Hatteras Girl (Heart of Carolina Book #3) (30 page)

Bert lets out a low whistle.

Cassidy takes a bottle of Aquafina from the fridge. “Did your relatives set you up with this man?”

“No,” I say. “They had nothing to do with him.”

“At least you can’t blame them this time,” says our boss. She then unscrews the lid of the jar and takes out a sausage treat for her dog. As she sits beside Shakespeare, she raises the morsel to his mouth, which is already an open crevice, waiting in happy anticipation. “We’ll hang out all his dirty laundry,” she says with obvious satisfaction. “Oh, poochie,” she croons as her terrier chews and then rapidly licks stray crumbs off the sofa. “Your mama is so smart. Sometimes she surprises even me.”

43

Once after one of my
blind-dates-gone-bad, Sheerly told me that, for as much as she sings about love, she has yet to understand just how it happens. What makes a man and woman fall in love? Is God behind it? Is it something deep within that clicks due to hormones or genetics? Or is it something we just fall into, like the way the wind carries a sailboat down the Sound? Perhaps, she concluded, it is a combination of all those.

Today, Buck and I paddle his kayaks to an inlet on the outskirts of Rodanthe. On a narrow shore, we search for shells, drink Fruit Punch Gatorade, which is Buck’s favorite, and Diet Pepsi, which is mine. We sit on a wobbly dock with our bare feet dangling over the edge as the afternoon sun warms our legs and backs. And most of all, we smile at each other as if we can’t believe how happy we feel just being together, just breathing in the same space.

Hours later, we paddle back to where our vehicles are parked. Before leaving, Buck reaches for me; our embrace is warm and lingering. He leans toward me; I want nothing more now than to kiss Buck.

When our lips touch, it’s as though my feet have stepped off the ground and my head is floating somewhere on a cloud of cotton candy.

“Wait,” he says when we finally pull apart and I take a step toward my truck to go home to Minnie and Zane.

He hands me a large plaid notebook. “I noticed your old one was almost out of pages. I think,” he tells me with a smile, “you need to make the switch from stripes to plaid now that you’re the manager of the Bailey House.”

I carry the notebook to the Bailey House on this late-October afternoon.

Buck calls me as he leaves the Grille after his shift, saying he’ll meet me at the house.

When I see him step out of his Jeep—tall, fit, hair tossed by the wind—I have a desire to run across the driveway to greet him and run my fingers along his jaw, touching the stubble that I know is there. But I hold back. I took things too quickly with Davis; I don’t want anything to ruin what I have with Buck.

Buck and I take our time walking throughout the interior and around the exterior of the bed and breakfast as he points out the things that need to be repaired. With the handle of a wooden spoon he finds in one of the kitchen drawers, he taps the wall by the toilet in the tiny restroom that only has a sink and toilet. The wall caves in; he taps it a little harder and the lumpy gray mixture inside emerges, damp plaster spilling onto the tile floor.

The smell of concentrated mold makes me hold my nose. “Yuck,” I say. “How long did he think he could just patch things up and pretend the place didn’t need proper restoration?”

“Seems like he didn’t think that through. He was only worried about making money,” says Buck.

“Can you do it?” I ask. “Can you repair all this?”

He grins. “I like tools. Remember?”

I remember. That conversation seems so long ago, way back when he was just my brother’s friend and not the man with bright eyes who makes my heart go fuzzy with warmth each time I see him.

“I’ll be glad to make it the way it should be.”

“Will you ask your father to help?” I sound like a little child.

“We might be able to do the project the right way together this time.”

I have been praying that Griffins & Company will let Buck work with the team again.

“The Home of Peace or Peace of Home or whatever the name of that inspection company is will be here tomorrow. We’ll see what else the inspector finds wrong with the place, and then you and your dad can get to work.”

Buck nods. “Your attitude is great, Hatteras.”

We enter the sunroom for the fourth time. This room always draws me in, always presenting me with an invitation to enjoy its beauty. The wide windows and the way the ceiling slopes gives the room a cozy feel.

“Zane wants to place his artwork here,” I say, pointing. “He says he has lots of knot-work he’s created at Ropey’s. He showed some to his kindergarten teacher and she said he was a budding artist.”

“Zane? Is this the same kid who pitched a fit at the Grille?”

“I guess we all grow up.”

Just this morning, Zane showed me some braided rope he had glued onto a piece of wood. It looked an awful lot like the birthday present he gave me. “We can place it in the Lawrence Room,” I told him.

His face lit up. “Lawrence? That’s my daddy’s name.”

“We can name the sunroom that. It can be filled with things you like.” I’m not sure why I let the moment carry me away like that.

Now, as Buck and I stand in the sunroom with the sun sliding behind a cloud, I say, “I want to call this the Lawrence Room.”

Buck nods. “Minnie would like that.”

“I bet Sheerly would cross-stitch a plaque for us. ‘The Lawrence Room.’ ” I turn to Buck.

He reaches for my arm and pulls me against his chest. I like the way my cheek fits so nicely along his shoulder. “What do you think?” I murmur into his shirt.

“About us?”

“Well, I meant the room, but forget that for now. What do you think about you and me?”

His arms feel secure around me, as though they belong there. “I hated every date you went on with other guys.”

I swallow. “You want to know what I think of that?”

“Yeah.”

“I think you should have told me. You could have said, ‘Hey, I like you, Hatteras. Why don’t we go out?’ ”

“And have you laugh in my face and never come back to the Grille again?”

Serenity fills my voice. “Oh, Buck, I wouldn’t have ever done that.”

