Hatteras Girl (Heart of Carolina Book #3) (9 page)

I turn my head toward the screen.

“Come on over and see it. Look, it’s nice.” Her enthusiasm surprises me. Isn’t today her day to be sad, not focusing on a dream for the future but a dream that died a year ago?

I make my way to the foot of the bed, peer at a house shaded by pine trees, and then read the location. “Minnie, it’s in Hendersonville!”

“I know.”

“What would we do there?” I back away from the screen.

“Where?”

“In Hendersonville. That’s like five hundred miles away from here.”

“We’d run the place. We’d move there.”

And leave Hatteras? Sheerly, Tiny, Ropey, and Beatrice Lou?

“What if this is what God has in mind for us? Not the Bailey House, but this place instead? Come on, take a look.”

Now that Minnie is bringing the Almighty into this, I move closer to the computer to study the photos. The house is a quaint-looking Victorian framed by Carolina pine trees. A range of deep blue mountains fills the background along the horizon.

Minnie hits the virtual tour button, and magically, we are taken through a slide show of the four bedrooms. “Look, here’s the Andrew Jackson Room, the James Polk Room, the William Hooper Room, and the Richard Caswell Room.” Like a tour guide, she announces each as it appears in front of us. “I know Caswell was our first governor, but who was Hooper?”

“Signer of the Declaration of Independence,” I say. I know this because Bert told me, as well as the fact that Hooper was buried in a cemetery in Hillsborough.

Pictures of other rooms in the house pop onto the screen. Elegant hardwood spreads over the parlor floor. A chandelier hangs over a dining room table. I take in all the embroidered pillows and quilts, the Williamsburg blue tableware spread out on a pine table where sunlight filters through the French doors in the almond-and-ivory-striped wallpapered dining room. There are three slides of high-ceilinged porches with marble statues of bears and eagles placed between birch rocking chairs.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” Minnie turns from the screen to smile at me.

The James Polk Room has bright green carpet, and the kingsized wrought-iron bed looks lumpy, as if there’s something hiding underneath the white eyelet spread. To the left of the antique desk is a wicker basket with a spotted cow sticking out of it. “Did Polk like cows?” I ask.

“What?”

I want to like this place. I do. But I don’t feel that bubbling excitement that swims through my veins when I see or think about the Bailey House.

“Look at the price.” Minnie’s voice gushes like she’s just found the cure for her migraines.

There it is in black numbers, a mere $695,000. A little over half a million.

“It’s not what we want, Minnie.” Surely God does not have this place in mind for us, does He?

“Why not?” There is boldness in her voice, a quality that unsettles my stomach. She doesn’t sound like the same woman who was crying in her room last night. And I don’t want to take this excitement away from her. “Look, it’s as big as the Bailey House. Over five thousand square feet.”

“But we don’t have any connections to this place.”

“We could start over. You know, move to the mountains. Get away from this ocean.” Today, of all days, I know she would rather not have to face the ocean with its strong waves and deep waters.

I shake my head. “Do you know how long it would take for you to get to the Morning Glory Home from Hendersonville?”

“Hours, I know.” She sighs. “But isn’t the location so quaint and serene?”

She’s using words I’ve used to describe the Bailey House over the years. I note the blue mountains, then view the green carpet and the stuffed cow once more as Minnie speeds through the virtual tour.

Minnie looks at me.

I want to conceal it, but a frown takes over my whole face.

Sighing again, she whispers, “Okay, just a thought.”

I’ve been too hard on her. I change my tone. “You remember the sermon last week about waiting, trusting God, and not giving up?” I stroke her hand like she does her mother’s.

“Yeah, that was a good one.” She leaves then. Closes the door behind her as if it’s a boulder she’s having trouble moving. Minnie, forceful and strong, has just crawled back to meek and sad.

I want to tell her to come back, that I was going to buy her pink roses on this day, that I love her, and that I’m just so sorry about everything.

