Especially her father.
When Cara was eighteen, to her traditional father Stratton Rutledge’s disappointment, she had refused to become the southern belle she was expected to be. Her hair was too dark, her feet too big. She was too tall, too bookish, and far too independent-minded. After graduating high school with honors, Cara had informed her parents, in a tone of voice that implied she was well aware they would not approve, that she wasn’t going to the local college they’d selected for her but would instead attend a northeastern college. Perhaps Boston University. Maybe even Harvard. She was proud she’d been accepted. Her father, however, wasn’t accustomed to back talk, especially from his daughter.
“Who the hell do you think you are, little girl?” he’d roared, his voice echoing in the large dining room of their grand home. Her mother had sat quietly at the other end of the table, her eyes meekly downcast. “You’ll do as I say. And if you step one foot outside this town—out of this house—that’ll tear it between us, you hear? You leave and you’ll not get one dollar, not one stick of furniture, not so much as a nod of the head when you pass me or your mother on the street, hear?”
But Cara was more like her father than he’d realized. She’d turned heel and run as far away from her parents, that house, Charleston, and all the expectations and demands of a southern woman from South of Broad as she could get, heading to points north to seek her freedom, fame, and fortune. Her father was as good as his word. He’d cut her off and never looked back. He refused to pay her tuition, so she’d never gone to a prestigious Boston college. Instead she’d nailed an interview for an entry-level position at an advertising firm in Chicago, and had gone to night school for seven years while working full-time, finally earning her degree in communications. She’d climbed the corporate ladder and, though she wasn’t wealthy, she’d achieved success on her own merit. Cara had come home only once, for her brother’s wedding, and sent a handful of Christmas and birthday cards over the years. There was the occasional phone call with her mother. Her relationship with her family was polite at best.
When her father died, Cara returned home for his funeral. Like the man he’d been throughout his lifetime, his will was cold and vindictive. As Stratton had sworn all those years ago, he didn’t leave her as much as a stick of furniture. Cara had neither expected nor wanted anything from him. But the silence from her mother upon finding out that he’d made good on his pledge had hurt.
Then, on Cara’s fortieth birthday, her mother had written asking her to come home for a visit. And she’d obliged. A weekend at the beach house had turned into a summer of reconciliation.
“Oh, Mama,” she whispered so softly that her voice was carried off by the breeze. Cara had lost Lovie again to cancer right after they’d found each other once more. Even after ten years, Cara’s heart yearned for her.
Her father had left everything to Palmer. But the beach house was her mother’s, and when Lovie died she’d left it to Cara, knowing she would care for Primrose Cottage—and all the secrets associated with it—with the love and attention to detail that Lovie herself had exhibited. And Cara had fulfilled that promise.
Studying the beach house in the softening light of day’s end, Cara shook her head ruefully. If someone had told her when she was eighteen that decades later she’d be back on the Isle of Palms as mistress of Primrose Cottage, she would have laughed out loud with disbelief.
But here she was, turning fifty, living on the Isle of Palms again, married to the love of her life and giving Primrose Cottage yet another coat of paint. “What goes around comes around,” her mother used to say. Cara chortled and shook her head. As usual, her mother was right.
Cara rolled her stiff shoulders, then traipsed across the sand and wildflowers to the waiting bucket of soapy water. She set her brush to soak, then put her hands on her back and once again stretched her aching muscles. Fifty certainly wasn’t the new forty, not in Cara’s opinion anyway.
No more daydreaming, she told herself as her usual practical, no-nonsense attitude kicked in. Rental season was around the corner and there was a lot left to do—and she couldn’t afford to hire anyone else. She was committed to keeping the beach house up to the standards set by her mother. Still, she’d miscalculated the strength of the early spring sun and she could feel the pinpricks of sunburn on her arms.
The sound of a car pulling up the gravel driveway distracted her. She stopped studying her arm and looked over her shoulder to see her brother’s gleaming white Mercedes sedan easing to a stop. He gave a gentle toot of the horn to herald his arrival. She chuckled, thinking Palmer always arrived with fanfare. She removed the man’s denim shirt irretrievably splattered with paint, one of Brett’s rejects, from over her black T-shirt and tossed it on a nearby wheelbarrow. The front car door swung open and one polished slip-on tasseled loafer peeked out from the car, then Palmer Rutledge hoisted himself out with a muffled grunt.
At fifty-two, Palmer was two years older than Cara, but he looked a good decade older, thanks to the bloated, florid face and the paunch at his waist from his lifestyle as a businessman and successful real estate maven. While his habits had led to a less-than-healthy physique, Cara couldn’t deny that Palmer had an enviable sense of style. Even as a boy he’d always been an impeccable dresser, a sharp contrast to Cara’s tattered, beachy sartorial choices. Today he wore a tan golf jacket over a polo shirt and pressed khakis. Cara wiped the flecks of paint from her hands onto her torn jeans and took a step toward him, a smile of welcome spread across her tanned face.
“Palmer!” she exclaimed with an exuberant wave. “Come to see how the other half lives?”
Her brother held out his arms and she walked into them for a bear hug, highlighting the physical ease and sense of closeness that they shared as children remained. Cara believed their mother’s death had made them not simply orphans, but all too aware of their own mortality.
“That’s enough of that,” Palmer said with a low laugh, gently disentangling himself. “You smell ripe, sister mine.”
“Thanks,” Cara replied breezily, not in the least embarrassed. “Comes from decent hard work.”
“Mama never lifted a paintbrush in her delicate hands.”
“Mama had more money than me. And, brother mine, I believe you do, too. So if the sight of my chipped nails and paint-splattered clothes offends you, kindly offer me the funds to hire out.”
“I’d love to, honey, but we both know Julia spends every penny I earn faster than sand through fingers.” Palmer rolled his eyes as he so often did when speaking of his socially conscious, designer-driven wife. His gaze shifted to the cottage. “Nice job,” he said. Then he slanted her a look. “Do you hire out?”