13. Keaton Time Capsule
I am ashamed to admit that my progress on the house has slowed to a halt. Sure, I’ve managed to get it clean—or, at least, as clean as it can be. But it seems like every time I turn around, more dust has fallen despite my best efforts.
Between tearing through my grandfather’s journals, slowly sifting through Suzanne’s newspaper articles, replaying my night with Bowen in my head, and meeting the ladies for morning coffee, I’ve done very little in the way of actually clearing out the house. Plus, every time I attempt to sort through a drawer of photos or mementos, I get lost in the moment and end up putting everything back. Notifications from my organization app are clogging my email, but I—very unlike me—feel powerless to move forward.
Anderson has been a great distraction, coming by every day after camp to play with Salt and hang out with me. And, I have to admit, it seems like Bowen is making more excuses to come by too. But it has been nearly two weeks since our dinner, and he hasn’t expressed any real interest in me since. I’m starting to wonder if our connection is one-sided.
So I am distracting myself from all this by continuing my culinary education. I have Becks’s notebook open on the counter opposite from where I’m doing my mixing because I’m so afraid I’ll get something on it. I’ve decided to make some cookies for Anderson (and, okay, yes, maybe Bowen) and have gathered the butter, brown sugar, white sugar, eggs, all-purpose flour, baking soda, vanilla, oats, and pecans I need for the recipe. I’m at the first step, and I’m already mystified. Cream the butter.
I rack my brain and look over to see Salt doing this adorable thing he does when he is stalking something and jumps with all four feet at the same time, looking like a little goat. “Okay,” I say out loud, smiling when I realize he is pouncing on a pecan that has escaped from the counter. “What could it possibly mean to cream butter? Melt it? Like turn it into cream?”
I’m about to google it, but when I hear a knock and “Keaton!” I sigh. “Oh, thank goodness,” I say as I make my way to the living room. The front door opens, and Violet pops her head in. She sticks an arm holding a Swiffer duster through the door. “I’m here!” she calls. “And I have reinforcements!”
“Please, come in!” This morning at coffee I was complaining about my ever-falling dust. I’m surprised that I feel relieved, not inconvenienced, at the sight of Suzanne, Betty, and Arlene filing in behind Violet. I have been leery of letting anyone in here, but these women knew and loved my grandparents—or, due to their age difference, at least looked up to them. They will handle their possessions with kid gloves. I put my hand to my heart. “Ladies, you don’t have to clean my house,” I say.
“Honey,” Arlene says, “this house will be the biggest attraction on the Old Homes Tour by far. We are not cleaning for you; we’re doing it for us.”
“Exactly,” Betty agrees. She is still wearing the sun visor. I’m beginning to wonder if it’s like the story about the girl who always wore the ribbon around her neck and when her lover finally unties it, her head falls off. Does the visor somehow keep Betty’s scalp intact? I make a mental note to ask Bowen. Just the idea of his laugh makes my stomach erupt in an ocean of butterflies. That’s why, I suspect, my job hunt has been completely nonexistent. Every time I open my laptop to search for openings or polish my résumé, I’m consumed by thoughts of him. What if he had tried to kiss me after our dinner? What if, Anderson-free, he had ended up here? Although, I am sleeping in my mother’s childhood bed, so, ew. Maybe I could have ended up there? It’s just now occurring to me that I haven’t actually seen the inside of his house. So, okay, maybe I’m not living the great love story my mind is playing after all.
All four ladies are staring at me expectantly. “You can feel free to get started if you like; I just want to get these cookies finished. But first, um, how does one cream butter?”
All the ladies laugh, and Arlene begins poking around inside cabinets as Betty looks over my shoulder at the open notebook. “Oh, you’re making Becks’s famous oatmeal cookies.”
“She always kept dough in foil in the freezer,” Violet says, “and if you dropped by unannounced, she’d cut a few slices and make fresh cookies.”
I want to be like that. If only I knew how to cream butter. Arlene emerges from a cabinet holding a yellow hand mixer. She plugs it in and motions for me to step aside. She puts the two sticks of butter in the bottom of the metal mixing bowl and that million-year-old mixer roars to life. I’m amazed. Not one thing in this house has been broken except the now-fixed TV. The sound of the metal beaters clanging against the sides of the bowl isn’t the best, but I go with it. “Honey, start pouring in the sugar a little at a time,” she says over the noise. She moves the mixer to the side. I’m a little afraid the thing is going to chop my hand off, but Arlene is a pro and, a minute later, we have perfectly “creamed” the butter with sugar. I add the eggs and then the rest of the ingredients as Arlene mans the mixer. When she turns it off, I clap my hands. “Arlene! We have dough!”
