Lessons of a Lowcountry Summer (11 page)

Leaning back against the cushioned rocker, she closed her eyes. She had a monumental task in front of her—going through hundreds of disks to extract the letters she wanted to reprint for her book. Each disk, labeled by month and year, contained every published “Straight Talk” column. Now, if she could come up with one more topic, she would begin to review the archives.

Hope heard someone clear his throat, and she opened her eyes and sat up straighter. Standing on the first step to the porch was a tall, slender black man whose face was vaguely familiar. She had seen him before but could not remember where.

Pushing off the rocker, she stared at him as a knowing smile softened her mouth. He looked as if he had stepped off the pages of a Ralph Lauren ad, with his navy blue golf shirt, white pleated front walking shorts, and navy canvas Docksiders. She could not remember the last time she had come face-to-face with a “preppy brother.” She wanted to see the eyes concealed behind the lenses of his sunglasses. Perhaps then she would recognize him.

“Good morning.”

Theo's impassive expression did not change. He did not want to believe, could not believe the woman Noelle had told him about was Dr. Hope Sutton. The celebrated psychologist-advice columnist had saved his sister's life. He had seen her guest appearances on several televised talk shows, but he had to admit she was much prettier in person. Even with her hair pulled off her bare face and dressed in an oversized T-shirt with a pair of cropped pants, she was delightfully feminine.

He inclined his head. “Good morning, Dr. Sutton.”

He knew who she was. “Hope Sutton.”

Theo smiled for the first time. “Hope, Dr. Sutton. It doesn't matter what you call yourself, because I would like to thank you for saving my sister's life earlier this morning.”

“You're Noelle's brother.” The question had come out like a statement.

“One of her brothers.” Removing his sunglasses, he extended his right hand. “Theo Howell.”

Hope's jaw dropped slightly as she stared at the proffered hand. She did not want to believe that Noelle's guardian was the brilliant, high-profile, womanizing scriptwriter Theodore Howell.

She crossed her arms under her breasts, bringing his gaze to linger on her chest. “May I make a suggestion, Mr. Howell?”

Theo dropped his hand. “What?”

“Take good care of your sister. She's too young to be in so much pain.”

“I had her in therapy,” he countered, not caring if he sounded defensive.

Hope lifted an eyebrow.
“Had?”

“She wouldn't stay.”

“She's only thirteen, and at that age she should not be allowed to make her own decisions on her emotional well-being. She's the child and you're the adult. I suggest you act like one.”

Theo struggled to control his temper. “You're really a piece of work, aren't you?”

“What are you talking about?” It was Hope's turn to be defensive.

“I viewed the
Sixty Minutes
segment on you, and I wanted to come through the television when you tried to defend your hard-as-nails stance when the topic of bashing black men came up. Why can't you cut us some slack? All of us aren't irresponsible, trifling, or a turncoat when one decides he wants to marry a white woman.”

Her golden eyes darkened in fury. How dare he! He had no right to talk about her when his own sordid reputation was touted in every sleazy supermarket tabloid several times a year.

“You've thanked me for helping your sister. Now I'm going to ask that you leave my property, Mr. Howell.”

Turning on her heel, she opened the screen door and walked into the house, leaving him staring at her back.

Theo stood motionless, staring at the space where Hope Sutton had been. He was losing it. He had come to a woman's house and insulted her. Helen had called him a monster, and this time he had to agree with her.

Because he owed Hope for saving his sister, he would give her time to cool off before approaching her again. His grandmother had accused him of being too prideful, and she'd been right. There were occasions when pride had to be laid aside in order to move forward, and this was one of those times. Theo put his sunglasses on the bridge of his nose and walked down to the beach.

 

Hope stood at the window,
peering through the sheer curtains. Theo stood on the beach, arms folded over his chest, staring out at the pounding surf. He'd said he was
one
of Noelle's brothers. Did that mean he was guardian to more than one child? Noelle needed counseling, and it was apparent her guardian also needed counseling.

She turned away from the window, not seeing him as he turned and walked back the way he had come.

 

 

H
ope slowed her car
over the muddy, rutted road to avoid hitting a slow-moving dog that stopped, looked at her, and then continued crossing the road at the same unhurried pace. She smiled. Even the pets on McKinnon were laid-back.

She'd decided to complete her tour of the island and follow through on her promise to Rebecca to find someone who could teach her to weave sweetgrass baskets. If anyone knew the artisans living on the island, then it would be Charlotte Field. While many of McKinnon's first families had left the island, the Fields had stayed, keeping the Gullah language and culture alive.

Hope maneuvered into an unpaved driveway and parked behind an ancient pickup truck. She opened the door and shaded her eyes as she spied the raw-boned figure of an elderly woman rise from a rocker on a screened-in porch.

“Afternoon, Miss Charlotte.”

Charlotte Field moved slowly to the porch door, squinting. Her snow white hair was braided in two thin plaits that hung over her narrow shoulders, while a pair of glasses had slipped down to the end of her short, broad nose. Her white hair was a startling contrast to a face that appeared blue-black in color.