Instead, I sit there on the edge of my bed and dab at a tear that has dribbled down my chin. I know where I want to go. Right now, it’s the only thing I can think of that I won’t botch up.

I could drive blindfolded; my truck knows the route.

The sun lingers in the sky while cumulus clouds display bands of violet, turquoise, and marigold as I follow the narrow route to the Bailey House.

As I pull into the driveway, I see another car there. I park behind the white BMW convertible and get out of my truck. A tall, darkhaired man emerges from the back garden. “Hello,” he says, latching the gate and making his way toward me. “Nice to see you again.”

12

I’ve never seen this man before,
although his looks are quite impressive. Could I have dreamed about him once? Perhaps he was the hero in the dream where a man rescued me from hurricane winds as I was about to topple off the dock by Aunt Sheerly and Uncle Tiny’s house and be devoured by a giant shark. Uncle Ropey warned me to be careful about coming out to the Bailey House alone. At night. Minnie reminds me that every woman should never be far from a can of Mace. Cautiously, gripping my keys, I say, “Again?”

“At the Grille.” His smile lights up his deep brown eyes.

I just look at him.

Still smiling, he clarifies, “With the little boy.”

“Oh!” I’m sure that my face turns the color of the Bailey House’s front door. “I . . . um . . . yeah . . . well.” Recalling those disastrous moments of my life this afternoon makes it hard to smile. This must be that good-looking man who ordered a well-done bacon cheeseburger.

Moving toward me, he extends his hand. “Davis Erickson.”

I paste on a tiny smile and shake his warm, large hand. Mine feels small. “Jackie Donovan.”

I can tell he’s thinking because there’s a pause. “You interviewed me?”

“I did.”

“Well,” he says, “nice to finally meet you.” He speaks with such enthusiasm, as if I’ve made his day. He’s wearing a dark blue suit. A white shirt and maroon tie peer out from the silky material. He looks like he either came from a business meeting or is on his way to one.

“I love this house,” I say like a kid admits she loves Santa Claus.

“I remember you told me that on the phone when you asked about the cost.”

“Yeah, I just hope that the money tree in the backyard has plenty of million-dollar bills growing out of it.”

I sound silly, but Davis actually seems amused by me. He gives me a wide smile and says, “The owners want to make sure that if anyone ever runs it again they keep to their wishes.”

“What are their wishes? Aren’t the Baileys dead?”

“They both died a few years back.”

“I loved coming here as a child. Mr. and Mrs. Bailey were the kindest people.”

“You knew them?” He sounds slightly shocked.

I smile. “They were a lovely couple,” I say in my finest British accent.

“They were. Great people.”

With nostalgia filling every ounce of air around us, I say, “I’d like to be the one to bring this place back to its former beauty and charm.”

“Would you?” He studies my face. There is another pause as I note that his eyes are, in a word, gorgeous. He then says, “Would you like to talk about it sometime over dinner?”

“Oh!” I wonder what he means exactly. Like a date? Or a business meeting? “Well, uh . . .” This time, I’m the one who sounds slightly shocked.

“How about Friday?”

“Well . . .” I have no idea if my calendar on my desk at work has anything on it for this Friday. I hope not.

“Can I call you?”

My mouth feels dry. “Sure.”

“Cell phone okay?” His smile makes my heart race with all things intriguing. “I think I have that number from our interview.”

I realize that it’s my turn to speak. “That’s fine.”

When he leaves me alone with the Bailey House, I walk the premises with a grin that eventually makes my mouth feel stretched. “Davis Erickson,” I say to the honeysuckle bushes and pull off a flower. Holding the bloom against my nose, I breathe.

I buy an ice-cream sandwich at the Stop-N-Go on my way home. The taste takes me back to childhood. Back when life was dreaming about things to come and believing that if you really wanted something bad enough, it could and would be yours. I remember praying for a bike for Christmas, and there it was. We prayed for Minnie’s gerbil to live and it did. Later, in high school, I asked God for guidance about where to go to college, and that very day, like a kite floating straight from heaven, the acceptance letter came from UNC-Charlotte.

