She glanced at her watch, then made a quick call to her parents. She’d been disappointed that they had an engagement they couldn’t break and didn’t pick her up at the airport. The call went to the answering machine; her parents were still out. Linnea didn’t want to sit in an empty house, waiting. She chewed her lip and looked out at the vista as a new thought blossomed. As much as she loved her mother and father, missed them, having to live with them in the smaller beach house would give her precious little room to hide.
She made a quick decision. “Excuse me,” she called out to the driver.
He turned his head a bit to hear better. “Yes, ma’am?”
“I’d like to change the address of where to drop me off.”
“You don’t want to go to Sullivan’s Island?”
“No. I want to go to Isle of Palms. I’ll give you the address.”
“I’ll have to change the fare,” he said over his shoulder.
“No problem; it’s next door to Sullivan’s Island. It shouldn’t be much of a difference.” Pulling out a pen and paper, she wrote down the address, then handed it over to the driver.
He reached around to take hold of the paper, frowning with worry. When they stopped at a light, he punched the address into his GPS.
“I can guide you,” she told him.
He either didn’t hear her or ignored her. She leaned forward and kept an eye on where the car was headed, ready to call out directions. But his GPS was doing a fine job leading him down Highway 17 past the Towne Centre shopping plaza, then turning toward the Connector, an aptly named long stretch of road that rose over the marshes to reach the island. It was low tide, and Linnea smiled at the sight of the vast acres of Spartina grass, signs of bright spring-green shoots at the roots. Here and there, white egrets stood like lone sentinels in the mud.
Over the waterway, the sun was beginning its slow descent in the western sky. The sky was the color of amber, streaked with shades of purple, gold, and sienna. The last rays of the day’s sun pierced the palette like an exuberant brushstroke.
“Could you slow down a minute, please?” she asked the driver as they neared the apex of the road. She scooted forward in her seat. “Look at that sunset.”
He did so, almost slowing to a stop. His pinched face relaxed, and he seemed as enthralled by the sight as she was.
“It is very beautiful,” the driver said in heavily accented English.
She smiled at the awe in his voice. “I don’t think there is a more beautiful sunset anywhere else in the world.”
“I, uh, have to speed up now, okay? The car behind me…” he said by way of apology.
“Of course. Thank you. It was a moment.”
Linnea had seen countless sunsets in her life, yet they never failed to stun her. It was the surprise of it. They had the power to literally take her breath away. She remembered Grandmama Lovie telling her that a sunset was daily proof that God existed. As usual, her grandmother was correct. Seeing a sunset, Linnea felt connected both to the earth below and God above.
Linnea began tapping her foot in excitement as the car crossed through the light at the foot of the Connector, and they were on the island. Before she could speak, the driver had sped across the intersection, then turned onto Ocean Boulevard. She would have advised him to go a different route to avoid the traffic. As expected, they slowed to a crawl along Front Beach, where restaurants and beach shops clustered. But she was in no hurry and enjoyed the sight of vacationers on spring break strolling along the street.
There were elderly couples taking their time looking at the shop windows or checking out menus. Little children were licking ice cream cones. Lovers walked hand in hand. Cars filled every parking space, and those searching for one crept at a snail’s pace. At last they broke free of the strip of shops, and the car moved at a steady pace through the residential section of Ocean Boulevard. They passed one pastel-colored mansion after another, which formed a wall bordering the ocean. Linnea remembered Lovie explaining how when she was young, there were far fewer houses on the island and one could see long stretches of sand and sea from the road.
“Turn here,” she said to the driver, leaning far forward and pointing. “The road dead-ends ahead.”
In a few short blocks, she spotted Primrose Cottage. It appeared shadowy in the darkening sky. No lights were on. That small, charming cottage had been Lovie’s sanctuary. At the beach house, Olivia Rutledge had felt free to enjoy her own interests at her own pace. To live a simpler life. This was a gift she’d shared with her daughter, Cara. And her granddaughter, Linnea.
A jungle of shrubs and trees filled the empty lot to the house’s left; Flo and Emmi’s Victorian, blue with coral-colored bric-a-brac, was resplendent on the right. These two vintage homes were wedged on the block between mansions, a glimpse from a time long gone.
“This it?” the driver asked, a tone of disappointment in his voice. No doubt he’d expected to pull into one of the impressive estate houses.
“Yes, you can go right up to the porch.”
He took it slow up the patchy oyster-shell driveway dotted with a few puddles from an earlier rain, and came to a stop near the front walk. At last, Linnea thought, and sprang from the car. Her eyes devoured the house.
In early spring, the property looked a bit shabby to the unknowing eye. But one who’d grown up on a barrier island saw the natural beauty of a place where there was more sand than soil. Lovie had taught Linnea to see the manicured lawns as abominations not meant for an island. It took pesticides to maintain them, which in turn killed important insects, like butterflies and bees. Rather, Primrose Cottage’s lot was covered with tufts of unruly wildflowers, not yet blooming but sending up green shoots. Shells, sand, sweetgrass, and scrubby vegetation filled in the rest.
The driver dragged her large suitcase from the trunk, along with her carry-on. Just about everything she owned was packed into those two bags. Not a great statement at twenty-five years of age.
“Don’t look like anyone’s home,” the driver said.
She glanced at the dark house, acknowledging the truth in his observation. “I’ll be okay.”
He accepted that answer, gave her a short wave, then scurried back to the car and drove off.
Linnea pulled out her phone to call her aunt Cara, but as she dialed, her battery died and the screen went black. Linnea took a deep, bracing breath of sea air and told herself that it was okay. She didn’t care, because she was home.
She began dragging the giant suitcase close to the front steps, the kitten heels of her pumps digging into the sand and shells. She noted that Cara had improved the property in the past year. The walkway was now bluestone, and she had widened the front steps and front porch, adding a pergola as well, a signature touch for her. Two hunter-green rocking chairs and four hanging ferns filled the porch. Primrose Cottage had never looked better, she thought.
Struggling and cursing, Linnea at last managed to drag the suitcases to the front step. Wiping a tendril of hair from her face, she knocked several times on the front door and rang the bell for good measure. All remained silent within.
She left her luggage and walked around the house toward the ocean-side door. The shells crunched beneath her navy pumps, and from Emmi’s garden she caught the scent of honeysuckle. Rounding the house, she saw the expansive deck and the glass-enclosed porch, and her heart pinged. These were the last projects completed on the house by Cara’s first husband, Brett. He’d been a second father to Linnea and her brother, Cooper. Brett had been so full of life, his sudden death had been hard for them all. There was a time she wasn’t sure Cara would get past losing him. Or if any of them would, for that matter. That was the lesson they’d all learned: Life was precious. Each day was a blessing. Life went on.