Hatteras Girl (Heart of Carolina Book #3) (17 page)

We are parallel, and I can see him squint into the sunlight.

“Okay, I guess I’ve had it wrong, then.”

I smile. “I couldn’t write a novel. That would involve too much dedication to one project. Plus, I’m not good at dialogue.”

“What about a book without dialogue?”

“Just a narrative?”

“If that’s what it’s called.” He’s ahead of me now and makes his voice louder so I can hear him.

I raise my voice, as well. “Nope, it’s not going to happen.”

“You’re such a dream crusher.”

“What?”

“Oh, I was thinking we would do a book together. You know, illustrator and author. But you aren’t biting.”

“We can just kayak together instead,” I say.

A flock of seagulls cries overhead; Buck is silent.

“How often do you come out here?” I ask. “Betty Lynn says you bring your sketchbook and draw.”

He doesn’t reply.

I turn to see his eyes on the water, straight ahead. “Hey, I didn’t mean just kayak and not talk!”

He laughs. “Oh, I thought you wanted me to shut up.”

I grin. “I’m not that rude . . . usually.”

Suddenly, along the shore, I see the back of the Inn on Pamlico Sound, a small Buxton establishment that many tourists frequent and love for its hospitality. Looking at it nestled across a long pier, I take the opportunity to tell Buck my thoughts. “I want the Bailey House Bed and Breakfast so badly.”

“Why?”

“I love so much about it.” I plan to stop there, but Buck’s interested look and the beautiful afternoon give me encouragement to continue. “Did you know it was built in 1910? It’s had some face-lifts since then, but basically it looks and feels its age. I think it’s the only bed and breakfast on the Outer Banks that’s brick. Whenever I’m there, it’s like being in the best bubble bath, all fresh and relaxing and . . .”

“Clean?”

“Yeah! The place is clean. Well, it was when the Baileys took care of it.”

“I remember Ron told me it was run by a bunch of stuffy Brits.”

Shaking my head, I say, “The Baileys weren’t stuffy. Ron just never bothered to get to know them.” Dreamily, I think of the garden in the backyard and wonder how many hours it would take to make it look beautiful again. I think of how Mrs. Bailey would ring a silver bell to let guests know that it was time for breakfast. Right now my stomach would love a plate of blueberry muffins with the blackberry jam she liked to make. “There are so many traditions I want to carry on.”

“Which ones?”

Buck has asked, giving me free rein to talk about what I remember, and I am eager to do just that. “The lemon cookies they had there. The breakfasts, and desserts. I also would love to extend the front porch. A lot of bed and breakfasts have a large porch with rocking chairs. I think that would really add to the charm of the Bailey House.”

I’m still talking when we reach a set of short piers with two docked Carolina Skiffs, buoyed by ropes. Buck has to interrupt me to tell me to be careful of tree roots that hide in the shallow water near the wooden posts.

I follow Buck cautiously around the piers and boats.

After a minute, Buck says, “I would just say that the house is a little old, so be . . .” After a pause, he adds, “Well, you know, be smart about it. Things aren’t always as they appear.”

Of course I know that the house is old; I just finished telling him when it was built. Deciding I’ve probably talked long enough, I steer the conversation to him. “What do you like to paint best?”

Without hesitation, he says, “Frogs.”

I let out a laugh. “No, seriously.”

“I told you.”

“What?”

He grins. “Frogs.”

I guess he’s serious. “Okay.”

“Have you ever looked at one real close? They’re fascinating.”

“How?” I paddle a little faster as he heads toward deeper water.

“Tree frogs, and especially the poisonous dart frogs, are the most fun to draw. Their eyes are amazing.”

“Do you paint from memory or actually sitting beside one?”

“I never sit by a frog, Hatteras Girl.” His smile teases me.

“Never?”

“No, I hold my breath and stand nearby so I don’t scare him away.” Grinning, he adds, “Kinda like I do with you.”

“You won’t scare me away.”

Turning his kayak with one big sweep, Buck faces me. “I’ve done it before. Scared women, I mean.”

“Really? How did you do that?”

“Well, there was this pretty one I liked once and we talked a lot. She, too, liked art, and so I thought we were on the same page. I asked her out and after one date she never spoke to me again.”

“Why not?”

“If I knew the answer to that, I wouldn’t scare women away.”

