The Sandcastle Sister (5 page)

“She’s better now that the goat’s-milk soap is bringin’ in some money.” Lily contorts her legs into the seat so that she’s hugging her knees and resting her chin on them. “But you’re right. It’s not good, the way things are
 
—not for her or Evie Christine. Coral Rebecca and Levi do all right.”

We wind along Buxton Woods in silence, the ancient maritime forest, with its loblolly pines and live oaks, sheltering the road from the mist and wind.

Lily Clarette sighs. “But if it’d be wrong for me to get married
because
of the fam’ly, it’d be just as wrong for you to
not
get married because of them.”

“You think
that’s
what I’m doing?”

“Yeah . . . I kinda do.” She pulls a face, and clearly it hurts her to say something that might upset me. The other side of that coin is that she loves me enough to do it anyway. “I know you’re always real worried about bein’ anything like our people, but a bat-blind fool can see you love Evan and he loves you. Y’all two are perfect for each other.”

We pull into the parking lot of the bookstore, and the conversation ends naturally. Inside the little shop, the proprietor is knitting a hat behind the counter. She’s delightful and gives us a tour of the historic building, even showing us the notches in the exposed rafters
 
—evidence that the tiny house was constructed from old shipwreck timbers. Lily snaps photos and I make a mental note that this place needs to be on the next book tour. It’s just too good to miss.

We leave with a brochure about Hatteras Island, postcards, and a stack of Lost Colony material for Lily’s history report. The storeowner also fills us in on the research project at Benoit House Museum. “You won’t have much luck getting to talk to them the next few days, though,” she warns. “The museum director is out of town, so there won’t be anybody around but volunteer docents. They don’t know much about exhibits that are still in the works.”

We thank her for her help and move on. It’s time for us to make our way to Sandy’s Seashell Shop.

As we drive back down the island, Lily homes in on the Paris conversation again. But in the Sandy’s parking lot, she seems to regret having brought it up. “You’re not mad at me, are you?”

“No, of course I’m not mad at you. I know you’re only saying it out of love.”

“’Kay.”

We go inside and peruse the selection of seaside treasures offered up
 
—everything from Christmas ornaments shaped like the Cape Hatteras lighthouse to stained-glass sun catchers to beach dresses for the coming summer. The wall across from the coffee bar is filled with signs bearing fun seaside phrases like
Sand, Sun, Surf
or
Home Is Where the Beach Is
or
Relax! You’re On Island Time.
The place is being presided over by a Boston bulldog in brightly colored swim trunks. His matching bandanna has
Chum
embroidered on it. Lily quickly falls in love with Chum and carries him around the shop, lamenting the fact that pets aren’t allowed in the dorm. She misses the ever-present plethora of dogs and puppies at my father’s farm.

Before long, we have the chance to meet Chum’s owner, Sandy of Sandy’s Seashell Shop. Sixtysomething, with short, spiked-up blonde hair, she fashions many of the stained-glass and jewelry creations in the shop. I can’t resist telling Lily to pick out one of Sandy’s sea glass necklaces for herself. Lily debates forever, carefully examining one, then the next, and holding them to the light. So rarely in our childhoods were we ever allowed to select something that cost money in an actual store.

Finally, Lily chooses a moderately priced sea glass heart pendant. “This way we can get one for each of us.” She holds out a cobalt-blue drop and smiles at me. “Sister hearts.”

“That’s really sweet.” I take mine and slip it into place while Lily clips hers. We seal the deal with a hug.

Sandy is delighted. “My sister, Sharon, and I make those together. I love it when sisters buy them for each other. Made by sisters, for sisters.”

Lily turns back to the case, her lips twisting to one side. She clutches a hand over her new pendant, studying the remaining sea glass creations. “Maybe we should get one for RC. To celebrate, kind of.”

“RC doesn’t quite seem like the jewelry type.” As usual, Lily’s thoughts are loving and sweet. But even though I feel a bond with RC that I hadn’t expected to feel, a gift doesn’t seem appropriate at this point.

Sandy looks at us with an expression of
Eureka!
as we walk to the checkout counter to pay. “Are you two related to RC? I thought you looked a little familiar. I was trying to figure out who you reminded me of.”

“She’s our half sister, but we only just found out. We haven’t ever met before today.” Lily spills the story so freely, I feel my cheeks heating up.

“It’s complicated,” I add.

