Hatteras Girl (Heart of Carolina Book #3) (21 page)
I gulp and wonder if I’ve ever been to a five-star restaurant. “Sure.
That would be great!”
He kisses me twice. “I’ll pick you up at seven, then.”
As I drive to my duplex in Waves, I make up a song lyric that I think Sheerly would approve of: “There’s nothing finer than to be in Carolina when romance radiates around you.”
Then I realize Davis didn’t give me the key. Of course, I haven’t given him the papers yet.
Although there are some gray clouds
forming in the west, the rest of the summer sky is a bright blue canvas perched over the Outer Banks. Minnie has asked me to pick up her migraine prescription at CVS, and with a Saturday afternoon to myself, I feel like driving, so I take the bottle of pills to Over the Edge.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Minnie says when I hand her the medicine. “But thanks.” She takes a sip from a can of Mountain Dew and downs a tablet. “Zane is eating dinner with Ropey,” she tells me.
“Seems he likes being with Ropey these days.” It has been a while since he’s run away like a wild animal or refused to listen to Minnie and me. Perhaps he’s ready for kindergarten and riding the school bus next week.
“I can’t believe he’ll be six in November.” Minnie sighs. I know she’s wishing Lawrence were here to watch their child blow out the candles on his next birthday cake.
I’ve come to the store for another reason, too. Summer is nearly gone and I’ve yet to fly a kite—one of the things I love to do and that has been a tradition of mine ever since Dad bought a kite for Ron and me to fly right here when I was six. Ron was four and grew bored with the kite when it didn’t go high enough for him.
“Well, son,” Dad had said, “the only way it will go higher is if we cut the string and set it loose.”
“Do that, then!” Ron cheered. “Cut the string!”
I was appalled and hoped that our father wouldn’t do something crazy like that. Dad smiled at his little boy, patted his head, and said, “You can do that when you get older and spend your own money on a kite.” Then Dad and I leaned our heads back to admire the colorful billowy object fluttering high over our heads. Dad and I always seem to be on the same wavelength; Ron is the monkey wrench. The next time we flew a kite, we went to Jockey Ridge without him.
There are a few kites left in stock at the store, and I pick up each one. I debate about getting a kite with a sunflower on it. Then I see one with a starfish. When I turn to my right, there’s Buck.
“Hi, Hatteras. What are you up to?” He’s wearing a pair of khaki shorts, flip-flops, a green T-shirt that brings out his eyes, and a winning smile. No wonder customers at the Grille specifically ask for him to be their waiter, especially the teenage girls.
“I think it’s time to fly a kite.”
He raises his eyebrows. “Where are you going to fly it?”
“Just around the corner. What are you doing here?”
He moves over toward the wall where various items hang on pegs. “I need a whistle.”
I note that there is stubble on his chin. With his shoulder-length hair and unshaven face, he looks more rugged than usual, and I consider teasing him about it. I ask, “A whistle?”
“For my kayak. The cheap one I got a couple years ago isn’t loud enough.”
“Why does a kayak need a whistle?”
“I know,” Minnie says from behind the counter where she’s just sold a paddle to a young man in blue swim trunks. “In case you’re stuck and need help.”
“Really?” Buck and I were just on the water in kayaks and I didn’t have a whistle.
“You never know what will happen on the high seas.” Buck grins at Minnie, and I wonder if the two of them should get together. Minnie looks especially cute today with her hair in a ponytail and her eyes made up to look smoky like the women in fashion magazines. I’ve never really thought of her as Buck’s type, but now I wonder. Yet, there’s something about Minnie and Buck getting together that doesn’t feel right to me.
Minnie and Buck talk about kayaks while I decide to purchase the kite with a sunflower on it. The plastic casing tells me that it’s made of ripstop nylon with a fiberglass frame. I turn the kite over and see that it’s twenty-two dollars. For that price, it’d better last a long time and not break free like last year’s kite did! I buy an extra spool of string, knowing that the amount that comes with the kite is never enough.
At the counter, I take the merchandise from its packaging, put the frame together, and then attach the string. I ask Minnie if she has an old piece of cloth around the shop for a tail. She looks in the back room and then asks a coworker. They find a dingy white cloth lined in blue. “That will work,” I say. “Thanks.”