I wonder who she was. I try to think back to high school and who Buck dated then. There was this one cheerleader. I thought she was pretty; her eyes were a sea-moss green. I can’t recall her name, though I bet Ron would remember. “Do you ever think about meeting someone online?”

“You mean like join one of those matchup sites?”

I find that funny and laugh. “Matchup sites? Who calls them that?”

“What do you call them?” He shifts in his seat, adjusts his paddle, and leads the way.

“Dating sites.” I paddle faster. “Do you?”

“Are you interviewing me for something?” He waits for me to catch up to his boat.

“No.”

Squinting, he asks, “Are you sure?”

“No, so answer the question.”

“Only if you will answer mine.”

“Fair enough.”

“As for dating sites, I really haven’t given it much thought.” He shakes his left paddle. I watch the pellets of water drip from it into the Sound. They take turns slipping under the surface. “Maybe I should.”

I follow as he guides us to a cove where the marsh grasses are high. We arrive at a sandy piece of shore that is covered in broken oyster shells. We watch a pelican swoop near one and then fly over toward a pier with docked sailboats. Buck says, “Okay, my turn.”

“Shoot away.”

“Based on all the dates your relatives have set you up with, you have to have some stories to tell.” He leads the way away from the shore, his tanned arms skillfully and evenly maneuvering the paddle. “Have you ever been set up with someone you enjoyed being with?”

My answer comes quickly. “Yes.” I don’t give Buck any more than that. He doesn’t need to know about the man who moved to Chicago.

He starts to ask me another question, but I slip in with, “Did I ever tell you about the guy who spilled Coke on his suit?”

“No.”

“He went to the bathroom and never came back.”

“What?”

“It’s true.”

“Did he disappear?”

“He went to the restroom and I waited for twenty-two minutes. Do you know how long that is? I sat there and sipped my iced coffee and then looked through my purse, found an old receipt, and made a list on the back of it of what I needed at the grocery store.”

“What did he say when he came back?” Buck looks interested.

“He didn’t. Well, I left.”

“You left?”

“He was still in the restroom.”

“Hatteras Girl, you have a pattern about you.”

“What’s that?’

“You leave men.”

“If there was a man worth staying for, I’d stick around.” After I say it, I think this might be a line from one of Sheerly’s songs.

We paddle back to The Rose Lattice, and Buck straps the kayaks on top of his Jeep. They dribble water onto his roof and down the windows.

“Did you have fun today?” he asks me.

“Yeah.” I reach into my pocket for the keys to my truck.

“Then my job is done.” He ambles to his car, the sun against his back.

“Buck,” I call.

He turns.

“Thanks. It was wonderfully fun.” I push away the urge to say more.

“Anytime, Hatteras.” Then, with a smile, he gets into his car, starts the engine, waves, and leaves.

I look out at the water. A surprising serenity fills my heart, and I realize it’s been a long time since I enjoyed an afternoon as much as this one.

But like a dark cloud moving across a sunny sky, my mind is tainted with thoughts of Davis and Vanessa. I try to rub away the memory of those roses and Vanessa’s words. When life gives you a perfect afternoon, you have to guard against anything that tries to steal it away. I pick up a tall blade of grass and shred it, watching the strips get carried by the wind.

On the drive back to Waves, I refuse to let any dark thoughts take over. The volume of my radio is high as Celine Dion confesses, “You gave me faith and you gave me a world to believe in.” Turning into my driveway, I wait for the song’s last line: “I can live, I can dream once again, ’cause you made me believe.”

24

Zane is a bottomless pit.
He ate a whole container of cottage cheese and then a Tupperware bowl full of pineapple tidbits as he watched
Andy Griffith
last night. When I made a peanut butter and honey sandwich for myself, he asked for half. Now he says there is no food in the house.

Bending over the counter with a pad and pen, I start a grocery list. Just as I write
cottage cheese,
my phone rings, and I see that it’s Davis. The first sensation I feel is delight, but then a dark cloud pushes its way in front of the sun. My palms prickle even though his voice is upbeat, giving me details about a property in Frisco that he hopes to invest in.

I grit my teeth. “I need you to tell me about Vanessa.”

“Who?”

“I interviewed her. I saw the roses.”

“What roses?”

