Beach House Reunion (Beach House #5)(15)
Her mother clasped her hands. “Why didn’t you call to let us know where you were? Do you know how worried I was? I almost called the police.”
The truth was, no, she hadn’t thought of calling her parents; it had never crossed her mind. “I’m sorry I worried you,” she said, and meant it. “But I am twenty-two.”
“I don’t care how old you are!” her mother snapped back. “You’re an unmarried woman. Your reputation will be ruined if you stay out all night. This is a small town. Word gets out.”
“What about Cooper? He was gone all night. All weekend! And we all know he wasn’t fishing or hunting.”
“It’s different for boys,” her father said.
“That’s so nineteen-seventies,” she fired back.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” her mother asked.
“It means you’re using the double standard you grew up with. But that’s not true anymore. I’m an adult. And I can drink legally.” She paused and lowered her voice. “Last night I drank too much. I admit it. It doesn’t happen often. I knew better than to get behind the wheel. It was a responsible decision,” she argued. “I thought you’d be proud of me for not driving.”
“I’m not happy you didn’t call,” her father said.
Linnea exhaled with relief. Her father’s tone told her he wasn’t angry.
“You shouldn’t worry your mother.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry.”
“Promise me it won’t happen again,” her mother said in a calmer voice, trying to restore peace at her dinner table.
“I promise,” Linnea replied in a rote manner.
“Well, then,” her mother said. She took a breath, pulled out a chair, and slid elegantly into it. She made a show of smoothing her napkin on her lap. “I think we’re done with that conversation. Hardly suitable discussion for dinner. Let’s enjoy our meal.”
“Excuse me, please,” Linnea said, rising. She set her napkin on the table. “I really don’t feel well. I’ll be in my room.”
Hearing no arguments, she hurried back up the stairs, past the gauntlet of stern, disapproving looks from the portraits. Closing the door, she leaned against it.
She’d only been home a week and couldn’t wait to leave.
Chapter Four
The female loggerhead is wary as she sits in the surf and scans the beach under a dark sky. Is it safe to leave the protection of the sea and venture forth across the sand? In the water, she is a powerful swimmer, but on land, a cumbersome, slow-moving creature. Instinct urges her on. Should she nest here or move on?
THE BEACH HOUSE was still dark. The sun hadn’t yet risen. Even her canary was a puffball in the cage, sleeping on one leg. Cara sat in front of her computer, a cup of steaming coffee to her left. In the past two weeks as she’d settled into the beach house, she’d been trying to establish her at-home work schedule. It turned out that the only times she could work were early in the morning before Hope awoke and late in the evening after she went to bed. The problem was, Cara was so exhausted by that point that she fell asleep.
It had been risky to leave a secure position with benefits, but the benefits of living near family outweighed any others. She had a reputation for excellence and was willing to take the chance. While working for Brett’s ecotour business, she’d been her own boss. She’d learned to be disciplined with her work hours and used that discipline now to find time to work around Hope’s erratic and demanding schedule. Today she was sending out her résumé to two firms that had shown interest. Fingers crossed, she thought. Money was tight and she had to make do.
She smiled as she pulled up her files. Make do was a phrase her mother used to say. Despite the Rutledge family wealth, her father, Stratton, had kept his wife on a miserly budget. It wasn’t until years later that Cara had learned how punitive her mother’s budget was, especially concerning anything to do with the beach house. It had been Lovie’s, passed down to her from her parents before she married. All the other properties—even their home on Tradd Street—had only Stratton Rutledge’s name on them. He’d been a controlling man, and it drove him crazy that Lovie refused to sell her beach house. Likewise, when Palmer had assumed control of the family finances he, too, had badgered his mother to sell the house. And later, Cara. That, he soon learned, was futile.
Lovie had always told Cara that the beach house was her own “little slice of heaven.” The small cottage was her sanctuary where she could hide from the slings and arrows of Stratton’s mental abuse, the social demands of Charleston, and the burden of caring for the large house South of Broad in the city. On the island she could live a simpler life with her children. Stratton hated coming to “the shack” on Isle of Palms. He’d rather have sold it and bought a house on Sullivan’s Island, where his friends had houses. Over the years he’d stopped coming altogether. They both preferred it that way.
Thus, each summer Lovie and the children spent three glorious months free from Stratton’s tyranny. They had no schedules or social engagements. If the children wanted to play on the beach all day, they could. If Cara wanted to sit in the shade to read for hours in her pajamas, she did. The meals were simple too. Lovie went to the docks to buy fish off the boat; grits were a staple in the house; and strawberries, blueberries, peaches, and vegetables came from farmers’ markets. Even though they lived on a shoestring, whenever they did something extravagant, Lovie would just laugh and say, “Oh, we’ll make do,” as she paid the sum.