Hatteras Girl (Heart of Carolina Book #3) (2 page)

“I’ll have Diet Pepsi.”

“You drink that diet stuff?” When he makes a face similar to the one Minnie’s son, Zane, displays when Minnie insists he try a bite of flounder, I feel my heart slip into my sandals.

“I like the taste.” I try not to sound too defensive.

“I read how they make the diet stuff. Disgusting. I’d never touch it,” he tells me. “That low-calorie soda isn’t good for you, anyway.”

Perhaps I should have asked his approval before ordering my beverage. When Betty Lynn comes by to take our order, I eye Douglas to see if he’ll comment on my choice of the chicken salad sandwich.

He doesn’t have anything to say to that. He orders a Reuben without any mayo and asks if he can have fries instead of coleslaw. He tells me he doesn’t like mayonnaise. And that he doesn’t eat broccoli. Or artichokes. And on pizza, he prefers just sausage and the best brand is actually made in Bari, Italy, and called Bari Sausage.

I feel like I’m supposed to be taking notes.

He then tells me he would like to be in Asia, and I wonder if he’s saying this for my benefit since I’m half Korean. All my life, people have either tried the affirmative by saying something like, “I really like ramen noodles” or gone to the other extreme and made jokes about slanted eyes. No one has ever told me they would rather be in Asia.

Through the window, I watch a seagull swoop onto one of the thick posts by the pier. He poses as if waiting for a photographer to snap his portrait for a postcard.

Sometime after Betty Lynn brings our meals, commenting as she always does that “The fries are extremely hot, so be careful,” and Neil Young’s “Heart of Gold” has finished, Douglas tells me he recently spent five weeks in the Philippines. As I try to recall where that country is located on a map, and then am pretty sure it’s south of Mom’s homeland of South Korea, he says, “I fell off a jeepney once.”

He looks at me expectantly. Swallowing a bite of chicken, I wipe my mouth with a napkin. The paper napkins here are large, but stiff. Buck’s told me with a smile that they’re starched at a nearby dry cleaner. “What’s a jeepney?” I ask Douglas.

Leaning across the table, his elbows touching the edges of his plate, he explains. “Jeepneys are old American G. I. jeeps converted into public transportation. They’re open in the back where you enter and exit. Passengers sit on parallel benches. The jeepney drivers are madmen as they skirt around Manila. It can be a harrowing experience.”

I try to picture one of these vehicles as Douglas continues with his story.

“The driver let the six people in front of me off, and they managed to stay safe, but when it was my turn to step out, he just took off. He didn’t even bother to check his rearview mirror, I guess. I had one foot on the road and one in the back of the jeepney.”

I swallow a mouthful of Diet Pepsi and try to imagine the scene. I’ve spent all my life in North Carolina; I don’t even own a passport.

“But I was only bruised a bit because I fell on my face. I didn’t need stitches or anything.”

“Oh, good,” I say weakly. I stare at the rest of my sandwich and then twirl my fork around in the coleslaw. I know the cook in the kitchen who makes the coleslaw; they call him Dude of Slaw. I’m pretty sure Buck gave him that nickname.

Douglas’s story is like the bunny on the Energizer commercials; it keeps going and going. Around a mouthful of bread and corned beef, he says, “That wasn’t as bad as when I got stung in the South China Sea by something that looked like a baby shark.”

“Really?”

He continues, the food in his mouth packed in each cheek. “We were scuba diving at a coral reef. I felt something tug at my leg and then felt this burning pain.”

“How horrible,” I say when he pauses to take another bite of his sandwich.

“Blood was gushing out, I mean it was gruesome. Then my whole leg began to swell.” He moves his hands across his plate for emphasis. “I managed to get out of the water without too much difficulty. Then I couldn’t move my leg. It was throbbing with this terrible pain.”

“How horrible.” I guess I won’t eat any more of the chicken salad.

“The friends I was with wanted to get me out of the sun, so they found this cave down by some rocks. I could hardly walk but managed to go inside the cave. It was dark and filled with bats and snakes.”

Again I say the only thing that comes to mind: “Horrible.” Suddenly I wish I was home playing my flute, or walking on the beach, or watching the sunset.

“The snakes weren’t poisonous. At least that’s what Sergie told us. However, the bats were swooping low and tugging at our hair.”

