Creola's Moonbeam (15 page)

“Just some runner; he offered to rescue you! Guess he didn’t realize you turtles must claim the sea.”

“Some humans have no sense.”

“Guess not.”

“This turtle is all worn out. Come on. Let’s go have our juice.”

Laughing, I linked my arm in hers.

Beatrice’s beach house
was everything and more than I expected. Like its owner, the house was ageless. Surrounded by porches, the inside of the structure was awash with light. Every wall was painted white and floor to ceiling was covered with paintings and tapestries. The blond hardwood floors were enhanced with handwoven rugs, orientals, and painted oilcloth.

Pottery and sculptures adorned every bookshelf and tabletop with some of the larger pieces arranged dramatically in groupings on the floor. Books were stacked everywhere and frequently topped with curious pieces of art. Several gorgeous silk fabrics hung from the ceilings giving the rooms a dreamlike feel. Each piece of Beatrice’s furniture seemed to be at home. All were interesting, some were antique, some art deco, while others simply defined comfort and invited a guest to sink into soft, welcoming cushions.

I felt as if I were standing in a magical space. “Beatrice, your cottage is truly wonderful. I’m drawn first to one amazing object and on to the next. I’ve never seen anything to compare.”

“My dear, thank you, but the truth is that I have far too much here. One of these days, I’m sure to disappear into all my clutter.” She chuckled as she handed me a tall glass of freshly-squeezed orange juice.

I could neither credit my thirst to the walk and Beatrice’s uproarious turtle imitation nor to the elation of seeing my new friend’s home, but, for whatever reason, the juice was the most satisfying beverage I’d tasted in months.

Beatrice threw open the porch door. She spread out her arms and invited in the warm Gulf breeze. “Good morning, world!”

We sat gazing through the porch’s screen and silently watched as peaceful waves softened the sand. I thought about the little brunette boy’s sandcastle and wondered if it were holding its own against the tide. Little matter, it’s the building of the castle that matters.

What was it about salt air that made me breathe so deeply? Why was I suddenly starting to feel emancipated?

“Beatrice, tell me please, what do you most appreciate about your home?”

For the first time, the older woman began to invite me into a tiny part of her world.

“You are sitting squarely in the middle of much I revere. My greatest loves surround me in this cottage. I am thrice-blessed. First, I have all that is within these walls. Secondly, I have incredible beauty readily observed from the ease of my chair. Thirdly, I have the immeasurable pleasure of sharing these gifts with the people who come, visitors like you. ”

I quietly nodded my head, thanking her.

“Aren’t we comfortable in these soft, cushy delights, dear girl? Every woman needs to bask in an overstuffed chair. Don’t you agree?”

“Definitely. I’ve died and gone to heaven.”

“One doesn’t need to die to experience paradise.”

“Agreed.” I drank in Beatrice’s words with the same pleasure as I’d consumed the orange juice.

Beatrice took note. “So to answer your question, I have the sea and the sand; and as you can see, I also have my art, music, literature, and the cottage itself. These are my passions because they come together to remind me of my friends, my Dear Ones. What you see in my home needs to be shared with others, with
you
at this moment, my Honey of a friend. As of this day, you are invited here any time you wish. Borrow my books, my music, and my art should you be able to carry it off. It’s to be enjoyed.”

“You’re too kind.”

“No, I’m not, I require that my friends dust anything they borrow. You, too, would be required to follow my rule.”

I laughed.

“You think I’m kidding, do you? I’m forever trying to make a dent in all this disarray!”

I laughed again.

Beatrice suddenly jumped up. What am I thinking? Music, we must have music! What do you like?”

I perused a wall of CD’s and tapes along with too many records to count, including 45’s and 78’s. Overwhelmed by the choices, I urged my hostess to make the selection. Pleased, Beatrice placed a Mozart CD in the player.

“One thing I now want to hear, Madame Newberry, is you talking about
you
. Tit for tat, I’ve answered your query.” She winked at me and ordered, “Now you must answer mine.”

I shifted in my seat.

“But first ... I nearly forgot!” With that, Beatrice abruptly hurried into the kitchen. I assumed she was going to get more juice. When the lady returned, however; she had a very familiar item in hand. Much to my surprise, Beatrice was holding one of my books.

“You are such a humble little thing, Mrs. Newberry. Most of my author friends go on and on talking about their work. Getting you to mention yours was like pulling hen’s teeth!”

“So how did you know who I am?”

“I knew about you before you even moved in. You see, ours is a small and closely knit community. A friend of mine was browsing in the village bookstore one day when the excited owner announced that a rather well-known Georgia writer had just stopped by. The owner, Sonny Gilmore, was all aflutter. When you left, he announced to everyone that the author was asking about a place to rent.”

First as a child, then with Beau and our children, I’d always vacationed at the opposite end of the beach. Only my last-minute decision to come necessitated my finding this particular place. Our favorite rentals had long since been reserved. In venturing farther south, I not only found the bookseller which led me to Miss Eugenia’s condo, but also and most fortuitously, I met Beatrice.

