Cara looked to Emmi. She was the leader of the Isle of Palms/Sullivan’s Island Turtle Team. The final word rested with her, and she took her orders from Michelle Pate at the South Carolina Department of Natural Resources.
“I’ve told her,” Emmi said to Cara.
“Lovie would’ve done something!” Flo said, almost beside herself. “She wouldn’t let them sit in that nest to die. Remember the time we moved the eggs? She knew what had to be done. Yes, ma’am.” She nodded her head, more a jerk, for emphasis.
“We got in a lot of trouble for that, too.”
“Maybe. But the eggs hatched, didn’t they? The turtles survived.” Flo’s pale eyes gleamed with triumph.
The memory flashed in Cara’s mind. Her mother had brought into the house the last unhatched nest on the islands. She’d put them in deep sand in the red bucket, and this she placed in her bathroom cabinet, thinking to save them from being swept away by the storm. It was a serious transgression of the SCDNR rules. The likelihood of the eggs surviving the move was slim to none.
But survive they did. Even though her mother didn’t. She passed soon after the hurricane. To this day Cara believed it was the spirit of her mother who protected the eggs and blessed them so the hatchlings did emerge. It was a miraculous event on a soft night after the hurricane. The whole Rutledge family had gathered around to cheer on her mother’s final nest. It was a transformative night. Watching the hatchlings scramble to the sea, Cara had made her decision to remain on the Isle of Palms—at her mother’s beach house—and to marry Brett Beauchamps.
Cara looked out to the ocean. The gray seas were turbulent, roiling in wild currents and swirling with whitecaps. Another hurricane was roaring in. A shudder ran through her.
“I’d love to debate this,” she said to Flo, “but I have to get our shutters up. I support whatever Emmi decides.” She looked at Emmi. “When are you leaving? It’s mandatory now, you know.”
“We know,” Emmi said. “We’re almost out of here. I expect we’ll leave right after lunch.”
“Do you have a place to go?”
“We’re going to my cousin’s in Columbia.”
“I’ll be at David’s in Tryon with Heather and Bo. Text when you leave.”
Emmi stepped forward to hug her. When she was close, Cara whispered, “Is everything okay with Flo? She seems a little agitated.” Flo was well on her descent into Alzheimer’s. Emmi was a saint being her caretaker and living with her. Cara did her part to help. Cara and Emmi were like Flo’s daughters, the only family she had. But Emmi did the heavy lifting.
Emmi looked over her shoulder. Flo was picking up a shell from the ground. “I’ll call you later,” she said with meaning. “Be safe. Don’t stay a minute longer than you have to.”
“Hell no,” Cara answered with a laugh.
Cara went to Flo and wrapped her arms around the woman’s frail shoulders. Florence Prescott had always been bigger than life. Buoyant and loud speaking, she was a fearless protector of sea turtles, Cara’s mother, Lovie, and both Cara and Emmi as children. She never married and had dedicated her life to her career as a social worker. It was hard seeing this woman in decline.
“I’ll see you when we all come back home,” she said, and kissed Flo’s cheek. “Take good care of Emmi.”
“I always do,” Flo replied. Then her bright eyes shone with clarity. “I know these hurricanes come hard for you. Memories stir. But you have David. Lean on him, now. I daresay he’s up to it.”
“I will. Godspeed.”
* * *
August 22, 2:00 p.m.
Freehold Farm, North Carolina
Even after a long morning with the animals, Moira strangely didn’t feel tired. Too many other emotions were swirling through her, indefinable but smacking of hope. She was on her way across the fields from the garage to a special place she often went when she needed to think.
Yesterday, the visit from the veterinarian had turned out to be one of life’s moments that were a blessing, unexpected, thus all the more sweet. Dr. Kate Pittman was also a licensed equine chiropractor. She’d examined Whirlwind and agreed with Moira’s diagnosis that the horse’s alignment was out. Dr. Kate was a teacher at heart and appreciated Moira’s study of equine massage. She took the time to explain each step of the chiropractic procedure. When she was finished, Moira and Karl both could see that Whirlwind was feeling better. It wasn’t the validation of her suspicions that excited Moira, though in truth the respect she saw reflected in Dr. Kate’s eyes was encouraging. It was more what the veterinarian had said, what Karl had echoed: Have you ever considered being a veterinarian?
She’d almost laughed in response. Consider it? It had once been her dream. She’d actually applied to veterinary school—and had been accepted. That dream, like so many others, had been tossed aside when she’d married.
Moira strolled at a thoughtful pace up the curve of the hill. The cut grass stuck to her boots, its thick scent filling her senses. Looking up, she saw the storm clouds hovering and she tasted rain. Her eyes were fixed on the hill’s highest point. A sacred place.
When her parents had purchased the farm, they’d intended to build a house at that high point. It was a beautiful spot, open and grassy, with a spectacular view of the rolling pastures. But when the builders put out the stakes for construction, each morning they found that the stakes had been moved. There were a number of signs on the property that Indians had once lived here. An ancient beech tree bore Indian carvings marking treasure, and spearheads and rudimentary tools were uncovered in digging. Her mother had contacted the Bureau of Indian Affairs, and they came to inspect. The Phillipses had learned that the farm had once been the site of a fierce battle between Indians and settlers. The experts also told them that the three ancient trees clustered atop the hill marked a burial ground. At the foot of each tree was a semicircular alignment of rocks, pointing toward the clear view of the sky. It was sacred ground, likely the resting spot of royalty.
Moira didn’t know if the word royalty was correct—maybe they meant chiefs, or even revered medicine women. She only knew for certain that they were women. She felt their spirits when she visited them. They spoke to her clearly. She didn’t tell many people about her ability to communicate through the thin veil. For one, she didn’t want strangers showing up at the site. Secondly, she was well aware of the skepticism about all things psychic. Only her parents knew about her communication with the three women—and Elise—and they believed completely in her ability. Her mother told her she’d been prescient ever since she was a little girl, how it was a gift, one to be treasured. Moira had always felt that their faith in her was the true gift.
She made her way to the top of the hill. The sky was foreboding, and in the distance, thunder rumbled. A brisk breeze blew up, scattering leaves and caressing her face. Moira approached the three trees with respect. In the middle stood the tallest oak, broad at the base with large roots curling in the ground, secure and strong. This magnificent tree’s branches spread out far and wide in a great embrace of the sky. Moira reached it and bowed at the waist.
“Daughter,” she said, then stepped forward to touch the thick, striated bark. She closed her eyes and waited for some sense that this tree had a message. Only the birds sang from above. She withdrew a small piece of quartz from her pocket and placed it at the tree’s roots as an offering, then moved to the left to a modestly smaller tree. This noble tree’s roots also curled thick and strong over rocks. Again, Moira bowed and placed her offering of quartz.