I feel claustrophobic, and as he continues on, I try to refrain from saying again how horrible this all sounds. Suddenly, something inside me tells me that I don’t have to stay any longer. My meal is finished—well, almost—and I don’t want, or need, dessert. I recall a sitcom episode I watched with Minnie in which the main character was out with a drastically boring date and pretended she got a text from her mother. She claimed her mother was in jail and she had to go bail her out. Could I pull that off?

I reach into my purse, find my cell phone, and take a breath. I rub my thumb across the front of the phone as Douglas talks about his hospital visit to treat his infected bite. Through the window, the sky’s light has faded, the seagull taken off from its perch on the pier.

Douglas doesn’t seem to mind that I’m more interested in what’s outside. His story is still going. “The doctor spoke with a heavy accent, so I only understood every third word. From what I could tell, he was saying things like
needle
and
injection
and I swore he said
surgery
.”

When he pauses to take a sip of his non-sugar-free beverage— sweet iced tea—I realize this is an opportunity I can’t miss. Flipping my phone open, I pretend to read a message. I hope I sound truthful as I exclaim, “Minnie needs me!” I can’t say my mother’s in jail; she’d never forgive me if she found out.

Douglas says, “The leg healed and I was back scuba diving a month later in Florida. There’s barely a visible scar now.”

I gulp, hoping he isn’t about to raise his pant leg and show it to me. Gathering courage I repeat, “Minnie needs me.”

He has already started in on another saga about his friend from Jamaica. Suddenly, something clicks; his mouth stops moving. “Minnie?”

Finally, I have his attention. “Yes, she needs me right now.”

His face holds confusion.

Quickly, I add, “She has a five-year-old.” If that doesn’t work, I can tell him that her husband died and her mother, a stroke victim, sits all day in a wheelchair at Morning Glory Nursing Home. Those are the playing cards I keep in my hand to use when I decide we all need a little sympathy. Although the other night, Minnie didn’t think I should have used them just because the pizza deliveryman brought pineapple pizza instead of extra-cheese. We got two free cheese pizzas and a profound apology; I was grateful, and hungry.

Douglas doesn’t respond, so I say, “Zane is a lot to handle. I have to go now.” I stuff my cell phone back into my purse.

His face looks like a fallen branch after a thunderstorm—twisted, dark, and bent out of shape.

“I’m sorry.” I rise, my purse and the fisherman’s hat in one hand.

Three women seated at a table near us are fixated on me. I think I recognize one; she likes her hair frosted and is always telling Aunt Sheerly that her son is going to be the next president of the United States. Sheerly replies, “Is he single? Because my niece is a lovely girl. She plays the flute, you know.”

I lower my voice. “Really, I need to go.”

As I leave, winding my way through the tables and booths, Buck gives me a quizzical look across the bar. I almost want to let him know why I’m leaving early, but something tells me it’s best to head out the door and fill him in later.

3

I drive to the Bailey House.
Just like the song about the horse knowing the way through the woods to Grandmother’s house, my truck is familiar with the route to this bed and breakfast by the Albemarle Sound.

The air tingles with the softness of spring, permeated with the scent of sea salt. I roll down my window, and coolness flutters against my bare arms. My fisherman’s hat mocks me as it bounces on the passenger’s seat. I see Aunt Sheerly’s face, her sly smile as she asks me how my date went. “Was he a nice man? He’s wealthy and available, you know.”

I already know that I will reply that yes, he seemed fine, but I don’t think it will work out. That’s what I said last month when she set me up with Cuddy Jones. His real name’s Christopher Cudland Jones the third, but like many kids, he received a nickname from his elementary school peers. Cuddy had a massive beard, and I never knew where his eyes were focused. At least tonight’s Douglas Cannon had warm eyes.

The next voice that comes to me belongs to my mother. “You not tell truth. You break Ten Commandments.” For someone so well schooled in the rights and wrongs laid out in the family Bible, I should be better at avoiding lies. “Minnie really
could
need me now,” I say aloud in my defense. “I’m not a big, bad liar. Just a little one.”

As I pull into the slender driveway of 3 Red Pelican Court, my headlights shine against the brick two-story Bailey House Bed and Breakfast. This home’s large front windows have been boarded, dark shutters pulled over them like sleepy eyelids. The front door, a deep scarlet color during my childhood, looks worn and dull now— neglected over time. I inspect the roof, the eaves, the two dormer windows that protrude from the upstairs bedroom known as the Earl Grey Room, the tilted balcony off the English Breakfast Room, the two dirty white columns by the front stoop, and the winding stone walkway leading up to the main door that always opened so comfortably for us.

