The Beach House (38 page)

Linnea squeezed her fingers tight in a prayer and said fervently, “Come on, come on, come on!”

“Looks like they might come tonight after all,” Emmi said.

“They’ll come,” said Miranda with a definite nod of her snowy-white head.

“Oh goodie,” Linnea squealed, excitement oozing from her pores.

Way up the beach, the offending bright lights on the rental house suddenly went out. There was a muffled cheer from the gang at the nest.

“Good for Flo!” Emmi said in a whispered cheer. “Just in time.”

“How many do you think are in there?” Linnea wanted to know.

“We moved this nest so we know exactly how many. There are one hundred and six eggs.”

“How come the mother turtle leaves the eggs?” asked Linnea.

“Turtles have done it that way for millions of years.”

“I think that’s so sad,” the little girl said with a sigh. “Leaving all those little babies by themselves.”

Toy sidled closer. “It
is
kind of sad when you think about it. I mean, not just for the babies but for the mother, too. She has to leave her babies and never see them again.”

“I doubt she thinks about it much, frankly,” Emmi said. “She just follows the old call of the wild.”

“It’s not natural for a mother to leave her babies,” Toy argued.

“It’s perfectly natural,” Brett explained in his easy voice. “In nature there are two types of reproducers. One is the maximum investment group. In this group a lot of time and effort is spent on a small number of offspring. Like elephants and dolphins. Then there is the minimal investment group. They have lots of offspring, then leave. It’s called predator glut. The purpose is to overfeed your predators so the species will survive. Frogs, fish and turtles are in this group. In biology, the individual’s worth is nothing. The species is everything.”

Cara gave him a pretend sock in the arm. “I can’t take him anywhere.”

“What?” he asked her. “I’m just answering her question.”

They all started laughing and Brett said, “What?” again with wide, uncomprehending eyes.

“But what about humans?” Toy asked with persistence.

“Humans fit into both strategies,” he replied. “For them it’s a matter of choice.”

“Isn’t that what got Adam and Eve tossed out of the Garden?” Emmi quipped.

Toy didn’t smile. She looked down and scratched the sand with her finger, chewing her lip. “I think it would be better if the mother stayed with her babies. Don’t you?”

Cara searched her face, tuned in to the urgency in Toy’s voice. She looked to Brett.

“I really couldn’t say,” he replied evenly. “Turtles have survived a long time in this scheme.”

Toy stilled her hand, then scraped the sand clean with a single swipe.

“There’s an ancient myth that says the earth rests on the back of an old turtle and this ancient turtle mama takes care of the eggs while the other mother turtle waddles off. I find that beautiful,” said Emmi.

“It’s kind of like the mother turtle leaves her eggs to the Turtle Ladies’ care, too,” Toy said, latching on to this idea. “I guess she knows her babies will be well taken care of after she’s gone.”

Cara shivered in the sweltering night. She was afraid for Toy as she caught a glimpse at where the young woman’s train of thought was leading.

The turtle season moved into its final phase. Cara could sleep later in the morning since no one was calling to report turtle tracks. Altogether, forty nests had been laid on the Isle of Palms and Sullivan’s Island.

The mornings may have grown quiet, but the nights were jumping. Cara and the rest of the Turtle Team were baby-sitting nests most nights, checking for crab holes, managing small crowds of tourists, often divvying up the nests due between them. Even still, some wily turtles slipped past them unnoticed, sometimes emerging en masse after an early-morning rain or, at other times, waiting until everyone had grown weary and left for home to sneak out of the nest and make their dash to the sea. Only their tiny little tracks found in the morning—dozens of them fanning out toward the sea—gave a clue to their great escape.

For Cara, it was the summer she’d always dreamed of. She loved her routine of rising early to birdsong and all the activity on the beach. She looked forward to her solitary time along the ocean as she searched for turtle tracks. She’d never felt so at peace with herself. She loved, too, the camaraderie she felt with the other ladies as they sat on the cool sand together under the different phases of the moon and just talked about anything and everything. The sea turtles may have given the group structure and focus—there were rules to follow and problems to solve—but the real strength of the group came from the bond of mutual care and trust that grew between them. Sitting under the moonshine around the nest, Cara at last felt part of a close-knit circle of friends.

