The Time Between (6 page)

B
eing born and raised on Edisto meant that I had never wished or hoped to live anywhere else. The island rests along the South Carolina coast halfway between Bluffton and Charleston, guarding St. Helena Sound like an osprey guards her nest. Like most islands in the Lowcountry, it’s been inhabited and fought over for thousands of years, but it always seemed to me that the beauty of my Edisto was in the colors of the sky and the grass and the creeks that changed with the seasons and that made visitors want to stay. And pulled at the hearts of those who had been forced to leave her.

I smelled the pluff mud as we crossed over the Dawho River Bridge on our way to Edisto, imagining I could hear the teeming insects that lived in the tall marsh grasses of the tidal creeks and estuaries that sprawled like arthritic fingers around us. I focused on the distant horizon, the line where ocean met land, as if expecting to see my father’s shrimp boat. But his boat was long gone, as were all the other shrimpers who had once called Edisto home. It had been a dying industry even when my father plied these waters, and like him, all that was left of the industry were memories and faded photographs and the stories of the old folks who still remembered the glory days before gated communities and golf courses had crept into the Lowcountry like untamed kudzu.

“How does it drive?” Mr. Beaufain—Finn—asked. I found it easier to call him by his first name when we were away from the office. He was referring to the white Volvo SUV he’d given me to drive. It was normally used by Genevieve’s nanny, who was currently at home in Belgium with her family until the beginning of the school year in the fall.

“Great,” I said. “Drives like a car instead of a truck. Just don’t make me parallel park it.” I’d never had the regular use of a car, so it felt odd to be sitting behind the wheel of any vehicle, especially one that still smelled like new leather.

He smiled and I barely recognized him. Gone were the black suit, French cuffs, and tie, replaced with a collared knit golf shirt and khakis. His businesslike demeanor seemed to have been shed with the suit, leaving behind a man who looked a lot more relaxed and knew how to smile but still carried shadows behind his eyes.

“Don’t think there will be much call for that. There’s plenty of room for parking at Aunt Helena’s house. And I have a carriage house behind the house on Gibbes Street. Just in case you need to stop by to pick up some of my daughter’s things,” he added hastily, realizing at the same time I had that he was assuming I’d come to his house. He continued. “When Aunt Helena is feeling better, I’d like the two of them to spend some time together.”

I nodded, flicking on my blinker as he indicated a turn onto Steamboat Landing Road. I had rarely driven on Edisto. I knew every road, every beach access point, but mostly from the seat of a bike or johnboat. I had left the island after I’d been issued a driver’s license, but I’d still preferred to get around by boat or bicycle.

We turned again, down the narrow dirt road that led to the large white house overlooking Steamboat Creek, near the dock where I’d once seen Finn tossing his paper airplanes into the wind. I’d been in the johnboat with Lucy, eagerly paddling in the opposite direction so he wouldn’t see us, afraid the off-island boy would want to come with us. I hadn’t told Finn, unsure if he’d welcome the knowledge that I’d witnessed that, had seen his aloneness as a child.

The tires crunched over the unpaved drive, past the wax myrtles and a stand of pecan trees, until I reached the white house with the red roof. It had stood near the bend of the creek where it met the North Edisto River for nearly two hundred years, and it was clear from its defiant posture that it was planning on remaining there for at least as many more. A carved wooden sign that seemed to be almost as old as the house had been stuck into the earth right past the pecan orchard, announcing the house’s name:
LUNA POINT
.

I pulled up behind a large white Cadillac, a relic of the eighties. Finn caught my gaze and gave a wry grin. “I need to get rid of that, but I don’t want Aunt Helena to feel like I’ve taken away all of her independence, even if she knows she’ll never drive it again.”

I nodded in agreement. If it weren’t for Lucy and her Buick, I would have felt like a mouse in a maze with no exit. I turned off the ignition and we sat for a moment in silence. His long fingers drummed on his thighs and I realized with some surprise that he was nervous.

Feeling a tinge of alarm, I asked, “She knows I’m coming, right?”

He didn’t respond right away, which answered my question. I focused on not sagging against the headrest. “So what happens if she doesn’t want me to stay?”

