Creola's Moonbeam (14 page)

“Oh yes, his name is Beau; Honey and Beau. Think we could be from the South? I think ‘Honey and Beau’ sound as if we fell out of a magnolia tree in the sprawling front lawn of a white-columned home.”

“Charming. Why, in my opinion, Honey and Beau is a perfect pairing of names.”

“Let’s talk about you, Beatrice. Do you have a Mr. Beatrice at home?”

The woman threw back her head, and laughing wildly, replied, “We’d be here through the winter were I to start on my matrimonial sagas.” She slapped me on the shoulder. “So tell me, do you and your darling Beau have any little honey bees in your hive?”

“We have two children, Mary Catherine and Butlar. They are marvelous, of course. Aren’t all children?” Now, Beatrice, you keep changing the subject. “You’ve mentioned Jennings. Did you stop after achieving such a level of perfection in your son?”

“You’re correct. Jennings is my crown jewel. But don’t dodge my questions. I’ll not relent now. I already know about me and mine; I simply must learn more about you and yours. Tell me, dear, where do you and Beau, little Mary Catherine and Butlar live?”

“Atlanta.”

“My son’s city!”

“Hmmm. I have an idea. After I go back to Atlanta, you might encourage Jennings to accept an invitation to our home for dinner one night?”

Beatrice replied only with a vague shake of her head. “My boy is just so preoccupied. Besides, you know these young people — rarely do they follow their mothers’ suggestions. Honey, you are a darling to even consider going to such trouble. So thank you, but likely no.”

I sensed some tension and decided to change the subject. “I should clarify something here. My children are all grown up. Mary Catherine works for an advertising agency in Chicago and Butlar is in graduate school at the University of Georgia.”

“Remarkable! So, dear heart, tell me about this empty nest of yours.”

“It’s a long, long story. I’ll go into that at another time, but suffice to say, we bought a suburban fixer-upper in nineteen eighty-two and have been working on it for more decades than I care to admit!”

“How lovely.”

“And you? Where do you live, Beatrice, when you’re not at the beach?”

Beatrice launched into a monologue. I discovered that she was, indeed, a very well-traveled woman. Calling herself “something of a vagabond,” Beatrice was much happier answering “where” questions over family topics. My friend’s list of domiciles began with “whenever I travel in Europe,” or “when we lived in Hong Kong,” or — the most extraordinary reply of all —”when my husband, now let me see, which one was it? Oh yes, of course, Godfrey, when Godfrey worked for Her Majesty in London —”

“
Her Majesty
, as in Queen Elizabeth?”

“Oh my, that was so long ago. No dear, my Godfrey worked briefly for the Queen Mum.”

I smiled. Could it be that this Beatrice actually knew Ponce de Leon?

Beatrice checked her wrist watch. “My dear girl, it’s getting on in the morning. You and I have walked for so long that I’m starting to show my age! I hope you will have a happy and a most productive weekend.”

Productive, there she goes again. Pushing me to work. Sounding like Creola
.

“Thank you, Beatrice, but, lest you forget, I am on vacation. This gal won’t be doing anything productive!”

“Whatever you say, dear. I will look for you on the beach Monday, just as the sun comes up. Don’t forget, Honey Newberry, and you are to come by for juice afterwards. Ta Ta.”

“I’ll be there.”

My whimsical, friend strutted away. I stood and watched until she disappeared beyond a distant sand dune. I could hardly wait until Monday. I wanted to see the amazing Beatrice’s home.

You ought to spend the weekend writing, Creola whispered.

I ignored her.

Without Beau around,
the weekend crept by. Saturday’s rain only made things worse. As soon as there was a break in the weather, I grabbed my purse. Checking to make certain I was armed with a couple of credit cards, I got on my bike and peddled across a bridge to a beachside village.

In and out of antique stores I drifted. Even though the spending demon was calling to me, not one purchase did I make. This, for Mrs. Newberry, was a first, particularly as I was on vacation. Beau would be proud of me.

I concluded that shopping solo was a very boring activity. Proper browsing required at least one girlfriend and two or more was preferable. Even shopping with Beau was better than by myself. I actually missed my husband’s habit of fidgeting like a child. He didn’t mind spending money so much as he minded his wife’s showing him every potential purchase.

“Get whatever you want,” he would desperately announce from his seated position. Commonly known as the ‘husband chair,’
 
this most comfortable seat is always conveniently located in specific sections of the nicer shops. “My feet hurt,” he’d complain. “Are you ready to leave yet?”

“I’m sorry, dear. We’ll go right away. Just let me pay for this one thing.” I would motion for the salesperson and cheerfully take home the very item I’d spotted an hour before.

Riding my bike back across to the island, I passed a young family of four. I ached for our now-grown children. Mary Catherine hardly had the time to call, much less visit. Butlar’s graduate schoolwork was all-consuming. He had even less time to come. A proud mother was I, yet seeing the young family at play made me wish for what was over.

I pulled into a video rental store and got a movie I knew Beau would despise. Popcorn and a movie, this would be an apt solution for my blues. Robert Redford.

“Perfect,” I said aloud.

I rallied.

