The Beach House (25 page)

“With a hammer?”

“You really are green, aren’t you? They grow in clusters in the mudflats. ‘Cept they’re stuck together as hard as cement. I’ve got to beat them off.”

“I’m coming with you,” she said, scampering to her feet. “I feel the same about snakes as I do leeches. Maybe even more so.”

“Well, come on then.”

The sun was setting lower, turning the sky dusky. A welcome breeze met them as they stepped out into the open air of the mudflats. Brett moved farther out onto the oyster bar. Onshore, Cara crossed her arms and watched him work, his legs planted wide and his back bent as he hammered at a large cluster of oysters. He worked without pause, taking the large ones and tossing the small oysters back. Before long he filled half a bushel. Then he straightened with his hands on his back and, stretching, he gazed out at the setting sun. Cara stood silently looking at the dark, solitary silhouette on the dusky horizon, thinking he appeared a part of the natural scenery. Brett bent once more to pick up the bushel and headed back.

“It’s getting dark,” he called out as he approached. “Let’s get that fire going. We’re going to have ourselves an oyster roast.”

In no time they were sitting around a small fire, a mound of empty shells at their side, chilled beer in their hands, their stomachs sated. They were enveloped in a smoky cloud of burning cedar. Cara lay back on the blanket Brett had spread out for them and looked up at the stars. They were just beginning to shine, pale yet pulsing. It was a classic South Carolina sky. The crescent moon was a mere white razor slash in the velvety indigo. The fire cast shadows on their faces and illuminated their eyes.

She sighed, a sound that brought him down to stretch out on his side next to her, resting his chin in his palm.

“Is the lady satisfied?”

“The lady is so satisfied she’s going to burst. I didn’t know I could eat so many oysters in one sitting. The saltines, however, were the pièce de résistance. I give the meal five stars.” Then, looking up at the sky, she amended, “Make that millions of stars.” She smiled and turned her head toward him. His face was above hers, barely a foot away. “Aren’t oysters only supposed to be eaten in months with an R in them?”

“They’re good all year round, but they taste better in the fall and winter. They’re spawning now so it’s only legal to harvest for business in those months. I’ve never seen anyone harvest out here, so the pickin’s good all year round.”

“Is there anything you don’t know?”

“I was born and raised on these waters. My father is a harbor pilot and his daddy before him. He’s probably guided more ships into and out of Charleston Harbor than any man alive. He knows every twist and turn, where the sandbars are and the shallows. His blood flows with the tides. It’s a good living, too. He taught me everything I know about the water. Naturally, he expected me to follow into the family business. That’s what it is, really. A family business. Not just anyone can become a harbor pilot. You almost have to be born into it. It’s a tough job, real dangerous, and the pilots have to trust each other. No one wants to make a mistake with one of those huge tankers. Some ships run seven hundred feet or more.”

“Unbelievable.”

“I’ll tell you, though, I’ve seen my daddy maneuver one of those suckers under the bridge as easily as a johnboat.”

“So why didn’t you become a harbor pilot? You obviously love boats and the water. It would seem a natural fit.”

“I thought about it, of course. My father wanted it and you can make a good living. But pilots are on call 24/7. That wasn’t for me. Besides, I was more interested in what was
in
the water than what sailed on it.”

“So you went to Clemson.”

“That’s right. I graduated with a degree in biology—aquaculture primarily. For a long time I did all kinds of research studies on this coastline. I worked for a state agency for a while, too. I can’t say it wasn’t interesting. I loved the fieldwork especially. But bureaucracy isn’t for me. Much as I like being with people, deep down I’m a loner. Like you. I guess that’s what attracted me to you, even way back when.”

She smirked. “I never would’ve guessed from the way you acted. You certainly didn’t seem like much of a loner back then. You were always surrounded by a retinue of pals and adoring girls.”

“Yeah, well. I was young. A slave to my hormones.”

“And now?”

“Well, the hormones are still active, if that’s what you’re asking. But tempered. More under control.” He looked at the fire. “As for the rest? I don’t know. I started the tour company about ten years ago. It’s doing fine.”