He turned cool gray eyes on me. “She’s unable to determine what is in her best interests right now. As her guardian and only surviving adult relation, I have to decide what she needs. And what I need. I can’t be with her all the time, but I know she wants to stay in her house. This is the only way I can make that work for both of us.”

“All right,” I said, smoothing down my skirt and opening the car door. I glanced across the seat at him. “I just wish you’d explained that to me before . . .” I’d almost added
before I set all of my hopes on this.

He looked at me with understanding, and I wondered how I hadn’t noticed this about him before, hadn’t realized that his gray gaze missed nothing yet at the same time created a barrier to seeing what lay behind them.

“It’ll work out, Eleanor. It will.”

I was tempted to believe him if only because he said so.

The house was much as I remembered it, a raised cottage with a tabby foundation and front and back porches as wide as the house, each with a vista of creek or river. I was surprised to see that it was in good repair, having pictured it as being old and sick like the owner, then remembered that Finn was in charge of its upkeep.

The white clapboard siding gleamed in the buttery morning sun, the smells and sounds of the island pulling me back for a moment as I remembered my happy childhood spent barefoot on the beach, digging for clams with Lucy and Eve and the summer children. Something like pain pressed at my heart, reminding me of why I never looked back at those days. Remembering made everything so much harder, like the flash of a camera that blinded you and sent you stumbling.

Empty flowerpots sat on the steps leading up to the porch and on either side of the front door, the soil inside dry and brittle. Six white wicker rocking chairs faced sightlessly out toward the river, swaying like ghosts. Finn didn’t knock on the thick wooden door or press the doorbell before opening the door and motioning for me to enter.

I found myself blinking in the sudden dimness. Although windows covered most of the house’s façade, it was startlingly dark inside. I stood in a high-ceilinged foyer where a stairway with heavy wood balustrades led the way to the second story.

Wainscoting encircled the walls in the hallway and alongside the staircase, the steps carpeted with a navy blue oriental runner. All the wood was painted white, saving the interior from being overwhelmingly dismal. As my eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, I saw that the draperies were drawn over the windows. And as I allowed my gaze to scan the walls over the wainscoting, I began to understand why.

A collection of oil paintings of various sizes hung on the walls in the foyer, their colors protected from the sun and muted by shadows. These weren’t the typical paintings one found in a house, much less an island house. Knowing virtually nothing about art, I could still tell that these were very old. Stepping closer to what appeared to be a naked Greek god holding a trident and lounging on a cloud surrounded by cherubs, I could see small cracks in the paint. I could also tell that the paintings hadn’t been professionally stretched and framed. The canvases hung loosely in the frames, faint undulations still visible, as if the paintings had been kept rolled up for an extended period of time.

As if anticipating my question, Finn said, “The aunts brought them from their home in Hungary. I’ve stopped begging them to allow me to get them restored and properly framed. Or even appraised. Aunt Helena didn’t want me to touch them.”

I looked across the foyer to what appeared to be the dining room, where a large still life of a fruit bowl was centered by faded rectangular patches where other paintings had apparently hung.

“She moves the paintings from time to time, taking some down and hanging new ones or not replacing them at all. I’ve spent virtually every summer of my childhood here and watched her move the paintings, but never once have I been able to encourage her to talk to me about them. I just gave up, figuring it was one of her eccentricities.”

I raised my eyebrows. This was the first I’d heard about any “eccentricities.”

“They’re all adorable, I assure you,” he said, a faint smile teasing his lips.

I almost laughed, wondering if that was the first time he’d ever spoken the word “adorable” out loud. “What about Bernadett?” I asked. “Did she have any say about the paintings?”

He shook his head. “Helena was the oldest and Bernadett deferred to her. I suppose if one had to die before the other, it happened the way it should have. As much as Helena would prefer not to live without her sister, Bernadett couldn’t have.” Something shifted behind his eyes. “I loved them both, but Bernadett just seemed . . . broken.”

He stopped as if suddenly realizing he’d spoken aloud and regretted it.