Sandy doesn’t seem at all concerned. Giggling, she swats a hand in the air, as if to wave away any notion of embarrassment. “Oh, honey, life usually is. You hear all kinds of stories, owning a coffee shop. Especially in a place like Hatteras.” As she rings up my order, she goes on to tell us how she knows RC. They’ve been acquainted for quite a few years
 
—ever since RC and Johnny bought the boat repair shop over in Elizabeth City. Part of the business was a mobile service on the Outer Banks. “They’ll come over in the fall and winterize the boats, then come again in the spring, clean out the antifreeze, take the covers off and that sort of thing, wipe down the cabins, and make sure they’re all ready to go.” There’s a flash of emotion then, and she picks up a few stray sugar packets on the coffee bar, shaking her head. “Of course, I don’t know how they’ll keep on, what with Johnny as bad as he’s been with his Parkinson’s disease lately. But they’re trying, God bless them. They’re good people.”

The door chimes as it opens, and the phone rings almost simultaneously. “Well, speak of the devil, there’s RC.” Sandy moves toward the phone in a short-legged shuffle.

“I
thought
my ears were burning.” RC grabs her ears and pulls them outward. She has ditched the bandanna. Without it, she looks younger and even more like us. “Don’t listen to a word Sandy says.” She sends a mock scowl toward the proprietor. “That’s how she sells stuff in this place. Talks people’s legs off until they give in and buy something just to shut her up.”

“Now you know that’s not true.” Sandy scoffs and points at RC, but addresses us. “
I’m
not the one. It’s that one
there
. That one there will talk your left leg off and then start on the right.”

RC shakes her head and grins as she shrugs out of her coat and tosses it on the rack by the door. “That’s the pot pointing at the kettle.”

Sandy rolls a look at us just before picking up the phone. “Consider yourselves warned.”

Seashell Sandy turns out to be absolutely right. This new sister of ours can talk just about anyone under the table. We spend hours making up for lost time, learning about one another and constantly being reminded that we’ve only scratched the surface. By the time we finally discuss leaving the shop, it’s well past dark outside and Sandy has long since thrown RC a set of keys to the front door and gone home. It’s like an episode of
Cheers
, where Sam Malone leaves Norm to close up shop. RC even serves us sandwiches and cookies from behind the coffee counter, then sticks a twenty in the cash register. She won’t let me pay for the food, even after we argue about it.

I gather that this isn’t the first time RC has made herself at home here. Apparently the women of Hatteras tend to hole up at Sandy’s. They call themselves the Sisterhood of the Seashell Shop. RC is an honorary member, since she doesn’t live on Hatteras full-time. The locals come here to pass the cold winter months, play board games, sip warm drinks, and keep one another company until the next season’s tourists flock in. Sandy would’ve stayed, except she has guests at home.

When we do finally move stiffly out the door with RC, the night-cold of the nor’easter is a surprise. Clutching my sweater, I ask RC about the nearest hotel.

“No sense in that,” she answers. “There’s an extra bedroom at the place where we’re staying. You two can have it. You can meet Johnny, too.”

By day three on the Outer Banks, it’s official. I’m no longer the eldest of six siblings; I am the second in a line of seven. RC is our sister in every sense of the word. We’re even kicking around plans to attempt a meeting between RC and our sisters back home, though we haven’t told them about it yet. Delivering this news and arranging a gathering will require some careful handling. I’ve warned RC that the rest of the family lives within the confines of the Brethren Saints’ lifestyle, and some of that might be a shock to her system. She’s about as far from
confined
as can be.

This new sister of ours is a free spirit. She is, without doubt, the most peaceful soul I’ve ever come across, and that peace runs all the way to the core. She doesn’t try to mold life into an imagined shape, but instead takes it as it comes.

“Expectation is the thing that’ll kill you,” she says as we walk along the shore near the place where she stays when she works here on Hatteras. It’s not the fancy kind of beach house, towering three stories on stilts, but a little saltbox built in the fifties. Appropriately enough, the cottage is located on Providence Cove Drive.

“That’s the mistake. See?” RC goes on, her olive skin reddened by the morning chill. “It’s like, if you walked along the shore here and had it in your mind exactly what each wave was supposed to leave behind, instead of being surprised by what
does
turn up, you’d be upset that it wasn’t like you planned. What’s supposed to be a beautiful mystery would just be a constant disappointment. That’s the way I look at it. Life is a beautiful mystery. Somebody
else
is in charge of the ocean. You don’t get to make a list of what it should bring.”

Her work-worn hands illustrate as we walk, our jackets bundled tight. I’m surprised that RC has turned philosophical. She doesn’t seem like the type, at first, but these past two days, I’ve been wondering about that sense of peace she gives off.

