Beach House for Rent Page 5

  Her mother turned her gaze from the road for an instant and smiled. “I happen to love Heather just the way she is.”

  Well, that made one of them. Heather didn’t much care for the excruciatingly shy girl who usually clammed up around boys, especially those she liked. Who couldn’t get two words out without blushing. Most of the time she was standing alone in some corner, the classic wallflower. Heather preferred to be at home in her room with a good book. She’d successfully avoided parties throughout high school, but she had gone to this final hurrah for Mother’s sake. The fact that she wasn’t invited to many didn’t matter to Heather, but her vivacious, popular mother took it as a personal affront.

  On that fateful night, the windshield wipers were clicking in a steady rhythm as they talked. Heather was so wrapped up in relating the highlights of the party she didn’t notice how heavily the rain was coming down until her mother hushed her.

  “Hold that thought just a minute, honey,” her mother said, leaning forward over the steering wheel and peering out. “I need to concentrate.” She tsked with frustration. “I can’t see a thing.”

  Heather sat up straighter in her seat at the tone of worry, and silently peered into the narrow cone of vision provided by the yellow beams of light. Her mother slowed the car to a crawl on the highway, the wipers now whipping back and forth at a frenzied speed.

  “Only one exit more and we’ll be off the highway,” she said encouragingly.

  Suddenly, out of the fog, a car was coming right for them, hydroplaning at an angle across the traffic lanes. Heather stiffened involuntarily, bracing for a hit. She pressed far back against her seat, her mouth opened in a silent scream as time seemed to slow down. The SUV was white and huge. Her mother swerved to get out of its way.

  The last thing Heather remembered was her mother’s arm pressed against her chest, protecting her. . . .

  The memory of the crash hit Heather hard. She saw again the glare of headlights in her eyes and everything in her mind went white. Heather sucked in air and tugged at the seat belt pressed against her chest. Smells, sounds, screams of the accident replayed in her mind. The terrible, deafening thud of metal hitting metal . . . and then nothing. Heather covered her face with her hands as soft, whimpering sounds escaped from her lips.

  Her father looked her way, worry etched on his face. “It’s all right, baby,” he told her, and reached over, trying to grab her hand. She held herself too tightly. Grimly he set his jaw and, peering out his window, flicked on his turn signal and guided the car across the slick highway to the exit. Every foot advanced was a victory in the torrential downpour.

  At last the car came to a stop. Heather felt her father’s hand on her shoulder, big and comforting. “Heather?”

  Heather dropped her hands and, looking around, knew where she was. She still had control. She saw her father’s face near her own. His sunglasses were off, and she stared into blue eyes soft with concern and sadness.

  “I thought it was a good time to take a break,” he said gently. He stroked a hunk of hair from her face. “You okay?”

  Heather chased away the images from her mind. Very slowly she moved to lower her legs and straighten in her seat. As she did she felt her mind uncoil as well, releasing the nightmare that clung to her like a second skin in the light of reality. She was angry with herself for still having the flashbacks. She’d worked so hard with her therapist, taken her medications, but she felt powerless against them.

  Taking a deep, calming breath, she peered out the windshield. It was still raining steadily, but no longer the desperate downpour. She could see they’d parked at a rest stop. They were off the road. Several other cars were idling there, waiting for the storm to pass. From the backseat came the sounds of her birds chirping in their covered cages. She felt some comfort at the sound.

  Heather nodded and ventured a wobbly smile. “I’m okay. I just need a minute.”

  Her father reached into the back to retrieve a paper bag of bottled water and snacks. He offered her a bottle, then pulled out some granola bars. “Natalie packed us a few things. Might as well enjoy them while we wait out the storm. What do you want?” He looked between two of the bars and made a soft grunt of disapproval. “It’s those damn healthy things you like. See? She’s got you in mind.” Then he mumbled, “Certainly not me.” He held out both bars. “Lemon or coconut?”

