Hatteras Girl (Heart of Carolina Book #3) (10 page)

When I get to the Grille in the late afternoon, Betty Lynn tells me that she liked the article. “He’s single, you know,” she says. I know she means Davis.

Another young waitress comes by and says she read the article because Betty Lynn told her about it. “You write real good,” she says and then heads over to Buck to smile at him.

As I sip my Diet Pepsi and eat a plate of crisp fries, I wish Buck would come over and tell me what a great interview I did. He’s had plenty of opportunity. Instead, he says, “Too bad your parents abandoned you.”

My parents didn’t abandon me, of course.

They met in Charlotte at a mutual friend’s and were married in a little Korean church on Bright Street in 1971. All these years later, my father never tires of telling us that the day they were married the street was bright, the lights in the church were bright, the photographer’s flash was bright, and yet, even with all that brightness, my mother outshined them all.

Right after my birth, and a year before Mom became pregnant with Ron, Dad’s job with the accounting firm known as Morton and Stafford transferred him to Nags Head. There my parents bought a three-bedroom cottage and raised Ron and me, paid high homeowner’s insurance rates, dealt with hurricanes and a few evacuations, ate Sunday dinners with Dad’s side of the family, and were always looking for an excuse to leave permanently. The excuses came, and they were twofold. The first was that I’d left for college at UNCCharlotte. The second was that during my freshman year, Dad’s company merged with another. Under the new management, Dad was frustrated. So once Ron left the nest for his first year at Wake Forest, they needed no more prompting; the decision to move back to Charlotte was as clear as a summer sky. I was in Charlotte and so were their old friends. Plus, Charlotte being the financial capital of North Carolina meant it was a place where Dad could thrive. Dad found a bank to work for and started doing some consulting work on the side. Mom was now able to shop at the Korean food stores she had so missed in coastal North Carolina. Back with her Korean friends, the afternoons of drinking ginseng tea and eating sweet bean cakes stretched into the early evening as her laughter filled my parents’ new home.

I finished my four years at UNC-Charlotte, worked at
The Daily Pulse
, all with the consuming desire to come back to the Hatteras area. Charlotte is a fine place if you want to live with traffic, construction, and noise. I don’t want to sound too self-absorbed, but I feel that the ocean has my name on every one of her waves. Except for the violent hurricane waves; I won’t be responsible for those. When I heard that
Lighthouse Views
was looking for a columnist, I sent my resume to Selena Thomas. The day she hired me, I called Minnie to let her know I was coming back home, at last.

But Buck pretends that my parents left the Outer Banks and left me. I like to look at it as they came to be with me in Charlotte while I was in school, and then
I
left
them
to return to my roots.

Selena calls me on my cell phone, and to minimize distractions, I take the call outside. “Jackie,” she says as I blink sunlight from my eyes. “Will you pick up paper plates on your way back to the office?”

“Sure.”

“Hurry.”

“Okay . . .” I wonder why paper plates are such an urgent need for my boss. She’s usually good about honoring our lunch breaks without disturbance.

As though reading my mind, she chirps, “Blackberry cheesecake. It’s from that new deli. If we like it, you can interview the owner.”

As I head back into the Grille to pay my bill, Selena says, “Oh, and get forks, too. And toothpicks.”

“Toothpicks?”

“You never know when you might need one.” She lets out a low laugh and then disconnects me from her in typical Selena fashion.

13

Sheerly doesn’t need to know
about my date tonight, although I’m sure it won’t be long until she finds out. This is one date she’s had nothing to do with, and although I wouldn’t admit it to her, I am more hopeful because this is not someone she has lined up for me. All day at the office, my mind focused on Davis Erickson.

I’m taking Zane to Ropey’s. Minnie switched shifts with someone and is at the surf shop until nine, when the store closes. She says after that she’ll pick up her son at Ropey’s.

At six o’clock, Zane whines as we drive to my uncle’s Sound-side home on Cactus Court. Zane sticks his lower lip over the top one, then yells at me that he wanted to stay at home. I tell him that we don’t always get what we want.

