“Right,” Linnea said. “You’ll have to help me. Show me how to do it the way you like it.”
“Me? I can cook?”
“Do you want to?”
Hope thought about that a moment. “Yes.”
“Okay, then. And you know what? Not only will we cook together, when I go online to order the food, you can help me. That will be fun, won’t it?”
The little girl beamed with anticipation. “I help my mommy shop.”
“Okay. Let’s go shopping right now. On the computer! And later, we can make the game board. I’ll have to figure out a way to make the spinning board.”
“Ooh! We have one at school.”
“Good, then you can help me. Now, for today’s lunch, do you think we can fix up any of these?” Linnea gestured to the items on the table.
Hope scrunched her nose and shook her head resolutely.
“I was going to make myself a banana smoothie. Do you want one?”
Her eyes lit up. “Yes, please.”
Linnea smiled and thought that maybe this was going to be okay after all.
* * *
EACH DAY FOR the next week, Linnea and Hope walked to the oak tree in front of John’s carriage house with all the excitement of an egg hunt. And John never disappointed. It was the highlight of Hope’s day. It was a simple game, but one that encouraged a child’s wonder and awe. John had left a pack of Wrigley’s Doublemint gum, two shiny pennies, and a roll of gray twine. Linnea thought the gifts a bit random, but Hope treasured them because they came from John. The man loomed large in her imagination.
“Can we go now?” Hope called out from the kitchen table.
It was a struggle to contain Hope until she finished her breakfast.
“Wash your hands,” Linnea said.
She helped the little girl climb up on the chair by the sink to wash her hands. Today Hope was leaving John a gift. Linnea had dug through her drawers and pulled out a supply of travel soaps and shampoos that Hope thought would make great gifts.
Hope sprinted out the kitchen door to race to the oak tree. Linnea followed at leisure. By the time she arrived, Hope was already scrambling up the tree like a squirrel. Looking up at the window, she saw John standing there. He waved. Linnea waved back, not feeling the awkwardness she’d felt the first few mornings.
“What did you find today?” Linnea called.
Hope turned and, with wide eyes, showed her what looked like two sculptures. Linnea went to take them from her hands so Hope could climb to the ground. On close inspection, the figurines were roughly carved from soap.
“It’s a boy and a girl,” said Hope.
Something about the gift niggled a memory in Linnea’s mind. Suddenly she laughed out loud and swung her head to look at John. He was grinning.
“What’s so funny?” asked Hope, retrieving her precious soap sculptures.
“Well,” Linnea began, trying to figure out how to explain it to a child, “John and I have a favorite book. It’s called To Kill a Mockingbird. I just figured out that some of the gifts John left you in the tree were the same as a neighbor put in a tree for the two children in the novel. Jem and Scout.”
“Oh.” Hope didn’t seem particularly interested in that fact. But in Linnea’s mind, John shot higher in her regard.
* * *
THE HOUSE THAT Palmer Rutledge was building was well situated near a small creek that meandered lazily through the thick marsh. The tide was high. The water glistened. Linnea looked out over the waving, greening grass under a wide sky and thought she could gaze at this bucolic view every day for the rest of her life and never get bored. While beach views were thrilling, the real change of seasons, the mysteries of wildlife, were found in the salt marsh. The marsh was crawling with fiddler crabs, snails, worms finding food and shelter. It was a cornucopia of exploration for a child of any age.
Hope shot off to stand at the edge of the marsh. She scooted low and began investigating something with a broken stick that had caught her eye.
Shifting her gaze, Linnea took in the house her father was building. It was more modest in size than the last one he’d built on Isle of Palms—the house on Ocean Boulevard that Cara and David lived in now. This one was more quaint than grand, a traditional lowcountry house with a wide, covered front porch, gabled windows, and a tin roof. It sat prettily on a slightly raised hill overlooking the open expanse. She felt pride swelling in her chest. Once again, her father’s sense of symmetry and Southern flair were evident in the telling details. She turned back toward the marsh to check on Hope.
“So, little girl,” came her father’s booming voice from behind her. “What do you think?”
She spun back around to see his broad frame striding toward her from the house, the blueprints in his hand. Not far behind him came her mother.
Palmer Rutledge was approaching his sixtieth birthday, and in the last few years she’d witnessed his aging. He’d had to loosen his belt notch a few times, his hair was thinning, and what there was had as much gray as blond now. Palmer was a conservative dresser, even on the construction site, in khakis and his ever-present polo shirt. He believed that clothes spoke of his position as the boss. He was building this house on spec, as he had the house before. Each project was a roll of the dice. He had to do well, or once again slide into bankruptcy. With the stakes so high, both she and her mother worried about his stress levels, lest he slip off the wagon and turn to drink.
“It’s great, Daddy,” Linnea exclaimed. He reached out for her as he approached, but she held out her hands. “No hugging,” she warned.
He stopped abruptly, his smile falling.
“We can elbow-bump.” She poked out her elbow.
“Hell, you mean I can’t hug my own daughter?” Palmer blustered.
“Daddy, you’re not even wearing a mask.”
“I can’t wear a mask out here when I’m working. Can’t breathe in the damn thing. Besides, I heard it was okay if I was outside.”
“If you stay six feet away. Thus, no hugging.”
“I hate this damn corona stuff,” Palmer said with an angry sweep of his hand. “We don’t even know if those masks work.”
Her mother walked up and put a calming hand on her husband’s shoulder. “We’ve got to do what we’ve got to do.” She looked at Linnea. “Hey, baby.”
Linnea was proud to see her mother wearing a mask—then smiled at how the soft blue tie-dye was color-coordinated with her blue blouse over tan pants. Julia was as conservative a dresser as her father. They were a matched set, like the china spaniels sitting on her mother’s mantel. Linnea had rebelled, albeit gently, against her parents’ social conformity in most areas of her life, choosing to study environmental science rather than business, pursuing her career rather than a husband. At the aquarium, Linnea modeled her classic sleek attire after her aunt Cara’s. But at home, where she could be herself, she went vintage. Her grandmother Lovie’s clothes were treasures in her closet.
As different as she was from her parents, however, she knew there were many areas of overlay. Family meant everything to them. They were happy only when their feet were planted in the lowcountry, preferably near Charleston, where their ancestors had founded the city. The coastal landscape shaped their lives. Saltwater ran in their veins.