She’d take a big breath before making another huge decision that might upend her life.
3
The House
Mid-afternoon sun heated the July air to its steaming point as Beatrice stepped off the small motorboat to gaze up at the cedar-shake one-story cottage that sat on the edge of the coastal river, or if Beatrice was completely honest, almost in the water. The waves would lap the house right up within the next generation. But she didn’t need the house to last longer than the weekend, so it wasn’t her concern.
The Lowcountry island called Oak Island was deserted save for this one house; the instructions on the rental site had been clear and easy: bring everything you need. No stores. No grocery. A getaway on a spit of land just off Savannah with its own beach, dock, and four bedrooms. Cushioned on the east side by the ocean and the west side by the coastal river, it was both safe and comfortable for a weekend getaway.
Perfect, right?
Beatrice stood by herself at the end of the splintered and sun-washed dock and looked around, cataloging her surroundings. Not fancy. Rose would love it; Victoria would complain about the lack of spa and services; Daisy would find the good in it and immediately start the party. Or these were Beatrice’s best guesses, based on decades of friendship.
So far, it seemed everything Beatrice had imagined when she read “getaway” under the house photo posted online. From Savannah, it was only a ten-minute boat ride (very bumpy, very wet boat ride with a kind man about her age if she had to guess, with a baseball cap covering curly hair) to the flat low island a mile wide, a mile long. Making the journey ahead of the rest of the flock, she now observed the overgrown island’s scrubby palmetto trees, Spanish moss hanging like the hair of some giant, and a crescent moon–shaped beach just the right size for four women and a cooler.
The squeaky call of what Beatrice identified as the brown-headed nuthatch and the musical trill of a sparrow combined in symphony with the slap-slap of water on the wobbly dock. The pure sounds were enough to slightly soothe her aching heart. Wait, that wasn’t right. Beatrice realized it wasn’t just her heart that ached—all of her from ego to pride hurt like hell. But her birds would make it right; she was quite sure.
The boat’s captain carried all of Beatrice’s food and drink supplies, along with her overnight bag that held nothing but sundresses, hats, and bathing suits. And then there were two bags with enough chips and salsa to kill them all if they chose to die that way.
Beatrice approached the house when the screen door slammed and the man’s flip-flops hit the earth as he jumped from the top step, denting the soft sandy ground, and held out his hand. “Guess it’s near time for a proper introduction. I’m Red.” He removed his sunglasses, and there were soft brown eyes with a rim of green. His smile reached his ears and folded his sun-crinkled skin to his eyes; his chin bore an S-shaped scar and half of his thick left eyebrow was missing.
“Beatrice.” She took a few steps toward him onto the soft grass and held out her hand and shook his calloused one. “Nice to formally meet you.” She spread her hands out. “This is a downright wonderful place for our secluded weekend. Please tell the owner thank you for renting it to us.”
“You just thanked him.” Red’s smile teased.
“Oh.” Beatrice paused. “I thought his name was Ned Blackstone. I sent the money to—”
“Well,” Red said in a Southern accent so melodic it sounded false. “That’s my first name. Red’s the second, given to me by my little brother, and the one that stuck.”
“Well, Red and Ned, thank you. The other women will be at the dock in—” Beatrice yanked her cell phone from her sundress pocket and noticed there were zero bars. No service. None. But the clock worked. “—an hour.”
“I’ll be there to ferry them over,” he said. “Would you like some help unpacking and getting settled?”
“I think I’ve got it. And it’s awkward—you know, me unpacking in your house while you’re here. I think maybe—”
He nodded. “I get it. I’ll make myself scarce while you do what needs gettin’ done.”
Beatrice stared at him for a moment. Everything he did was so slow, not in an unintelligent way, but how a man moves when he knows the entire world is at his fingertips and things will just be fine, totally fine. Meanwhile, Beatrice was switching from one foot to the next, bounding around like she had somewhere to be and something to do, like save the world from the next nuclear bomb.
“Is there . . . I guess I should have asked before I rented it . . . is there internet or a way to get cell service out here?” She held up her phone as proof of nothing.
“Depends which provider you’ve got. Some can get service at the very tip of the island if they hold the phone tilted toward Savannah. Seems there’s a black spot here. Not that I mind so much.”
“But how do you run a business if you don’t have . . . ?”
He smiled and walked away, heading toward the back of the house, doing what he called making himself scarce, she assumed. Well, that would explain the day or two it had taken him to answer her first email.
Once inside, she glanced around. It didn’t look much like the photos, or more precisely it looked like the photos but sparser and more decrepit.
A man lived here. Alone. That much was obvious. The kitchen, spartan and small, had a two-burner electric stove. The kitchen counters were a 1970s green linoleum, and cracked at that. Okay, so she’d gotten what she paid for. The kitchen was open to the living room, or really one room to be precise, with a stone fireplace that was piled high with burned logs and ash, in the middle of summer.
Beatrice took a few steps toward the back hallway to find the four bedrooms spread out like they’d been added one at a time. She opened each bedroom door and chose what appeared to be Red’s with the king-size bed. She shivered. This was weird; sleeping in a stranger’s bed. What had she been thinking? The room was simple: a king iron bed; a dresser; and one end table made of a log stump. A clock on the wall and a small bookshelf completely crammed with paperbacks that tumbled and spilled onto the floor. They were stacked three, six, and ten deep.
She lifted her phone to check her texts and emails, only to be reminded that there was no service. It was like flipping a light switch when you knew the electricity was out. What if Lachlan texted? What if he changed his mind and came for her and thought she was ignoring him? What if one of her daughters had an emergency? What if . . .
She sank to the bed and dropped her head in her hands.
Keep moving.
Do not cry.
All is well.
These mantras did no good for her heart but kept her mind in some kind of civilized order.
Beatrice stood from the bed and made her way back to the kitchen, pulled her hair into a ponytail, and began unpacking the groceries. By the time she’d organized everything, her mind racing to the ends of her life and back, Red still hadn’t returned with the others.
She unpacked her art folio and slipped out the sketchpad and pastels, placing them on the top of the crammed bookshelf. She removed the drawings she’d made for each friend, wrapped in plastic casing with a white silk bow wrapped around each, their name and bird in calligraphy. This was how she’d spent her time between Lachlan’s rebuttal and the day she left for this island—drawing her friends their totem birds.