The Beach House (28 page)

“If I did it immediately, before the season gets out of control, I could try to squeeze it in. But it would be a push and you’d have to hire someone to help, probably two if we want to get it up fast. I’ll draw up the design and oversee it. I know a few people I can ask. They’re good. And reasonable.”

“I’m sure they are, if you recommend them,” Lovie replied, eager to appease him.

Cara was more direct. “You’ll do it?”

He offered a wry smile and Cara instantly knew she’d won. But just as quickly, she was on the receiving end of an exchange that told here there would be a price to pay.

“I’ll do it, provided you’re one of the crew.”

Lovie released a short, high laugh of surprise.

“Me? But I don’t know anything about wielding a hammer and nail. I’ll just be in your way.”

“Who said anything about a hammer and nail?”

She raised her brows, thinking maybe her luck had changed.

“I had a paintbrush in mind.”

The temperature of the sand during incubation plays a role in determining the sex of the hatchlings. Cool sand produces males, while hotter sand brings females.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

“H
ome sweet home,” Brett declared, leading the way up the crumbling cement walkway. “Come on in and I’ll cook you up some dinner.”

Cara just stared at the small 1960s stucco bungalow. “It’s pink!” she exclaimed.

“I call it the Pink Flamingo.” He pointed to a metal pink flamingo roosting in the ground near the front entrance. Catching her expression he chided, “Now, before you look at me like that, it’s important to remember that you’re back on the island. It might be a very different thing if I had a pink house up north. But here it’s very Bermuda.”

“I know that. It’s just that I have a hard time picturing
you
in a pink house—anywhere.” She looked at the compact, boxy structure with the gray sloping roof. Dominating the front lawn, shielding the little house from the busy street, was an ancient live oak tree that stretched its perfect-for-climbing branches across the front lawn and graced the house with shade. Her heart pinged, recalling her own favorite tree growing up.

“It’s a very sweet house,” she said.

“Sweet? Now that really hurts.” He unlocked the door. “Come on in before you say anything else.”

The interior was pure bachelor. The walls were dingy gray, the light fixtures strictly of the hardware store variety and what little furniture there was represented years of collecting whatever could be obtained free or on the cheap. A bicycle was parked by the front door and a wet suit and kayak lined the hallway. And his business office was little more than a bunch of mail, papers, books and manila folders cluttering the dining room table. Her eyes skimmed over the mayhem quickly, drawn instead to the glorious view outside the wall of sliding glass. The water of the Intracoastal was racing with the current of the changing tide. It was breathtaking and she instantly fell in love with the place.

She was standing at the glass patio doors looking out when he came up behind her. His strong arms encircled her, dwarfing her, and his big hands rested against her abdomen pressing her to him. She felt an electric jolt when he touched her and closed her eyes with a sigh. Was he making his move at last?

“Hungry?” he asked.

She told herself she wasn’t going to fall into that ridiculous banter about how she was hungry for his kisses. It was too clichéd, too utterly banal.

“I’m starving,” she replied, suddenly coy.

“I’m going to fix us some dinner,” he said, drawing his arms away.

She watched him walk away, stunned. “You do that,” she said, half smiling, half pouting. She told herself he was just throwing her off her mark. Other men would have slipped their hands up her blouse and made love to her on the spot. Dinner would have been an afterthought.

She turned her head in time to see Brett open the glass sliding door and walk off across the yard and down to the end of his dock. Curious, she moved closer to the door, resting her hands upon the cool glass. The glass was smeared with water spots and grime, but she could still see well enough that Brett was bent over the dock. A moment later, he was pulling up a crab pot. The black iron cage emerged dripping with water and filled with what she could only guess were plenty of snapping crabs. Brett appeared to know exactly what to do with them.

Who was this guy, she wondered? Most of the men she’d dated went to the refrigerator or picked up the telephone to get dinner. She leaned against the door and laughed. Brett was nothing remotely like any other man she’d dated.

Thank God.