“That’s an understatement from what I can tell.”

He shrugged. “I expanded to two sites and I’m thinking about another. For the first time I’m keen about the prospect of a little more money coming in. On the other hand, I’m not keen about getting stuck doing paperwork behind a desk.”

“I noticed your interesting accounting system.”

“Yeah, well,” he said, scratching behind his ear. “I guess I could use a little help in that department. I’ve never made decisions before based on money, and I don’t want to start now. It’s a trade-off, I guess. Most things are.” He plucked a bit of grass. “Now that I’m older, I want different things.”

His words resonated deep, leaving her feeling both drawn to him and wary. She sensed that she could get close to him.

“Turning forty does that to a person,” she said.

“The ol’ Tolstoy’s bicycle theory.”

She laughed lightly and looked at him. “What’s that?”

“Tolstoy wrote
War and Peace
at forty. He learned how to ride a bicycle in his sixties. It’s supposed to be inspiring.”

“Well, it is to me.” She stretched and looked up at the stars again. “I wonder what can I do at forty that I’ve never done before? I suppose I could learn how to pilot a boat. Or catch a fish. Maybe even harvest an oyster.” She wriggled her brows. “I know a secret place.”

“You’re the first one I’ve ever brought here who I’m worried just might find it again.” He moved to his stomach, resting on his forearms to look down at her face. “So, what about you?”

“What about me?”

“Tell me about your life. The missing twenty years I don’t know about.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Were you ever married?”

“Were you?”

“I asked you first.”

“No, I never married. Never wanted to. As you said, I’m a loner.” She looked straight into his blue eyes, gauging his reaction. The firelight seemed to dance in them. “Does that shock you?”

“No. Should it?”

She’d expected some comment of disapproval, and not hearing one, she felt herself loosen. He was chipping away at her hard-shelled obstacles as readily as he had the oysters.

“It’s just that most men, and women too, are not sympathetic with the concept of a woman being single and content. They think all single women are frustrated or unhappy.” When he didn’t say anything more, she found she was suddenly intensely curious about him. “Your turn.”

“Nope. I never married. I almost married once,” he admitted. “We were very young, right out of college. She wanted to settle down and have children. I wanted to do fieldwork and travel all over the world.”

“What happened?”

His face darkened and he tossed the blade of grass from his mouth. “It ended.”

A scuttling noise sounded in the darkness, followed by the high, piercing scream of an animal. Cara sat up and stared into the black. All she heard was the crackling of the fire and the music of tree frogs and crickets.

“Are you sure no one else knows about your secret spot?”

“I’ve never seen any trace of them. Not alive anyway.”

“Wha—Ah yes, the Indians. So, we’re really, really alone here. If anything happens to us, no one will ever find out.”

A wry smile crossed his face. “Nope. Not for a long, long time.”

“Uh-huh. That sort of puts me at your mercy, doesn’t it?”

His eyes sparked, warming to the game, but he had the good sense not to reply.

“Be honest. How many girls have you brought here? Ten? Twenty? A hundred?” She wondered if he’d tell the truth, wondered if she really wanted to hear it.

“I haven’t brought any other girl here.”

“Right. Your jaunts to hammocks are legendary in these parts.”

“There are lots of hammocks.”

“Oh.”

She felt the air thicken between them and his eyes, glittering, glanced to her lips.

“I was trying to remember,” she said, lying back and bringing her arms up to tuck under her head. “Aren’t oysters supposed to be an aphrodisiac?”

He leaned closer, his face now mere inches from her own. When he spoke she could feel the warmth of his breath on her face. “Well, that depends.”

“On what?”

“On whether you believe in old wives’ tales or not. According to them, we should both be quite randy now.”

“And if I don’t believe?”

“As an old oyster man once said, you’ve either got it in you before you eat the oysters, or you don’t.”

She gazed at his face. His eyes were astonishingly blue in the firelight. “So, who is right?” she asked in a strained voice. “The old wife or the old man?”

He lowered his head to kiss her neck. “I think this calls for a little field research.”