Most of all, she loved the stolen moments with Brett. Over the past few months he’d taught her to be spontaneous. They held hands and jumped into the ocean when the whim struck. They laughed until tears filled their eyes. They threw back their heads to sing out loud to a favorite song. And sometimes, while walking the beach, his eyes would gleam in the moonlight and he’d lead her far back in the dunes to a spot hidden by the sea oats. Then he’d blanket her with his body under a wide-open sky.

When she wasn’t with him, she thought about him. She’d look down while talking on the phone and see that she’d scribbled his name a dozen times. He lent her one of his T-shirts at the beach one day and she kept it to sleep in at night just so she could smell his scent and dream of him. When she heard a love song on the radio, she was sure it was written for them. These feelings were all new for her, and they were all consuming.

“Sugar, you’re in love,” Emmi told her one night as they sat on the beach together at a nest due to hatch.

“I am not. This is just the summer fling I never had as a kid. I’m not in love. I’m
in fling.
”

“There’s no such thing as
in fling.
I ought to know. I married my summer fling.”

“That doesn’t qualify. Your summer fling became a year-round thing. By definition, a summer fling must necessarily end at the end of summer.”

“Oh, so you know the definition now?”

“Absolutely. It’s already written in some song. Something about when those autumn winds start to blow. Come on, you know the song.”

“Okay, okay. Let’s just figure this out.” She stretched out her legs and lifted her hand to count off. “You had the requisite props for a summer romance, I’ll give you that. First and foremost, you had the moon.”

“Not just any moon, the Carolina moon. And it was shining over a body of water. We have to get the details straight.”

“Okay again. I agree.” She held up a second and third finger and continued counting off. “You had the sunsets. The boat.”

“Boats are a plus. Not required.”

“No bonus points. What next? Um…you had the kisses.”

“Oh, yes. Definitely the kisses. My God—”

“Stop it. You’re killing me, Cara. I don’t even want to know.”

“Sorry. Go on.”

“Let’s recap. You’ve got the moon, the body of water, the sunsets, the boat, the kisses. What’s missing?”

“The parent. Or the camp counselor, whichever. I qualify there, too. Mama actually waits up for me, and I’m forty years old. Can you believe it?”

Emmi tossed back her head and laughed raucously. “Okay, you win hands down. You’re not in love. You’re
in fling.
Are you happy?”

Was she happy?
Thinking about it, Cara wished she could say that she was. It was mid-August and the tourists were heading home as schools reopened. The blissful summer was moving fast, and the thought of what fall would bring only filled her with dread.

Cara felt the full impact that her summer was coming to an end the morning she awoke to find her mother gone. Panic swelled in her chest when she saw that The Gold Bug was still parked outside the house. Hurrying outdoors, there was no sign of her mother in the yard, either. Cara raked her hair from her face, revving up her sleepy mind. Lovie was not confused like Miranda; nonetheless, Cara couldn’t imagine where she might have gone. Or when.

Until she noticed that the red bucket was missing, as well. She quickly tossed her nightgown from her body and slipped into her shorts, a top and sandals. The screen door swooshed as she hurried outside once again. A chorus of birds sang in the trees and the sand in the path was damp and cool as she ran to the beach. She arrived just as dawn was rising over the ocean.

She found her mother standing at the shoreline, a slight, solitary figure with a bright-red bucket dangling from her hand. Her long, white nightgown was flapping in the brisk breeze. Bathed in the misty pink-and-yellow light, she appeared a ghostly figure looking out to sea.

Cara approached her mother quietly, not wanting to startle her from what seemed a deep and private contemplation. “Mama?”

Lovie turned her head slowly and Cara was shocked to see tears flowing down her mother’s cheeks.

“What’s the matter, Mama?”

“They’re gone,” Lovie replied, her voice raspy and weak.