Together they cooked the crabs in a big stainless steel pot on a gas burner out on the back porch. Cara melted some butter in the microwave while Brett shucked corn. The setting sun cast a pink pall on the water and deepened Cara’s hair to a chocolate brown that matched her eyes. She’d pinned it high up on her head; eating crab was a two-handed affair that required lots of dipping in butter and lots of napkins.

She and Brett sat in the dwindling sunlight while the candles flickered in the hurricane lamps. As they ate their sweet crabmeat and drank beer from cans, it seemed so easy to fall into a rhythm of conversation. They talked about their jobs, the latest turtle nest, plans for the porch and anything else that came to mind. As the night wore on, she found she liked Brett more and more. She liked the way his eyes focused on her when she talked and the way she could laugh readily, like with an old friend. It was comfortable—almost too. And as she watched the way his face moved when he laughed and the way his blue eyes intensified as he told a story, she wondered whether he felt the same about her or if this was merely the way Brett Beauchamps was with everyone.

After they finished clearing the empty shells and husks and returned to the table with cold beers, Cara told Brett about Darryl and Toy. He reacted exactly as she’d thought he might. His mouth set in a grim line and his large hand crinkled the metal of his beer can.

“Just let him show his hairy ass around your place and he’ll be one sorry little bastard. In fact, I hope he
does
show up.”

“What is it about men that they just can’t wait to beat their chests and have a good fight?”

“I’m not joking around, Cara. I hate guys like that. Hitting a woman makes them feel like a man. I like nothing better than giving his type a chance to pick on someone his own size.”

“I know and I agree. I just hope we don’t have this little gladiator exhibition at Primrose Cottage.” She reached up to stroke his arm while a flicker of worry crossed her face. “You never know about a lowlife like that. He might carry some kind of weapon. A knife or a gun.”

“I can handle it.”

She considered this.

“What?” he asked on the defensive. “You’re looking at me funny. You don’t think I can?”

“Just the opposite. When you say you can handle it, I believe you. I’ve never felt that way about a man before.”

“Felt what way?”

“Safe,” she replied, surprised she’d admitted something so personal. “My last boyfriend—” She paused and put her hand to her cheek. “God, isn’t that a horrible word for a woman my age to use?
Boyfriend?
It makes me feel like I’m going steady.”

He frowned. “What about him?”

His eyes were intense and she wondered with a smug pleasure whether he might be a tad jealous. Interesting.

“Well,” she drawled, trying to decide where to begin and how much she wanted to divulge. Talking about old beaus with new beaus could be a tricky business, so she opted for the less is more approach.

“Richard and I worked for the same advertising firm. We could talk about anything work related and I thought we made a pretty good team. We had good times together, too. You know how it is when you find someone who shares your interests. But when it came to personal things, like my relationship with my mother or my well-being, I didn’t tell him anything. I didn’t consciously make the decision not to, I just never did. I’m very closemouthed about my personal life as a rule. Looking back, however, I realize it was instinct. I never really knew for certain if he’d use that information against me somehow. As it turned out, I was right.”

“What happened?”

“He got promoted and I got fired. Not that I blame him for that, but he knew about it and didn’t warn me.”

“You got fired? When?”

“Last month. Before I came here.”

“That’s all you’re going to tell me?”

“What more can I say? It happens. What difference could it make to you?”

“A big difference. Damn, the last thing I’m going to do is take your money when you don’t have a job. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You really are too sweet. Is that another of your rules? A Lowcountry man never takes money from a lady down on her luck?”

“If it wasn’t before it is now.”

“Not to worry,” she replied, liking him even more. “This lady is fine in that department. I can afford a porch. Maybe not a house, but a porch, yes.”

“No.”

“Brett, please, don’t argue,” she said, stopping what she could see was a torrent of words about to spill from his open mouth. “This is something I need to do. It’s hard to explain, but I need to do something to help Mama, to make her feel better in any way I can. There have been so many years of meaningless exchanges between us. I know this will make a difference to her and I want it to come from me. Whatever the cost financially, I don’t care. It’s the emotional cost if I
don’t
do it that’s prohibitive.”