The ice cream provides the sweet treat I craved; I wipe my mouth with my fingers, removing the chocolate cookie crumbs from my face. I’ve never been able to eat ice cream without getting it all over myself.

When I get home, Minnie is crying behind her bedroom door. I stand at the solid mass of wood, my hand ready to knock. I then let my hand fall to my side and walk to my room, feeling like a traitor having enjoyed time at the Bailey House, meeting Davis, the promise of a date with him, and ice cream. A real friend would have stayed home and held her hand.

I feel guilty that I’ve been reminiscing about answered prayer when, after his boat capsized and Lawrence was thrown overboard, no amount of praying in the ICU helped him come out of his vegetative state and breathe on his own again. I would have forgone my bike, my college acceptance, and the life of the gerbil to give Lawrence a future with his wife and child.

In my bedroom, I put on my sleeping gear—an oversized T-shirt that Minnie gave me for Christmas years ago, back when we were both single. She commented how she liked the frilly nightgowns and how I liked the practical. “I’ve got my head in the clouds, and you’re practical,” she’d said with a smile as the lights from her Christmas tree twinkled. “And I like that practical side of you.”

I run my hand over the green lettering across the front that reads, “A friend is a gift you give yourself.”

“Minnie,” I say minutes later at her closed door, my voice just above a whisper.

When the door opens, she’s in her scarlet nightgown with the lacy bodice.

“I just met the Realtor from the Bailey Place, and we’re going out to talk about the house.”

She nods and tries for a smile that never quite surfaces.

I’m tempted to say how good-looking he is, but it doesn’t feel right to do that on a day that holds such weight for Minnie. So I just hug her instead.

With her arms around me, she mumbles, “I was remembering how Lawrence liked to dance with me barefoot on the driveway.”

“I’m sorry that I didn’t buy flowers for you today.”

I’m relieved to see her face of forgiveness; I leave before tears find my eyes. Then I lie in bed watching shadows weave across my walls until, at last, sleep rests against my shoulders and welcomes me into her oblivion.

The interview is spread across pages thirty-two and thirty-three of our July issue, with a photo of Davis and his office in the top right-hand corner. Cassidy took the photo; she’s the one with the camera skills. She went to his office one day and got five shots, even though she had to wait twenty minutes for him to come back from a meeting. Cassidy is used to sitting around in office waiting areas with her Nikon, killing time by texting her friends on her cell phone. She says people forget a lot of things in life, like forgetting to pick up milk on the way home from work, whether or not they’ve turned the coffeepot off before leaving their house, or scheduled appointments to get their picture taken.

In the picture we decided to use to accompany my article, Davis looks dazzlingly handsome, his wavy hair matching his eyes. I run my finger along his left cheekbone.

“You want the other photos for your bedside table?” Cassidy whispers to me and then winks. She’s eating a fruit bar and mumbles that she detests dieting.

“How much more weight do you want to lose?” I ask.

“Three and a half more pounds. I just hope it doesn’t all come back on me once I quit.”

I’m nearly out the door to the office when I hear Bert’s voice call out, “Hey . . . Jackie!”

I turn toward him as he lifts his head from a stack of notebooks on his desk. “Good job.”

I suppose he’s complimenting me on the interview with Davis. Or possibly the interview with Brenda at the car wash. Selena didn’t think the car wash interview was classy enough for our publication, but I replied that if a Mercedes or Porsche goes through a car wash, then it’s classy enough for me.

“Thanks,” I tell Bert, whose head is now under his desk, searching for a lost pen, no doubt. Bert often drops pens, and many times I’ve seen him on his hands and knees, eyes to the carpet, determined to find his favorite writing pen. Usually he finds more than pens.

Today I hear him say, “Well, look at that,” as he places a pair of scissors on top of his desk. “So that’s where they went.” He sits back on his leather swivel chair.