THE BLACK WALNUT TREE

a novel

SONYA EADDY CORDINA

Tiptoe through life gingerly because rabbit holes are real.

prologue

6:12 pm

August 11th, 2025

Her head rests against the floral-patterned canvas of a low-slung beach chair as she flicks away the sweat that's gathered in the crevasse of her belly button like a small tidal pool, validating how long she's been here. She lifts her sunglasses and pokes at the fair skin on her now slightly soft and freckled stomach - the pink giving way to a blanched white beneath each finger.

Before its late afternoon calm, the wind takes one last sigh and catches a wisp of her silvery blonde hair - gently blowing it across her face. As she tucks it behind her ear, she notices how the opal ring lined with the tiniest of diamonds holds the same colors as the sea. Funny how she's never noticed that before. She studies it closer as it sparkles in her Carolina sun, and the memory of him placing it on her finger is as clear as the skies are blue. A rush of tears gather in her eyes and remind her of the inescapable task at hand.

With one quick tug, she manages to free her chair from its sucking grip in the sand and carries it to the dunes where she's left her beach bag. Inside, the unopened package looms in the bottom with the weighted dread of a box of rocks. She slings the heavy load over her shoulder then slips her feet into the flip-flops she left by the boardwalk. These afternoon trips to the beach are a ritual. A routine that keeps her from going down the rabbit holes of her past.

Most people would agree fate originally brought such a troubled, young woman to live in Charleston, South Carolina. Others would say it's nature’s way of making the world right again. Whatever it is, she's still here 40 years later living in possibly the oldest beach house on Sullivan's Island and selectively painting portraits of local children as art therapy for all she's lost.

But it's the memories that therapy could never heal. Memories that consumed her until she released them on paper. Words rushed from her soul like a raging river while she divulged every detail of her life. She placed the manuscript in a wooden box and kept it beneath her bed believing she simply needed to write it down. But the box became her nemesis with the strength and fierceness of a longshore current. So, she released her memories to the world without reading one word of what she'd written so long ago.

***

The tray of water sitting by the back door has been warmed by the sun and she finds it soothing to her tender feet. She uses her beach towel to brush away the small shells that are practically glued to her heels, then moves inside as the screen door slaps against the frame behind her. Her bathing suit falls in a heap on the bathroom floor, but she leaves it there and steps into the shower. She allows the warm, steady stream of water to rinse away the dried salt, the sand, and the sweat. There are no expectations of it washing away anything more.

A large selection of summer dresses hangs in her closet, but she relishes the softness of the old, faded cotton one. She slips it over her head and pulls her damp hair into a loose knot at the nape of her neck. It's then she recalls the basket full of tomatoes she gathered from her garden early this morning, and she chooses one from the kitchen windowsill. Her mouth waters as thick slices fill her sandwich for all she'll need for her supper. She opens the refrigerator door and ponders its contents of cold tea and lemon basil water. Tonight, she needs something more and allows her hand to gravitate to the bottle of sauvignon blanc, pouring herself a generous glass.

Mindlessly, she makes her way toward her favorite chair that faces a wall of mismatched windows, creating an art gallery of framed paintings where you experience the works of different artists with each season. It's admirable how their last few strokes of vivid color can leave her side of the world so quickly, then linger as a soft hue just above the horizon. She clicks on the floor lamp in anticipation of the darkness. The chair is already filled with pillows and a worn blanket that’s edged in satin and crocheted daisies. Somehow, it always makes room for her and she curls into its familiarity.

She glances inside the beach bag, but a certain uneasiness gives her pause. Patiently, she waits while courage fills her enough to retrieve the unopened package - the one that's been weighing on her most of her life. She removes the tape from one end and allows its contents to slip into her lap, her fingers moving gently over the silky-smooth cover as she admires the quality of the printing.

And as she holds the book in her hands, touches the pages full of her own words, she cries. “I haven’t forgotten you,” she whispers. “Any of you.”