She closed her eyes as shivers of pleasure swept through her blood. “Plant or wildlife?”

He moved her head to the side with his chin as his lips traveled down her neck. “Definitely wildlife.”

His breath came hot along her throat and Cara felt each hair rise as a million cells tingled. She moaned, stretching her arms out from under her head to wrap around his shoulders, lowering him toward her. He stretched out beside her, slipping one arm under her back to cradle her head. Drawing her closer, he lazily stroked the length of her body.

She wanted this man. Oh yes, she wanted him badly and pressed closer, almost writhing with desire. Brett’s body was solid and strong. He leaned over her, arching, moving his thigh over hers. He moved slow and easy, making her own blood race madly through her veins. She tightened her grasp as his kisses traveled teasingly, maddeningly, up her neck.

When at last he brought his lips to hers, Cara opened her mouth, ready to devour him whole. But he would not be hurried. He was deliberate, tender, exploring. Then he deepened the kiss to a passionate possession. She shivered and tightened her grasp, matching his desire. Her hands moved down to reach under his cotton shirt, then slide up along the broad muscles of his back, relishing the silky smoothness against her fingertips.

Brett drew back and raised his head to look down at her. She gazed back, welcome pulsing in her eyes.

He lowered his head again. She raised her lips.

“Come on, wild thing,” he said with a quick kiss on her nose. “We’d better pack up and go before the tide comes in or we’ll be swimming for the boat.”

He shifted his weight and moved away from her, climbing to a stand.

Cara lay on the ground, stunned, staring up at him with her arms flat at her side and her mouth open in a silent protest.

He reached out to her.

She took his hand and with a single tug he hoisted her to her feet. She stood dazed, dusting off her pants, feeling as though she’d missed some cue. A few feet away, Brett moved quickly, dousing the fire, gathering the supplies.

What had just happened, she wondered? Did she give the wrong signals? Was she too aggressive? Was that it? Did she say or do something to turn him off? With a furtive movement, she checked her breath.

Brett drew closer carrying the gear. “That about does it. Ready to go?”

“Uh, yeah. Sure.” She stumbled forward feeling awkward. “Can I carry something?”

His eyes sparked with humor. “I seem to recall that I’m the one that’s doing all the carrying on this trip.”

“Oh, yeah.” She didn’t know whether to smile or act aloof. It had slipped her mind that she’d be riding piggyback to the boat. Once again she’d wrap her arms and legs around him. Just the thought of it sent her shivering with an odd mixture of anticipation and embarrassment.

He handed her the net and gloves, then hoisted the cooler. “Come on, then,” he said and began walking toward the perimeter of trees that loomed like a black wall in the shadows.

She swallowed all the questions that were poised on the tip of her tongue and hurried to follow him back to the boat.

The eggs will incubate in the sandy nest for fifty-five to sixty days, unless disturbed by a predator. Turtle eggs are gourmet meals for raccoons and ghost crabs. Dogs, cats, feral hogs and vultures will also hunt the eggs. Egg poaching by humans is common in areas, as well.

CHAPTER TWELVE

E
ven in the flattering pink light of early morning it was sad to see what a shambles the beach house had fallen into. Cara walked the grounds, sipping her coffee and getting a sense of the space. The sunlight cruelly exposed the chipped paint and the sagging decks. Under the porch, years of accumulated garbage, things her mother might call treasures, made the beach house look alarmingly like a junkyard. As for the yard, it was worse. One of her fondest summer memories was rocking on the screened porch listening to the bees buzz and catching the scent of wildflowers intermingled with the jasmine, honeysuckle and roses in her mother’s garden. Looking around, it was clear the overgrown, scrubby lot needed a firm, guiding hand.

Cara set down her coffee, pulled out a pad of paper and a pencil and began making her list. She liked lists. The longer the better. They organized her thoughts and gave her a sense of control over chaos. She wrote down the numbers first. One, two, three and so on. Looking around at her surroundings, ignoring the sense of dread at the magnitude of the job, she began to prioritize. Her hand moved fast, trying to keep up with her thoughts. In a short while, she had nineteen to-dos on her list.