  “Just water, thanks,” she said softly. Her stomach was in knots. She couldn’t eat. She reached to the floor of the car and grabbed her purse. Her hands were still shaking, but she managed to pull out her medicine bottle and shake out one pink tablet. Popping it into her mouth, she swallowed water, hoping the tiny pill would do its job.

  David watched her helplessly, then tore into a health bar and began chewing. “These things taste like shit. No wonder you don’t want one.”

  Heather tried to smile. Her father was making an effort to improve her mood, distract her.

  David finished his bar, complaining about it the whole way through, and crumpled the paper in his big hand. Heather noticed the gold wedding band, shiny and new, on his ring finger. Around them the rain pattered steadily, streaking the windows as the engine rumbled beneath them. David drank from his water bottle, then spoke as he screwed the top back on.

  “I know driving in a car is hard for you,” he began haltingly. “And this rain didn’t help.”

  Heather looked away. She couldn’t begin to help him understand the torture inflicted upon her by her memories. He couldn’t comprehend how on that evening her life had been broken, never to be fully repaired. “I-I’m sorry,” she stammered. “I didn’t mean to overreact.”

  “Baby, you don’t need to apologize. You’ve been doing so well. You have to remind yourself of that. You’ve driven in cars countless times since then. You even got your license.”

  “Yes,” she replied, frustrated at herself for sliding back. “The rain, the highway . . . it was too close to that night. The memories . . . I can’t control when I get the flashbacks.”

  “It’s been eight years since the accident. Your therapist said you were ready for this change.”

  Heather didn’t want to talk about what her therapist had said.

  “Honey, sometimes we just have to overcome our fears and move forward in life.”

  “I know that, Dad,” she replied testily. She didn’t want to be treated like a child. She’d been working very hard for those eight years to overcome the blowup of fears and anxiety brought on by the accident. She’d made great strides. She’d managed a successful career and had agreed to take this big step in her life. But the anxiety was still there, a beast lurking inside of her, waiting to emerge at any new situation or trigger.

  “I am moving on.” She looked at her hands. “Clearly you’ve moved on.” Her voice rang out with accusation.

  His face drew in. “Yes, I have.”

  Heather turned her head to look out the window in a rebuke-filled silence.

  “When are you going to stop this grudge against my marrying Natalie?” he said. “It’s childish. And, frankly, beneath you. It’s not Natalie’s fault your mother died.”

  Heather swung her head back around, shocked he would say such a thing.

  “And it’s not your fault, either,” he continued. “It was a horrible, terrible accident. We all suffered. But it was nothing short of a miracle that you survived. No one who saw that crumpled car would believe anything else. Heather, you lost your mother. I lost the love of my life. But it happened. And I thank God every day that He spared you.”

  Heather fought the tears that filled her eyes. It wasn’t often they spoke about the accident. Yet it was always hovering nearby, the elephant in the room.

  “Wasn’t I enough for you?” she cried, finally asking the question that had been niggling in her brain since he’d gotten engaged and then married to a woman twenty years his junior. “I thought we were doing pretty well. We were happy. I did my best to take care of you.”

  “No,
Heather,” he said, suddenly sounding weary. “It wasn’t enough. I was lonely.”

  “How could you have been lonely? You dated every woman within a fifty-mile radius of Charlotte.”

  He didn’t rise to the bait, merely releasing a sardonic smile. “It sure felt like it. But dating can be lonely, too. You’re not the only one who had a hard time letting go of your mother. You’ll never understand the depth of that kind of loss until it happens to you. And I pray it never does. It took me a long while to be ready to let someone else in. And when I was, I met Natalie. She’s a wonderful woman. I wish you’d give her a chance. She’s my wife now. You can’t change that. And your stepmother.”

  “She’ll never be my mother!” Heather shot back. “Or any other kind of mother to me. I’m twenty-six years old. I don’t need a mother.”

  “Then not a mother,” he replied, still in that calm voice that was beginning to irritate her. “How about you start out as friends?”

  “Then why did my friend demand that you get me out of the house?” Her voice was querulous, to show she was no fool.