“It’s like with Johnny getting sick. Why’d that happen? He’s a good man. I can’t explain it, but it is what it is. I’m glad Johnny has good days when he can go out and work on the boats with me. Even on the days when his tremors are bad, I’m grateful he’s there waiting when I come back in the evening. I’m happy we get to spend more time together. You
can
be happy where you are,
if
you stop writing the list. That’s the truth. A long time ago, I tore up the list. Had to, otherwise life with Johnny would’ve made me crazy. The man’s not a list maker.”

I smile and nod and try to assimilate RC’s views on life into my own, but the two are polar opposites.
You, Jen Gibbs, are a list maker,
the still, small voice of wisdom whispers inside me.
You’re trying to keep a death grip on the ocean.

I gaze out at the sea, realize how completely pointless that is as the waves curl and break in random patterns, stretching toward our feet. They never quite reach us, just above the tide line. These early-morning journeys with RC, while Lily sleeps college-kid hours, have been so good. Not only have I come to know this new sister, but I’ve pondered my own life in view of what I’ve learned about hers. Despite the almost unspeakable things she endured growing up, she has chosen to be happy where she is, to live in the now.

My sister is proof that it’s possible to leave the past in the past, to deny it any further power. I’ve been
stuck in reverse
, as RC would put it, still tripping over all the things I thought were behind me. I think about the hyperactive tennis game I’ve been playing with my heart
 
—in one court one minute, in another the next.
Marry Evan? Yes. No. Maybe.

Why the constant indecision? Why the lack of faith? Isn’t the way RC loves Johnny and the way he loves her proof enough that we have the potential to heal from even the deepest wounds? Look what she has overcome.

Now she points toward a stretch of shore where, last night, we stood with Lily, admiring a sandcastle that some visitor must’ve spent hours building and perfecting when the nor’easter broke and left behind a sunny afternoon. This morning, the beach is as pure as a field of driven snow. Early sunlight casts diamond dust over the damp sand.

“Not a sign of it,” RC observes. “See? It’s ready for a new day. Clean slate.” She brushes a hand toward the horizon. “Just another little miracle, isn’t it?”

“I guess it is.” I’ve never thought of the tides coming and going as miracles, but they are. They’re proof of how very large God is and how very small I am.

I want to be like this stretch of freshly cleared shore. At times I think,
I’m ready. Let the waves wash over me.
But then I catch myself running from the tide just before it happens. Lily hasn’t stopped nagging me about returning to Europe. I almost did it, but then my head filled with worries about trips to the airport and leaving Lily to drive Evan’s Jaguar back to the mountains. She’s too inexperienced to make that trip alone.

There are reasons not to go running to Paris, not the least of which being that Evan’s book events are finished. He’s been unexpectedly held over a few more days for a banquet sponsored by his French publisher. He’ll see me when he gets home.

And once the tour is over, we’re officially done doing business together,
he reminded me on the phone last night, meaning that he wants an answer to the question he asked me in Bath.

Not if you write another book for me,
I teased.
Then I’m your editor again.

If that’s the problem, I’ll sell the next book to someone else,
he joked.

I suspect that Lily really has filled RC in on all of this. I have a feeling RC’s observations about the sandcastle and life lists are meant to show me that it’s possible to let the ocean take care of itself.

“Guess we better get back to roust Lily and see how that man of mine’s doing this morning.” RC turns toward home, and I’m almost reluctant to make the change in direction. I enjoy this time alone with her. I’ve never had a big sister before.

I want to walk across that waiting stretch of new, sun-glittered sand.

I take one more look at it, and something shoots straight from my heart to my mouth without traveling through my brain. “Where’s the closest airport?”

RC pauses midstride, turns and crooks a brow. The morning breeze snaps and pops her windbreaker. “Airport? Well, that’d be Norfolk.”

My mind races toward that freshly laid sand. “I’m going to Paris. I am. I’m going to Paris to meet Evan. I can book a flight to Greenville for Lily and have someone come pick her up there and take her back to Cullowhee.” No more excuses about where to leave the Jaguar or anything else. I’ll find some sort of covered, secured parking for it and just . . . go.

“Well . . . well, that’s a switch.” RC blinks once, twice, three times, seeming strangely concerned. “You sure?”

I start to rethink it, then admonish myself. I am
not
backtracking this time. I’m not. I’m stepping out across that pristine sand, where all that existed yesterday has been washed away. I’m making new tracks. Watch me run. “Yes, I am. I’m sure.”