“I’ve rented beach condos in the vicinity before, but —”

“Sonny’s the one who put you in touch with Miss Eugenia, the pleasant woman who runs the ice cream shop two doors down from him. I believe it’s Eugenia’s condo you are renting?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Anything Sonny Gilmore knows, everyone knows. Telling him something is like alerting Paul Revere.”

“So, Mr. Gilmore said I was
well-known
, did he? I must drop by and thank him. I could use the publicity. Are you sure those were his words? ‘Well-known?’”

“Don’t be getting too puffed up, dear. It doesn’t take much to enliven the inhabitants of our little hamlet.”

I grabbed my chest and making a piercing sound as if I’d been stabbed. “So it doesn’t take much, does it? Why don’t you plunge a knife straight through me?”

“Oh my dear, this time, it is I who must apologize. I certainly didn’t intend to deflate you. Truthfully, the first time we talked, I made a mental note that you were one young woman who could use some creative encouragement.”

“Obvious, was it?”

“Do you remember the day I turned the cartwheel? Well, that was this old girl’s blatant attempt to meet the famous, yes, that’s
the famous
Georgia author.”

“I’ll be darned.”

“Now, Mrs. Newberry, will you
please
sign your book for me?”

“Of course, I’d be honored.”

She presented the book to me along with a gold pen. I wrote:

“To Beatrice, may this be the beginning of a meaningful and joy-filled friendship, one which started with a cartwheel! I hope you will enjoy this little yarn half as much as I am enjoying my visit with you on this glorious June morning.

Fondly, Honey Newberry”

“Lovely,” Beatrice said.

I looked into the wise woman’s eyes. “I must tell you the truth, Beatrice. I’ve not been writing lately.” I confessed to her as fervently as if I were confiding in a priest.

She smiled. “That’s something I hoped you would discuss with me. It can be most freeing to bare one’s soul to a stranger.”

I eyed her in disbelief. “You’re hardly a stranger to me, Beatrice. Tell me, what gave you the idea I was struggling?”

“Ah hah, the fine art of deduction. When I went to the bookstore and saw a display of your novels, I noticed that it had been more than three years since your last work was released. Your reluctance to tell me your real name when first we conversed convinced me that something was amiss. I’d like to suggest that your lack of output may benefit from a strong shot of Beatrice
joie de vivre
!”

It was as if the woman were reading my mind.

Creola Moon, you had a roll in this, didn’t you
?

“You’re off in dreamland, Honey Newberry. Tell me, my author friend, what seems to be your problem?”

“Nothing specific. It’s as if I’m out of gas.”

“Ah hah! You’ve done the right thing by coming to the shore. I know, because I’m blessed with the friendship of
many
creative people. It’s as simple as this. Your vessel is empty, yes. However, time by the sea — and away from your typewriter — will surely serve to refill that vessel.”

“Sounds as if you’ve been there, too, eh, Beatrice?”

“Dear girl, I’ve been
everywhere
at one time or another. It comes from living a very long life. Gracious, did I say ‘typewriter?’ Now
that’s
proof positive I’m as old as the sand!”

“Typewriter, hmmm. That’s an idea. Beatrice, do you think I should trade in my computer for an old-fashioned typewriter? One author-friend of mine absolutely refuses to abandon his trusty Underwood. The man insists that computers are nothing but a curse, and feels that all publishers should ignore anything written on one. He also says that no decent writer with any pride in his work would be caught using such an
easy
method!”

“Poppycock. Your friend is simply too set in his ways. Methinks it could be that the proud fellow is fearful that he’s not technically adept enough to learn how to use the computer.”

“Could be.”

Taking my last swallow of juice, I said, “I appreciate your encouragement, but I don’t want to spend all our time discussing me. Let’s just say that, for the present, I’m a professional beachcomber!”

“Whatever you decide, dear.”

Something about her glance, not unlike Creola’s familiar knowing look, told me she and I weren’t finished with the topic.

“Now, Beatrice, would you mind if I took a quick tour around your home?”

“Of course not, but may I suppose we are merely going to take a short break from the subject at hand, err, the subject of beachcombing?”

“We’ll have to wait and see.”

“I can be a formidable force, Madame.”

“And I can be a hard nut to crack!”

“Let’s call it a draw for now, Mrs. Newberry. Please feel free to acquaint yourself with everything and at your own rate of speed.”

“I’d be happier were you to grant me the pleasure of a
guided
tour.”
       

“Gladly, I’ve rested long enough.”

“Are you sure you’re all right, Beatrice?”

“I’m always all right, dear girl. Besides, walking amongst my treasures invigorates me.”

Beatrice and I strolled about the living room. My friend handed me a beautifully hewn wooden mask. “A young artisan in Africa presented this treasure to me, oh, some fifty years ago. Isn’t it stunning?”