He brewed his tea in a blue china pot, poured it into a chipped white cup with forget-me-nots on the handles, and dropped in a dollop of honey and cream. “I am,” he sighed deeply, “contented as a clam.”
—Ethel Pochocki
Rebecca closed the door to the small three-bedroom house, unable to control her trembling hands. She was frightened; no, she was scared. It was the first time in her life that she had found herself completely alone. As a child she had vacationed with her parents, then with Lee when they were dating, and later as a wife and mother.
After opening all the windows, she removed her shoes and sat down on a worn armchair, staring at her surroundings. The house was little more than a cottage, which could fit in her Charleston house twice, with room to spare.
She had left Kyle and Ashlee with her parents, fighting back tears when she’d lectured them about obeying their grandparents. Lee hadn’t seen her off. His absence had spoken volumes. He knew he could not stop her from going away, yet he hadn’t totally supported her decision to summer by herself.
She missed her children, her husband, and the spaciousness of her home. Placing a hand over her mouth, she wept silently.
The sun had shifted overhead by the time Rebecca moved off the chair. She had had her crying jag, and now she was ready to face what would become an uncertain two months. She wasn’t going back to Charleston, and she’d made up her mind it was time to settle into her vacation house.
Walking across the living room, she made her way into the kitchen and flipped a wall switch. The ceiling light did not come on. She opened the refrigerator. The bulb in the outdated appliance did not light. Her mouth tightened in frustration as she circled the refrigerator to check if it had been plugged in. It was, but there was no humming sound.
The real estate agent who had handled the rental of the house had told her that everything was in working order. She left the kitchen and checked the lights in the other rooms. The electric was on in the three bedrooms and living room, but not the kitchen and bathroom.
Glancing at her watch, Rebecca noted the time. It was after seven, and in another ninety minutes it would be dark. She had to find someone to check out the electricity in the bathroom and kitchen.
She left the house, her bare feet making little slip-slap sounds on the porch’s floorboards. She inhaled a lungful of salt-filled air, held her breath, then let it out slowly. A hint of a smile softened her mouth. The summer rental had come short of her expectations, but she could not complain about the setting. A house, albeit small, on the beach was ideal.
Walking to the end of the porch, she spied her neighbor. Warm golden light spilled from the windows of the house, which was glowing bright in the evening shadows.
Rebecca leaned over the peeling railing. “Good evening.”
Hope glanced up when she heard the greeting. There was no drawl in the clear, feminine voice. Rising from the rocker, she walked over to the opposite end of her porch. Smiling, she said, “Hi. I saw you moving in earlier.”
“I’m Rebecca Owens. I hope you can help me.”
“With what?”
“I need someone to check the electricity in my kitchen and bathroom. It’s not working.”
“Are you certain you don’t need to replace the bulbs?”
Rebecca shook her head. “I don’t think it’s the bulbs. The refrigerator is plugged in and it’s still not working. Do you know of anyone who can come out to help me?”
Hope thought of the elderly man who took care of her house. She nodded. “Yes, I do know someone. I’ll call him and see if he’ll come over.”
Rebecca smiled. “Thank you, Miss…”
Hope returned her smile. “Hope Sutton.”
There was a moment of silence before Rebecca said, “The Hope Sutton who writes the ‘Straight Talk’ column?”
Hope had learned early on that it was impossible to remain anonymous, because her photograph always appeared in her column. “Yes.”
A soft gasp escaped Rebecca as she stared at the advice columnist to whom she had written two letters that she’d never mailed. She’d wanted to pour out her heart to Dr. Hope and unburden herself, but a week later, she’d shredded both letters.
“I’ll be right back.”
Rebecca nodded. “Thank you.” Her neighbor’s porch had furniture, while hers was completely bare. If she wanted to sit outside, she would have to use a kitchen chair.
After she’d recovered from the sparseness of the house where she would spend her summer, she saw its quaint charm. When she had spoken to the realtor who’d represented the owner of the property, she’d been told that she would have to bring her own bed linens, cookware, and utensils. The house had been cleaned and aired, the plumbing and electrical checked and found to be in working order, and the grass and brushes around the house cut back. The bedrooms were small, kitchen appliances were more than thirty years old, and the wallpaper throughout the house bore traces of water stains, but the roof was purported to be sound.
She made her way off the porch and across the sandy lawn. Twin lamps flanking Hope’s front door and an overhead fan stirring the ocean breeze invited her to sit and stay awhile. Rebecca wasn’t certain what she’d expected Dr. Hope Sutton to look like in person, but it wasn’t the tall woman who had offered her a warm smile.