  “She didn’t. I asked you to leave.”

  “Wha—” Heather was stunned. Then hurt. She’d never imagined it was him.

  “For the summer,” David hurried to explain. Then he added, in a tone that implied she should know all this already, “Natalie and I need some time alone together. We need to get to know one another better. Settle in. And”—he paused—“you need time on your own, too. You need time by the sea for your art. And, as you said, you’re not a child anymore. Frankly, honey, in bird terms”—he jerked his head toward the backseat where the cages of birds were nestled in boxes—“it’s time for you to leave the nest.”

  Heather’s eyes flashed with anger mixed with embarrassment at the truth in her father’s statement. “It’s more like I’m getting kicked out of the nest.”

  “Hardly. You’re going to a luxury barrier island for the summer to complete your art commission. To a charming house that you picked out and I’ve paid for. I wouldn’t exactly call that a hard landing.”

  Heather’s cheeks burned. What he said was true. She knew she was behaving churlishly. Like a spoiled child. She knew she wasn’t a child any longer, nor did she want to behave like one. Since the trauma of the accident, her childhood shyness had grown into a case of full-blown social anxiety. She’d attended a local college rather than the prestigious art school she’d been accepted to because she wouldn’t consider leaving home. She rarely dated. When she did, it was usually a favor set up by an acquaintance, or the son of one of the women her father was dating. It wasn’t Heather’s looks—in the least self-aggrandizing way possible, she knew she was an attractive woman. But her shyness hung over the coffee/dinner/drinks and ultimately doomed the relationship, no matter how promising it seemed.

  She wasn’t unhappy. In fact, Heather was quite content with her life. When people sometimes raised their eyebrows at her isolation, she blithely referred to herself as the Belle of Charlotte, a nod to her favorite poet, Emily Dickinson. Who, Heather believed, had suffered from social anxiety as well. Emily Dickinson had retired from society in her twenties and had still lived a fruitful, productive life. Heather believed she could, too.

  She knew this day had to come. Her father had dated so many women, and Heather hadn’t found any of them suitable for him, for them, for the quiet but relatively satisfied life they’d led together after her mother’s passing. She’d been critical of them all, assuming they were all calculating how to get their hands on his wealth. She’d never considered that someone might actually truly fall in love with her father, and he with her.

  What hurt the most was that she felt she was losing her best friend. Again. Once her mother had been her confidante. After her mother’s death, her father had taken her place as Heather’s best friend.

  She felt his hand pat her back gently in the same rhythmic beat with which he’d consoled her for as long as she could remember. She relaxed into the familiar scent, the sound of his heartbeat. He was a good father. A good man. She had to love him enough to let him live his own life.

  Heather pulled back and wiped her damp cheeks with her palms. She looked down at her crumpled clothing and stroked away the wrinkles. Slim camel-colored pants, a thin white boat-neck sweater, and an Hermès scarf that had been her mother’s. On her feet were strappy sandals that showed off her new cherry-red pedicure, a bold color she’d chosen hoping it would make her brave. She wanted to appear mature and confident when she met her new landlady.

  Heather pulled back and ventured a forced smile. “Looks like the rain has slowed down. I guess it’s time to get back on the road.”

  HEATHER DIDN’T KNOW when she fell asleep. Somewhere after Orangeburg, she supposed. She awoke when her father nudged her shoulder.

  “You won’t want to miss this,” he told her, smiling with anticipation. “Welcome to Charleston. No city like her anywhere in the world. Take a look.”

  Heather straightened, blinking the sleep out of her eyes, disoriented in the bright sunshine. Outside her window she could see they were approaching a great bridge that spanned the harbor. She gazed with wonder at the shining, towering, diamond-shaped structures that held the suspension design. From a distance they looked like two sailing masts.

  “That’s the great Cooper River,” her father informed her. “We’re leaving Charleston, now heading to the islands.”