For a brief second, I want to believe that he did not send roses to her, that she’s a liar.

I hate being confrontational, yet I knew that if Minnie were to hear of my predicament, she would encourage me to be bold. I try to borrow some of her strength. “The twenty-four red ones you had delivered to Coastal Finds.”

Davis sucks in air. “Oh, those things? I try to keep her shop looking nice for her. She’s an old friend.”

“She says you two dated.”

“Used to. Tell me how your day was. I want to hear how things are at
Lighthouse Views
.”

His voice is tender and inviting, and I know I shouldn’t, but I allow him to distract me. I begin telling him about my day at the office.

Suddenly, he says, “Let’s talk about the Bailey House.”

I feel my pulse rate increase.

“Hypothetically,” he says, “how much could you afford to pay each month for the bed and breakfast?”

“Each month?” I know the answer immediately. I have been calculating my finances for a long time. “I could survive on a reserve of funds of $2,800 each month for about three months, and hopefully, after that, the house would be bringing in lots of paying guests.”

“Sounds like you’ve given this a lot of thought.”

I laugh at that statement. When am I
not
contemplating being the owner of the Bailey House?

“Listen,” he says, “I know you want the house. It needs a good owner to run it. I want you to be that person.”

My heart is doing cartwheels when Minnie comes home at six. I’m tempted to blurt out the good news, but her eyes are red, and as she sits on the couch, she complains of a migraine. I tell her that I’m going to Food Lion and will bring us back something for dinner. She thanks me, and as I leave the duplex, Zane begs to come with me.

“Oh, it won’t be any fun,” I say.

His lips curl to form a frown.

Using my animated tone, I say, “I’ll bring you a surprise back, okay?”

I rush out the door and hope he doesn’t follow me. When I pull out of the driveway, I look up at the living room window to see him standing there, curtain pulled back. His thumb is in his mouth; he waves with the other hand.

At Food Lion, I get a cup of coffee from the pot by the deli. I add sugar and stir as I push my cart along the aisles. Sometimes a simple cup of coffee brings focus to a day; something about the aroma and heat of the beverage clears the mind. Even if the coffee is only grocery-store-brewed and not Blue Sparkle Mountain Top.

Yet now as I sip my coffee, I wonder why my stomach feels like I ate a greasy bowl of chili. The neon sign over the deli flickers, and I think about the sign that’s been flashing across my mind ever since I found out that Davis and Vanessa dated.
Does he still have feelings for her?
He says it’s over, but she told me they tend to break up and then get back together again.

The next thing I know I’ve bumped into an endcap loaded with cereal boxes. The coffee splashes from the cup onto the floor. The spill spreads out toward the meat counter.

I ask the man behind the counter for something to wipe the floor with. He goes to the back and returns with a roll of paper towels.

I use my foot to wipe the paper towels across the coffee puddle and watch the white absorb the brown. This is me, I think. Clumsy. Distracted. I couldn’t sell a three-thousand-dollar bracelet to a woman in sunflower flip-flops if my life depended on it.

When I hear a clearing of a throat and a crisp, “Hello,” I look up to see Douglas Cannon standing beside a partially loaded grocery cart.

“Hi.” My foot pauses from its motion.

“How are you?”

The shock that he has actually asked me something genuine and normal silences me for a moment. Dumbly, I repeat the question. “How am I? Pretty good. And you?”

I half expect him to start talking about jeepneys and sharks, but he just stands there. “Shopping for groceries?” he asks as his fingers tighten around a package of Tyson chicken thighs.

“Are you buying chicken?” I suppose one lame question deserves an equally inane response.

“Yeah.”

“It’s on sale.”

“It is. I’m going to marinade it in teriyaki sauce and pineapple juice. I thought about making adobo, but don’t think I want pork tonight.”

I pick up a package of thighs and breasts. “Sounds good.”

We look at each other as I wonder how I can gracefully leave this scene.

“Would you . . . like to come over?” His voice is expectant, hopeful.

I swallow. “I can’t. I . . . I have to cook at home tonight.”

Why is it that Douglas brings out the liar in me?

He smiles. “Maybe another time, then.” He looks as though he wants to say something else, and I think, if he does, I’ll blurt out that I hope he finds love and happiness, that I wish him well. He looks over my head and then at his cart. “See you around.”