I hear a thud at the back door followed by an impatient-sounding Anderson calling, “Keaton!”
“Come in, bud!” I call to him, and he appears in the kitchen.
“Did you hear the knock?”
I laugh. “I did!”
“You’re baking?” Anderson asks. “I thought I was helping you organize today. My GoPro isn’t going to buy itself, you know.”
“Anderson, these cookies were going to be for you, but if you’re that impatient…”
“Wait, wait!” he says. “I didn’t know that!”
Arlene laughs. “I’ll put these in the oven. You two get going.”
“Okay,” I say, taking a deep breath. “Anderson, you and I are going to start on the library today. We need to dust every book and shelf and dispose of anything moldy or disintegrating.” We should donate the books in good condition to the library, but I can’t bear the thought of dismantling all I have left of my grandfather quite yet.
“Ladies, maybe you could start on the dining room?” I say, turning to these four who I now actually consider my dear friends. I pause and bite my lip. “Because, well, I have a true confession.”
Violet grins. “We don’t judge.”
Suzanne laughs. “What Violet means is we judge terribly harshly, but only behind your back.”
They all laugh, and I join them. “Well, you might change your mind when I say this.” I look sheepish. “I have never polished silver.” It’s kind of surprising, since my mother raised me to do everything by myself. But she didn’t entertain much, and when she did, it was more of the paper-plate variety. I never gave polishing silver much thought but now, knowing that she was raised by Rebecca Saint James, queen of entertaining, I can’t quite understand it.
Suzanne doubles over in laughter, as Betty guffaws. “Who raised you, child?”
“Can’t cream butter, can’t polish silver,” Suzanne says. “This is Becks Saint James’s granddaughter?”
I ignore her, but it does give me pause. How was my mother raised by this incredible hostess, yet she never hosted anything herself? And, furthermore, did that mean that the way of life my grandmother cherished so, that these women still practiced, was dying out? The thought filled me with sadness. “The dining room obviously has a lot of silver displayed,” I say. “And Becks’s dressing table has this pretty tray and crystal perfume bottles with silver tops.”
“Oh, and that monogrammed cotton ball holder I positively covet,” Arlene says.
I nod. They know this house better than I do. I think for a moment before I say what I’ve been contemplating, but then I decide to go for it. I can always change my mind. Becks’s notebook is so detailed, and every time I read her handwriting, it makes me want to emulate her more and more. Plus, I mean, come on: I’m a marketing pro. And if I’m here to sell a house, this is marketing, plain and simple. “I was thinking that it might be really fun for the tour if we set the dining room table and decorate the house as though it’s ready for one of Becks and Townsend’s dinner parties.”
Violet gasps, and I’m surprised to see her eyes fill with tears.
The other three nod in unison.
“That would be the loveliest tribute,” Arlene says, seeming emotional too. “Your grandmother would be so proud.”
My heart swells. I guess people like to make their grandparents proud, even in absentia?
“I have all the details in Becks’s notebook, but you ladies know how to make this happen better than I do. I think polishing the silver might be the first step.” I pause. “Oh, and, obviously, if you come across anything that seems pertinent to Becks and Towsend’s disappearance while you’re cleaning…”
They nod. I have a feeling my grandparents mean as much to them as to me, so I wipe my worries away that they will somehow destroy the evidence of my grandparents’ lives… or deaths.
“Okay, Anderson,” I say. “You and me, buddy.” He follows me to the dark-paneled library and I inhale, relishing the scent of leather and tobacco and, now that I have done more cleaning, Old English. “How was camp today?” I ask.
“So cool! We went surfing. I can totally shred, you know,” he says seriously.
“I never had any doubt.”
He picks up one of a small pair of antique samurai swords. They are encased in beautiful ebony sheathes, each adorned with a red tassel.
“Do you have a best friend?”
He nods absentmindedly while examining the sword. “Three of them. Two in my class. They all go to camp with me. We call ourselves the brother boys because none of us have a real brother.”
“That’s cool,” I say. “I have a brother.”
“I’m jealous,” he says. “I wish I had a brother.”
“Friends can be so good they’re like family,” I say. “So maybe the brother boys kind of are your real brothers, after all?”
