On Folly Beach (13 page)

Chill bumps erupted at the base of Emmy’s neck as she recalled almost the identical words that her mother had said to her—something about burning days while waiting for someone who was gone forever. “Who was she waiting for?” She tried to act casual, as if the answer wasn’t important to her.

“I don’t know. You could ask Aunt Lulu. She’d probably know.”

Emmy shuddered, preferring to walk barefoot over broken glass than to ever voluntarily speak to the old woman again. Unable to leave a factoid alone, she continued to prod. “But you’re her nephew. I would have thought that you’d have asked at some time, found some answers at least.”

His brown eyes hardened momentarily. “First, I’m a guy. It doesn’t always occur to us to dig into the reasons behind people’s behavior. We just sort of act on the behavior, you know? Second, I’ve learned not to live in the past. It’s already gone, and there’s nothing you can do about it. I’m not going to spend my life worrying about something I can’t change.”

His tone had changed from casual to almost angry before he’d recovered his nonchalant attitude, ruining her initial, safer impression. Emmy watched as his gaze traveled over what was surely her slept-on and humidity-frizzed hair, then to her suitcases and finally to his dog, who was still sitting on her feet. He patted his leg. “Come on, Frank. Give the lady her space.” The dog trotted over to the back door, where Heath pulled a ring of keys from his back pocket and unlocked it.

When he turned back to her, a small smile lifted his mouth, showing white teeth against his tanned face. “There’re three bedrooms inside, you know. No need to sleep on the porch.” He threw open the door and the dog bounded inside as if he were on familiar terms with the house.

Emmy frowned, then lifted her two suitcases, forgetting that she hadn’t planned to bring them inside at all. “I forgot the combination, that’s all. And then it was raining so hard that I decided to wait instead of getting everything drenched. I guess I was just tired from driving all day and fell asleep.”

He walked toward her, his brows creased, and again she couldn’t help but wonder why she wasn’t afraid of him.

“I’ll take those and bring in the rest.” He moved to take her luggage from her hands.

She continued to hold her suitcases, although they seemed to get heavier by the second. “I’m perfectly capable of carrying my own suitcases, but thank you.”

“I didn’t say you weren’t capable. It’s just that if my mother finds out that I let you carry your own suitcases, she’ll take a switch to me. And no, I’m not kidding.”

His face was serious but his eyes weren’t. She was tired, and she was in no mood to argue. Besides, it would be nice to have somebody else carry her baggage for a change. “Fine, if it means that much to you.” Emmy relinquished her hold and allowed him to follow her inside the house.

The first thing that Emmy noticed was the light. Even on a cloudy day, the neutral walls glowed from the floor-to-ceiling windows that flanked the front door and were echoed on the opposite side of the house that overlooked the marsh. The open floor plan boasted beautiful cornice moldings and dark wood floors, but very little furniture. It was as if the builder’s dreams of light and air had ended with construction and with no real plan for the interiors. She saw a winding wrought-iron staircase that led to a catwalk that bisected the main living area and presumably led to the two upstairs bedrooms. The third bedroom, the master, was on the main level, and when Heath walked past her toward a door on the other side of the kitchen, she followed.

The master bedroom filled the entire width of the house and boasted views of both the ocean from the front and the marsh from the rear with large fan windows. The room held only a large bed, a dresser, and a night table, again striking Emmy as odd. In the far corner of the room was an arched alcove, and as Emmy approached, she realized she’d found the turret she’d seen on the outside of the house.

As Heath settled her suitcases on either side of the dresser, she stuck her head through the opening and nearly shouted with surprise. Winding up the walls like the painted stripe on a lighthouse were shelves of books, stacked three and sometimes four deep, going all the way to the top of the window-filled apex and accessed by an equally winding spiral staircase. The books were held in place by wrought-iron doors that allowed a view of the book spines while keeping the books from tumbling down the stairs.

“You like books?”

Emmy jerked around at the sound of Heath’s voice, almost hitting her head on the edge of a shelf.

“You could say that. I have a master’s in library science, and have worked at my mother’s bookstore off and on since I was a girl.”