Ropey greets us, slipping off the porch rocker just as my truck pulls into his driveway. He stands barefooted on the pavement smoking a cigar. Beatrice Lou is out at a board meeting at the library, he tells us. Ropey smiles at Zane and says that the two of them are going to have a great time as I unfasten Zane from the car seat. Immediately, like a ball that bounces off the ground, Zane takes off across the front lawn, running toward the back of the house.

I yell, “Zane! Get over here.”

“Kid has a motor that won’t quit,” Ropey says with a puff of his cigar and another smile. He eyes my beige capri pants and heeled sandals. “Who is the lucky man tonight?”

“We better find Zane,” I say, taking long strides to the backyard. I can’t see or hear the child, and this sends a few extra beats through my heart.

Ropey follows as we make our way over the recently mowed grass, slivers of it strewn across the driveway and tucked inside the flowerbeds. I look in all directions over the riding lawn mower that is parked near the open garage, and then head into the dark, dank garage in case Zane is hiding in there. I call his name, listen, and, hearing nothing, head out into the sunlight once more. I paste on a smile for a neighbor three houses down who waves, but I don’t see Zane. The Sound and pier are visible, and my heart rockets to my throat. No wonder Mrs. Bailey never wanted us near the water, I think, as the potential danger that lies within the waves grips my insides. I quickly scan the area, wanting to spot a blond-haired boy with way too much energy. I call his name, then walk closer toward the Sound, looking below at the marsh that stretches before it.

“Zane!” Ropey is by my elbow.

A barking dog switches my attention to the neighbors’ home to the right of Ropey and Beatrice Lou’s. I know their mutt isn’t fond of children. Aunt Sheerly says that dog once chased a child up the drain spout and onto the roof, but I think she was in an embellishing mode.

Suddenly, we see a little boy nearing the fence that circles their aboveground blue swimming pool.

Motioning to Ropey, I march over to the house.

Zane’s eyes meet mine when I get halfway to him. He yells, “No!”

“Get back here!” I cry, and that sets Zane running, away from the pool, and zigzagging back toward Ropey’s yard.

Ropey, his face red and beaded with sweat, storms after the kid.

“No, no!” Zane flings his arms up and down, propelling himself once more toward the Sound.

Ropey is slow; the donuts and cigars have not helped.

Determined to end this charade, I dash ahead of Ropey, my feet twisting out of my shoes. I gain my balance and race to catch up to Zane. Right before he reaches the pier, I grab his arm, miss, and reach for it again. This time my fingers squeeze his elbow. He falls onto the ground, pulling me down. We tumble onto the grass, inches from the swampy marsh, breathing hard.

“Zane, you’re a bad boy.” I sound like my mother.

Ropey stands above us, his breath coming in short pants. Removing his glasses, he wipes them with a limp handkerchief. He places them back on, adjusts them, and says, “Got my exercise for the week.” Then he extends his hand, and I take it.

Standing, I see that my capris are stained with grass. I move closer to Zane, and as I walk, a pain shoots up my right leg. Wincing, I say, “Zane, get up now.”

“No. I don’t want to.”

I pull a blade of grass off my hair, brush at a green spot on the knee of my capris. Now I’ll have to go home and change clothes. I don’t even know if I have anything clean; my laundry basket is plump with dirty clothes in my closet.

Ropey helps Zane up and places his hands on the boy’s shoulders. “Zane, you can’t do that again.”

“I can! I will!” His words are loud, yet he does not try to squirm away.

I try a calmer tone. “Zane, you can play with Ropey. Watch TV. It’ll be fun.”

“I want my mommy!”

“She’ll be here soon. Just have fun playing.”

There is a sob to his voice as Zane announces, “I want my daddy.”

Ropey and I just look at each other.

“I’m leaving for a little while,” I say.

“No.” Now the child is clutching my hand, digging his short fingernails into my palm.

