Writing All Wrongs (3 page)

The dogs romped along the waterline, nudging one another and releasing high-pitched yips. Olivia and Emmett followed at a more leisurely pace. After insisting on carrying the metal detector, Emmett told her about a former colleague who was also a Civil War treasure hunter.

“He was arrested for trespassing. The poor guy was so intent on sweeping a particular field because he was positive that a minor battle had been fought there that he nearly had his hat shot off by an angry farmer.” Emmett gestured at the abandoned stretch of shoreline. “You’ll have most of the beach to yourself until the mobs arrive for the festival. How’s the novel coming, by the way? Have you decided to add a mystery element to it?”

“Actually, I tossed that manuscript in the trash,” Olivia said. When Emmett looked genuinely distraught, she put a
hand on his arm and gave him a reassuring smile. “It’s a good thing. Really. I’m now writing about the people I knew when I was young. The lighthouse keeper, the woman who ran the roadside fruit stand, a shrimp boat captain, a blind artist. It’s become a collection of short stories written in my true voice. The novel was too contrived.” She dropped her hand. “Are you one of the festival guest speakers? I don’t recall seeing your name in the program.”

“I’m a last-minute substitution,” Emmett explained. “The gentleman specializing in the haunted landmarks of the North Carolina coast suffered a heart attack. Not a serious one, thank goodness, but he wasn’t up to making the trip. And since I’m now on the faculty at UNC-Wilmington, it was nothing for me to drive down.” He shook his head ruefully. “I won’t be as entertaining as the original speaker, but I do know the area’s ghostly history.”

Olivia was instantly intrigued. “In that case, I’ll be in the audience.”

Emmett was clearly pleased by her remark, but then his face clouded over. “The organizers should have asked George Allen. He’s in his nineties and has lived on the island all his life. I’ve heard old George tell the most unforgettable tales. His voice is rich and deep, and his eyes are the same blue as the ocean.”

“It sounds like you know him well.”

Emmett nodded. “I grew up in Riverport, right across the Cape Fear River, and spent most of my weekends and summers traipsing around this island after my father. He was a botanist, and this place”—he swept his arm in a wide arc—“was his Garden of Eden. It was a lonely boyhood, but on occasion, back before any of these houses were here, old George would take me fishing. For the price of bait, he’d share his stories. For a long time, he was my only friend.”

“Too bad you and Chief Rawlings never bumped into
each other. His grandparents summered here,” Olivia said. “I’ve mentioned the chief to you before, right?”

“Once or twice,” Emmett said.

Olivia glanced at her wedding band. “He and I were married a few months ago.”

Emmett’s disappointment was obvious, but he had the good grace to smile and offer his congratulations. “I don’t know why I feel like sulking over your happy news, but I do. I guess I saw us as the last two people on earth who’d grow old puttering around our houses with our dogs, too set in our bachelor ways to compromise. I’ll have to bear the torch on my own, I suppose.”

Olivia grinned. “Perhaps I could soften the blow by inviting you to our rental house for cocktails. It’s called Lifesaver. Do you know it?”

Emmett’s eyes widened. “Everyone does. The views are spectacular. You don’t have a generator, do you? My cell phone battery is dead.”

“We’re fresh out of electricity, but we have an ample supply of liquor, food, and jigsaw puzzles.”

“All the essentials,” Emmett said. After a brief hesitation, he asked, “Are you sure I won’t be a third wheel?”

Olivia shook her head. “Not at all. And bring Caesar and Calpurnia. The dogs can take a group nap in front of the fireplace.”

She and Emmett stood on the beach and watched the three dogs play. Their game involved sporadic bursts of running combined with erratic splashing in the shallows. When they finally calmed down, Emmett returned Olivia’s metal detector and said, “If you find a red Matchbox car with a lightning bolt on the roof and hood, let me know. I lost mine somewhere on this beach in 1975. It was my favorite car.” He winked at her, whistled for his dogs, and promised to put on some shoes before showing up for cocktails.

*   *   *

As darkness fell over the ocean, the air sweeping in from the Atlantic bore an autumnal chill. Olivia pulled on a cardigan and fed more kindling into the fire.

“Better ration that,” Rawlings warned. “We can’t just walk into the woods to gather more.”

Emmett, who’d been flipping through one of the Palmetto Island books, showed Rawlings a black-and-white photograph. “Look at this. Can you believe there used to be a lumber mill on the island? Thousands of dogwood trees were cut down and milled. Kind of ironic, considering it’s our state tree.”