“Master’s in library science, huh? So you’re a librarian.”

She crossed her arms across her chest again. “Technically, I suppose I am, but I’m not just a librarian. I’m qualified to be a museum curator handling historical documents, or to procure historical letters for a university. That sort of thing.”

He nodded as if contemplating her words. “Interesting. But you work in your mother’s bookstore instead.”

Anger, lingering loss, and the unnerving thought that he’d struck a chord she didn’t want to hear bombarded her simultaneously so that no words came from her open mouth as she stared at him, unable to reply.

As if sensing he’d stepped into forbidden territory, he turned his attention to the winding shelves. “These came from my grandmother’s store.”

Emmy swallowed, searching for her voice. “Your grandmother’s store?” she repeated, confused. She held up her hand, her mind clearing. “Wait. Abigail’s mother-in-law, right? She left Folly’s Finds to your mother when she died. What was her name?”

“Maggie. Maggie O’Shea Reynolds. Lulu’s sister, and my grandmother.”

Emmy nodded, wanting to move out of the small space, but Heath blocked her exit. She was stuck staring up at him, unable to move unless she touched him. “Right. It makes sense now. So Maggie was the one who was lost in Hurricane Hugo.”

He looked upwards, the light from the turret window turning his brown eyes white. “Yep. And this was her personal book collection, which Lulu and my mom rescued before the storm. We stored them in my parents’ attic, which, by some miracle, retained its roof. Their house is farther from the ocean than Maggie’s, so they figured the books would be safer there. We moved as many as we could here when this house was built, but they didn’t all fit, so the rest stayed at my parents’. My mom started selling some of the boxes on eBay when she decided to retire and put the store up for sale until Lulu found out and made her stop.”

“Why didn’t Lulu keep them?”

He looked down at her, then took a step back as if realizing how close he was standing. “She lives with my parents. She used to live with Aunt Maggie, but after Hugo, she moved in with my parents and has lived with them ever since.”

“Doesn’t she have any other family?” She couldn’t imagine any person putting up with the old woman for any length of time, but the thought of her being alone nipped at Emmy’s conscience.

He shook his head. “She never married. But she was always close to my father, so it made sense.”

“Your poor mother,” Emmy said under her breath as she squeezed past Heath and back into the bedroom. She stood in the middle of the room with her hands on her hips, noticing the dog had found a spot in the middle of the bed.

“She works at Folly Finds, you know.”

Emmy turned back to Heath. “You mean she used to. I own the store now—or will as soon as all of the papers are signed. I’m assuming that means I get to hire who I want.”

Heath raised his eyebrows, but didn’t comment. “Let me show you the rest of the house.” He slapped his hand against the side of his hip again, and Frank jumped from the bed and followed them out of the room.

The kitchen, dining area, and remaining bedrooms were as meticulously designed and as full of light as the rest of the house, but just as devoid of furnishings. The only evidence of any interior design was the large black-and-white photographs that had been framed and hung on every wall surface or that sat on the few occasional tables in the various rooms.

Emmy walked toward one of the larger ones hung on the wall behind the dining table. It was a photograph of two women and a small boy about two years old. They sat on the front steps of a weather-beaten clapboard house four windows wide, with a covered front porch and two dormers on the second floor. They were all dressed in styles from the nineteen forties, the women wearing skirts below the knees and fitted blouses buttoned up to the neck and the boy in a short sailor suit complete with a sailor’s hat. All three stared into the camera, squinting into the bright sun.

The boy sat on the lap of the slimmer woman, who had a face that, Emmy decided after regarding it for a long moment, wasn’t exactly pretty, but was what people probably once referred to as handsome. She had medium brown hair and light eyes with regular features that might be forgotten as soon as you walked by, except for something about her that made Emmy do a double take. Was it the eyes? Emmy leaned forward to get a better look. No, it was something else, something that had to do with her expression. There was sorrow there, sewn into the lines between her brows; but her eyes held so much hope and possibility that it was impossible to look at her and not believe that something better was around the corner.