“Who be dat?”

“Flora Robinson's girl,” Hope replied, smiling broadly.

“Who?”

“Queenie Robinson's grandbaby girl.”

Charlotte grinned, displaying a set of short, straight teeth darkened from a lifelong habit of chewing tobacco and dipping snuff. Opening the door, she extended her arms. “Hey, baby. Come give Mizz Charlotte some
shuga
.”

Hope mounted the stairs to the porch and hugged the elderly woman, registering the fragility of her slight frame under a flower-sprigged cotton dress. She kissed her withered cheek. “You look beautiful, Miss Charlotte.”

“No, child, you look beautiful.” She pointed at a rocker next to the one she had just vacated. “Come set and rest yourself. You want a cool drink?” A Mason jar filled with lemon slices in a yellowish liquid sat on a nearby table.

“No, thank you, Miss Charlotte.”

Hope smiled, nodding as Charlotte launched into a lengthy discourse, using short, quick Gullah phrases, bringing her up to date on everything and everyone on the island. She stopped intermittently to drink from the Mason jar. Her husband of sixty-four years still went out on his fishing boat six days a week with their eldest son. Her granddaughter had graduated from beauty school and had set up a salon in a little shed out back.

“Dat girl can really do some hair.” She peered closely at Hope's thick hair swept up in a ponytail. “You gwine let Precious fix you up?”

“I'll let you know. If I have someplace special to go to, then I'll have her do it.” She was not ready to commit to Precious doing her hair until she saw her work.

Waiting for another pause, Hope asked Charlotte about some of the women who still made baskets from sweetgrass. The older woman gave her a skeptical look until she explained that a friend who came from “yondah” wanted to learn the technique. She pointed upward, indicating “up north.”

Charlotte gave her the names of several women who still wove baskets and sold them to tourists who booked boat excursions of the Georgia and South Carolina Sea Islands.

“The best one be Janie Saunders. Her weave a basket so tight it don't lose a drop of water.”

Hope thanked Charlotte for her help and promised to come back and “set” awhile. Charlotte would not let her leave without a jar of her legendary peach preserves. Hope thanked her again, kissing her cheek. The preserves would be a perfect topping for hot biscuits or scones. As she drove to the north end of the island, she recalled that her Grandmomma had refused to have anything to do with the Saunders because she'd said they tried too hard to be uppity. Too many of them were direct descendants of the owners of the largest cotton plantation on McKinnon, and they had sent their children to colored schools in Hilton Head rather than the one-room schoolhouse on the island.

Once educated, most of the Saunderses had left McKinnon, but Janie had returned, after graduating from college, with her husband, who looked white, although he claimed to be a negro. The federal government had given the state of South Carolina money to expand and renovate the school, and Janie and her husband had joined the faculty of three to offer a quality education to the children on McKinnon. They'd also purchased the property where Janie's relatives had been the oppressor and oppressed, and they had begun restoring it to its original grandeur.

Hope found Janie Saunders-Smith at home, cradling a grandchild on her lap. Although in her early fifties, Janie looked much younger. She listened intently as Hope explained what Rebecca wanted. Her expression was impassive, then she smiled and agreed to help, claiming it would give her something to do to pass the summer other than spoiling her grandchildren.

Hope drove home, feeling as if she had put in a full day's work. She had rescued a teenage girl, met with one of the island's oldest surviving residents, and had set up a meeting with a Gullah artisan for her summer neighbor.

She parked her car at the rear of her house on Beach Road, noticing that Rebecca's wasn't in its usual space. Smiling, she wondered if Rebecca had gone to Hilton Head again to shop for expensive pieces.

As she got out of the car, she noticed a field of flowers growing in wild abandon. The caretaker had cut the grass and weeded the area where her grandmother had planted her vegetable garden. Grandmomma had told her that at one time the land behind the house had looked like a jungle. “Back in dem days” Hope's great-grandfather had cleared the land and expanded his house to include a third bedroom. The house was modest by island standards, not having indoor plumbing until the late 1920s.

She lingered, picking enough flowers for a colorful bouquet before going into the house. As soon as she unlocked the door, she saw it. Someone had slipped a small envelope under the door.

Picking it up, she walked into the kitchen and left the jar of preserves and flowers on the countertop. Sitting down at the table, she opened the envelope, her eyes widening in surprise. The note card was from Theodore Howell.

She stared at the two-word, two-line note. He had used one word to apologize, but for what? Being rude, arrogant or opinionated?

A smile crinkled the skin around her eyes. “Apology accepted,” she whispered. The fact that he had made the attempt to apologize meant he did claim a modicum of humility.

Pushing off the chair, she put the flowers in a vase, then made her way to the bathroom. After a shower and a light lunch, she intended to relax on the porch until her afternoon tea with Rebecca.

