On Folly Beach (12 page)

“Come walk with me.”

It wasn’t a question, and she didn’t bother with an answer as he pulled in front of one of the false-fronted buildings on Center Street and turned off the ignition. He opened the car door for her and placed her gloved hand in the crook of his arm and began to lead the way. Her ears tingled from the cold, and she wished Cat’s hat was more than just decorative. They headed in the direction of the pier, following the pull of the moon like turtle hatchlings, moving mindlessly toward the sound of the sea.

Maggie was relieved when he turned to the right, away from the pier and from the sound of people, and headed toward Arctic Avenue instead. The street had once been the beachfront thoroughfare, running almost all the way down the west side of the island. But following the storm of 1939, only four houses remained on the west side of Arctic, and two of them, now abandoned, were stranded over water during high tide, their pilings nearly halfway covered with water.

As if he knew where he was going, Peter led her to the first house, its pilings and peaked roof skeletal against the winter moon. In the daylight, the sun turned the salt-sprayed shingles silver, making it a magical place for children to explore the large, empty rooms. But at night the house cast a different light: a reflection of moon and ocean, outlined with the shimmering anticipation of the unknown. The tide was coming in, reaching about halfway under the house but leaving a path of beach to the front of the house.

Maggie shivered as Peter took her hand to help her across the sand to the steps that led to the front door of the house, and didn’t argue when he opened the unlocked door and led her inside. They moved in silence through the old house and out another door to stand on a back porch suspended over the rushing ocean below. For a brief moment Maggie felt airborne, as if nothing held her to the earth anymore except the moon and the sound of the waves crashing against the pilings. She was small again, and her mother alive, and there were no such things as storms and war and death, and all that the vastness of the ocean held was dreams.

“Margaret, are you too cold? Do you want to go back to the car?”

Peter’s voice brought her back to solid ground, and she could almost feel the air rushing back into her lungs. She turned to face him and realized how close he was standing by the smell of his cologne and the sound of the bristles on his chin against the collar of his coat. “I’m fine,” she answered, her voice airy. “Just a little cold, I guess.”

He put his arm around her and drew her close to his side so that they were looking out over the ocean together. The house had been built higher than its neighbors, affording a clear view of the small cottages nestled behind the dunes and clusters of palmettos. They watched the lights sparking from the pier in the distance and the yellow beacons of porch lights from the houses on the west side of the island.

Peter’s voice was close to her ear as he spoke. “What is this place? I’ve passed it so many times and wondered.”

Maggie relaxed into his embrace, staring at the moon and stars as if she’d never seen them before. “It used to be a family home, but after the storm the year before last, nobody’s moved back. There used to be a whole street here, but most of it’s underwater.”

“So nobody owns it anymore?”

Maggie shrugged. “I suppose they still do. But it would be foolish to move back in. When they built the jetties to protect Charleston Harbor, Folly started losing a lot of her beach. The erosion is especially bad after a storm. I can’t imagine that the remaining houses will last through the next big one.”

He nodded slowly, his eyes reflecting the moonlight as his gaze scanned the water. “Lots of lights. I thought that after Pearl Harbor all the coasts were blacked out.” He looked down at her, half of his face shadowed by the brim of his hat.

“Well, sure, but that’s all on the West Coast, since it’s closer to Hawaii and Japan. But we’re three thousand miles across the ocean from Europe. We have our mounted beach patrol—we might even see them on the beach now, but I think that’s just because people need to feel as if they’re doing something for the war effort. The Germans can’t cross the Atlantic without us knowing about it. Everybody knows that.”

“True,” he said, his teeth a pearlescent blue in the moonlight. “You should be safe here.” He pulled her a little closer. “That makes me feel better, somehow, knowing that you’re safe.”

“Really?” She tilted her head, her lips almost touching his.

“Really.”

Maggie wasn’t sure when the word ended and his kiss began. All she knew was that she felt suspended in time and space again, the rocking of the waves beneath them and his breath on her skin as elemental as air.