RC pulls a cell phone from her pocket, and I think she’s going to help me book a ticket. Instead, she says, “Let me text Johnny and make sure I’m right about the airport. It might be that, to go someplace international, you’d be better off to hop over to Raleigh. If you’re gonna end up there anyway, you might as well just drive that direction and catch a plane there.”

I stare out at the sea and take in huge drafts of cool salt air and watch the waves curl as RC hunts and pecks on the old-fashioned flip phone, apologizing all the while because she’s a slow thumb typist. Messages go back and forth, but when it’s said and done, she tells me, “Johnny’s checking on it. He oughta have it figured out by the time we get back to the house. He’s good with that kind of thing.”

On the way home, it hits me that my decision to go means our time with RC will be ending. Lily will understand, but she’ll miss being here with our new sister. “We really have to get together again soon, after I’m home.”

“Oh, we will,” RC promises confidently, but I notice that I keep having to slow my pace to match hers. Maybe she’s sad about our visit ending too. “Soon.” She pauses to pick up a tiny clamshell, its two halves still joined at the base. “Angel wings.”

The iridescent interiors reflect the morning sun in miniature rainbow curls. “Amazing it made it here in one piece.”

“I’ve never had sisters before.” RC echoes my earlier thoughts and tips the shell into my palm. “I never had anything to do with my family, other than being in contact with Robby a little. My Johnny didn’t have any family to speak of either. I did try to find Mama for a while after I was grown, but no luck. Johnny and me have made our tribe out of friends wherever we’ve lived. But it’s nice to find some leaves on the family tree after all. Kinda fits with an old nut like me.”

We laugh together, and RC shoulder-bumps me, her version of a hug. She’s not the gushy type. The rest of the walk, we stroll in silence, zigzagging away from the chilly waves, each lost in our own thoughts of life and the sea.

When we get back to the cabin, Johnny is moving around the kitchen with his walker, making oatmeal. “Mornin’, pretty lady,” he greets RC cheerfully, his voice less affected by tremors than usual. His condition changes day by day. “That goes for the both of ya.”

RC sidles into the tiny kitchen and kisses him tenderly on the cheek, cupping his face with one hand and holding it to hers. “I told you he was a charmer,” she says to me. “If you can find one as good as my Johnny, you’d better grab him quick, while you can.”

A private look passes between RC and Johnny. “You check on the airport for Jen?” she asks.

Johnny’s mouth purses contemplatively. “Yup, I did. It’d be Norfolk. And lil’ sister’s already in there gettin’ showered and packed and ready to go.” He thumbs toward the bedroom where Lily was sleeping peacefully when I left. The door is open, but next to it, the bathroom door is closed.

I’m relieved that Johnny has already told Lily about my plans, and she’s not protesting a plane ride back to Greenville. I was afraid she’d dig in her heels and insist that she should drive the Jaguar to Cullowhee while I flew to Paris.

But she comes out of the bathroom smiling, with her hair in a towel. “All I’ve gotta do is throw stuff in my duffel bag . . . well, and get my hair dry, of course.” She’s probably noticed that I’ve been keeping my things neatly stacked in my carry-on bag, as if part of me knew all along that I’d eventually muscle up my courage.

“Good. It won’t take me long either. I’ll get on the computer and book flights in a minute.”

“I think Johnny was lookin’ up some for you already.” Lily glances toward the kitchen.

“You got a couple options late in the day,” Johnny confirms. “Keep in mind, it’s a far piece to the airport from here. You gotta go all the way up the Outer Banks to the north bridge, and then an hour and a half to Norfolk.”

Lily nods along and I can see they’ve talked about this while RC and I made the trek home. “And, Jen, don’t worry if you can’t get us headed out at the same time. It’s not a problem for me to hang around the airport and work on my research paper. I’ve still got a lot to do. I wish we could’ve stayed here ’til Benoit House Museum was open, though. Guess I can talk to them on the phone and stuff.”

“Or come on over to Elizabeth City again,” RC interjects. “Johnny and I’ll bring you down here to Hatteras anytime you want.”

Lily nods, beaming at the idea. Then she thumbs toward the front door. “Hey, ummm . . . can I have the keys? I thought it’d be easier to load our stuff if we backed the car up to the stairs.”

“Let’s just load it where it is. We don’t have all that much to carry down.” It’s not that I don’t trust Lily with the Jaguar . . . but I don’t trust Lily with the Jaguar. That’s Evan’s baby, whether he admits it or not.

An eye roll indicates that Lily was hoping to get behind the wheel while she still could. “’Kay . . . I guess. Give me twenty minutes and I’ll be ready.”