On Folly Beach (47 page)

The letter in Emmy’s hand flapped in the early-morning breeze. She turned to block the wind, pulling her sweater closer, and noticed a dark blue pickup truck pulling into her driveway. She watched as Heath stepped out of the cab, his hair still wet, like he’d just showered but hadn’t taken the time to dry it. He walked to the top of the driveway, hesitating at the bottom of the back-deck steps as he looked around the backyard.

He spotted her before she could call out to him, and she waited for him to approach. His face was serious, but she still felt a warm rush of anticipation at seeing him, and it no longer startled her. He stopped next to her and stared out at the marsh without speaking.

“Is Lulu . . . ?” She couldn’t finish.

Finally, he looked at her, his brown eyes turning an unusual amber from the glow of the morning sun. “She’s still in ICU but they’re pretty sure she won’t be staying there long. She’s lucky she was found so quickly. They don’t think any permanent damage was done.”

“Thank God.” Emmy closed her eyes, the sun bright behind her eyelids, and felt the relief flood through her.

“She’s asking for you.”

“For me?”

Heath nodded. “Yeah. You’ll have to wait a couple of days, though. No visitors outside of family. Jolene already tried.”

“I wonder why she wants to talk to me. It’s not like we’re . . . close.”

“Yeah, well, she’s asking for you. I’ll go with you, if you like.”

Despite his seriousness, Emmy smiled. “Why? Do you think she’ll bite?”

Heath smiled back. “You never know.”

The wind blew harder and Emmy brought her hands up to the neck of her sweater, forgetting she held Cat’s letter. It rustled like a whisper, drawing Heath’s attention.

“Is that the letter from Cat?”

Emmy nodded. “I’ve been carrying it around with me for some reason. I suppose I was thinking that if Lulu died, this would die, too. And I was just trying to be okay with that.”

“Were you?”

“No. I like to think that everything has a reason. Finding Maggie’s notes in those books led me here, and I’m so grateful to her for that. I’ve been thinking about how much we have in common—our love for books, owning the same store, each of us marrying a soldier. I even work behind the same oak counter she must have.” And when I look at her photograph, her expression reminds me of that of a caged bird, and I see myself. She kept this last thought to herself, not ready to admit it, even to Heath.

Emmy continued. “I feel compelled to learn her story, almost as if she’s prodding me to. And I’m sorry if that sounds selfish to you, but I have to think that her story is meant to be told, that maybe it can shine light on something relevant today.” She looked up at him, unable to read his expression. “But after finding this note, it was like hitting a dead end, and the only person who can help me is Lulu. Yet I’m afraid that you’re not going to let her.”

Heath didn’t say anything for a long moment as they both watched the sun rise higher over the marsh and the lighthouse beyond like a glowing benediction. “I’d like to read the letter.” When his eyes met hers, Emmy saw that he no longer looked angry.

She pushed back her feeling of hope. “Why? Why now?”

He looked down at his feet for a moment. “After seeing Lulu in the hospital, I couldn’t help but think about her dying and how neither one of us is ready for that. And it’s more than just me not being ready to lose her. She’s been hiding something all these years, since long before I was even born. The only reason I could think of for somebody to hide something for so long is guilt. Or fear of punishment.” He shook his head. “I don’t want her to die without forgiveness.”

She touched his arm because she couldn’t think of anything to say to that—anything that would comfort someone who knew what dying with unfinished business was really like. She handed him the letter and watched him as he read.

His expression changed from expectation, to relief, then confusion. He read it twice, then looked up at her. “So what does this mean?”

“My mother and I are pretty sure it’s a suicide note. Unfortunately, your dad was too young to remember Cat, and the only person I know to ask is in the hospital in ICU.”

“What makes you think this has anything to do with Lulu?” He seemed almost hostile, but Emmy knew enough now not to take offense. He wasn’t arguing with her; he was fighting the vagaries of fate and how death happened whether people were ready or not. Emmy had already learned that lesson, but secondhand. She imagined that staring it in the face would be a lot like seeing your own ghost.

“Lulu played her disappearing act as soon as you discovered the box of books. She’s the one who put them there, so she had to know what was in them. Your mother told us that Lulu was the last person to see Maggie, and Maggie gave her a box of her favorite books before Lulu evacuated with your family. So it had to be her who put them in the attic before it was sealed sometime during the restoration process. Nobody else knew about the box.”

Heath shook his head. “It’s just that Lulu was a little girl when Cat died—and I can’t imagine her being ashamed of a suicide in the family when she had nothing to do with it. There has to be something else.”

“There might be. Your mother said something about where Lulu was found on the old lot. She had a spade in her hand as if she were digging something up.”

“I know, but I can’t imagine what could be buried there. After Hugo, my dad went out there with his metal detector and shovels to find if anything valuable was left. We found a few things—kitchen pans and utensils mostly—but not much. Hard to believe we missed anything.”

“Unless it was buried afterward.”

“But why would she bother? That was nineteen eighty-nine.”

“You said she was the last person to see Maggie. Maybe they talked about something then—something that convinced Lulu that whatever secret she’d been hiding needed to stay secret.”

Heath frowned at Emmy. “You’re good at this, you know?”

Emmy took a deep breath, trying not to smile. “I once traced a single document to the library of a remote castle in Scotland for one of my mother’s customers. Nothing is too improbable for me.” Serious again, she said, “But this is your family, not mine. And if you want the story to end here, it will. I figure it got me here to Folly, and that should be enough.” She shrugged as they both recognized the lie. “Or I could make it be enough.”

“It could be.” He looked down at the letter one more time before handing it back to her. “But if Lulu was digging something up, then I’d have to guess that she didn’t want it to be buried anymore.” He rubbed his hands over his face, his shoulders sinking in resignation. Walking back toward his truck, he called over his shoulder, “Come on. Let’s go get my dad’s metal detector and see what we can find.”