  Already? she thought. But she remained silent, peering over the guardrails to take in the scope of the busy harbor as they sped by. The storm clouds had not reached this far south. The sky shone blue, dotted with white cumulus clouds that cast shadows on the sparkling water below. Here and there she spotted small sailboats cruising the harbor between the Charleston peninsula and Mount Pleasant. But the enormous cargo ships dominated the scene. The behemoths lined the docks like sleeping beasts, while beside them equally giant cranes loaded colored containers into the ships’ holds as if they were Lego pieces. The stacks were so high it was hard to believe the ships wouldn’t topple over.

  Heather studied the miles of shops that lined the four-lane road as they journeyed through the town of Mount Pleasant. Which would be her grocery store, her gas station, her butcher? At last they reached the long, curved, arched road that took them away from the mainland to the small barrier island called Isle of Palms. She leaned closer to the window, amazed at the sharp contrast to Charleston Harbor the vista of wetlands offered. Vast acres of sea grass stretched out seemingly forever, dotted here and there by tiny islands that held a few palm trees. This truly was going someplace far away, she thought with a mixture of wonder and trepidation. The car climbed higher up the arched span of road, and at the top, in a breath, she was staring at the great expanse of the Atlantic Ocean. The suddenness caught her by surprise and elicited a soft gasp. The mighty ocean was so huge, so vast, it seemed to stretch out into infinity. In light of such power, Heather felt her own smallness and relative weakness.

  “We’re here, baby,” her father said with relief. “Not bad, huh?” He turned her way, searching for her approval.

  She smiled, trying to be upbeat. “It’s beautiful,” she said.

  “And it’s not raining!”

  They began their descent past the Intracoastal Waterway where speedboats raced full-throttle and the narrower Hamlin Creek, lined with long docks with boats at moor. Without further fanfare they were on the Isle of Palms.

  Heather’s head turned from side to side. She’d visited other barrier islands along the southeastern coast—Hilton Head, Tybee, the Outer Banks. This one wasn’t so different. Long and narrow, it held a grocery store, a few shops, a gas station, and hotels. That would make her life here much easier. Mostly, however, there were private homes owned by those lucky enough to live on the island full-time, those who came here for part of the year, and those who rented by the week, eager to escape the heat and spend precious vacation time on the beach. She couldn’t imagine what it would be like to be able
to live here all summer.

  When her father turned off Palm Boulevard onto a narrow street, Heather sat straighter in her seat. He drove slowly a few blocks till they reached Ocean Boulevard. On the ocean side a row of mansions, one after another, lined the sea, blocking the water from view. Across the street more houses filled every lot, but here there remained some of the smaller, historical cottages that had once been oceanfront before the dunes were paved over. They drove a few blocks south and she kept her eyes on the smaller cottages, seeking out the one she’d seen online. She’d taken one look at the quaint house and something inside of her had pinged. It had spoken to her of the quieter, nostalgic island living she not only wanted . . . but needed.

  “There it is!” she exclaimed, leaning forward and pointing.

  Primrose Cottage was perched on a dune between wispy clumps of greening sweetgrass and leggy stalks of sea oats that grew wild, a sharp contrast to the meticulously landscaped properties of the mansions beside it. The house was as pale a yellow as the blossoms of wild primroses that crisscrossed the dunes among the brilliantly colored gaillardia and purple morning glories, creating a riot of color. For all the reticence she’d felt as she began this journey, Heather suddenly couldn’t wait to get inside. All along she’d known they were lucky that her father had found any house available for a summer rental at such a late date. Yet now, seeing the beach house, she felt that the small cottage had been waiting just for her.

  At last they pulled into the narrow gravel driveway beside the house. The car came to a shuddering stop when the ignition turned off. Heather and her father sat quietly in the resulting hush. Neither of them spoke or moved, simply looked out at the house in a companionable curiosity flavored with relief. Heather felt the miles still racing in her veins as she stared at the cottage, devouring the details. The front yard also had the slightly unkempt appearance that she preferred. A broad, freshly painted front porch was lined with hanging pots of trailing asparagus ferns, and at the foot of the steps sat two large pots filled with cheery red geraniums.