“Who’s gone?”

“The loggerheads. The mothers. They’re gone now, to wherever it is they go. I can feel it. It’s over. And I miss them already.” Her lower lip trembled as she brought her fingertips to them and tried to control her emotions. “Oh, Cara. I miss them.”

Cara had no words of solace. What could she say? That they’d be back next year? There was no comfort in that. She knew her mother was feeling the pain of knowing that this was her final season. For her, the loggerheads were truly gone.

And soon, so would her mother. Cara felt hot tears flood her eyes. For the past two months she’d denied the truth of what the end of summer would ultimately mean. She’d forced it to the back of her mind as she would any reminder of the cold winter ahead while the sun still shone warm.

“I wish I could go with them,” Lovie said, looking again out toward the swells. “I want to follow my instinct and swim away with them in the currents. To have it all be behind me. Wouldn’t it be lovely?”

“Not yet,” Cara said in a broken whisper and wrapped her long arms around her mother, holding tight. “Please, Mama. Don’t swim away yet.”

Her mother stroked her hair. “My own, dear Caretta.
You’re
still here, aren’t you? That’s such a comfort.”

While her mother wept in her arms, Cara experienced an odd reversal of roles, as if she were the mother, strong and capable, and Lovie were the child, small and vulnerable. It was as moving as it was terrifying.

Mother and daughter stood together on the beach as morning broke around them. The tide was going out, littering the beach with shells, wrack and sea whip. Together, they wept for all the mothers that had left, and for those that were soon leaving.

After the mother turtles departed on their solitary journey, Lovie’s health declined rapidly. It was as though, in spirit, she had indeed swum off with the loggerheads. She’d been so stoic about her illness that Cara, Toy and the others had fooled themselves into believing that, with a positive spirit, Lovie could live forever. Now, however, her energy waned along with her optimism. She grew more moody and withdrawn. Whenever Cara tried to lure her down to the beach to sit by a nest, she’d just shake her head, claiming that her coughing had kept her up most of the night before and made her too tired. When Cara tried to interest her in the turtle records, or get her opinion on a nest problem, Lovie would lift her slender shoulder, then go to her rocker on the front porch and stare out at the sea. She was drawing inward, swimming in her own currents, and Cara couldn’t reach her.

As Lovie lost weight and grew smaller, Toy was getting bigger as she entered her final weeks of pregnancy. She was cooking up all manner of healthy recipes to tempt Lovie’s palate. But Lovie only nibbled like a mouse, then turned her head away with an apology. “It’s the coughing,” she’d say again, clearing her throat. “It takes my appetite away.”

“If it wasn’t for liquid nourishment, you’d waste away,” Toy complained, tears in her eyes. “Look, Miss Lovie, I made a cheese soufflé. It’s nice and soft. Try it.”

“I’ll try,” Lovie replied as usual, without heart.

Neither Toy nor Cara could argue with her because the coughing was horrendous. One night they’d both gone running into her room, afraid she’d choke to death on her own spittle. After that night, despite Lovie’s resistance, Cara put her foot down and declared they had to see her doctor.

“No, he’s so busy,” Lovie complained. “We mustn’t bother him.”

“Mama, it’s his job. Besides, how can we help you if we don’t bother him once in a while?”

“He’s not going to tell us anything we don’t already know.”

Cara could only look at her mother. They were moving into dark, unfamiliar territory—and they needed help.

The minutes spent dashing from the nest to the sea are very dangerous in a turtle’s life. Ghost crabs tiptoe across the beach to attack the hatchlings. Only one in thousands of hatchlings may survive to maturity.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

T
hree days later, Cara sat in the waiting room of the oncologist’s office located inside the hospital complex. Around her, older men and women sat in a depressed silence reading old, worn magazines, some carting along oxygen tanks that clanked when they moved, a few dressed in those flimsy hospital gowns that were universally awful. Cara wouldn’t touch the wrinkled, curled magazines or the arms of the chair. She didn’t want to touch anything. She tried to compress herself and stared at her hands in a private misery.