Rawlings handed Emmett a glass of wine and gestured toward the sunroom. “Olivia dug up a Scrabble board. Between the two of you, I’m hopelessly outmatched, but I’m willing to pretend that losing doesn’t bother me. Plus, there’s enough food here to feed the archaeology team I saw motoring to the shore from the shipwreck site this afternoon.”

Michel’s hamper contained a full charcuterie including slices of salami, prosciutto, pancetta, barbecued bacon, and rosemary ham. In addition to the meats, there was an assortment of crackers, a loaf of fresh bread with a golden-brown crust, a bowl of almonds mixed with dried cranberries, an olive medley, a jar of habanero pickles, another jar of marinated tomatoes, a container of stone-ground mustard, and two types of homemade jams. To round out these predominantly salty flavors, Michel had packed a bunch of succulent red grapes, sweet potato cheese straws, and lemon-raspberry thumbprint cookies for dessert.

“I really need to make a trip to Oyster Bay,” Emmett said. “If your head chef can put this feast in a picnic hamper, then I can only imagine what he’s able to create with a commercial kitchen at his disposal.”

Emmett shared his opinions of the various island eateries and, after easily winning the first game of Scrabble, talked
about what it was like to spend so much time in the marshes and maritime forest.

“I wore waders half the year,” he joked, though the humor never reached his eyes. “In all honesty, I was a lonesome kid. My father was far more interested in the forest’s oak canopy or the salt shadow cast by the red cedar trees than in tossing a baseball around. And this island has multiple faces. During a summer day on the beaches, it’s a paradise. But go deeper into the forest or the wetlands and you’ll find snakes, alligators, and ravenous insects. The oak trees practically blot out the light in some areas, so the woods can take on a sinister feel.”

Rawlings poured more wine into Emmett’s glass. “I felt that way at times too. I stayed with my grandparents at the inn, but whenever I could, I’d wander off by myself. The farther I was from the beach and the hotel, the stranger the place felt. Once, I saw a white deer in the woods. It had blue eyes that seemed to look right through me. I thought it was the ghost of a deer, but my grandparents told me it was just a trick of the light. Did you ever see a white deer?”

The hopefulness in Rawlings’s face was so keen that Emmett shook his head with genuine regret. “I’m surprised that I didn’t. After listening to George Allen’s stories, I thought I saw all kinds of things, but they were just boyhood fancies.” His gaze slid to the dancing flames. “By the time I was twelve, I’d learned all I could about the island’s history. So many people tried to make a living here. So many failed. From the first attempt at colonization in the late sixteen hundreds to pirates on the run, to dozens of entrepreneurs over the past century, this island has drawn people, but it doesn’t let them stay. My father used to say that people don’t belong here. That each time people create too deep a footprint, the island fights back.”

Olivia remembered the sensation she’d experienced on Cape Fear Point. She looked out the window in the direction of Frying Pan Shoals but could see nothing except for darkness.

“Did you know there once was a second lighthouse? It
was called the Cape Fear Lighthouse, and it wasn’t far from this point. A mighty tower rising one hundred and sixty feet in the air. Its light could be seen for nineteen miles,” Emmett continued as Rawlings cleared the Scrabble board. “George Allen was its keeper until they tore it down. He saw dozens of ships sink. Heard people cry as they were flung into the sea. He ruined any chance of my becoming an open-water sailor, that’s for sure,” Emmett added in an attempt to lighten the mood. “I stick to lakes and calm harbors.”

While Rawlings deliberated over his Scrabble tiles, Olivia decided that she’d very much like to meet George Allen. Though she’d already written a story about a lighthouse keeper, she thought he’d make an unforgettable character as he was now: a walking history book. A living monument shaped by nearly one hundred years of being in the same place.

He must have witnessed so many wondrous and terrible things
, she thought.

“Could you introduce me to Mr. Allen?” she asked Emmett before focusing on the word Rawlings had just built. After examining her letters, she began placing tiles off the
F
in “motif.”

“Sure,” Emmett said affably. “The man loves to tell his stories, especially to attractive women. He also likes to talk to people like the chief. People who knew the island before it became an exclusive vacation destination.” Tilting his head, he studied Olivia’s word. “‘Faqir’? Nicely done. Isn’t that a seventeen-point play?”

Evening passed to night and Olivia found that she was enjoying herself immensely. By the time she, Rawlings, and Emmett finished the Scrabble game and started playing poker with a deck of cards and box of chips Rawlings discovered in the corner cupboard, they were beyond tipsy.