Hope reappeared, and Rebecca stared up at the advice columnist. Her hair was pulled up in a ponytail, while a dark brown bare face shimmered under the glow of the porch lamps.
“You’re much prettier than your photograph.”
Hope blushed, nodding. It wasn’t often that she received a compliment from a woman. “Mr. Turner says he will be over around nine.”
“Nine o’clock. I can’t wait that long. Is there anyone else you can call?”
Hope was taken aback by the waspish tone. “No, there isn’t.”
Her mouth tightening in frustration, Rebecca said, “I suppose I don’t have much of a choice.”
“No, you don’t.” Hope was hard-pressed to keep the sarcasm out of her voice.
“Thank you for making the call for me.”
“Don’t mention it.”
Hope stood on her porch and watched Rebecca as she walked back to her house and disappeared inside. “Ungrateful pseudo-snob.”
Hope sat down on the rocker and picked up the book she’d been reading. There was something about Rebecca Owens that annoyed her. She had asked her for help, yet she’d acted as if she’d been wronged because someone had not rushed to do her bidding. What her new neighbor had to learn was that no one moved quickly on McKinnon Island. That is the way it always was and would always be.
Rebecca unpacked as she waited for Mr. Turner to arrive. As she changed into a sleeveless dress, she made a mental note to buy a supply of candles just in case of an emergency. She’d found an old radio on a countertop in the kitchen, and she plugged it into an outlet in the room she had selected as her bedroom. Fiddling with a dial, she found a station that featured light contemporary songs, which were a welcome relief from the rap and hip-hop music her son and daughter blared so loudly that pictures vibrated on the walls.
Mr. Turner came at nine-thirty, and within minutes he replaced several blown fuses. He refused to take any money from her and mumbled something in a dialect Rebecca could not understand. Waiting until he was halfway out the door, she pushed the bill into the pocket of his shirt and quickly closed and locked the door behind him.
She extinguished all of the lights except those in her bedroom and the bathroom. At ten-thirty she crawled into bed after a lukewarm bubble bath, and fell asleep minutes after her head touched the pillow.
It was late evening the next day when Rebecca saw Hope again. She was sitting on the porch, reading. “Good evening, Hope.”
Hope’s head came up. “Good evening, Rebecca.”
“May I come over?”
Hope put aside the book. “Yes.”
She was on her feet by the time Rebecca came up the porch steps, seeing things about her neighbor she had not noticed the day before. She was not only petite but also very thin. The gold streaks in her short, curly hair matched her eyes. Rebecca smiled, and dimples winked in her cheeks.
“I’d like to apologize. I know I sounded ungrateful yesterday, but I’ve been a little out of sorts lately.”
Hope ignored Rebecca’s apology and asked, “Did Mr. Turner fix your lights?”
Rebecca blushed. “All he had to do was replace some blown fuses.”
“Thankfully that was all he had to do.”
“You’re right. But I’d like to thank you for your help. Perhaps we could have dinner together one of these evenings.”
Hope knew Rebecca was offering the olive branch, and she decided to accept it. She nodded. “Okay. Would you like some sweet tea?”
Rebecca smiled again. “Yes, thank you.” She had noticed that Hope referred to iced tea as sweet tea. Even though Hope did not sound like a Southerner, Rebecca knew instinctively that she had Southern roots.
Hope pointed to a cushion-covered wicker chaise. “Please sit down. I’ll be right back.”
Rebecca sat down, closed her eyes and let out an audible sigh, the sound blending with the chirping of crickets and the rattle of palmetto trees in the cooling nighttime breeze. This is nice.
The soft click of the screen door opening made Rebecca open her eyes and come to her feet. Hope had returned, carrying a tray with two tall glasses and a pitcher filled with ice and a red liquid.
Hope placed the tray on the table with the radio. “I hope you like rose hip. I’ve added natural sweetener instead of sugar.” Lana had recommended she use a sweet herb called stevia. She filled the glasses with tea, handing one to Rebecca.
Rebecca took a sip, her eyes widening. “I’m not much of a tea drinker, but this is delicious.” She took another swallow. “Would you mind giving me the recipe?”
Hope smiled. “Not at all. Lately, I’ve become quite the tea connoisseur. I plan to have many afternoon teas during my stay.”
“How long do you plan to stay?”
“I’ll be here through the summer. How about yourself?”