The sound of footsteps from the back of the house made us both turn. A mature redhead wearing a bright floral dress and sensible shoes came and stood at the bottom of the stairs. She was short and stout, and she had to look up as she approached. Her face brightened when she recognized Finn.

“I thought I heard voices. Mr. Beaufain—it’s so good to see you.” She frowned, a deep V forming between her brows. “I’m afraid Miss Helena isn’t having a good day.” Her gaze slid to me in reproach. “I don’t think she’s up for visitors.”

“Aunt Helena hasn’t had a good day in a while. I think it’s time we changed that, don’t you?” He indicated for me to step forward. “Nurse Kester, this is Eleanor Murray. She’ll be spending time with Miss Helena while she recuperates to give you and Nurse Weber a break and to assist in my aunt’s convalescence in any way that she can.” He smiled, but it wasn’t necessarily a pleasant one. It was more like the smile of a person used to getting his way. Or that of a talk-show host who already knew what was behind the curtain. This was the man I recognized.

He continued. “Unless she’s having a medical emergency that I wasn’t informed of?”

Nurse Kester flushed. “No, sir. She’s just being uncommunicative and wouldn’t eat. She’s finally sleeping.”

Finn nodded. “We’ll let her rest for a bit, then, while I show Eleanor around. Please let me know when she wakes up.”

The nurse left and I began wishing that I could open the drapes. I craved light. I had ever since I was a child. Maybe it was because I’d grown up beside the great Atlantic, where the sun touched us first every morning, the reflected light illuminating our world as if the dark had never been.

“I’ve hired two full-time nurses for the time being, and they work out their schedule so that there’s always one of them here. There’s an old maid’s room off the kitchen that we’ve made into a little bedroom where they can sleep near Helena. I’m afraid she doesn’t allow them too much rest.” He stepped back. “Let me show you around.”

Opposite the front door was the short hallway where Nurse Kester had come from, which appeared to lead into a kitchen and the back of the house. Across the hall from the dining room was another room, with a matching fluted arch painted a bright white that separated it from the foyer. From where I stood, I could see the back legs of what looked like a wooden bench with a padded seat. A small tingle began at the base of my spine.

Finn’s cell phone rang and he excused himself for a moment to answer, leaving me to move forward on my own. I stopped in the room’s threshold, my fingers itching to throw open the drapes to allow in the light. The walls were papered in a bloodred floral pattern, making the room seem even darker. A large crystal chandelier dangled from the high ceiling. I searched the wall inside the doorway for a light switch and turned it on. The bulbs shone weakly through the crystal drops of the light fixture, their glow barely parting the dimness to illuminate several badly framed paintings. I didn’t look too closely at the art, as my attention was distracted by the large black piano that dominated the room.

The tingle that had begun at the base of my spine edged out with little fingers, like a river slowly flooding its banks. The piano was ebony satin, like ours had been, and was a little over six feet long. Its elegant legs tapered at the bottom into brass casters. It sat on an oriental rug, undoubtedly to protect the wood floors from the weight of the instrument, but the rest of the floors were left bare. I could only imagine the sound it would create in this room of high ceilings and virtually no other furniture besides two small chairs and a love seat.

But the top of the piano was closed, as was the fall board, and although it showed no sign of dust, it seemed to have been abandoned, its music silenced as if in mourning. I thought of the old women who’d lived here and of Bernadett’s death and Helena’s near death, and it occurred to me that the whole house was mourning along with the piano. I’d closed up my own piano after my father’s death, as if it contained all my good-byes. It had remained that way through our move to the North Charleston house and then until the new owners had come in a large truck to take it away.

“When Helena’s better, I know she’ll welcome the sound of music in here again.”

I turned, startled to hear Finn’s voice behind me. I nodded, my throat crowded with memories that blocked my voice. I stayed where I was, unwilling to move forward, as if by doing so I would somehow make the piano disappear. I seemed to do that with all the things I’d ever loved.

Swallowing, I said, “Does Helena play?”

His gray eyes seemed to be assessing me, and I found I couldn’t meet his gaze. It was as if he knew something I didn’t and was wondering if he should tell me or let me figure it out for myself.