Cara chuckled. “That means he’ll be a while. Let’s go inside,” she told Palmer. “I’ll show you the inside of the sunroom.”
Palmer followed her as they crossed the work zone, his gait slow and measured. Cara watched as Palmer walked around the sunroom, his head swinging from left to right to take in the new glass doors, swung wide open to admit the balmy breeze of the mercurial spring weather, the Mexican tile on the floor, the tall green plants and white wicker chairs with cushy, bright blue cushions. She’d decorated the space in clean lines to allow the undistracted eye to seek out the ocean beyond. This view was what the tourists came for, she knew. Twenty years as a successful advertising executive in Chicago had taught her a few lessons.
“Very nice,” Palmer said after several moments of silence. He crossed his arms and faced her. “Must’ve set you back a few pennies.”
Cara was disappointed by his lackluster response. “More than pennies,” she replied soberly. “We found some termite damage on the porch and figured why not bite the bullet and build the sunroom we’d wanted to all these years, instead of making do with more repairs? Look how much more space we’ve added. And that’s a sleeper sofa. So we can raise the rent a bit. We figure it’ll all equal out in time.” She shrugged. “Unless we get hit with another hurricane.”
“Always a possibility.”
“I know,” she acknowledged ruefully. “With climate change and the sea levels rising, I’ve seen for myself how much beach we lose every year. Of course, that’s the job of the dunes, to protect the inland property. But we’ve never seen the dunes just swept clear away. It’s becoming the new norm.”
Palmer rolled his eyes and put his hands up in an arresting motion. “Now, let’s not start talking climate change. We always lose some beach, and it always comes back.”
Cara couldn’t stand his patronizing tone, but didn’t want to get into another round of debate on the reality of climate change with her older brother. It wasn’t worth it, and she only ended up infuriating herself. He’d say the moon was a wheel of cheese if it sold a house. She allowed him the final word.
“How about some sweet tea? I made a fresh batch for Brett. Put a sprig of mint in it, too. My herbs are up. God, I love spring.”
She led Palmer from the sunroom into the main house. Here nothing had changed since their youth, save perhaps for there being fewer of the knickknacks, family photographs, and books that her mother had cluttered the house with. Like many women of her generation, the older Lovie had got, the more reluctant she became to throw anything away. Every photo had to be saved, every memento ensconced on a shelf. When Cara inherited the house she’d promptly cleared away the clutter, painted the rooms a soft ocean blue trimmed neatly with clean white, replaced the family oriental rugs with ones made of grass, and selected only a few pieces from her mother’s vast art collection to remain on the walls. But she’d kept the timeless chintz chairs and sofa with their Palm Beachy flowered pattern. The result was a house still filled with her mother’s furniture, art, and most prized possessions, but with a younger, fresher feel.
“The place looks good, Sister,” Palmer said.
“Why thanks,” she said, striding with her long legs to the small galley kitchen.
Here changes had been made as well from when the house had been under Lovie’s purview. Even while her mama was still alive, Cara had repainted the old white wooden cabinets, but over the past few years she’d replaced all the old appliances with gleaming stainless steel ones. She opened the fridge and pulled out the pitcher of tea. Although she’d provided a new set of white dishes for the rentals, she still kept her mother’s old china locked in an out-of-the way cabinet for her own use on the few nights she came here to sleep in her mother’s bed. Cara retrieved a key from the back of a drawer and unlocked the cabinet. Smiling at seeing the mismatched china and crystal her mother had enjoyed using at the beach house, Cara reached for two of the old Waterford cut-crystal tall glasses. She quickly added ice, poured two glasses of tea, and handed one to Palmer. She watched, pleased, as he drank thirstily. When he finished, he released a long, satisfied sigh.
“Sister mine, you make some good sweet tea. You ought to give the recipe to Julia.”
“She should already have it. It’s Mama’s recipe. It’s making the syrup first that’s the secret.”
“Ah,” he said with a sigh of understanding, adding with a sorry shake of his head, “she won’t do it. She’s always adding that fake sweetener to my drinks, telling me I’ve got to lose weight.” He patted his belly. “I don’t need to lose weight. Hell,” he said proudly, “this paunch is a symbol of my prosperity.”
He laughed, a low, throaty chortle that prompted her to join in even as she inwardly agreed with Julia. Her brother had gained at least fifteen pounds in the last decade, but Cara wasn’t going to be the one to tell him. She suspected Julia told him often enough as it was.
He took another long swallow from his drink, then smacked his lips, his gaze sweeping the rooms again. “This house isn’t worth putting any more money into.” Palmer turned to face her. His blue eyes shone under brows gathered in concern. “I’ve told you time and time again, the value of this place is in the land.”
Cara groaned loudly, shaking her head. Here we go, she thought. Their mama had once told her that Palmer was the sort of person who was always hungry for more, in both a literal and a figurative sense. He was never satisfied. Palmer was like their father this way. Palmer had been angry when he’d learned that Mama was leaving Cara the beach house, even though he’d already inherited the big house on Tradd Street and all its expensive contents. But Palmer wanted the beach house, too. Not because he loved it, but because he’d always had big plans for developing the property.
“Hell, one of these days you’re going to listen. Look at that empty lot out there. It’s a gold mine.”
“And one of these days you’ll accept that lot can’t be touched,” she fired back. “Russell Bennett left that land in conservation.”
“We might could get around that,” he said with a dismissive wave. Whenever her brother slipped into the vernacular, she knew he was deep in thought. Palmer looked out at the empty lot in front of them the way Cara looked at the ocean. Where she saw beauty and felt a near-spiritual sense of awakening, he saw dollar signs.
“It’s got to be the only waterfront lot left on this entire island. Even if you don’t build on it, you’ve got this house with guaranteed views. His eyes were brightening as he got deeper into his sales pitch. “The real estate market has bounced back, and strong. The demand is high. Now’s the time to act.”