He pulled away suddenly. “I’m sorry. It’s just . . .” He stopped for a moment and she could feel his eyes on her. “I couldn’t stop myself.”

Their breath mingled in white smoky puffs between them. She watched their breath rise and spread, wishing that he hadn’t stopped, but knowing he was right. Cat would have kissed him back and asked for more. But it wasn’t Cat he wanted.

Maggie put her gloved finger to his lips. “Don’t say anything else. Just keep me warm and keep talking, and everything will be fine.”

He wrapped his arm around her shoulders again, pulling her closer as they both looked out over the railing again. “Tell me what you see from here.”

Pulling on his hand, she led him through the house to a large picture window and pointed. “This is the west side of Folly. The street names are the same on both sides of Center Street, except here they’re west and over there they’re called east. Like West Ashley and East Ashley—that’s the street one block from the ocean on the east side but it’s now oceanfront over here where Arctic Avenue stops.”

He studied the pinpoints of light in the darkness as she pointed and continued. “My street, Second Street, runs perpendicular to the ocean. Nearby on West Ashley is a hotel everybody calls the Beach House. Rumor is that the coast guard is thinking about using it for barracks.”

Peter nodded, and they stood in silence for a long moment before he spoke again. “The people who live in these houses—where do they work? What do they do?”

“Well, we’ve got our library and chief of police and post office—that sort of thing, but most of the men work at the navy yard in North Charleston. But those are the permanent residents. In the summer it’s different with all the visitors, and our population just about doubles. And now, of course, we’ll have all sorts of military personnel since Charleston is just swarming with bases.”

Peter surprised her by touching her chin gently. “Smart and beautiful. What an attractive combination.”

Before she could stammer out a response, he spoke again. “What’s on each end of the island?” He put his hand over hers and directed it to the end of the island, where the dark ocean seemed to swallow all the light.

“Nothing but forest at the tip. It gets really narrow at that end, with houses perched right between the ocean and the Folly River, it seems.”

He placed his chin on the top of her head, and she relaxed into his embrace, allowing her head to rest on his chest. “Is it a good place to swim?”

“Pretty much. Really nice beaches. Not so much on the east end of the island. You can’t see it from here, but that’s where you can see the Morris Island lighthouse. The light’s automated now because it’s surrounded by water, but it’s a pretty view. The currents are real bad so no swimming. But at low tide you can get a boat out there and still go up inside to the top.”

Peter faced her. “Have you ever been? All the way to the top?”

She looked away, remembering. “Yes. It’s higher than it looks.” She ducked her head, not wanting him to see her eyes and the memories of Jim she’d shared with no one.

“Maybe you can take me sometime.” He smiled gently, as if he understood.

“I’d like that.” She glanced down at the water, where the moon seemed to be reflecting off bigger waves. “We’d better go before the tide strands us.”

Taking her hand, he began to lead her toward the front door. Looking down at the bottom of the steps, he said, “We’re a little late. I’m going to have to carry you.”

He lifted her in his arms, just like her favorite scene in the book Gone With the Wind, and carried her through the shallow water to the shifting sands on the shore. He hesitated for a moment, holding her in his arms before gently placing her on her feet again.

“Thank you,” she said, feeling breathless and grounded at the same time.

He cupped her face in both hands and leaned forward, softly touching his lips to hers. “Thank you,” he said, pulling back and tucking her hand into the crook of his elbow again.

It wasn’t until much later that night, as she lay in her bed next to a sleeping Lulu, that she thought to wonder exactly what he’d been thanking her for.

CHAPTER 6

FOLLY BEACH, SOUTH CAROLINA

July 2009

A close-up jingling sounded as something wet slathered its way across Emmy’s nose and cheek, but Emmy lay still, not sure if she were still dreaming and unwilling to awaken yet. She’d heard the footsteps again, but this time instead of approaching or going away, they’d simply stopped, and in a half-awake state Emmy had held out her hand. Come back to me.

