(EXCERPT)

 

The dream slowly leaves her, but its repercussions are evident in the heavy breathing and twitching of her outstretched legs. Tiny wisps of hair, lighter than the color of the sand, dance beneath her straw hat. Her bathing suit, once a vibrant coral, now consists of soft melon hues – faded in part from the salty afternoon swims, but more so from the intense Carolina sun. Oyster-sized beads of sweat drip from her elbows, and more gather in the crevasse of her belly button like a small tidal pool. Her head rests against the floral-patterned canvas of a low-slung beach chair, and her eyes are concealed behind a dark pair of vintage sunglasses. A delicate silver band holding an opal lined with the tiniest of diamonds gleams on her slender finger.

     Seemingly out of nowhere, cool water rushes across her bare feet, waking her and bringing her back into the present. Back to Sullivan’s Island. She discreetly reaches to the corner of her mouth and dabs a finger at any drool which may have escaped during her afternoon nap, and pokes at the fair skin on her now slightly soft and freckled stomach. The sun was intense when she arrived and secured her spot, and she took great care to nestle any belongings up against the dunes before she diligently lathered on sunscreen, then slithered into her beach chair just shy of the water’s edge. She knew better than to have stayed in the sun this long, but emotional exhaustion forced her to succumb to such an intense sleep.

     Glancing down the beach, she sees a dog playing catch with the incoming tide, and hears the faint whimpering of a small child as their sand castle tumbles over with one strong push from the sea. If only she could have explained to them how nature can take things away in the blink of an eye, but it will always give something in return. Her thoughts are validated as she notices how the vast waters of the Atlantic Ocean have generously collected and disbursed their gifts from the sea along the shoreline, and the sun has completed an enormous and vibrant painting across the horizon – all in the few hours she has slept.

     A wave suddenly thrusts its heavy barrel of water against the legs of the beach chair, throwing her off balance. And as she braces one hand against the quickly moving sand to steady herself, she realizes the sinking of the earth and tugging sensation beneath her in the dream had been nothing more than the tide. That great constant working in rhythm with the universe – its consistency pushing the chair farther into the sand and leaving her all but sitting in the frothy surf.

      In an awkward struggle, she manages to get up and tugs hard on the back metal bar until the wet sand slowly releases its sucking grip. She then drags the chair closer to the dunes where her beach towel now lies wind-whipped and practically hidden from view by the sand. She glances inside her bag. The unopened package is still there.

      She slings the bag over her shoulder and shakes the sand from the towel. As she picks up the chair, she slips her feet into the flip-flops she had left by the boardwalk. It’s a ritual. A routine that keeps her from going down the rabbit holes. Until today. The dream had been unsettling, and as she makes her way across the boardwalk toward the beach house, she knows what she has to do.

     Most people would agree that fate had originally brought such a troubled, young woman to live in Charleston, South Carolina. Others would say it was nature’s way of making the world right again. Whatever it was, she was still here – living in an old beach house and spending her days selectively painting the portraits of local children when she’s feeling creative, and writing her first novel when the memories force her to do so.

     It was over forty years ago when she’d parked at this very beach access and unloaded her bike from the back of the Volvo station wagon. Her therapist had encouraged her to spend more time on the island and not let the past restrain her from enjoying one of the most beautiful places in the country. The bike tires had wobbled along the back dirt roads more from her unsteady grip on the handlebars than the ruts and potholes formed beneath heavy summer rains. Her breaths had been slow and deep as she’d inhaled the thick, salty air to steady herself. And as she’d made her way back toward her car, that’s when she’d seen it.

     Barely visible beneath tall grasses of an unkempt lawn, a faded and tattered “For Rent” sign leaned sideways in the front yard of a white clapboard house near the harbor end of Sullivan’s Island. She’d later learned it was on the historical register, so the only way it was getting torn down was from the winds of a hurricane. It sat on a double lot and was quite the contrast to its gorgeous neighboring million-dollar homes with immaculate landscaping and carriage houses larger than the farmhouse she’d grown up in.

     She had signed the papers that very day. The rental was for the bottom floor, and she’d found it charming when others had only seen the wear and tear. It was the quintessential life for a local artist, and she’d worked out an arrangement with the owners to manage the property in exchange for an open-ended rental agreement.

     It was here that the memories could no longer stay confined and poured out of her like a raging river for hours each day until the manuscript was complete. She had placed it in a wooden box and hidden it beneath her bed, hoping that was all she needed – to simply write it down. But something kept tugging at her like longshore currents. Strong and fierce. Consuming her for years until she’d finally given in and sent the manuscript to a publisher without reading a single page filled with words she’d written so long ago. She was proud of her discipline, but now, the full result of her decision lies tucked inside her beach bag – wrapped in a brown paper package she is terrified to open.

                                                                                                            ***

The tray of water by the back door is soothing to her tender feet, and she uses the beach towel to brush away the small shells that are practically glued to her heels. The screen door slaps against the frame as she moves inside and drops her bathing suit on the floor of the bathroom. She steps into the shower and allows the water to rinse away the dried salt, the sand, and the sweat. There are no expectations of it washing away anything more.

     She slips a long cotton dress over her head and pulls her damp hair into a loose knot at the nape of her neck. She quickly recalls the basket full of plump tomatoes she’d gathered from her garden early this morning, and she now chooses one from the kitchen windowsill and cuts thick slices for her sandwich. The refrigerator holds cold iced tea and a water pitcher filled with fresh lemon and basil, but her hand gravitates to the bottle of sauvignon blanc, and she pours herself a generous glass.

      An oversized chair sits facing a wall of mismatched windows, creating an art gallery of framed paintings where each season is like a new artist. The chair is already filled with pillows and a worn blanket that’s edged in satin and crocheted daisies. But she knows they will make room for her.

      She reaches inside the beach bag and retrieves the unopened package, then switches on the floor lamp as she glances outside and admires the artist’s last few strokes of color leaving her side of the world. She removes the tape from one end of the package and allows its contents to slip into her lap. Her fingers move 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.”