Hatteras Girl (Heart of Carolina Book #3) (13 page)

Selena would say that is corny. She doesn’t care for those romantic lines. “Frivolous,” she says in her critical tone as she paces the floor in her black Steve Madden shoes. “The world does not need another gushy love story.”

Rumor has it that Selena was engaged decades ago to a man who left her at the altar. Since then, mentions of romance have been only a sour reminder of what did not happen. Bert says she avoids all relationships and lives to protect her broken heart.

The music of the waves is like a symphony for us as we continue walking hand in hand along the moist sand. Translucent crabs, known as ghost crabs in these parts, scuttle around us, popping in and out of tiny holes. We pass other people, also strolling, but I have a feeling no one could be as happy as I feel right now.

Davis pulls me toward him, his arms now circling my waist. Facing each other, our lips meet, and as they do, my heart twirls faster than one of those ballerinas in a music box.

Davis smiles, and I note how dark his eyes are. They are like a vacuum, drawing me in. I want another kiss and lean toward his mouth. As the waves splash against the shore, his hands caress my back, my hair, and then I feel his fingers against my cheek.

We stand close together as the summer day gives herself to dusk. The wind picks up, and we huddle closer. Suddenly, with great intensity, a wave splashes against us, drenching our legs.

“Oh no!” I cry as we break apart from each other, quickly walking backward toward the dunes.

Davis groans. His pants are clinging to his legs, plastered with water and sand.

I laugh, noting that my pants are wet, as well. My sandals are squishy and caked with sand. I let out another laugh but stop quickly. Davis isn’t smiling.

I try to find a way to make the night light and romantic once again. Davis walks over to a dry spot near a cluster of sea oats and with clear agitation removes his shoes and then his socks, stuffing the wet socks into the toes of his shoes. I sit by him, take off my sandals, and say, “Great. Now we’re both barefooted as we should be for a walk on the beach.”

Davis shakes his head.

I roll up my pant legs. “You should do this, too. We’ll be like Huckleberry Finn.”

“I need to get home and change clothes,” he grumbles.

Not wanting our date to end, I scan the sky and note that a cloud to our left looks like a Siamese cat.

Davis says he can’t see it.

Moving closer to him, I tell him to turn his head a little. “See the head, and the mouth?” My finger points upward, guiding his eyes.

“My grandparents had Siamese cats,” he says, observing the cloud formation.

“Really? What were their names?”

“Buoy and Gull.”

“Are you serious? The Baileys’ cats were named that!” In my mind, I see those cats, each a fluffy ball perched on the glider, barely allowing room for Minnie and me to squeeze around them.

He says, “I know.”

“How do you know?”

“I visited them. At the Bailey House.”

“Really? You were a guest at the Bailey House? When?” My words topple like waves. Learning that his past holds similarities to mine, I feel a greater connection to him. “Which room did you stay in?”

“All of them.”

Just as I am ready to ask how that was possible, he anticipates my question and says, “I’m their grandson.”

“No!” I wait for him to tell me he’s joking. When he doesn’t, I cry, “Really, you are? You’re one of their Ohio grandsons they talked about?”

Sheepishly, Davis says, “I guess I am.”

Mr. and Mrs. Bailey’s grandson is here beside me. I laugh as I recall seeing a photo of the two grandsons when they were in high school and Minnie and I were in seventh grade. I wish Davis would laugh with me, but his face is solemn.

“So that’s why it’s important to me that the future owner of the house has a love for Hatteras and this area and will keep up all the Bailey traditions.”

“Yeah, I get it now.” I lightly smack his arm. “You’re their grandson. You could have told me sooner. You’re quite the secret keeper, aren’t you?” I tease. “Hey, don’t you have a brother?”

“I told you I did, remember?”

“The Ohio grandchildren.” I use my British accent, remembering how Mrs. Bailey spoke of the two often. “And now, you’re here, we’re here.” My heart feels bubbly, like a glass of champagne. My mind goes back to his statement about what he wants from the next owner. “Pick me,” I want to say.

With authority to his tone, Davis states, “The owner has to do things the right way.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, there was this couple from Michigan who didn’t comply.”