As we head out of the store together, Buck with his whistle strung around his neck and me with my kite, Buck asks, “Do you let other people join you when you fly?”
“Right now?”
“Yeah.”
The sun glares in my eyes. I pause to dig into my purse for my sunglasses.
Buck holds the kite for me until I find my cheetah-spotted glasses and slide them over my eyes. “Thanks.”
“Are you going to make me ask again?”
“Ask? Oh, of course you can come with me.” My tone is light and breezy; I like how at ease I feel around Buck.
Behind the parking lot is a railing, and in front of that lies the beach. Buck follows me, our flip-flops sinking into the sand.
The wind is stronger than it usually is, and the kite lifts easily into the air. I grip the spool of string. One time I accidentally let go and had to chase my kite across the shore.
There is something so freeing about watching a kite soar high above me, something invigorating about a piece of plastic or nylon that has no power of its own but is held aloft by the force of the wind. It reminds me of God’s behind-the-scenes work in our lives.
My mind wanders to Davis, and I wonder what he’s doing today. We went out to an elegant dinner at Swift’s in Kitty Hawk a week ago. The wind tossed our hair as we drove with the top down on his BMW. After a while, I pulled my hair back with a clip and hoped it looked all right. I reached for Davis’s hand, so happy to be with him. I talked of the Bailey House but didn’t get much of a response from him. I then asked about his job, wondering how many people worked for Rexy Properties and if he liked traveling so much. Again, he only mumbled a few things and turned the conversation back to me.
As we left the restaurant, I knew something was wrong and tried to make things better by leaning over to kiss him and holding his hand on the ride back to Waves. He kissed my cheek as he dropped me off at my duplex, but his lips felt like one of Shakespeare’s chew toys, rubbery and cool. Later, after I brushed my teeth, I sent him a text message. He didn’t reply.
Suddenly, I’m back in the moment, realizing I’ve made no attempt to have a conversation with Buck. “Are you off work today?” I ask.
“Right now I am.” Buck’s eyes watch the kite as it rises and dips and twirls like a dog chasing its own tail.
“All day?”
“I have to go in for a shift later.”
“You still like working at the Grille?”
“It’s friendly.”
I smile. “Friendly is important.” I bunch up my toes, feeling the sand between them. I wonder if I should try to ask Buck about his dad again. Each time I see his dad in the gray Griffins construction van, I want to know what happened between Mr. Griffins and his son.
“Blake wants to promote me to day manager.”
“That sounds good.”
“Yeah, I guess it does.” Buck watches the kite, a yellow blob against a blue sky patched with thick clouds. The string tightens as a gust of wind flutters the white cloth tail. “So how’s your work? Still like doing all those interviews?”
“Most of the time.” I think of the one with Davis, the way he shared with me about his childhood, hobbies, and the Bailey House, all while he made a peach smoothie. “I like writing about people. I enjoy asking the questions, digging deeper.” The kite drops, but by adjusting the string, I get it to its zenith once more. “Selena can be a bother every once in a while.”
Buck nods. “Yet you want to give it all up for the Bailey House.”
We stand silently, watching the kite soar higher into the sky.
“I do.” I expect him to give me one of his quizzical looks, but he doesn’t. Instead, I feel like he understands, like he comprehends what I feel even though I haven’t explained it well.
“Writing is a gift you have.”
I smile at Buck, then fix my eyes back on the kite. The wind is keeping it in the air so well I hardly have to do any work. Buck steps closer to me; I can smell his aftershave, mixed with the salt and sea breezes.
“But, Jackie . . .”
“Yeah?”
“Be careful. The Bailey House is . . . old. You should get an inspector to look it over before signing anything with Rexy Properties.”
“You think?” I fix my gaze on him.
“Promise me you’ll get an inspection first.”
He sounds like my dad.
Heavy clouds the color of espresso beans spread over the shore. I watch them looming like a flock of crows.
“Thirsty?” Buck asks after a moment. “I’m going for a Coke.”
“At the Grille?”
“Nah, I think I’ll try that little place near Breakfast at Andrew’s.”
“The bank?”
He smiles. “I think it’s called Captain’s Corner. Serves coffee and Coke and Diet Pepsi, so you would be in luck.” His eyes hold expectancy.
