CHAPTER ELEVEN

“Promising talk don’t cook rice.”

—GULLAH PROVERB

 

 

The Seaboro Common Square was empty in the hushed morning as Mother and I parked the car in front of the antiquated library, which now held the Seaboro Historical Society. The grass was low and newly mowed, the fountain gurgling in a lonely echo across the lawn. Together, Mother and I walked into the building and toward the last room at the end of the hall. The structure carried an odor of all old buildings in Seaboro—a mix of mildew and sea, moist and human. Everyone greeted us as we sat down at a cedar conference table, crafted from a tree that had fallen in a hurricane and blown through the side windows in the early eighties.

The mayor had appointed the ten seated men and women to the society. Mr. Cragg seemed as old as the historic building itself. “Now, everyone.” He clapped his hands together once. “Meridy McFadden . . . Dresden has come to our meeting with an idea I think is fabulous. Meridy?” He lifted his palm and motioned toward me. “What would you like to say?”

In the largest voice I could muster, I told the society about my idea for an arts festival to raise money for the Keeper’s Cottage.

“Now, Meridy,” Mr. Cragg said, “this fund-raising idea has much merit, but why do we need to do this when it appears that Tim Oliver will donate the money?”

I stood, a million wings fluttering against my ribs. “I think it would be more . . . beneficial to both the city and the reputation of the cottage to have an arts festival.” I leaned forward, placed my palms on the table and looked each person in the eyes. “Listen, you are constantly trying to get the outside world to notice Seaboro’s merits, of which there are many. Bringing in artists from all over the Lowcountry would seem to accomplish a dual purpose. The Oliver family has already lost so much; Tim has finally built his business. Forcing someone to pay for the renovations seems to affect the . . . spirit of the building.” I took a deep breath. I’d practiced that speech.

A few men and women cleared their throats; Charlotte Hamlon leaned back in her chair. “I think it’s a waste of time—we could never raise that much money at a festival. And that Tim needs to pay for what he did.”

Mr. Everett, my old history teacher, stood. “Well, I think Ms. Dresden has a valid point. It’s as much a tourist and reputation issue as a money issue. The PR for something like this would be great for the city and county.” He winked at me. Ever since I’d built a Roman city out of Popsicle sticks, he’d been on my side.

“I’ve held an arts festival five years in a row for our private school at home,” I said. “I could help you get it organized, show you how, and . . . you could have it on the Fourth of July, when you have so many visitors already. My voice vibrated in the room; I was talking too loudly, the way a child does when trying to talk parents into something they’ve already said no to.

Lansing Manning, an old friend of Mother’s, tossed her head as if she still had shoulder-length curls. Now a scarf surrounded her head—the only indication of the cancer she fought. “I want to head up this project.” She nodded toward me. “This is a magnificent idea for our town. The arts and the Keeper’s Cottage together—we can bring in every kind of artist: writers, storytellers, sweetgrass basket weavers. It is a fabulous idea.”

Then voices overlapped, caught up in the excitement. Yes, now we could make the lists, assign the duties, and I could stop thinking about the past. I could once again forget, if I wanted to.

Mother reached under the table and patted my leg, indicating I should sit. I smiled at her and obeyed.

Charlotte Hamlon stood. “I think this is a ridiculous idea. How in the world will we get that many artists to come in under a month?”

I straightened in my chair. “It would have to be for next year.”

“See, it’s a ridiculous idea. We’re not willing to wait that long to make a few bucks when we could do all of it right now,” Charlotte said.

“You’ve already waited twenty-six years. Surely another year of planning won’t harm the cottage,” I said.

“Humph,” Charlotte muttered, but had nothing else to say.

“Now, I can’t head this up,” I said, “but I can tell Mrs. Manning how to do it. And I’ll always be available by phone for consultation. I have an entire notebook on how to organize, run and set up an arts festival.” I motioned toward Lansing Manning.

Mrs. Manning clapped her hands together. “This is so wonderful.”

“Should we take a vote?” Mr. Cragg stood.

The historic society’s voices rose in nine ayes, and one nay from Charlotte Hamlon, who then stomped out of the room and slammed the door behind her.

I thought Mother stifled a laugh, but the buzz of conversation overwhelmed the sound and I wasn’t quite sure.

 

The afternoon after the historical society meeting, I made two more phone calls to home. When the answering machine came on—again—and Beau’s secretary told me he was unavailable—again—I realized I needed to go home. I must leave and discover what it was I was avoiding with Beau. I couldn’t hide here. I left a message on Beau’s voice mail: I was coming home in the morning.

My suitcase lay open on the bed. Clean clothes were stacked around it, ready to be packed. I sat down on the mattress and it tilted under my weight. Beau knew I was coming. B.J. had decided to stay in Nashville for the weekend as usual—he loved it there. I was headed home without understanding how I felt about Beau at all, understanding only how I felt being here—more alive and open. Maybe I could find what I’d lost and bring it home with me.

I sighed and walked downstairs—I definitely knew I couldn’t fly down now. I was grounded in my responsibilities and commitments.

The arts festival committees were being formed under the direction of Lansing Manning; the curriculum was almost done. There was nothing left for me to do here. I stood on the back porch, the wood warm on my bare feet, the breeze a caress on my cheeks. This was the place where my memories gathered: this house, this beach, this sea-soaked air. These memories frolicked and talked to each other, passed stories and secrets. I felt they were just beginning to whisper to me, tell me their mysteries. Long ago, I’d left them all here and I would do so again.