His arms tighten around me. “Really?”

I look up, expecting to see humor in his eyes. There is only a soft sincerity.

“Tell me again,” he says.

“About?”

“The man you are in love with.”

I draw a deep breath. “He’s sweet, cute, draws frogs, and surprises me.”

“How?”

“I never expected to feel this way about …”

I close my eyes. His lips meet mine as I think about my repeated prayer to God to send me a man.
He can arrive on a horse, a Coast Guard barge, a sailboat
—
or maybe even a kayak.

The truth is that he didn’t ever need to arrive. He’s always been there, right in Hatteras. Like the waves, sea, and sun—all along. Like me and the Bailey House. He was waiting even before I realized that waiting for him was what really mattered. My eyes open. I touch his jaw with fingers that feel like they were created to do just this.

We kiss slowly as the sun finds shade behind a flock of clouds.

“You are a funny creation,” Buck teases. “You love fishermen’s hats but hate to eat fish and hate to fish.”

“Is there anything wrong with that?” I laugh.

He smiles. “You are always right in my book, Hatteras.”

In the distance a foghorn sounds, a familiar drone that makes me think of changing seasons and how humans strive to find ways to keep up with them. The tourists who have returned to Upstate New York are probably already wearing wool as they chop wood for their furnaces. Down here we are still in light sweaters, although our recreational boats have been winterized, and many shops have closed for the season. Yet what connects each person is that thing Sheerly sings about—love. When you’re in the season of newfound love, it just doesn’t matter if your summer clothes have been replaced in your bureau by winter ones. You don’t care what the weather does because you’re with the person you love.

Sheerly has a song with these lyrics: “Wait for the perfect moment. Wait for that magical day. You will feel it in your heart. The season of love is here to stay.”

Selena would think that was corny and syrupy, but then again, Selena is not in love.

Today feels like it belongs to a woman who recalls being a little girl at this very house and thinking that love just happens to you when you are busy doing something else. Now I can’t help but think that that little girl wasn’t so far off the mark.

44

Minnie is blasting Eric Clapton’s
“Lady in Red” when I enter our duplex. The music is deafening; I wonder if she’s borrowed Bo’s speakers.

Zane is at the dining room table doing his homework, either ignoring the loud song or in need of a hearing aid.

“Homework?” I cry. “Aren’t you only in kindergarten?”

“I’m big now,” he tells me. “Mrs. Cravensport says I’m not supposed to cry.”

“Who is Mrs. Cravensport?”

“My teacher at my school.”

“Oh yeah.”

He chews his bottom lip and carefully traces the dotted letter B on a sheet of wide-lined paper. “She likes me.”

“I’m sure she does.”

“Yeah!” He grins and then presses his pencil against the page to form the letter C.

Peering at the sheet, I see that he’s writing the alphabet. “But you do know that there are times to cry,” I say.

“Of course.” I’ve never heard this child sound so certain. “But not when your chicken nuggets get eaten by angry crabs.”

“Did that happen to you at school?”

He shakes his head. “No, not yet. But if it does, I won’t cry.”

I head upstairs where the music is louder. Minnie is replaying the same song. Her door is closed. She hasn’t cried since Irvy died, and I hope she isn’t now. I hear her singing along to the music.

I enter my room to see that Minnie has laid two letters on my bed. The business envelopes are to the right of each piece of stationery. I glance at them, wonder what they say, and then reach for one.

The first letter is from Irvy’s attorney in Nags Head. The letter states that land in northwest Cary—ten acres—has been willed to Minnie from Irvy. Another letter is from a Realtor who wants to buy the land for a new development. He has heard that Minnie now owns the land and is trying to get her to sell. He makes it clear that he knows that Irvy did not want to sell the land, but perhaps her daughter will think otherwise. He will be offering “top dollar.”

Rushing into Minnie’s room, both letters in my hands, I find her putting on red lipstick. She sees me, turns the music off, and grins wider than she has since Lawrence died.

“So,” she says, “I guess I’m the proverbial poor little rich girl!”

“Irvy owned all this land?” I let the letters from the attorney and the developer shake in my hand. “Did you know?”

“No. No more than I knew why Rudlow up and left us. My parents seem to have a lot of secrets.”

“How much do you think the land is worth?” I ask.

She stretches out on her bed. “Can you believe it? Art wants to build a strip mall on it.”

I cannot believe it. “Who’s Art?”

“The developer.” She motions toward the letters with fingernails that have been painted ruby.

“Really?” I ask, still stunned.

“Really.” She smiles.

“All those times your mom said there was a farm in Cary, we thought she was insane.”

Minnie nods. “I just wanted her to stop.”

“We should have been saying, like Sheerly did the other day when we learned who Mrs. Dupree was, ‘Bless her heart.’ Your mama was trying her hardest to help us out.”

“I know, but she was also calling me Eleanor, so I was sure she was losing her mind.”

“So there really is a farm in Cary.” There is wonder in my voice today.

“That’s what they say.” Minnie flashes a smile, the red lipstick bright against her fair complexion. “Apparently Mom’s grandparents owned it and now she does. No, now I do.” She crosses her legs and leans against the headboard. “Four hundred thousand dollars, Jackie.”

“What?”

“That’s what Art said he would pay me. It’s been a fantastic afternoon!”

I flop on the bed next to her as we giggle just like we did in middle school as we sat on the glider at the Bailey House while Ogden trimmed the honeysuckle. Our laughter is genuine, freeing, childlike.

Irvy knew what she was talking about all along.