For her, that meant getting outdoors and paying attention to what was ordinary, and yet supremely exotic. For all that she knew about wildlife such as sea turtles, dolphins, manatees, she had a lot to learn about the wildlife that lived in her own backyard. Because of her time with Hope, learning the names of the extraordinary ordinary creatures that shared this bit of earth with her continued to be her new mission.
She heard a knocking on the kitchen door and left her musings at the bird feeder to open it. She was surprised to see John standing at the threshold. His face, already tanning from his work building the pond, was smiling as he held out a bunch of spring flowers. She tossed the dish towel across her arm and leaned against the doorframe.
“Did you raid your mother’s garden?”
“As if she’d let me. All those flowers out there and she won’t let me pick any. What’s the point?”
He handed her the flowers, a collection of pink and purple cosmos. She took them into her hands and admired them. “They’re beautiful, thank you. What’s the occasion?”
“Do I need an occasion? I was at the farmers’ market—it’s open, by the way. Oh, and here,” he said, handing her a brown paper bag. “I bought you this loaf of sourdough bread. I remembered you used to buy it all the time in San Francisco.”
She took the loaf gratefully, touched that he recalled that detail. “Want to come in?” She stepped back.
He shook his head. “Actually, I want you to come out. It’s a beautiful day and I promised Hope I’d come see her. I thought we might walk over together?”
Linnea hesitated. It wasn’t a date, she chided herself. They were simply going over to see a little girl they both cared about. “Hold on. I’ll get Luna.”
Luna wasn’t thrilled about using a leash for her first walk. She planted her paws on the ground and refused to budge. Rather than drag her, Linnea swooped the puppy into her arms.
“I’d better carry her if we ever hope to get there.”
“Sure,” John said, trying not to laugh.
They passed the white picket fence that bordered Emmi’s garden. She and Flo were working, both wearing large straw hats and gloves.
“Hello!” Linnea called out.
Emmi straightened and, with one hand on the curve of her back, waved with the other and called out a cheery hello. Flo stood unmoving, holding a hoe. She turned her head toward them and removed her large hat, her sparse white hair revealing a pink scalp. She was so thin now her clothes hung from her frame.
Linnea moved closer to the fence and called out, “Hello, Flo!”
The old woman stared at her vacantly.
“Let’s go,” John said gently, guiding her back to the path. “It’s not a good day.”
He politely stepped aside so she could walk in front of him along the narrow beach path bordered by dunes. Linnea hoisted Luna higher in her arms and took the lead. The sand was warm and countless tiny black ants scrambled in their chaotic pattern beneath her sandals.
“Poor Flo,” Linnea said, shaken.
Linnea had never known the young Florence Prescott, but had heard the stories over and over from her mother and Cara how Flo was a firecracker. One of a kind.
She’d been one of the first sea turtle volunteers with Lovie on Isle of Palms and Sullivan’s Island. Back in the day, they’d tended turtles before the South Carolina Department of Natural Resources began managing the turtle population. They’d made their mistakes, but their hearts were in the right place. Flo had dedicated her life to the sea turtles and to her social work clients. She’d never married, never had children. No nieces or nephews, either.
She’d claimed she liked making her own decisions: “I never want any man telling me what to do.” Flo was right proud that she had bought the pretty Victorian-style house on her own merit. It had been in a state of disrepair. Flo spent her vacation time and weekends working on it herself, calling in favors, gradually bringing the old house back to its former beauty. When her father died, Flo took her mother in. Miranda and Flo couldn’t have been more different. Miranda was a bohemian artist adored by everyone. As outlandish as Miranda was, Florence was as conservative. Flo’s fiery wit and old-school wisdom kept most of the neighborhood—adults and children—in line. Her dearest friend was Lovie Rutledge, and there was nothing she wouldn’t do for her.
Or for Emmaline Baker and Caretta Rutledge—Emmi and Cara. She doted on them. The two young girls came together every summer while staying in their families’ beach houses a few blocks apart. The girls were inseparable and they both adored Flo, calling her their adopted aunt. The gate between Lovie’s and Flo’s houses was never closed. Sweet tea and sugar cookies were always on hand in the kitchens, art lessons were conducted in Miranda’s carriage house, and card games were played at night during the steamy summer.
As the years passed, however, Flo had retired, lost her mother, and found herself on hard financial times. That was the time of Emmi’s divorce from Tom Peterson. Linnea’s grandmother liked to say that good things happened to good people, and Linnea figured that must be true. After the divorce, Emmi had sold her family’s beach cottage to Tom. She was proud to say she took the rotter to the cleaners for it. In truth, his guilt let her.
Emmi used the money from her divorce to buy Florence Prescott’s Victorian, a house she’d always loved. Not only was it charming, it was smack next door to her best friend’s beach house. As a bonus, her buying the house also solved the problem of helping out an aging Flo. That year, Emmi and Cara had made a pact to take care of the old woman they both loved.
Since that time Emmi had lived with Flo in the old Victorian. It had been a good experience for them both. They shared a love of sea turtles, the garden, and the children. But it had also saved them both from the loneliness of living alone. Over the last decade, however, Flo had developed Alzheimer’s disease, as her mother had before her. Emmi had managed alone for several years, but recently, Flo’s downward slide was accelerating. Emmi and Cara were trying to hold off the day they had to put Flo in a memory center.
“John,” Linnea said. “I don’t think she recognized me.”
“Maybe not.”
“How’s she doing?”
“Not very well.”
“What does that mean?” she asked, turning her head a bit so he could hear.
“She’s started to wander again,” John said, worry tinging his voice.
“Oh no…”
“The other day, Mom discovered the front door open. She nearly had a heart attack. She had to run three blocks before she spied her, walking in the middle of the street. In her nightgown.”
“Where was her nurse?”
“The nurse isn’t coming any longer, because of Covid-19. She has to stay home with her kids, plus she doesn’t want to take public transportation. It’s not easy to get to Isle of Palms from North Charleston by bus. I can’t say as I blame her.”
“Who’s helping your mom?”
“You’re looking at him.”
She stopped abruptly. “You?”
“There’s no one else.”
Linnea mulled this over as she continued along the crooked beach path, no longer noticing the wildflowers. When she reached the pavement of Ocean Boulevard, she set Luna down and turned to John.