigs and leaves to attract a female. The industrious suitor took great care to arrange hundreds of objects—shells, flowers, berries, feathers, stones, and bits of discarded glass in bright colors, especially blue—to entice the female’s eye. Lizzy knew Josh was presenting this house to her, room by room, dream by dream, as a validation of his ability to provide.