Rebecca stared at the diamond engagement ring and matching band on her left hand. “I have to be home before my children go back to school.”
A comfortable silence followed as the two women sipped tea and stared out at the blackness of the ocean. Hope did not know how, but she felt Rebecca’s tension. After she placed her glass on the coaster on the table, Rebecca twisted her wedding rings around the third finger of her left hand as if she couldn’t decide whether to take them off or leave them on.
Hope hadn’t come to McKinnon to play therapist to others. She needed to get her own head together. Once she settled her inner turmoil, she planned to outline a book based on the letters she had received over the years. Writing the book would become her therapy and take her mind off her medical condition. She did not think about the offer to host the talk radio show. Derrick Landry had promised to get back to her, but so far she hadn’t heard anything from him on whether his station was willing to move back the projected broadcast date.
“Would I be imposing if I asked to share afternoon tea with you?”
“Of course not. In fact, I’d love company.”
A smile softened the lines of tension around Rebecca’s mouth. She ran a hand through her short, curly hair. “If you’ll make the tea, then I’ll bring the little cakes and accoutrements.”
“That sounds wonderful.”
Rebecca stood up and extended her right hand. “Thank you for the tea and your company.”
Rising, Hope shook her hand. “You’re quite welcome. I’ll see you tomorrow—say around four?”
“Four it is. Goodnight, Hope.”
“Goodnight, Rebecca.”
Hope waited until the petite woman with the haunted golden eyes walked away, then she sat down again. Rebecca Owens was in pain. It was obvious she had come to McKinnon Island alone, and the therapist in Hope wondered why. She thought of endless possibilities before reminding herself that whatever the reason was it was none of her business.
It began raining at sunrise, and by late afternoon the steady downpour slashed against the roof and windows. The radio newscaster reported a tropical storm would drop more than two inches of rain along the Carolina coast before losing its intensity.
Hope got up early and took the ferryboat to Savannah to shop for enough food to stock her refrigerator and pantry. It had taken only two days on McKinnon to revive her appetite.
At the supermarket she gathered organic steaks and hamburger patties, bottled juices, and dairy products. She paid for her purchases, loaded the trunk of her rental car, then drove across the causeway to wait for the ferryboat.
As she maneuvered her car onto the ferryboat, she noticed that a black Lexus SUV bore South Carolina plates. Normally she would’ve left her car to stand at the rail to watch vehicles and passengers board and disembark at each island, but not in today’s stormy weather.
The rear doors to the Lexus opened, and two young black men wearing baseball caps, T-shirts, shorts, and deck shoes stood at the railing and pointed as Hilton Head Island came into view.
“Thankfully the rain stopped.” Rebecca placed a large wicker basket on a chair in Hope’s kitchen. “I kept listening to the radio, waiting to be told that we would have to evacuate.”
Hope removed a small dish of sliced lemons from the refrigerator. “We would have to have a lot more wind and rain before that happens.” She spied the picnic basket. “What on earth did you bring?”
A mysterious smile curved Rebecca’s mouth. “Oh, just a little something.”
Rebecca’s little something turned out to be ruby tea biscuits filled with red jam. She’d also brought an exquisite porcelain tea set emblazoned with tiny violet flowers. Hope watched as she placed the pot and matching cups and saucers on the white linen tablecloth. Reaching into the basket, she pulled out two sterling place settings and matching serving pieces.
Hope was impressed. When she’d asked Rebecca to join her for afternoon tea, she hadn’t thought it would be comparable to high tea at Buckingham Palace. “Everything is so elegant.”
Flashing her dimpled smile, Rebecca curtsied. “I’d like to think of us as McKinnon’s Sophie Ladies.”
“Sophie Ladies?”
Rebecca sobered. “This summer you and I will become the island’s Sophisticated Ladies. But only during high tea, madam.”
Hope laughed. “I like you, Rebecca. You’ve got lots of class.”
Hazel eyes shimmered with excitement. “Why, thank you, Hope.” The famous Dr. Hope Sutton thought she had class, while her mother-in-law viewed her as a gauche interloper from the North whose family pedigree boasted factory and mill workers, day laborers, and civil servants. Rebecca was the first Leighton to graduate from college.
She had gone to Hilton Head earlier that morning to shop and had stopped in a gift shop to look for items she could send back to Charleston for her parents and children. She’d spied the tea set and hadn’t been able to resist buying it. After she’d told the shopkeeper she planned to have afternoon tea with a friend while summering on McKinnon, the woman had suggested she add the sterling silver place settings.