Anger rises to the point that I feel I could snort it out of my nostrils. The mounting pain in my leg consumes me. I push aside my own urge to sob. I grab Zane’s hand and start to hobble toward my truck.

Ropey gives me a questioning look.

Forget the date. I feel worse than I did a month ago when Selena tore into my piece on the new barbecue restaurant by the Wright Brothers Museum.

“Zane, do you like to tie ropes? Can you use a glue gun?” Ropey is treading after us, trying to find a way to make Zane stay.

“I’m taking him home.” I pull Zane along, picking up the pace.

“What about your date?” Ropey calls.

I shake my head.

At home, I send Zane to his room. After a large glass of iced tea, which cools my dry throat, I call Davis. “I’m sorry,” I breathe. “I can’t be there tonight.”

“Why not?” Davis’s voice holds concern.

“Remember Zane?”

“The boy?”

“That would be him. He’s got some issues to deal with. He wouldn’t stay with my uncle tonight while his mom is working.” I omit the part about falling into the grass and hurting my leg.

After another glass of iced tea and three aspirin, I almost call my mother and ask her to FedEx me that bear chair. At this point, I’d like to glue Zane’s little butt to it.

Maybe Zane is a normal kid and I’m just not cut out for children. Perhaps I should marry someone who doesn’t want any children. We could be happy together and just roll our eyes when other couples’ kids disobey or throw a tantrum. Ours could be the life that looks down on parents who let their children bump into strangers without offering apologies, parents who let their children dribble juice down high chairs in restaurants and then cram crackers into the crevices.

I call Minnie, tell her everything, ashamed that my annoyance shouts so loudly at her. Her sigh fills my ear through the phone.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I hate having to work these crazy hours. Jackie, it will get better, I promise. Once we own the bed and breakfast, everything will be better.”

When she gets home at nine twenty, I’m in my room eating a bowl of Cocoa Puffs. I’ve let Zane eat a bowl in his room, as well. Minnie walks into Zane’s room and firmly closes the door.

Davis calls me later when I’m almost asleep. The sound of his voice calms the rough edges, hemming me in. “We’ll go out another time,” he says. “There’s a great Italian restaurant in Arlington.”

“Arlington? As in outside of D.C.?”

“Yeah, it’d be fun to go there together one day, don’t you think? My parents took me to northern Virginia a lot as a kid.”

I try to imagine him as a child. I wonder if he raced across lawns or had to spend time in a bear chair. “Do you want children?” I ask. “I mean, ever?”

“Kids are better when they belong to you. Someone else’s are rarely fun.”

“But do you want kids?”

“Not right now,” Davis says, making me laugh.

The next day my leg smolders with pain and I’m still annoyed with Zane. I’m mad at Minnie for having to work all the time and for needing me and others to take care of her child. Above all, I’m fed up with Lawrence for dying and leaving behind such a mess.

“God, why do these things happen?” I ask as I stand in front of the bathroom mirror, keeping my weight off my aching leg, and brush my teeth. I suppose that ultimately I’m frustrated with God for not stopping Lawrence’s boat from being capsized and for not moving the motor just a little bit before Lawrence hit his head on it. Why couldn’t Lawrence’s arm have hit the motor instead? Or he could have missed the motor altogether, as his fishing partner, Dek Brimmer, did. Both men then would have been able to signal for help, and when the Coast Guard barge found them in the midst of the giant waves, they would have had complete relief, not despair that one was not going to make it.

There are those who say God can do anything, and I believe it. I’ve never doubted that He hears our prayers, even the selfish and lame ones. Ever since I was little I’ve held awe for God. “He made the sea and all that’s in it,” my Sunday school teacher told our first-grade class.

But today I do not understand how God can stand all the chaos and confusion in this world and not be so overwhelmed that He would just want to weep, and then step down here to gather his people and cradle us all the way home to heaven.

14

Bert slaps his computer
while Cassidy mixes soy milk with a ginger and avocado paste. She says that the infomercial claims this concoction curbs the appetite and makes skin softer. Maybe it’s as miraculous as my mother’s ginseng.