Confusion strikes me. “What?”

Davis kisses my cheek again. “Oh, nothing.”

“Tell me.”

“It’s not important.” He nuzzles my neck.

“Tell me anyway.” I am a sponge, wanting to soak up all I can when it comes to the Bailey House Bed and Breakfast.

“It’s just that this couple wanted the house after my grandparents had to give it up and go to Ohio to retire.”

“Why didn’t they get it?”

Davis meets my eyes. “Not just anyone can run the Bailey House.”

I nod mechanically.

“They didn’t work out. I couldn’t pick them.”

“Pick me.” This time I let the words tumble out.

“I think I have.”

“You have?”

“You love it, I know. You’ve loved it for a long time.”

“Yes,” I breathe. “I hate to see it sit vacant. It needs to be opened back up again.”

“You sure about that?” Davis searches my face, draws me close to himself once more.

“I want to see it thrive and be a place where others can find the great hospitality your grandparents gave.” I’m a loyal Girl Scout, giving a pledge and giving it to Mr. and Mrs. Bailey’s own flesh and blood, right here on the shores of the Outer Banks. I feel like history is being made at this very moment.

“Perhaps you are the one.” Davis’s kisses this time are stronger, like my promise has meant something to him, like he’s made a decision.

18

I wake to Zane’s loud noises
of honking and roaring his trucks over the living room floor, but instead of getting annoyed, I feel happy. Contentment fills me as it did when I was a child pouring warm sand into a beach pail, filling it right up to the brim for a sandcastle Dad and I were building. Mom was designated to look for seashells to decorate the entranceway. Ron dug the moat with his plastic shovel, and when he dug too deep, we’d tell him to run off and pretend to be a knight.

I’m excited to start a new day. I can still feel Davis’s lips on mine; the sensation is more beautiful than Sheerly’s Gerber daises on a spring morning. And the fact that he’s Mr. and Mrs. Bailey’s grandson makes him even more significant—and more enticing.

Zane wants me take him to Uncle Ropey’s. Now. He talks to me through my closed bedroom door as I lie in bed. I know that he wants to go because Ropey bought him a new Tonka truck that is only for when he visits.

“Please,” Zane says through my door. “I gots to go there, Jackie. Please.”

I still remember how much my leg hurt after I chased him over Ropey’s lawn a few weeks ago. Any other day I would probably shout, “Why couldn’t you have wanted to be at Ropey’s when I needed you to stay there?” But this morning, I am like a clam soaking up the sun on the shore with my spirit soaring higher than any kite I’ve ever flown.

I hear Minnie calling to Zane from her bedroom. “It’s Sunday and we’re all headed to church.”

This means I need to get out of bed.

Breaking away from the warm seclusion of my bed, I check my phone, which I’ve left charging on my dresser. There’s a text message from Davis:
I miss you. Dinner tonight?

I reply that I’d like that.

Minnie smiles and then shakes her head as I walk out of my bedroom wearing one white sandal and one tan. Zane asks if he can wear mismatched shoes to church today, too.

They wait for me as I pull the other tan sandal out from under my bed.

On the way to church, Zane complains that his pants are too tight. Next he says the sun is too bright in his eyes.

“You know that song by the Commodores?” Minnie says to me. “ ‘Easy Like Sunday Morning?’ ” She sings a few lines.

“Yeah,” I say.

“I don’t think the writer had to get himself and kids ready for church.”

“And he probably wasn’t a pastor,” I add. “Sunday mornings are their busiest time of the week.”

Tradition has its embrace on our Hatteras clan. Lunch after church is always held at Sheerly and Tiny’s.

Sunday finds the women—Sheerly, Beatrice Lou, her daughter Aggie, Minnie, and me—in the kitchen, and Zane and the men out on the patio by the grill. Irvy has been brought from the nursing home to the house by Ropey.

Once she arrives, she’s made comfortable in her wheelchair and wheeled into the living room by the TV. The flat screen is always on ESPN. That’s been our tradition, too. But TV programs don’t seem to mean much to the old woman; her eyes are usually focused around her knees. Minnie says she thinks her mother might be remembering the past, when she wore a black swimsuit and turned the heads of young men with surfboards.