The smell of wet dog hit her as something tickled her hand. Slowly she became aware that the rain had stopped and that what she felt on her hand and inner arm was definitely a warm breath. Her eyes shot open, revealing a large mud-colored dog of indeterminate breed wearing metal tags and a jaunty red bandanna, and a man wearing flip-flops, cargo shorts, and a T-shirt sitting on a chair with his elbows on his knees, watching her very much like what she pictured Baby Bear had when he discovered somebody sleeping in his bed.

She sat up abruptly, nearly falling out of the chair she seemed to be slumped into. After finding her balance, she stood, blinking rapidly at the stranger and the dog, who now sat at her feet.

“Who are you?” she asked, wondering why she wasn’t worried. The man was tall and slim, and certainly bigger than she was, but the expression in his light brown eyes was more confusion and a little bit of annoyance rather than anything threatening.

“You were crying in your sleep,” he said matter-of-factly.

She used her forearm to wipe her face. Embarrassed, she repeated, “Who are you?”

Putting his hands on his thighs, he pulled to a stand, effectively towering over Emmy by almost a foot. Ben had been tall, too, and she had the irrational feeling of being protected while standing next to this stranger. She took a step back and crossed her arms over her chest.

“I was about to ask you the same thing,” he said, his accent nearly hidden as if he’d spent a lot of time out of the South. Or maybe he’d just spent a lot of time trying to erase it.

Keeping her arms tightly crossed, she said, “I’m Emmy Hamilton. I’m renting this house for a few months.”

He raised sandy-colored eyebrows, which matched his sun-streaked hair. His hair touched his ears and brushed the collar of his shirt. She’d once found longer hair on men attractive. But then she’d met Ben with his military haircut, and she couldn’t remember what she’d found so alluring about longer hair. Especially on this man, with his casual stance and untucked shirt, she found the longer hair almost an affront.

“I’m Heath Reynolds. I own this house. I came over today to work on the dock and saw your car. I wasn’t aware that the house had been rented.”

Emmy blinked. “Oh. But it has. I have the rental agreement in the car.”

He waved his hand at her. “Don’t sweat it. My mom’s been pretty busy with selling her bookstore and getting everything ready for her retirement. It must have slipped her mind, and she just forgot to tell me.”

Emmy allowed her hands to fall to her sides. “So your mother is Abigail.”

He nodded, then tucked his hands into his back pockets. Again, she found herself slightly irritated at his casualness, thinking that he’d look a whole lot better if he’d tuck in his shirt and put on a belt. You were crying in your sleep. Had she really? And why would this man point it out to her? Her irritation and embarrassment grew.

Without thinking, she blurted, “Oh, so that Lulu woman is your aunt.”

A hint of a smile framed his eyes. “Actually, ‘that Lulu woman’ is my great-aunt. My father is her nephew—her sister’s son.”

Emmy’s analytical mind began trying to catalog the information, putting all of it in organized slots. “So her sister would be your grandmother. Does she still live on Folly, too?” Emmy pictured another short and squat woman who looked and acted just like Lulu, and hoped that the answer was no.

He shook his head. “No. She died in 1989. During Hurricane Hugo.”

His answer surprised her. “I thought they did forced evacuations for big storms.”

“They do. But she hadn’t left the island in more than forty-five years, and she said a storm wasn’t enough reason to make her go.”

Emmy flinched, not really sure why. “It must have been hard on her family to leave her behind.”

He leaned back against a charcoal grill that looked like it had never been used. “I was only eleven at the time, so I don’t remember much, except being excited about getting out of school so we could evacuate. But my mom and dad and Aunt Lulu were pretty upset. Nothing they could say would persuade her, and there was nothing legally they could do to make her go. She kept saying she was waiting for someone, and that if she left, she might never come back and then he would never find her. Aunt Lulu later told me she was waiting for someone who was never coming back.”