Several hands later, after Rawlings had established that he was the superior gambler, Olivia looked around and saw that the food was gone, the wine was depleted, and the candles on the mantel had burned low.

“I think the dogs and I should roll on home,” Emmett said, following Olivia’s gaze.

Olivia glanced over to where the poodle and the two greyhounds were curled up on the hearth rug. Haviland had his back pressed against Calpurnia’s. Caesar’s front paws were draped over Haviland’s, and his nose was inches away from the poodle’s.

“Time to go,” Emmett whispered and his greyhounds reluctantly got to their feet. Stretching and yawning, they looked back at Haviland and then at Emmett, as if silently berating him for interrupting their cozy nap.

“Thank you for a wonderful evening,” Emmett told Olivia and Rawlings at the door. “I’d resigned myself to heating up a can of soup and correcting student research papers, but you saved me from such a fate.” He paused in the threshold. “How do you feel about my operating a golf cart while under the influence, Chief?”

Rawlings shrugged. “Not my jurisdiction. Just try to stay on the road.”

Emmett coaxed his dogs into the back of the golf cart and then thanked his hosts once more. Olivia left the stoop, descended the stairs to the driveway, and peered down the unlit road.

Without electricity, the entire island seemed to have been transported back in time. Except for the rush of the waves, the night was preternaturally still. There was no rhythmic whirring of air-conditioning units or strains of music coming from the neighboring houses. There was no traffic noise. It was as though they were the only creatures awake and stirring.

“Watch out for alligators,” Olivia teased Emmett once he had the golf cart running and had switched on its feeble headlights.

“The most dangerous things on this island walk on two legs,” Emmett said and, having delivered this enigmatic remark, drove away.

There is something haunting in the light of the moon; it has all the dispassionateness of a disembodied soul, and something of its inconceivable mystery.

—J
OSEPH
C
ONRAD

O
ver the next two days, Olivia and Rawlings walked on the beach, explored the island, and worked on their individual writing projects. On Thursday, just as they were reading the lunch menu tacked to the corkboard outside The Crab Pot, the seafood restaurant overlooking the marina, electricity was restored to the island.

“They can turn off that generator now,” a woman entering The Crab Pot said. “I didn’t want to eat with that racket in the background anyway.”

The man holding the door for her rolled his eyes. “You always find something to complain about. You’re bound to be disappointed by the food, the waitstaff, the décor, and the brand of toilet paper in the ladies’ room.”

“Oh, stuff it, Hank,” the woman said before disappearing into the restaurant.

Rawlings and Olivia exchanged glances.

“You sure you want to follow that act?” Rawlings asked.

“Why not?” Olivia said. “That’ll be us in a few years.”

Mumbling something about an annulment, Rawlings pushed Olivia inside and then waited for Haviland to enter next.

“We don’t allow pets in the dining room,” the hostess informed them amiably. “But I can seat you on the back deck. You’ll have a nice view of the docks.”

Olivia and Rawlings were given a table next to Leigh Whitlow, who was working her way through a pitcher of margaritas while sending texts on her cell phone. A reply clearly upset her, for she released a torrent of murmured expletives after reading it. She then slapped the phone on the table and gulped down her margarita.

She was in the midst of refilling her glass when her phone rang.

“For Chrissakes!” Leigh slurred and reached for the device.

The woman who’d preceded Olivia into the restaurant scowled at her husband. “First we have to eat with a dog, and now
this
?” She flicked her wrist at Leigh. “I want to change tables, Hank.”

“I’m supposed to be relaxing, remember? Doctor’s orders,” Hank said. “Though if my doctor spent twenty-four hours in my shoes, he might offer to euthanize me, free of charge.” He signaled for the waiter. “A whiskey sour, please.”

Olivia and Rawlings ordered their food—grouper tempura for Olivia and braised short ribs for Rawlings—and then discussed their plans for the afternoon.

“Emmett arranged for me to meet George Allen tomorrow,” Olivia said. “In the meantime, I’d like to check out the maritime museum.”

Their waiter arrived with glasses of iced tea and a bowl of water for Haviland. After thanking the young man and waiting for him to walk over to Leigh’s table, Rawlings pointed at the lighthouse and said, “I thought I might paint the old beacon.”

“I’ll kill them both if he makes a move on her.” Waving the server away, Leigh’s eyes blazed with anger as she hissed into her phone. “I won’t be treated this way. You know that I’m not bluffing.”

The woman at the other table put down her fork. “I will
not
have my lunch ruined because other people don’t know the meaning of etiquette.”