She glanced around the kitchen. “This place is lovely. It’s a lot more modern than where I’m staying.”
“That’s because I had it done over.”
Rebecca’s eyes widened. “You’re not renting?”
“No. I inherited this house and the surrounding property from my grandparents.” There was half an acre behind the house that led into the woods, where her grandparents had kept their livestock and tended a vegetable garden.
“Please tell me about your family.”
Over several cups of lemon verbena tea and jam-filled tea biscuits served on a warm plate, Hope wove a mesmerizing tale of the summers she had spent on McKinnon as a child. Rebecca listened, enthralled. She envied Hope and the time she’d spent with her brothers and sister. She had become an only child at nine after her younger sister had died in a hit-and-run accident.
“I remember the first time I helped my grandmother cook chitlins.”
Rebecca grimaced. “I’d eat chitterlings if I could get past the smell.”
Hope arched an eyebrow. “Oh no, you didn’t call them chit-ter-lings, girlfriend.”
“Isn’t that what they are?”
“Not!” Hope stated emphatically. “Down here they’re chitlins.” She peered closely at Rebecca. “Do you have any Southern roots?”
A rush of color darkened Rebecca’s cheeks. “I don’t think so.”
“Where are you from?”
“Lowell, Massachusetts.”
“How many generations?”
“At least six.”
Hope shook her head. “That’s a shame, Yankee girl. If you intend to spend the summer on McKinnon, then get ready for an infusion of Gullah culture and language.”
Throwing back her head, Rebecca laughed until tears rolled down her cheeks. It had been a long time since she had really laughed without constraints. Picking up a napkin, she dabbed her eyes. Before she’d married Lee, before she had become a mother, she’d laughed all the time. When had her life become so serious?
“When I got off the ferryboat yesterday, I asked a man how to get to Beach Road, but I couldn’t understand a word he said,” she confessed.
“He probably said, ‘Down yondah’ and pointed in the direction of the ocean.”
“That’s the only word I understood.”
Hope gave Rebecca a basic course on the Gullah language. She told of the annual gatherings in Beaufort, on Hilton Head, and on Georgia’s Sapelo Island that celebrated a fading language and way of life. They talked until the pot of tea cooled and nightfall blanketed McKinnon.
Hope offered her neighbor a quick tour of the small, three-bedroom house. “My grandmother and great-grandmother pieced all of the quilts.”
Rebecca fingered a faded, multicolored quilt covering an iron bed in the smaller of the bedrooms. It was stitched together using various colors and fabrics. “It’s beautiful.” Her attention was directed to a trio of small round baskets on a table under a window. She peered inside. They were filled with dried flowers and herbs.
“Those baskets and all of the others in the house were woven here on the island.”
Rebecca gave Hope a direct stare. “Who wove them?”
“I don’t remember who in particular, but I’m certain some of the older women still make sweetgrass baskets.”
“Can you introduce me to them?” Rebecca did not feel comfortable enough to seek them out on her own because she did not understand their Gullah dialect.
“Do you want to buy some?”
“No. I want to learn how to weave them.”
Hope stared at her new friend. Rebecca had come to McKinnon Island wearing raw silk and expensive jewelry, had purchased sterling silver pieces and a Sevres tea set for their afternoon tea, yet she wanted to learn to weave baskets like her African ancestors.
“Give me a few days to find out who would be willing to give you lessons, then I’ll let you know. Anything else you’d like to learn to do while you’re here?”
“How to quilt by hand.”
“I’ll ask about both.”
Rebecca smiled again. “Thanks, girlfriend.”
Hope returned her smile. “You’re quite welcome, girlfriend.”
After Rebecca left, Hope retreated to the bedroom, where she had set up her temporary office. She plugged her laptop into a telephone outlet and checked her e-mail. There were three new messages.
Hope read Derrick Landry’s from WLKV:
Hope, The show’s producer has decided to push back the broadcast launch for “Straight Talk” to accommodate your full medical recovery. Please advise as to a tentative start date. Cordially, Derrick.
The second one was from Lana, wishing her well.
The third was from Kendall:
Hi, Baby. I hope you are well. Miss you. Love, KC.
Hope shook her head. Sorry, KC, I don’t do threesomes.
With a click of the mouse, she deleted his message.
She answered Lana’s and Derrick’s e-mails, then inserted a new disk and began outlining the topics she wanted to cover in her book. It was after two when she finally turned off the computer and readied herself for bed.