Cara couldn’t stop the anger that sparked from the comment. She stepped out of Brett’s hold toward her brother. At five feet ten inches, Cara was eye-to-eye with her brother. Cara had moved on from her corporate life. Even though in the past ten years she had adopted Brett’s more laid-back lowcountry lifestyle, vestiges of her former ball-busting self still emerged when pushed. Cara stared Palmer down with an icy glare that would have sent shivers through her former colleagues in the boardroom at Leo Burnett.
“Let me make myself perfectly clear,” Cara said, her voice more strident than she’d intended. She pointed a digit near his face. “This house is not now, nor ever will be, for sale. Got it?” Her rising emotion brought her to a shout. “The beach house is for rent!”
Chapter Two
THE SKY WAS deepening from periwinkle to purple by the time Cara and Brett locked up the beach house that evening and headed home. Overhead the birds were silent as a great hush settled over the lowcountry; in the cab of Brett’s pickup truck, things were just as silent.
The rumbling truck made its way north on Palm Boulevard to the back of the island. It was a short journey that felt like many miles amid the pensive, heavy mood that permeated the cab. Yes, they were both exhausted from the day’s work. But Cara suspected their prolonged silence had more to do with Palmer’s visit and less with fatigue.
Brett turned off before a small stucco house partially hidden from the street by an enormous live oak that spread its thick, twisting boughs like a fan. The house on the creek had been Brett’s home back when they were dating. The first time Cara had seen it, she’d laughed out loud at the cotton-candy-pink fa?ade. Only someone as confident in his manhood as Brett could have a pink house, she’d remarked, giggling. After they’d married, they’d decided to live there and rent Cara’s beach house. The income was greater for a place with an ocean view. But more, Cara wasn’t ready to live in a house she’d always felt truly belonged to her mother.
The slamming of the truck doors echoed in the quiet night. They made their way up the tabby walkway to their front door. The house was painted a soft gray now, at Cara’s urging, and trimmed in white to create a clean, tranquil aesthetic. Black shutters bordered the windows, and azalea bushes along the front porch held buds that would soon burst into color. Cara had painted the front door a bold cherry red. She was comfortable here and it felt like home. Brett unlocked the door and held it open for her. They both were moving slowly after the long day of physical labor and emotional gymnastics at the hands of Palmer.
“I’ll make a salad,” Cara offered automatically, setting her bundles of painting equipment and purse on the chair by the front door.
“I’ll start the grill.”
Brett followed her into the kitchen to grab a beer from the fridge. She heard the soft pop of the cap flipping off. Husband and wife fell into their pattern: he grilled, and she made the sides. So much of their life had slipped into a comfortable routine, she thought, from what time they awoke and went to bed to who slept on which side of the bed. Who did the grocery shopping and who went to the hardware store. Who took out the garbage, who got the mail. It was all unspoken. Comfortable. Predictable. As she approached fifty, Cara wondered if this was what it meant to grow old.
After washing her hands, Cara carried dishes to the dining table. It wasn’t so much a dining room as an eating area outside the kitchen. In the ten years they’d lived together, Cara had turned Brett’s bachelor pad into their home. They’d opened up the walls and created a lovely, light-filled area in which to eat and look out over Hamlin Creek. Brett’s scant, mismatched furniture had been replaced with contemporary pieces in clean lines that suited them both. Cara had redone the kitchen using stainless steel appliances, but she’d opted for brown and white tile for Brett’s sake instead of the all-white tile she’d installed in the beach house. The three-bedroom house wasn’t large, but big enough to afford them each an office. They’d never needed a nursery.
“Want a glass of wine?” Brett asked, already uncorking the bottle. The question at the end of a long day was more a polite formality.
“Love one.”
As he poured the rich red liquid, she foraged through the fridge looking for salad ingredients, locating the omnipresent kale and leftover greens. All the vegetables looked as tired as she was. Brett drew near to hand her a glass. She immediately took a sip, enjoying the full, robust, fruity flavor of her favorite Malbec.
“You know what, let’s order out,” she said. “I’m not in the mood to cook and I can’t face another piece of grilled chicken.”
“Fine with me. I’m pretty tired myself.”
Over the rim of her glass she watched Brett move to the drawer where they kept a folder filled with take-out menus. His large hands were tanned and crisscrossed with scratches from the day of construction and a lifetime on the tour boat he captained. She’d put her life into those big, capable hands. Her decision to marry Brett had meant giving up her executive corporate position in Chicago to settle on Isle of Palms. But if she was being honest, she’d wanted to come home. Even needed to.
For ten years she’d managed his ecotour business. Together they’d watched the business grow along with the local tourism. They were not rich. But they lived a good life.
She turned and carried her wineglass to the back of the house. While Brett phoned in an order for pizza, Cara stood at the French doors and looked out over Hamlin Creek. The world was all purple-and-gray shadows streaked by the brilliant crimson color of the sunset. Squinting, she could barely make out their dock that stretched out over the deep water. Brett’s johnboat was tied to the dock, bobbing as it strained against the strong current.
She was feeling introspective, a mood brought on by Palmer’s comments. As well as by the inescapable fact that her fiftieth birthday was around the corner. Tonight Cara felt like that little boat, struggling to launch into the strong current, yet held tight to terra firma by an unbreakable bond.
“Pizza on the way,” Brett announced.
When she didn’t answer, she heard his heavy footfalls on the wood floor as he drew near. He put his hand on her shoulder and pulled her gently into his chest. She acquiesced and leaned into him, felt his strength, the warmth of his body. She caught the scent of beer on his breath when he spoke.
“You’re quiet. What are you thinking about?” Brett asked.
Cara continued to stare out the window and said in a low voice, “If the rope on the johnboat broke, where would it end up?”
Brett thought for a moment, then said, “Who knows how far the current would carry it? Maybe out to the ocean. Maybe to the harbor. Maybe a few feet before it got stuck by the dock next door.” She felt him move as he looked down at her. “That’s an odd question. What’s up?”