The Beach House. Mary Monroe Alice
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brought indoors. Lovie could well imagine the grumbles that rumbled in the hotels and rental houses on the island. As for herself, Lovie was glad for the rain. They needed it desperately. The tips of the palmettos were crisp brown. Besides, the cloudy, introspective skies were a nice change and propelled her to do more of the indoor chores that needed doing. Like her photo albums.
For years she’d intended to organize her collection of old family photos into albums but the free time never seemed to materialize. So, most of her photos ended up stashed in boxes, out of harm’s way but certainly not in any kind of order. Since moving to the beach house, however, she’d put the project high on her priority list and filled up more albums in the past four months than she had in the past forty years.
On this rainy afternoon, Lovie was so engrossed in sorting through the photographs that she didn’t hear the kitchen door open.
“Are you still digging through those moldy old photographs?” Florence Prescott asked as she walked into the cottage.
Lovie turned her head to smile at her dear friend and neighbor. “Still? Honey, I’ve more photos to sort through than I can get done in a lifetime. Or, at least my lifetime.”
Flo’s smile slipped and her brilliant blue eyes grew more serious. “Why? How are you feeling? Any change?”
“No, and I don’t expect any.”
“Well, don’t sound so glum about it. That’s good, I guess. Steady as she goes.”
Flo crossed the room and plopped down on the sofa beside Lovie. She was of average height and build but with a runner’s body—slim, wiry, darkly tanned and just beginning to give in to softness at sixty-five. Only her thick, snowy-white hair gave a clue that she wasn’t a woman half her age. When she spoke it was with the same focused, upbeat energy she used in running the local races.
“Well, then! How’s everything else around here? Seems pretty quiet. Where’s Toy?”
“She went to the market. Said she wanted to make something sweet for dessert. I’m not sure whether it’s to fatten me up or because her hormones are running wild.”
Flo laughed. “Probably a bit of both. You know, I still haven’t laid eyes on that renegade daughter of yours. Is she really here or are you just making that up?”
“Go on and take a peek in her room if you don’t believe me. But I wish you wouldn’t. She’s sleeping.”
“Again? All she does is sleep. Is she sick?”
“She has migraines. She spent the first several days just lying in the dark, poor thing. But I gave her plenty of my chicken gumbo and they’re pretty much gone now.”
“Chalk up another cure to home cooking. Then why is she still sleeping?”
“I’ve been wrestling with that question myself. It could be she’s just exhausted. She works so hard and she claims she’s burned out by the job. Do you know she travels to New York or Los Angeles several times a month? I had no idea. I couldn’t imagine living like that. Back and forth, back and forth, sometimes just for the day. It suits her, I suppose, but I’m much too much a homebody for that.” She pursed her lips and looked toward the closed bedroom door. She thought of the sadness she saw in her daughter’s eyes…or was it defeat?
“I get the feeling that something else is wrong. It’s like she’s sick inside but she won’t tell me what the problem is.”
“She’s our Caretta. I’d be more surprised if she did tell you.”
“Why do you say that?”
“How many years has she been gone? Twenty? In all those years how many times has she come to you for advice? Or just to visit and hang out and, I don’t know, go through those old pictures together?” Her eyes flashed. “I can’t think of a single time.”
Lovie turned back to the photographs, feeling the pain of the comment deeply. “She’s busy and has her own life.”
“I think it’s because it’s easier. You two fight a lot.”
“We do not.”
“Maybe not yelling or such. You’re much too polite for that,” she said with a nudge. “But there’s always been this unspoken argument between the two of you. I suppose it’s just your way. But if you ask me—and I know you aren’t asking but here’s my opinion anyway—the two of you could use one good ol’ knock-down-drag-out fight. Spit it all out.”
“What a suggestion!” Lovie replied, irked that her dearest friend couldn’t understand the situation at all. “You’ve known us for long enough to know better. Cara’s simply moved far away. It’s only natural that there be an emotional distance as well. Besides, Cara’s always been a loner and perfectly capable of taking care of herself.”
“Being able to take care of herself and being by herself are two separate things entirely.”
“What are you saying?” The notion struck her hard.
“Well, does she have a fella?”
“Who knows, though I’ve asked her enough times. She gets prickly when I so much as broach the subject. She mentioned a Richard Selby from her office who she’s been seeing for some time. My ears perk up whenever a man’s name is mentioned twice in her life. But it seems to me if he were the least bit special she would be on the phone with him. She hasn’t called a soul.” Lovie thought back to the empty-eyed expression she’d caught when Cara was staring out the window. “Do you think she’s lonely?”
“How should I know? It’s possible. I mean, she may be superwoman at work but she’s still a woman when she goes home at night.”
Lovie set the photos down in her lap, flustered. “But, I just told you. She lives a busy, full life. She’s always going someplace or doing something with someone. Cara loves the theater, you know. She’s seen all the latest shows.”
Flo’s blue eyes seemed to burn right through Lovie’s arguments. “You might know better than most how empty a busy life can be.”
Lovie’s breath caught and she couldn’t reply. It felt as though her world, which just a few moments ago seemed peaceful and orderly, was thrown off-kilter.
“I’m sorry,” Flo said. “You know me, I speak first and think later. You wouldn’t be the first one to toss a ripe tomato my way. Go right ahead.”
Lovie shook her head with a shaky smile. “It’s what I love most about you. But, I wonder if you might be right about Cara, after all.” She picked up a photograph from the pile on her lap. It showed a dark-haired Cara at about thirteen, all thin arms and legs. She was curled up like a cat in the branches of an enormous, twisted live oak tree, reading a book.
“Look at her,” Flo said with affection. “She was scowling even then.”
Lovie chuckled and ran a finger over the girl’s image. “I remember taking this one. That old tree was her favorite spot. She’d go up there to read or think, or just to be alone. Hiding out, most likely. She was a funny little thing. Always seemed to carry the weight of the world on her shoulders.”
“Pubescent girls often behave like that. They’re teetering at the edge of womanhood and are so damn moody.”
“Perhaps. We used to be very close when she was little but she became so distant. I could almost feel her hand pushing me away.”
“Again, that’s normal for a girl that age.”
“Be that as it may, it’s still painful for the mother to go through.” She sighed. “She’s still pushing me away. But that’s nothing compared to her father. She may have pushed me away but she raised her dukes to him. Went toe-to-toe with him at every chance. I was terrified for her. You know how his temper was. I daresay she enjoyed torturing him.”
“Yeah?