“Sure, why not?” I wind in the kite, which is a struggle against the unruly wind.
Buck takes hold of the string, quickly pulling it as the kite lowers from the sky.
I wrap the string as fast as I can around the spool. I see that there’s a tangle that looks like a spider’s web gone awry. “Oh no. I hate when that happens.”
Buck says, “Hold the kite.”
I grab the frame to keep it from breaking away as Buck sits on the sand with the spool of string. He begins to detangle the mess. His hair blows in the wind while his eyes focus on the spool. I note how tan he is as his fingers work to remedy the tight web I’ve created.
“You don’t need to bother. Let’s just go.”
Diligently, he grasps the string, looping it under and over a number of times.
I brace the kite and look up into the sky, which has turned nearly black now. “Let’s just go,” I say again as my hair whips into my mouth.
Buck continues to unclog the string until, like magic, the tangle disappears. He winds the string onto the spool, secures the end, and grins at me as he stands. “Patience, Hatteras Girl.”
“Thanks,” I say, and immediately, the first raindrops hit us like buttons falling out of the clouds.
Rushing over the dunes, we get to the parking lot at Over the Edge.
“Follow me,” he calls as he unlocks his Jeep.
Steering my truck through the downpour, I follow him.
Water rises onto the narrow pavement of Route 12. I see Buck’s taillights and maintain a slow pace as we drive over the bridge to Nags Head.
We park in a tiny lot; I make sure that there are no towing signs because I have been towed once before near here, the summer I was seventeen, and it was not a pleasant experience.
Quickly, dodging raindrops, I follow Buck into the coffeehouse just as I catch a glimpse of a gray van with Griffins & Company painted on the side. In the front seats are two men; one is Buck’s father. I look at Buck purposefully, but he doesn’t meet my eyes.
Captain’s Corner smells of strong, fresh coffee and sugar. For a second, I think about what kind of coffee I want to make at the Bailey House every morning. I’m about to ask Buck what he thinks, but then I remember he doesn’t drink coffee. As we stand in line to order, I ask him, “Do you miss working with your dad?”
“He likes to call the shots. It’s best we have a little distance between us now.” Buck’s smile isn’t as genuine as I’d like it to be. My mind’s wheels spin. What happened between his dad and him?
My T-shirt is damp, so, needing to feel warm, I order a cup of coffee. Buck orders a chai latte.
“I thought you said you were going for a Coke,” I tease as we sit down at a table. Then, peering at his drink, I tell him, “I don’t think I’ve ever had one of those.”
“Take a sip.” He hands his Styrofoam cup to me.
The liquid is creamy, filled with milk and spices. “It’s good.”
“You haven’t lived until you’ve tasted chai.”
“Really?”
“You know, coffee is so overrated. Real living is in the chai.”
This sounds like something my mom would say. She told me that one has not lived until she has tasted
japchae
, a vegetable and beef dish made with sweet potato noodles and seasoned with soy sauce, sesame oil, and sugar.
I sip my coffee and am glad I ordered it because it’s making my insides toasty and providing the caffeine boost I crave. I look at Buck and recall him in ninth grade when I was in eleventh, a kid just outgrowing his freckles and not even close to my height of five-ten. “When did you grow up?”
“What? You expect me to still be pulling pranks at school?”
“I never expected that boy of yesterday to become a classy man drinking chai tea, a beverage not at all native to the South.”
“Actually, did you know that calling it chai tea is redundant?”
“What?”
“
Chai
means
tea
in some language. Hindi, possibly. So when you say
chai tea
, you’re saying
tea tea
.”
We laugh. “Just like ramen noodles,” I say.
This time Buck looks confused.
“Mom says
ramen
means
noodles
, so calling it by both names is essentially saying
noodles noodles
.”
He grins. “Wow, thanks for the education.”
I lift my coffee cup and use it to touch the rim of his cup. “You’re welcome. Thanks for your bit of knowledge, as well.”
Later, as we can’t help but overhear three women at a table next to us talk about heading back to Pittsburgh tomorrow, Buck tells me, “I’m going to visit my cousin in California in a few weeks.”
I nod. I remember he’s visited this cousin before. They go fishing together. “Do you like California?”
Buck’s gaze rests somewhere over my left shoulder. “Yeah. But I’d never want to live anywhere but here.”