“Now?”

“Unless you feel like waiting.”

“Not at all,” she said, relief and excitement running through her in equal measure. She followed Heath to his truck, sensing the calmness of the marsh behind her and thinking of Maggie again, of how she had died and whom she had been waiting for.

THE SUN HAD DESERTED THE sky when they reached the vacant lot, and dark plump clouds nestled against one another on the horizon like the paws of a pouncing cat. The air was heavy with moisture, the palmetto trees and even the grass seeming to droop with dampness.

“The ENT said she was found about six feet away from the cross.” Heath pointed to the white painted cross in the middle of the yard. “Lulu put that up for Maggie when we figured we’d never find her.”

Emmy nodded, saddened by the sight of the small memorial, a tangible reminder of Lulu’s sister. Twenty-one years was a long time to wait for the grief to go away.

Heath flicked a switch on the metal detector. “I’ll start at the cross and move in a gradually growing circle. If I get some kind of signal, I’ll start digging.”

He began hovering the rounded coil of the detector low over the ground, sweeping it back and forth like a vacuum cleaner. The telltale prickling began at the roots of Emmy’s scalp, slowly tiptoeing down her spine just in case she’d missed the message. Without asking, she went back to Heath’s truck and took out the shovel he’d brought with them.

She didn’t sit down or place the tool on the ground, sensing they were very close to whatever it was they were supposed to find. When a beeping sound came from the metal detector, Emmy almost laughed out loud.

Heath stopped the sweeping motion and began to be more specific with his placement, stopping when the beeps became a constant line of sound. “Whatever it is, it’s less than a foot below the surface.” After flipping off the detector, he laid it on the ground behind him and reached for the shovel.

“What can I do?” Emmy asked, impatient to see what lay hidden under the grassy dirt.

Heath pretended to contemplate the question for a moment. “You can either stand back and let me dig, or you can dig by yourself. I don’t think this will require both of us.”

He’d taken off his sweatshirt and stood in the cool wind in just jeans and a T-shirt. She eyed his biceps and thought of her own pitiful attempts at running. “You go ahead. Let me know if you need me to wipe your brow or anything.”

“Will do.” His face serious again, he stabbed the earth with the tip of the shovel and began to dig.

Heath made shallow scoops of earth, the dirt softened by an overnight sprinkle. The tingling that had started at the back of Emmy’s neck now raced up and down her arms, and she had to force herself to stand still instead of dance with anticipation.

He’d only been digging for about ten minutes when the shovel made contact with something hard. He sent a glance of warning to Emmy. “Don’t get too excited—it could just be a rock.”

“It’s not. It’s what we’re looking for.”

He leaned his hands on the shovel. “You know, huh?”

Emmy bit her lip. “Yep. And I’d bet money that you’re about to find whatever it is Lulu was looking for.”

With a dubious look, he continued taking shallow layers of dirt out of the hole he’d made until he uncovered what appeared to be the smooth top of a small wooden box.

Their eyes met over the hole. Without a word, Heath began to use the shovel tip to loosen the dirt around the edges of the box, pulling enough away to make room for a hand to slip down the sides and lift the box out of its prison.

Indicating the box, Heath said, “Stick your hands in and let me know if you can feel the bottom edge of the box. I’m thinking it’s only three to four inches wide, so the hole should be deep enough.”

Not caring about the damp ground, Emmy eagerly knelt and wiggled her fingers into the space Heath had created with the shovel. “It’s good,” she said as she concentrated on digging her fingers under the box to give her enough leverage to lift it out.

She was able to place her thumbs on top of the box and the rest of her fingers underneath, and the box lifted easily as if it had been waiting for her. Emmy had expected it to be heavier, and the unused force jerked her back into a sitting position next to the hole, the box held in her hands.

Carefully, she brushed the dirt off of it, revealing a rectangular box with a metal latch and hinges, and a lacquered surface with hand-painted flowers decorating the lid. She looked up at Heath. “I think it’s a jewelry box.”

Heath lay the shovel aside and squatted next to her. Suddenly unsure, her eyes met his and she said, “It’s your call.”

He took the box from her, and for a moment, Emmy thought he was going to replace it in the hole in the ground. Instead, he very gently opened the lid. A faint scent of perfume wafted from the red velvet interior and then was gone as soon as it had appeared, making Emmy wonder if she’d imagined it. Heath sat down next to her as they both peered inside to find out what Lulu had thought important enough to bury.

“Go ahead,” Heath said, offering the box to Emmy.

Carefully, Emmy lifted out a roller-skate key. She turned it over to see if it had any markings, surprised at how cold it felt in her palm. She placed it on the ground next to her, then reached in and pulled out sand-dollar earrings and a tortoiseshell barrette, a long strand of brown hair still caught in the clasp. Fighting back her disappointment at finding such inconsequential things, she pulled out the last items in the box, an old penny, a handkerchief, and a lace hair ribbon, the fabric soft and yellowed like an old photograph.

She studied the penny with the familiar Lincoln bust, then flipped it over to see two wheat sheaves bordering the words one cent and United States of America. “It’s a 1933 penny,” she said holding it up.

“That’s the year Lulu was born.”

She placed the penny on the ground with the other items, then smoothed the handkerchief over her leg, noticing the monogram in the corner. She wrinkled her nose at the smeared lipstick and makeup that stained the fine linen. “Who’s PWK?” She rubbed the black thread of the embroidery and its unfamiliar letters as if they could tell her something. “P could be for Peter, but his last name was Nowak.”

She dropped the dirty handkerchief in her lap, not wanting to touch it anymore, and picked up the penny again. “I can’t believe this is all there is.”