This house has been a respite for me since my middle school days when Minnie and I first went there with Irvy, Minnie’s mom. After that initial visit, Minnie and I often stopped by the house after school. We’d follow the sidewalk down Juniper Lane, duck under the sloping branches of the mimosa tree, and then make a right onto Red Pelican Court, a short cul-de-sac. Once we were at the Bailey House, we’d hop up the seven brick steps to the front door. I knew to let Minnie be the first inside; even as a child she was opinionated, dramatic, a little bossy—and she liked to be first. But she was a loyal friend.

At a rectangular butcher-block table reserved for Minnie and me inside the Baileys’ forest green sunroom, Mrs. Bailey would greet us with her crooked smile and British accent. “Girls! How delightful to see you. So glad you came round to pay me a visit. Put your book satchels down and have a seat.”

Minnie and I smiled whenever she called our book bags
satchels
. We’d slip them against a corner of the dining room, out of the way of the guests who were seated in the parlor reading the daily paper. I always felt Mrs. Bailey had been waiting all day for this moment when we would walk in; she was just so pleased to serve us her renowned lemon cookies on floral-scented paper napkins. Glass tumblers of raspberry cream soda were also brought to us by the home’s loyal handyman, Ogden. I knew that if I said, “Thank you, this is very, very delicious,” with an emphasis on
very
, Mrs. Bailey would grin and then give a slight nod toward Ogden. Ogden would make his way into the kitchen slowly—he did have a bad leg—and when he entered the sunroom again, new bottles of soda would be in his hands. As he took off their caps and filled my glass, and then Minnie’s, Mrs. Bailey would place one more powdered-sugar-glazed cookie on my napkin. She wouldn’t give Minnie another treat until Minnie agreed that “Um . . . oh yeah, this is all good. Very good.”

Seated in my truck, I reminisce about the night Minnie and I were invited to sleep in the English Breakfast Room. That was the first night we decided that when the Baileys got too old to run the bed and breakfast, we’d take over. We made a pact to be like the Baileys and provide savory and healthy breakfasts, delicious desserts, and a listening ear for all weary travelers. Our plan was sealed when we heard a young tourist from Michigan tell us that she’d been spinning in circles for years, her heart and mind foggy with uncertainty. Thanks to five nights under the Baileys’ hospitality, she now knew exactly what she wanted to do with her life. She would head back home to Ann Arbor, get her degree in oceanography, and wait to marry her boyfriend. She had taken care of her ailing mother for three years until her death, and now it was time to pursue her own dreams.

It’s easy to remember how I felt that night when I realized how helpful Mr. and Mrs. Bailey had been to that young woman. They were older than my parents, yet they bridged the generations by reaching out to any tourist who came across their home’s threshold. They made every guest feel like someone special. I was proud to know them.

“Minnie,” I’d said later as we sat on the glider under the pergola, swaying lazily beside the Siamese cats, Buoy and Gull, “we can carry on this house’s traditions.” My heart was calm and full at the same time—a feeling you get when you recognize that what you’re called to do is as clear as each star in the Big Dipper on a wintry night.

Suddenly, into my remembrances, lights flash twice.

4

The driver’s-side window
of the blue car lowers as the vehicle pulls up behind my truck. I hear a male voice call out, “Don’t you know it’s dangerous to be out here all alone?”

Relief washes over me like a foamy wave on a sweltering day. I’m glad that it’s my uncle’s voice that breaks the silence of my own private sanctuary and not the words of the convict from the eleven o’clock news that Minnie’s been telling me about.

“Hi,” I say. I roll down my window, stick my head out, and give Uncle Ropey a smile.

“You do know it’s not safe for you to be out here by yourself?” Ever since Aunt Sheerly’s salon was robbed, Uncle Ropey believes he needs to let us know that these parts aren’t as safe as they once were. Sheerly feels the same way; I know because she wrote a song about it. Some of the lyrics are: “They’re gonna get that bum. His time will come. The jail will hold him tight so that he will be out of sight.” The tune is catchy, and after hearing her sing it one Saturday at The Rose Lattice in Buxton, I found myself humming it at my desk at work.