Beach House Reunion (Beach House #5)(98)

She walked the beach for half an hour, all the way to the pier, then turned around and headed back. Her mind was working out questions and seeking solutions. Her heels dug deep half moons in the damp sand, making the effort strenuous. By the time she returned to her beach path, Cara was tired but felt at peace with her decision. Her gaze shifted to the small yellow house in the distance. Her beach house. The light was on, shining like a beacon in the darkening sky. It had withstood many hurricanes and family upheavals. It would, she thought, have to be strong for one more.

She walked to a particular patch of sand and grass that had once been hidden behind the great dunes, situated on the lot in front of her beach house. It was a sweet place. Bits of seaside fall flowers colored the area—sea lavender, white oxeye, goldenrod, and the yellow primrose for which her cottage had been named. The plateau of sand dipped softly. Still, it was but a remnant of the haven it had once been for Lovie when she had a rendezvous with her great love, Russell Bennett.

Cara sat on the sand, stretched out her long legs, and leaned back on her elbows. The air smelled delicious. She heard the plaintive cry of an osprey and, looking up, saw the great fish hawk circling overhead. She closed her eyes and let her hands stroke the sand, feeling its coolness slide through her fingers. This spot had been her mother’s favorite place to sit after Russell died. Flo had told Cara how Lovie used to come out here to talk with him, or perhaps to feel closer to him. He’d died in a plane crash out in the ocean not far from here. Lovie liked to think of him out there with the turtles, waiting for her. It made sense to Cara that she’d visit his memory here, where once they’d been so happy.

After Brett had died, Cara had come to this same spot to find comfort. She had tried to speak to him, but never truly sensed his presence. Not that she’d expected to be visited by him, but she felt the consolation one felt when visiting a grave site.

Tonight, however, Cara had come to this spot with a purpose. She needed to communicate with her mother. Although Cara had seen her mother’s ghost the night she arrived, not once since May had she so much as caught scent of her signature jasmine perfume. So Cara had come to Lovie’s dune, at the bewitching hour that Lovie had favored, with the express desire to be heard. She had things to say.

Cara opened her eyes, brought up her knees, and wrapped her arms around them. She felt the chill of dusk. It was time.

“Mama!” she whispered. “Please, listen to me. I need you to hear what I have to say. So you’ll understand what I’ve decided to do.” She paused. “Years ago, you told me your secret. And you said no one was ever to find out. You paid a dear price for your secret and trusted me not to tell. I promised I never would. And I haven’t. Mama . . .” Cara took a breath. “I must break that promise now. I’m sorry. I’ve gone over and over this in my head, and each time I come to the same conclusion. I must tell Palmer.”

There, she’d said it aloud. Her intention was in the universe. She ran her hand through her hair, feeling both relief and a kind of despair. “Mama, secrets are no good for families. They’re destructive and divisive and always come out in the end. But that’s not why I’m breaking my promise. I’m telling Palmer so I can help him. So you can help him. Oh, Mama, he so desperately needs our help. And isn’t that what families do for one another?”

A sudden breeze swept over her, cool and fresh-smelling. Cara sat bolt upright and sniffed. Then she laughed out loud. It was the unmistakable scent of jasmine.

“Thank you, Mama!”



A WEEK LATER the doorbell rang, launching Cara from her chair where she’d been tapping her foot in anxiety. Moutarde began chirping at the bell. She looked at her wristwatch. “Right on time,” she murmured. She tugged at the sleeves of her white silk blouse. She’d deliberately chosen to wear her mother’s sizable pearls at her ears and neck. Today would be an important discussion. She’d said as much to Palmer when she invited him over. She walked briskly across the polished wood floor, clenching and unclenching her hands at her sides. She wanted everything to go just right today. Taking a breath at the door, she swung it open.

Palmer stood on the porch in khakis and a polo shirt, his expression wary. He looked so much like his old self that she burst into a wide grin of pure pleasure. Seeing it, Palmer opened his arms. Cara stepped into them. Brother and sister hugged each other, laughing with the joy of it.

“Oh, Palmer, it’s so good to see you.”

“Cara . . .”

“Come in, come in,” she said with exuberance.

“It’s been ages since I’ve been in here,” he said, following her through the living room, his gaze darting about. “Nothing’s much changed.”

“No,” she repeated. “No changes for Primrose Cottage. But there might be a few changes elsewhere.” She threw him a glance, her brow arched.

Palmer caught the reference and tilted his head, curious.

They headed for the kitchen table, as was their habit as children. She wanted to surround him with as much relaxed, family comfort as she could muster. Two glasses of iced sweet tea were served in tall cut-crystal glasses. On the table lay two folders. The navy one bore the insignia of Morgan Grenfell Trust Limited in the Channel Islands. The white one was blank.

Palmer eyed the presentation and looked at her quizzically.

“Please, sit down,” Cara said, indicating a chair. After he sat, she joined him at the table.