Leigh shot the woman a hostile glance and then yelled into the phone. “He owes me! I’ve been with him from the start. Back when he had to beg people to buy his books. I set up his signings and made hors d’oeuvres for his launch parties. I’ve given him my best years! And we have no children! We don’t even have joint custody over a dog!”

“Hank!
Do
something
!” the woman prodded.

Ignoring his wife, Hank focused on his whiskey sour.

Leigh pulled some bills out of her wallet and got to her feet. She was still speaking into the phone when the waiter appeared, balancing a heavy tray on his shoulders.

“Oh!” Leigh cried. Pretending to catch her heel on a crack in the wood, she stumbled into the waiter. A bowl of seafood risotto and a platter of steamed clams and mussels landed on Hank and his wife.

The woman screamed. Her banshee cries startled Haviland, and he began to bark. In the midst of the sudden din, Hank threw back his head and laughed.

Feigning shock and dismay, Leigh apologized to the waiter and slipped a twenty into his apron pocket. She then blew Hank a kiss and sashayed inside the restaurant.

Olivia shushed Haviland while the waiter did his best to clear away the ruined lunches. Within the space of ten minutes, Olivia and Rawlings were enjoying their delicious meals alone.

“The woman who was gulping down the margaritas is Leigh Whitlow,” Olivia said and went on to tell Rawlings what she’d overheard about Silas Black’s girlfriend. “Though
the stories of her rash behavior could be products of the Hollywood gossip machine, it’s obvious that she’s not a happy woman.”

“She’s angry,” Rawlings said. “And it sounds like she’s been reckless before.” He gazed at the boats bobbing gently in their slips. Beyond the marina, the ferry was coming in from the mainland, its decks crowded with passengers. “It’s a small island for such a big anger,” he added.

They finished their lunch in silence, each lost in their own thoughts, and then parted ways in front of the marina store.

At the maritime museum, Olivia asked the docent for permission for Haviland to accompany her. “I’d be glad to pay for his admission,” she offered.

The woman, a matronly type named Rosemary, flashed Haviland a warm smile. “Would you mind waiting five minutes? There’s another party inside, and if you’d give them time to get ahead, you’ll have the place to yourself. Perhaps you’d like to browse in the gift shop while you pass the time?”

She’s a wily one
, Olivia thought with admiration, and ended up purchasing a ship in a bottle kit for her niece and a toy periscope for her nephew. Judging by the threadbare carpet and faded silk plants in the lobby, the museum needed every cent the gift shop brought in, and Olivia made a mental note to tell Laurel to stop by and pick up some goodies for her sons.

A few minutes later, Rosemary gave Olivia leave to proceed into the first exhibit hall. Olivia looked at the dugout canoe encased in glass, read the plaques on the fishing techniques of the Cape Fear Indians, and then moved into the second hall, which focused on early explorers. Olivia saw what Emmett had meant when he’d said that the island rebelled against inhabitation. The initial attempt at colonization had been a total failure, and though the story lacked the drama of the disappearance of the Lost Colony of
Roanoke, the pioneers who’d tried to make a life on Palmetto Island had faced nothing but adversity.

Olivia studied one of the earliest photographs taken of the island. The beach, lined by palmetto trees and lush undergrowth, was beautiful, but there was also something hostile about the landscape. It was as though the plants and trees had formed a wall to keep invaders out. Assuming anyone made it past the dangerous shoals, of course.

Proceeding to the next display case, Olivia examined a map of the island and realized that most of it was still undeveloped. The marshlands and roaming tributaries, which formed the majority of the island, had been a wildlife sanctuary for nearly a century.

“No wonder the naturalists are protesting,” Olivia said to herself and then turned to Haviland. “We’re going on the moonlit walk, Captain. I want to see what they’re fighting for.”

Just then, Olivia heard raised voices coming from the next room. She moved to the doorway and peeked into the space. A man she immediately recognized from the festival brochures stood in front of a wall case containing an assortment of pirate weapons. He wore black jeans and a black
No Quarter
sweatshirt.

“Cutlasses, doglock pistols, and cannons.
That’s
what creates excitement.” Silas Black spoke to a short, balding man in a sweater vest. The man’s cheeks were flushed. “I even had a crate of blunderbusses made for next season. Viewers want action, Sherrill. It’s
all
about the action.”

“You asked for my opinion, Mr. Black, and I’m telling you that there isn’t a shred of evidence that Stede Bonnet committed rape or murder.” The man dabbed at his forehead with a handkerchief. “He was known as the gentleman pirate. Gentlemen don’t make a habit of rape and murder.”