In the kitchen, painted a creamed-corn yellow with fluffy tomato red curtains, we break apart lettuce leaves and chop cucumbers and carrots for a salad.

Sheerly takes three bottles of ranch dressing from her fridge. It’s the only kind Tiny will eat. She turns to me and then says, “What do you think?”

“Of what?” I pause from slicing a cucumber.

“Didn’t I just say that there are tomatoes in the garden and that we could put some in the salad?”

“No.”

“Oh, well, I thought it. Goodness, when you get to be my age, you talk aloud and share your thoughts when you need to be quiet, and you think you’ve spoken when you’ve only thought.”

I know what she means. Often I catch her talking to herself. She doesn’t know that we can all hear her when she comments aloud, especially in the middle of a church service when she decides to agree or disagree with our pastor while he’s preaching.

I say, “Tomatoes from your garden would be wonderful. Do you want me to go pick them?”

“No, you’re busy here. I’ll get one of those men to do it.” She heads to the patio door. “Last time I checked, there were three Better Boys that were nearly ripe.” I see her outside, addressing her husband.

I’m sure that Tiny has been asked to bring the tomatoes inside for the salad, but he hasn’t moved from his spot beside the grill. I don’t want my aunt fussing at him, wondering why he seems to forget what she asks of him, yet never forgets the score when the Steelers win. When Sheerly places a quilt over Irvy’s legs, I slip out the door and pick the tomatoes myself.

Ten minutes later, we eat out on the brick patio covered by a brown and blue polka-dotted awning. Sheerly has spread a plastic red-checkered tablecloth on one picnic table and a white cloth on another smaller table. In the center of both tables are vases of roses and daisies. My aunt once told me she believes flowers bring good things to life. I’m pretty sure she borrowed that phrase from a General Electric commercial.

My relatives are sweetly delusional about their cooking. They think they are fantastic cooks, but all they can really make are macaroni salad, burgers, baked potatoes, and chicken soup. None of this is really cooking—not like a dish Emeril would produce on his show. Yet we rave over the food as if it is the best we’ve ever tasted.

The one dish that is unique to Sheerly is her tomato pie. She’s baked three of those for today’s lunch, and we eat them with the burgers, tossed salad, and macaroni salad. The pies are made from the tomatoes she grows and are filled with several kinds of cheeses.

“How was the song competition?” asks Aggie. She is a wiry woman of twenty-four with brown curly hair that often falls into her face.

“I came in second place.” Sheerly’s face is glowing. “Oh, let me show you my ribbon!” She leaves her seat, and after a moment is back with a stiff green bow that says “Second Place Kitty Hawk Song Competition.”

“Congratulations!” exclaims Aggie. “Which song did you sing?”

Beatrice Lou murmurs to Sheerly, “I told her you came in second place. She never listens to anything I say.”

“She’s a child,” Sheerly whispers back. “They try not to listen. It’s their job.” To Aggie, Sheerly says, “I sang ‘Love Is Your Ticket.’ ”

“I’ve never heard that one.” Aggie takes a bite of macaroni salad. “Is it anything like ‘Just Because You Have Wings Doesn’t Mean You Own the Sky’?”

“The beat is a little faster in ‘Love Is Your Ticket.’ I wrote it for the competition. The judges loved it, but apparently not as much as ‘Yesterday’s Menu.’ ”

“Why would they want yesterday’s menu?” Aggie asks.

“It’s the name of the winning song,” Beatrice Lou replies. Aggie is Beatrice Lou and Ropey’s only child; she is so different from either of them that Beatrice Lou often jokes that the stork brought her.

“Oh,” says Aggie, rolling her eyes at her mother. “How was I supposed to know that? No one tells me anything.”

“How was your date last night?” Uncle Tiny asks, his large hands busy turning burgers over with a metal spatula. Customers at his bait and tackle shop, Tiny Tackle, marvel at the way his mammoth fingers skillfully maneuver small minnows and shrimp into boxes for them. He got the name Tiny as a joke. This afternoon the burgers look like toy truck wheels against his frame. “Did you have a good time?”