Beach House Reunion (Beach House #5)(4)
The pale-yellow house sat perched on the dune in the shadows of the starless night, dwarfed by the imposing mansions on either side, as small and demure as the wildflower it was named after. A few of the postwar cottages still remained on the island, nostalgic reminders of a quieter time long gone. Back when a nearly impassable maritime forest dominated the northern end.
Cara drove up the short, pebbled drive and came, at long last, to a shuddering stop. She leaned back against the headrest and breathed deeply, letting the sensation of miles flowing beneath her subside. “I’m home,” she whispered, feeling the impact of the words radiate through her body. Home at last.
The porch light shone bright over the ocean-blue door, a beacon of warm welcome.
“Thank you, Emmi,” she said, as a small smile of gratitude eased across her face. Emmaline Baker Peterson had been her best friend since childhood. She’d lived next door during the summer months for as long as Cara could remember. Cara knew she’d find milk, bread, and eggs in the fridge; fresh linens on the bed; and windows open to the evening breeze.
A whimpering noise from the backseat immediately brought her to attention. Cara swiftly glanced again in the rearview mirror. She smiled when she saw the sweet face staring back at her. The baby girl’s large, dark eyes blinked sleepily under her dark brown curls as she yawned widely. Then her legs began to kick, and her plump hands moved in agitation as she started whimpering again. Cara jumped into action. The precious child had slept for hours with nary a peep.
“I’m coming,” Cara said, and quickly released her seat belt. She swung open the car door and stepped out into the moist, balmy air. She paused a moment, breathing in the welcoming scents of wildflowers and sea after hours in the cramped, air-conditioned car. But another whimper sent her scrambling to the rear door.
“I’m here,” she crooned as she lifted the year-old child into her arms, bringing her tight against her breast. The baby smelled of milk and soap and something intangible God put there in His wisdom to protect the innocents. She kissed the top of her head, feeling the delicate strands of hair graze her lips. Soft as a prayer.
“Welcome home, Hope!”
CARA BALANCED THE baby on her left hip as she struggled to find the right key to the front door. On the ground was a box with a chirping bird inside. The baby was slipping, and her arm strained to maintain her grip. At last a key slid in and the lock clicked. With a gusty sigh, she pushed open the front door and hoisted Hope higher on her hip. “We’re here,” she said, and stepped inside.
She immediately felt the welcome of the beach house. All was in readiness. The floors had been washed, furniture dusted, flowers set in vases. She could smell the oil soap. A small table lamp shone golden light across the living room. Not a chair or painting was out of place. All was just as she’d left it three years earlier.
Cara was humbled by her friend’s thoughtfulness. After a long day’s drive, she didn’t have to open the door to a steamy, stagnant, and stuffy house. She always had so much on her mind, projects and endless to-do lists, so when a friend took the time to do something thoughtful to make her life easier—better—just because she cared, Cara had to stop and remember that life was so much more than a job’s progress or a list of accomplishments. Life, if lived well, was enjoying random acts of kindness that elicited joy from giver and receiver alike. Each time she was reminded of this, she vowed to try to be a better giver than a receiver.
This was one of the reasons she’d returned to this beach house on Isle of Palms. Cara needed the help of her friends and family to learn how to be a good mother to Hope.
And I need the security of this little house, she thought as she surveyed the small rooms. The beach house was not grand, but it had loads of vintage charm. A row of windows overlooked the breadth of the Atlantic Ocean and gave the house an open, airy feeling. Even now when the ocean was cloaked in the evening’s velvety blackness, she could hear the gentle roll of the waves through the open windows, as soothing as a cat’s purr.
Even though the beach house was now hers, in her mind it would always be the cottage of Olivia Rutledge, Lovie to all who knew her. It had changed little over the years. The art on the walls had been painted by her mother’s friends, local artists. The same ruby and blue Oriental rugs colored the wood floors. Even the plump upholstered furniture was Lovie’s. When Cara took it over, she didn’t want to change a thing; she’d simply freshened it up. She’d painted the walls a soft ocean blue with crisp white trim, replaced the Palm Beach-y chintz with durable white fabric, and removed the countless knickknacks her mother had in every nook and cranny.
“What do you think?” she asked Hope with a gentle squeeze. “Shabby chic, but not too shabby, eh?”
The baby looked back at her with wide, uncomprehending eyes. Chuckling, Cara kissed her cheek. “Well, we look a bit shabby after that long drive. And,” she added with a sniff, “you smell like you could use a change. Let’s freshen you up. How does that sound?”
She went out the front door to pick up the bird box. Her canary, Moutarde, skittered about but didn’t utter a sound. She set the box on the table, then made a beeline to her childhood bedroom down the hall. She paused at the door, stunned by the transformation. Her old black iron bed was gone, and in its place was a brand-new white crib dolled up with pink floral sheets and ribbon-trimmed blankets. Where her painted wooden desk had once sat was a cushy white upholstered rocking chair with pink piping and a small bookshelf filled with children’s books. Cara laughed aloud at seeing the sweet green-and-pink-shaded lamp—it was a sea turtle. Emmi had raised two boys but had always wanted a girl.