Silas grabbed the arm of the young woman standing beside him. “Amy is a Rhodes scholar. She’s studied the
lesser-known, or shall we say, darker side of history. She has plenty of evidence that Bonnet was no gentleman.”

The man with the sweater vest hemmed and hawed. “Not after he became a pirate, no. Bonnet broke the law, but he wasn’t a bloodthirsty barbarian either.”

“You curators are all the same,” Black said derisively. “Not one of you would have lasted five minutes in the times you so painstakingly preserve under glass. Your neat little cases and tidy plaques can’t capture what life was like back then. It was dirty, rough, and violent. That’s why you have so many of these.” Black gestured at the pirate weapons case. “
These
are what people come to your sad little museum to see. Don’t you want to add to your collections? To get a fresh coat of paint in these rooms? To update the awful lighting? Don’t you realize that working with me is far more profitable than working against me? Think about it before this place falls down around your ears!” Black shouted and then strode out of the room.

Amy waited until Black’s footsteps faded before speaking in a soft, honeyed voice. “Sorry about that, Mr. Sherrill. What Mr. Black was trying to say is that he’d like to highlight the history of the island by including Stede Bonnet in next season’s story arc. If you’d give us permission to use—”

“I’ve seen Mr. Black’s show,” Mr. Sherrill interrupted. “And while I appreciate how his novels and his television show have made coastal North Carolina history extremely popular, I cannot condone the deliberate misrepresentation of a man’s character.” He gestured at a pen-and-ink drawing of a man wearing a coat, waistcoat, breeches, and a wig. “Bonnet had a library on his ship, not a torture chamber.”

“Viewers don’t want to see books in a show about adventurers,” Amy said gently. She handed Mr. Sherrill a business card. “Please call if you change your mind. I’m sure any involvement in
No Quarter
would be beneficial for the museum.”

“I’m afraid that I don’t share your confidence, Miss
Holden,” Sherrill said. “In fact, I’m surprised by your willingness to assist Mr. Black. You’re supposed to be a scholar. Someone who has devoted years of study to local history. You should be writing a book about it. Instead, you’re
rewriting
it to suit a television program. Or is it just to impress this Black fellow?”

Amy’s composure never faltered. “Ours is strictly a professional relationship. And for the record, I did write a book. No one would publish it. I was lucky to land a job as a consultant for
No Quarter.
I didn’t want to be trapped on this island or in some tiny museum in another coastal town. It’s fine for people like you and George Allen, but I’m young. I want to write my own history.” She pointed at the card. “You know how to reach me if you change your mind.”

Olivia was about to enter the room when she hesitated. If the curator was already angry, he might not react well to seeing a dog in his museum.

She watched the agitated man approach the drawing of Stede Bonnet. “It’ll be a cold day in hell before I loan Black a single artifact. There’s no honor among thieves.”

*   *   *

The following afternoon, the rest of the Bayside Book Writers joined Olivia and Rawlings for the official opening of the Legends of Coastal Carolina Festival. Short speeches were made, during which the attendees were introduced to Marjorie Tucker, the island’s librarian, and to Mr. Sherrill. It was clear from the perplexed looks exchanged by the festival organizers that after Mr. Sherrill told the audience members about some of the more intriguing items in the museum’s collection, he was supposed to turn the microphone over, but he rambled on and on. He spoke of the shipwrecks around the island, of the pirates who’d visited its shores, and of the book he’d written.

Eventually, one of the volunteers politely interrupted the
curator and reminded him that they’d yet to review the festival’s activities. “I’m sure the attendees would like to hear from our guest of honor now. Silas Black? Would you kindly tell us what we can look forward to tomorrow?”

After sending a quick glare at Black, Mr. Sherrill scuttled off the stage.

Olivia watched the little man go, and though she listened to what the famous writer and television director had to say, her mind was fixed on a scene from the previous day.

Later, the Bayside Book Writers gathered in Lifesaver’s living room to rehash the festival opening over glasses of prosecco. After they discussed which events they’d attend, Olivia shared the conversation she’d overheard between Amy Holden and Mr. Sherrill at the maritime museum. “So what do you think the curator meant?” Olivia asked her friends. “Was he calling Silas Black a thief?”

“What would Black have stolen?” bartender and soon-to-be young adult author Millay Hallowell puzzled. “It’s not like he smashed and grabbed an antique pirate sword.”