Anderson shrugs. “Yeah, I guess so.” He slides the cover off the sword, and, as the blade gleams in the light, I scold, “Anderson! That might be sharp. Put that down.”
Not listening at all, he touches his finger to the point and sucks in his breath, wincing. “Oh my gosh,” he says, holding the sword up to the light. “There’s blood on this.”
“Oh no! Did you cut yourself?” I move closer to him, and he hands me the blade.
“No, I mean, it’s really old, dried blood.”
I squint at the sword and find it unsettling that he appears to be right. But, to ease his mind, I say, “No way. That’s just rust.”
He raises his eyebrows skeptically as I put the cover back on and change the subject, more for me than for him. I point to a large bookshelf to the right of the fireplace. “This is going to be your shelf to go through, okay?”
He nods. “Okay.”
I pull the first book out. “You’re going to check this.” I turn to the copyright page. “Wait. You can read, right?”
He rolls his eyes. “Kea-ton.”
I laugh. “Okay. So right here it says if something is a first printing or first edition. Those you want to keep even if they’re moldy. Or if there’s a signature.”
“Wow,” Anderson says, looking at the copyright page. “So does this mean that this book was printed in 1932?”
I smile. “Yeah. Pretty cool, huh?”
“Really cool,” he echoes.
“And, sometimes, the book might not be signed by the author, but someone wrote a little message inside for Christmas or something. We want to keep those too.”
“Okay,” he says. “So I’ll take the whole shelf out, sort it into keep and throwaway piles, wipe the keep books down, clean the shelf, and then put them back.”
My eyes widen. “Dang, Anderson. That’s impressive. That’s exactly what I want you to do.”
“I’m ten, Keaton. I’m not an idiot.”
A couple hours into our work, Anderson and I are really getting into the swing of things when I hear a knock at the back door, and I hope I yell “Come in!” loudly enough that whoever it is can hear. And I laugh at myself, at how quickly I’m assimilating. But with Anderson here all the time, the ladies here now, and Alex the pirate always doing whatever he does to keep this ancient house standing—never mind the general fresh air, open-door, friendly vibe of this whole town—I’m becoming less and less concerned about random murderers walking in.
“Hi, honey,” I hear Violet say. “Are you here to vacuum?”
A moment later she and Bowen are in the library. He smiles, and my heart thumps. Stop it, I tell myself. You’re in Beaufort to get in and out, no complications.
“Anderson, Dr. Scott is grilling steaks tonight. That okay?” Violet asks.
“Yes!” he says, jumping up off the stool he is standing on in what looks to be a death-defying leap. But he lands with little fanfare.
“Anderson has dinner with Violet and Dr. Scott every week,” Bowen fills in for me.
“So Dad can drink beer with his friends,” Anderson says matter-of-factly.
I laugh and Bowen says, “Exactly. We have a big group, but we’re a little low on ladies if you want to join us? I think Amy would appreciate it.”
“Amy, like Dockhouse Amy?”
“The very same one,” Violet says. “Although she’s kindergarten teacher Amy too. The Dockhouse is her summer and weekend job.”
“A night out sounds fun.” I look seriously at Anderson. “I think our work here is done for the day. Enjoy your steak.”
I corral the ladies and tell them goodbye, feed Salt his dinner, and Bowen and I walk out into the night air. “It’s amazing how every night is cool no matter how hot the day is,” I say.
Bowen chuckles. “You haven’t been here in August yet.”
“Lucky for me, I won’t be.”
I look up to see his face cloud, which surprises me. I wish I could take it back—I don’t really believe that I’ll be lucky to leave here. It’s moments like these, the small ones, that I realize how much this quirky little town has embraced me, made me feel so included. The realistic part of me knows that there’s no job for me here, no future. But the romantic part of me is wondering how I will possibly ever leave.
Especially now that Beaufort is hitting its summer stride. The docks are full tonight, with huge fishing boats, sailboats, and a powerboat or two. More sailboats are moored in Taylor Creek, between the boardwalk and the island. The setting sun colors the calm water pink and orange, and I have the most overwhelming urge to dive into it, to be a part of all the colors nature can make. It’s pure magic here. The breeze blows and horses graze on the island across from us. People meander up and down the boardwalk, walking in and out of stores, eating ice cream. No one is in a hurry. Everyone is happy.
“Is this real life?” I ask. I take a deep breath, wanting my lungs to fill with this fresh air, wanting to make a memory I can carry back to crowded city streets, honking taxis, and… a life that’s fallen completely apart. Before I can ruminate on the job I haven’t found, the apartment I haven’t looked for, and all my other stressors, I make myself stop. Be in the moment.
