Beach House Reunion (Beach House #5)(3)
“Look at you,” he said, holding her at arm’s length. “I swear, you look more like my mama every day.” He smiled wryly at her skirt. “Or maybe it’s just ’cause you’re wearing her clothes.”
“Hey, Daddy,” Linnea said with a teasing pout. “I made this skirt myself.”
“It’s right pretty,” he said, and gently tapped her nose. “Just like you.”
Palmer looked around as he walked toward her car trunk. “Where’s Cooper? I sent him out here to fetch your luggage.”
Linnea followed him. “He took off when a truck full of his friends pulled up. Lord, all those babies are becoming men already. Unleashed on an unsuspecting world.”
“I swear, that boy’s never around when you need him. He’s perfected the art of the dodge.”
“At least he made it through high school.”
Her father made a face. “Thanks to a handshake and a hefty donation. Cooper never took to school like you did. He hasn’t the sense God gave a mule.”
“Oh, he’s smart,” Linnea countered, reaching into the trunk. Defending her little brother was second nature to her. “He’s just lazy.” She pulled out a box and handed it to her father. “And he sure is cute. The girls must be going crazy.”
Palmer rubbed his jaw to hide his smile. It was obvious her father doted on the boy. “Can’t shoo ’em away with a flyswatter.” He narrowed his gaze on her. “What about you? You’ve got some fish on the hook I should meet?”
“Nope,” Linnea said, turning back to the trunk.
“Why not?” he replied, hoisting the box. “You’re as pretty as they come. I used to sleep with a shotgun by my bed when you were in high school for all the tomcats crying at your window.”
She didn’t reply because it was true. In high school she’d been an incorrigible flirt. With experience, however, she’d grown choosier.
Palmer started walking toward the house. Over his shoulder he called, “You’re not getting any younger, you know.”
Linnea felt the drag of the suitcase. “I’m only twenty-two! Hardly an old maid!”
“Your mama married me at your age.” He set the box by the door with a thunk. “Graduation in May. A bride in June.”
She wanted to say, And look how well that turned out, but she wasn’t that stupid. Linnea just parked the luggage by the door, turned on her heel and walked back to the car to carry the last vestiges of her college life into her childhood home. With each step, she felt her family’s expectations closing in around her.
THE SKY WAS as black as tar by the time Cara left the mainland to cross the Connector Bridge to the island. Few stars shone through the night, the moon was hidden by clouds, and the vast acres of salt marsh were as inky as the sky. Ahead, tiny red lights blinked on the island’s water tower, and here and there golden light shone from a few houses. At last, she’d arrived.
“Isle of Palms.”
The name slid from her mouth in a sigh. The gentle name of the small barrier island off the Charleston coast was synonymous with home to her. A sun-kissed place where visitors came to feel the caress of salt-tinged breezes, dip their toes into the warm waters of the Atlantic, and stare out over the expanse of sea and sky. Here they could escape from the sometimes overwhelming strains of a hectic life beyond the marshland. Her mama used to say that barrier islands protected the mainland from the storms. But in truth, the marshes protected the islands from the stress of the mainland.
Life was different on the islands. The pace was slower, the summer wind stronger. And that threat of losing all possessions during the hurricane season had taught Cara early that true joy came from loved ones, not loved things. Knowing that helped her feel free.
Cara flashed back to one particular blustery night when a tidal surge from a hurricane had pushed past the dunes to race through the house. She and her mama had huddled in the attic crawl space, clinging to each other while the water rose higher and higher. On that terrible night, Lovie had held her hand, looked deeply into her eyes, and told her she was leaving the beach house to her, because Lovie knew Cara understood the power of the beach house as a sanctuary.
And it was true. Cara had always been happy at the beach house. Her best memories had been born on this island. She prayed that many more happy memories were yet to be forged. She felt buoyed by an air of expectancy.
Out in the ocean’s swells, the female loggerheads were biding their time, poised to swim to the beaches and begin the summer saga of nesting. Cara hoped it would be a good year, with lots of nests and thousands of turtle hatchlings to scramble to the sea. In a few weeks, the tourists would also return, swelling the island population to more than double. The summer was a busy time along the southeastern coast, but Cara wouldn’t rent her beach house this summer. Or ever again.
This time, she was home to stay.
She turned west onto Palm Boulevard, then slowed when she passed the small gray-brick house on the creek that sat tucked behind a giant live oak tree. She’d spent ten happy years in that house with Brett. A stab of bittersweet memories hitched her breath. Widowhood was a lonely state of being. She’d worked fiercely to create a new life in Chattanooga, but after three years, she still mourned. Now a strange car was parked in the driveway.
With a quick sniff, Cara gripped the steering wheel and drove on. No looking back, she told herself. She hadn’t returned to this island to wallow in the past. She’d come to build a new future, one filled with hope. Turning seaward, she drove the final few blocks. Anticipation thrummed in her veins the closer she got to home. Then she saw it: Primrose Cottage.