Emmy’s gaze moved to the shorter, younger woman sitting next to the woman holding the boy. On second glance Emmy realized that it wasn’t really a woman, but a girl of about thirteen or fourteen years old. She had bad skin and wore her hair in two braids with a severe and unflattering part down the middle. She neither frowned nor smiled into the camera, as if she were still deciding what her take on life should be. She wore saddle shoes with ankle socks over thick legs in contrast to the slim legs of the woman next to her. The towheaded boy held a small American flag, its stars blurry from rapid movement as if held in strong wind.

“That’s my grandmother Maggie and Aunt Lulu with my father. It was taken on D-day, 1944. That’s why he’s holding the flag. That was their house on Second Avenue, the one that was destroyed by Hugo. I own the lot, but it’s still vacant.”

Emmy focused on the little flag, her throat constricting. It did that every time she saw an American flag, remembering the tightly folded one she’d been given at Ben’s funeral, now carefully packed in her suitcase.

Clearing her throat, she said, “It’s a great picture. Was your grandfather in the war?”

He squinted at the photograph. “Yes. In the navy. He died before I was born, but I don’t know exactly when. Nobody really talks about him, so that’s about all I know.”

She blinked her eyes, horrified that she might start to cry. Since Ben’s death, she’d been subject to periods of irrationality, and even near strangers were fair game. Turning to Heath, she said, “I would think that if you had a war veteran in your family, everyone should know about it and celebrate it. It’s a little ungrateful not to, don’t you think?”

His eyes widened as he stared at her for a long moment. Then, to Emmy’s surprise, he said, “You’re probably right. My mom would know. When you meet with her to sign the papers, you can ask her about him.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “Has she gone over all the stipulations regarding the purchase of the store?”

A cool chill settled into Emmy’s spine, making her shiver. “Most of them. I’m sure she’ll go over all the details with me.”

Heath just nodded, although it looked like he wanted to say something but thought better of it after regarding her militant stance with her arms crossed tightly over her chest. Which was fine with her. His abrupt arrival had made her forget about returning her suitcases to her car and leaving immediately, but she still wasn’t sure she was going to stay. The purchase of the store wouldn’t be finalized until the closing, after all, and maybe all she really needed was a vacation at the beach.

Still, the feeling she had when Heath mentioned the store had her intrigued. It was the same feeling she’d had when she’d opened the box of books and found the notes in the margins. She needed to see Folly’s Finds. And maybe, after that, she’d be ready to leave.

She spotted another photograph, this one about eight by ten inches, in a frame on a table behind an overstuffed sofa. It was another black-and-white photograph, but there was only one subject in this one. A tall and slim woman in a nineteen-forties-era bathing suit stood in a Hollywood pose facing away from the camera with her hands on her hips and her head turned back over her shoulders toward the photographer with a demure smile.

Unlike the two women in the other photograph, this woman was beautiful by anybody’s standards. Her blond hair shone like spun gold in the sunlight, her facial features perfectly proportioned and her left brow doing an excellent Scarlett O’Hara impression in arched surprise. Her legs were long and lean with trim ankles, and she had slim hips tapering up to a tiny waist. A glimpse of an ample bust could be seen peeking through the triangle of her arm, her skin nearly pearlescent against the sandy beach of the background.

Emmy’s curiosity made her reach for the frame to get a better look. This time she noticed the espadrilles tied at the ankles and the slim bracelet with a sand-dollar drop the woman wore on her left wrist. Emmy held the photograph up to Heath. “Who’s this?”

“That would be my grandmother’s cousin, Catherine. That’s all I know. All of these photos used to be in one of my grandmother’s photo albums that my mother took with her when they evacuated before Hugo. It was her idea to have them blown up and framed for my house. Said every house needs a personal touch.”

Emmy wanted to ask him where the rest of the furniture was, or why the only personal touch came from the framed family photographs that his mother had given him. Except for those, the house definitely lacked the feminine touch, and if he’d built the house for his fiancée, why was there no sign of her ever being here? Regardless, she was glad to have the photographs. She’d left all of hers, including her wedding photos, at home. Her mother had suggested that, but had also told her that she’d send them as soon as Emmy was ready for them.