“My parents thought I was crazy when I moved here from Charlotte,” Bowen says. “They told me I couldn’t raise a kid here. It was too small. There weren’t enough opportunities.” He pauses, looking out over the water. “But I guess the longer I’ve been here, the more I realize that getting to live a life on the water is an opportunity in and of itself. I mean, no, Anderson doesn’t spend his summers at STEM camp. But he can call the birds by name. He knows every fish. He paddleboards after school.”
I smile. “I would call those opportunities. For sure.”
“Not Kerry,” he says. Although the Dames have mentioned her, this is the first time I’ve heard him say her name. “She wasn’t happy here. But, looking back, I don’t think she would have been happy anywhere back then.”
Before I can ask him anything more, “Keaton!” rings out in the night air. I look over at Black Sheep, a gourmet pizza place on the water, and see Alex the pirate—miraculously not wearing pirate garb—Amy, and two men I don’t know sitting at a big outdoor table.
I wave, and Amy jumps up and hugs me. “Finally! Another woman!”
Bowen introduces me to Jimmy, whose paint-covered hands tip me off to the fact that he’s an artist, and Clayton, a chef at an upscale restaurant called Aqua the ladies have raved about but I have yet to visit. “This is my night off,” he says.
I nod. As we all sit down, Bowen makes eye contact with the waitress and mouths champagne as he points at me. He turns. “That’s what you want, right? You did say ‘champagne and everything.’?”
I smile, thinking of my grandmother and her proclamation that champagne turns an ordinary night into a celebration. And a warmth washes over me that Bowen remembers this detail.
“So what do you do?” Clayton asks.
I feel a stab in my heart. Even in a town of interesting, eclectic people, this is still a question I have to answer. “Right now, I’m getting my grandparents’ house ready to put on the market,” I say.
“The Saint James place,” Amy fills in.
“Oh, cool,” Jimmy says. “Alex is always talking about that house. I did a painting of it once.” He puts his finger to his mouth like he’s thinking.
“He loses paintings all the time,” Amy says, rolling her eyes. “Fills rental storages with them and then loses track.” There’s an affection in her voice that indicates there’s something between them.
“Well, if you find it…” I trail off. If he finds it, what? I probably won’t have a place for it, and my mom won’t want the reminder.
“Keaton was in marketing with All Welcome before coming here,” Bowen says, and I nod.
The guys look confused, but Amy brightens. “Damn. Really? I’ve read all of Allison’s books. What was working with her like?”
“A disaster,” Bowen says under his breath.
But I find myself smiling. “Nothing’s perfect,” I say. “Allison is like everyone else. I mean, she has flaws and insecurities.”
“And deep, diagnosable narcissism,” Bowen says, taking his beer from the waitress. I shake my head at him in irritation, but also, I feel that warmth again. It’s sweet that he’s so protective of me.
“I can look back and think that I kind of helped create her, you know?” I say. “I worked with her for years, even before Allison was… well, Allison. Making a person into a huge brand like that is really rewarding, super fulfilling.” I can feel the grin on my face. I should have bad feelings about all of it, but, no matter how it happened, I know how good my work was there; I’m proud of what I accomplished.
I take my glass from the waitress when she brings it over, and Alex says, “Damn. You feel the same way about marketing that I feel about pirate tours.”
Clayton nods. “You’re all lit up.”
I look down into my champagne, realizing how much I miss the rush of creating something new, of building something great.
Jimmy raises his glass. “To Keaton finding her next great thing.”
“To a woman in the group!” Amy enthuses.
“To opportunities,” Bowen says, locking his eyes on mine. “May we be brave enough to pursue them.”
“Hear hear!” I say.
We all clink glasses, and I take a sip, the bubbles filling my mouth, as Clayton says, “While we’re waxing poetic about our dream jobs, let me tell you about mine. So last night, this lady sent her meal back three times. When I came out from the kitchen after the third time to find out what was wrong, she was like, ‘Young man, I’m going to teach you how to prepare a proper steak.’ And I was like, ‘Ma’am, you ordered duck.’?”
We all laugh, and I look over at Bowen and then the water. It is a perfect summer night. I haven’t felt this good or this free in quite some time. I’ll probably never meet Bowen’s ex, but as I look around at the smiling faces at this table, I have to think that she must have been crazy to have left all this. His eyes glint as they catch mine, and I can’t imagine ever walking away.