Robert Redford notwithstanding, I was delighted when the weekend finally came to an end. On Monday, I woke up early. My excitement to see Beatrice’s place roused me from bed like a bugle call. I slid into my slippers, threw on my robe, and turned on the kettle.

Stepping onto the deck, I took a sip from a mug of hot tea. The sky was not yet tinged with pink. Checking the clock—I surely didn’t want to be late—I gobbled a breakfast bar and poured my regimen of vitamins onto the glass table.

One of these days, my family would find the lifeless body of Honey Newberry. The story in the newspaper will read: “The Georgia author apparently choked to death on a calcium tablet.”

Unscrewing the cap on a bottle of water, I picked up the calcium and a multi-vitamin whose label read “for seniors.” I raised my eyebrow at the idea of being regarded a “senior citizen.” Heck, I remember well being a senior, a senior in college. Time certainly had a wicked sense of humor. Had I changed? Hardly at all, I concluded on this day that held so much promise.

With another swallow of water, I took my controversial hormone along with an aspirin to avoid a heart attack. Next I took my allergy medicine, a mystery pill the health food store clerk assured me would grow fingernails, something for my eyes, and vitamin E to stave off brain loss. My mother’s frequent lament rang in my ears, “Growing old is not for sissies.”

With the tablets successfully consumed — I hadn’t choked to death — I took off my nightgown and began to squeeze into my bathing suit. The Robert Redford film, hmmm, popcorn had swelled my fingers enough that my rings couldn’t make it over my knuckles.
Salt
. The suit presented a greater challenge than usual.

I reached for my cover-up. Sunscreen, hat, I was good to go. I hurried from the condo onto the beach. Like clockwork, I came across the handholding couple and pictured myself with Beau. That he would soon be at the beach for the three-day weekend pleased me.

The eastern horizon, painted with pink streaks, slowly made way for the glowing orange ball. Becoming more vivid with each splash of the surf, the sky opened and gave birth to the sun. The sight never ceased to overpower me. For a moment, I was totally spellbound by the grandeur of sunrise.

I saw Leather Lady pumping and prancing down the beach. Some fifty yards behind her sprinted a man who could have been the woman’s masculine double. A marriage made in heaven! Had I not been in a hurry to meet Beatrice, I may have tried my hand at matchmaking.

A small, brunette boy and his father worked side by side on a sandcastle, one nearly as tall as the child. The boy was happily building turrets with his red bucket, while his dad, who worked with the intensity of a building engineer, was scooping out canals in a frantic effort to stem the rising tide.

A baby girl cried from her seat beneath a large umbrella. Her concerned mother fretted about the rising sun’s changing angles and adjusted the infant’s pink terrycloth hat to shield her face.

As a group of laughing women passed by, I began to worry that something could have happened to Beatrice. I was concerned that Jennings’s visit had proven too much for her and that she wasn’t quite up to the morning’s activity. On the other hand, I was also hopeful that Jennings had decided to stay an extra day. How nice to imagine that Beatrice was still relishing his company.

On I walked.

“Come at once!”

Alarmed, I quickly turned around. I didn’t see anyone, but it was Beatrice’s voice.

“What’s wrong? Where are you?”

“Hurry!”

I followed her anxious voice behind a sand dune. I found Beatrice standing there happily, almost breathless. She pointed to a mound of sand topped with small yellow flags. “Turtle eggs!”

I had seen many such mounds all along the beach. I’d observed the turtle-patrol people, but never before had I witnessed such an intense show of enthusiasm. From what I had already learned about Beatrice and her diverse interests, it was fitting that she be one who would take up the plight of the baby turtle.

As I attempted to listen attentively, Beatrice, the turtle woman, provided with me more information about sea turtles and about their threatened offspring than I would ever need.

“You must come with me when they hatch. It is quite a happening!”

“I’ll be there.”

Beatrice cupped her hand to demonstrate. “A newly hatched baby is no bigger than a silver dollar.”

“My goodness.”

“Yet they grow up to become huge sea creatures.”

“Amazing.”

“Yes, those precious few who make it, that is. You simply have to be there to believe it. Hundreds of wee ones come forth from the sand and scamper toward the water. I swear to you, it is more exciting than human birth!”

Beatrice’s arms and legs began to flail about. She dropped down on all fours. The elderly but intensely energetic lady began to crawl quickly toward the surf, looking more like a crab — a somewhat
clumsy
crab.

Concealing my laughter, I cheered her on. “Go, little turtle, you can do it!”

She had a good fifteen yards to travel. I danced along beside her, yelling, “Go, go, turtle, go!”

Seconds later, much faster than any turtle could have accomplished the same feat, Beatrice victoriously paddled into the Gulf. She swam out a good twenty yards. Springing up out of the water, she shouted, “I made it, I made it, I’m going to be a big turtle some day!”

A man jogged toward me. “Is that woman crazy? Does she need help?”

“No, no. She’s just victorious.”

“Different strokes for different folks.” He tipped his baseball hat and continued on his way, though he turned around so he could run backwards for a few yards, staring at Beatrice warily.

I threw my head back and roared.

“Who was that?” asked Beatrice, wading out of the tide.