Brett considered this. “It won’t be much.”

“Oh, no you don’t. No cutting any corners or pricing your time cheap. I respect hard work and value a job well-done. Though I appreciate the thought.”

“You forget. I care about Miss Lovie, too.” He paused then asked, “She’s very ill, isn’t she?”

She dreaded going into this discussion tonight yet knew it couldn’t be avoided. She nodded. “She has cancer.”

He lowered his head.

Cara reached out to place her hand over his. “Brett, I really want to thank you for taking the job. I realize I came on strong earlier. Maybe I was a little pushy. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be. It’s just that I felt this sudden panic. The doctor thinks she may only have this summer and I wanted to do this for her before—” She sighed. “Before it was too late.”

“I thought it was something like that. She looks kind of frail.”

“I know. It’s hard to see her this way. It kills me when she won’t eat or when she has to pause for breath. And she’s beginning to cough now, too. Did you notice that? It scares me. I feel so helpless just standing by. When I see a problem I like to step in and fix it. But I can’t fix this.”

“No, you can’t. Nobody can. It’s nature.” He turned his palm over to wrap his fingers around her wrist. “I hope you don’t mind my speaking honestly. We all look at death as an aberrance of nature. Something that has to be fixed. Every day I see nature at work and not all of it is pretty. Life is just plain dangerous and sometimes cruel. But it’s beautiful, too. We have to remember that at times like this. It’s hard to watch Miss Lovie pass on because we love her. But if it’s her turn, our challenge is to help her through it, not to fight it. That just makes it harder for her.”

“But sixty-nine is so young. It’s not fair.”

“Who said life was fair? When a child dies, is that fair? Are wars or disease fair? Or even when a ghost crab grabs hold of a hatchling just after it pops out of the nest. Is that fair?”

“Oh, please,” she said sharply, tugging her hand away in annoyance. “I don’t want to hear platitudes. This isn’t some abstract intellectual discussion.”

He looked slightly wounded.

“Look,” she tried to explain. “When I read in the papers about a tragedy in which someone dies I feel saddened and say, ‘Oh, that’s too bad.’ Even when someone I vaguely know dies, I manage to go on about my business. But this is about
my
mother. I feel it intensely and it makes me so angry to feel so helpless.” She brought her hands to her face. “I don’t want my mother to die.”

Brett came around the table to sit by her side and put his arms around her. She felt very small and leaned into him, relishing the comfort she found there.

“I’m so scared. There’s so little I can do.”

“You’re doing a lot. You’ve come home, which I’m sure means a lot to her. And now you’re rebuilding the beach house, which means so much to you both. It doesn’t take brains to see the symbolism in that.”

“It feels like everything is spinning out of control.”

“Maybe it’s spinning into focus.”

She sniffed against his chest. “Maybe. I don’t know. I’m too much in the thick of it to see clearly. I have to get through to the other side first. It scares me that it’s all just beginning. I feel all alone.”

“But you’re not. I’ll be here.”

He didn’t say anything more, only tightened his arms around her. When he lowered his head to hers there was no nervousness or wondering whether she’d given the wrong cues. The current between them felt as natural and powerful as the flow of the mighty waterway yards away.

The following morning when Cara and Lovie returned home from their duties on the beach, the house seemed unusually quiet. No music blaring from the CD while Toy went through her morning chores, no humming in the kitchen. Cara saw Lovie standing rigid in the middle of the room with her head cocked.

“Listen,” she whispered to Cara, waving her closer. “Do you hear someone crying?”

Cara stood still and listened to the sniffling and muffled curses coming from Toy’s room. Lately, Toy had been keeping herself separate, going to her bedroom and closing the door. Meeting her mother’s eyes, Cara said sotto voce, “She’s been moody lately. It’s probably her pregnancy.”