 

Theo leaned against
the porch column to Hope Sutton's house for the second time that day, watching her as she dozed. She looked different than she had earlier that morning. Her unbound hair curved under her jaw as she rested her head at an angle on the cushioned rocking chair. A white cotton halter and matching slim skirt ending below her knees had replaced her T-shirt and slacks. He felt like a voyeur as he watched the gentle rise and fall of her breasts.

His gaze roved lazily over the curves of her calves and down to a pair of slender ankles and feet. Hope looked different, natural, so unlike the professionally coiffed and made-up woman he'd seen on television. Now he needed Dr. Hope Sutton's assistance. Folding his body down to the top step, he sat, stretched out his legs, and waited for her to wake up.

 

Hope woke up
and stared at a pair of broad shoulders. “I accept, Mr. Howell.”

Hope's low, husky voice brought Theo to his feet. He turned and found her standing several feet behind him. He hadn't heard her get up.

A slight frown appeared between his large, penetrating eyes as he stared directly at her. “Excuse me.”

Hope smiled at Theo for the first time. “I said I accept your apology.” He returned her smile, the gesture so endearing that it caused Hope to catch her breath. Seeing the scriptwriter up close verified why women were drawn to him. He was handsome and shockingly virile.

Theo angled his head, his sensual smile still in place, and offered his right hand. “Perhaps we should start over. Good afternoon, Miss Sutton, Theo Howell.”

Hope placed her hand in his larger one, a slight shiver of awareness racing up her arm when his fingers tightened over hers. “My pleasure, Mr. Howell.”

“Theo,” he insisted.

She inclined her head. “Hope.” He released her hand, and she pointed to the rocker. “Please sit down. May I offer you something to drink?”

“No, thank you.”

He waited for Hope to take the chaise before he sat on the rocker. The haunting scent of her perfume had penetrated the seat and back cushion. The chaise was angled so he could see her without turning his head.

Resting his elbows on the arms of the chair, he rocked back and forth in a smooth, measured rhythm and stared out at the beach. “This is nice.”

Hope nodded but did not respond. Crossing her legs at the ankles, she waited for Theo to reveal why he had come to see her for the second time in one day.

“I'd like to talk to you about Noelle.”

“What about her?”

Theo ran his right hand over his short-cropped hair before he massaged the tight muscles in the back of his neck. Even though he had extracted a promise from Noelle that she would not attempt to hurt herself again, he still did not feel comfortable.

“I'm worried about her.”

“And you should, Theo. After all, she did try to kill herself.”

He gave Hope a direct look. “She blames herself for her parents' deaths.”

“Was she directly responsible for their deaths?”

Theo shook his head. “No. They died in a plane crash. She feels guilty because she'd asked them to change their travel plans to return to L.A. to celebrate her thirteenth birthday.”

“Your sister is dealing with grief, loss and guilt. She's also thirteen, female and somewhat fearful of you.”

His eyes widened. “No she's not.”

“Yes she is, Theo,” Hope countered. “She wanted me to promise her I wouldn't tell her brother that she tried hurting herself.”

“But she did tell me.”

“She probably told you because she was more afraid of your reaction if you had found out on your own.”

He closed his eyes and shook his head from side to side. “Six months ago I became guardian to two brothers and a sister whom I had seen exactly four times before we were reunited at their parents' funeral.”

“You had the same father?”

Theo opened his eyes. “No. Mother,” he said after a long pause. “My mother was a month past her sixteenth birthday when she had me, and I was three weeks old when she left me with her mother. I met her for the first time when I turned twenty-one.”

“Did you resent her deserting you?”

Shifting slightly, he smiled. “No. I wouldn't be who I am if Mary had raised me.”

“Do you see her as a bad mother?”

The corners of his mouth lifted. “I'd rather say she wasn't a good mother. My brothers and sister have serious boundary issues.”

“And what are your issues, Theo?”

His jaw tightened. “You think I have issues, Hope?”

“Of course. Everyone has issues. And you are in denial if you think you don't. The fact that you've come to see me indicates that you do.”

“I've come to see you about Noelle.”

Hope refused to relent. “You've come to me because you have parenting issues. You're in a dual role as older brother/surrogate father. You must see your siblings as individuals with different personalities, wants and needs.”

“I think I'm better with my brothers than my sister. I'm used to interacting with women, not young girls.”

Hope laughed. “There's not much difference between the two. One you sleep with, the other you don't.”

His black arching eyebrows lifted as he gave her an incredulous look. Then he leaned back on the rocker and smiled. “I never thought about it like that.”

“I did not come to McKinnon for the summer to counsel patients, but I did tell Noelle that my door would always be open to her if she wanted to see me.”

“She didn't tell me that.”

Hope heard the censure in Theo's voice. “I would not have talked to her without first getting your parental consent.”

“What would you talk about?”

She shrugged a bare shoulder. “Probably things a mother would share with her daughter—talk about clothes, books, music, cute boys, and hot movie stars.” She wrinkled her nose. “Inane things.”