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Tidewater Summer: A 1950s Sweet Southern Romance

By Jo Huddleston

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Chapter 1

South Carolina Coastline
Monday, June 2, 1952

Some women always seem to make the correct decisions. They chose the perfect man for a husband and lived happily-ever-after lives. Not so for Rose Marie Henley. She thought Walter Morgan was her knight in shining armor. That was before pockets of rust riddled his armor, and it lay crumpled on the floor of her heart.

She would lick her wounds and try to regroup. An impossible goal? Yes, impossible in the city where she would cross paths with Walter and his family and friends. However, her destination would offer healing and wrap her in a cocoon of solitude.

Not only had her students looked forward to the last day of school, but this year Rose had also longed for that respite of summer vacation. Finally, the bustling activity of Columbia Junior High School had faded from her rearview mirror.

Three whole months in her happy place to recharge! Maybe not such a happy place this time as much as a place of shelter. Great-Aunt Clara had told Rose the beach house would be hers for the summer. She assured her the house was ready to occupy, that she’d arranged for people to mow the yard and pick up the garbage.

Aunt Clara gave Rose the phone number of the handyman she always used if any problems with the house cropped up. She hoped he’d be a crotchety old man and unattractive. Rose didn’t want any man in her life again—too much inevitable pain.

The narrow green roadside sign flashed past her windshield. Silver Island 10 miles. She’d made good time to get here by mid-afternoon. The beach beckoned to her, promising the safety her terrified heart needed.

What a sight she must have made, wearing long-sleeved and high-necked blouses to school those few days at the beginning of spring. Nevertheless, she’d hidden her physical bruises and broken heart from the students. Now it was mending time. She would nurse herself to recovery and reconcile her heart to a spinster’s life.

Her parents knew she’d be at Great-Aunt Clara’s beach house. Of course Amy also knew—Rose had given her best friend the beach telephone number. Only those three and Aunt Clara knew of her whereabouts.

She approached the wooden bridge reaching over the intercoastal waterway that separated the island from the rest of the world. That’s how she wanted it, like a moat protecting her from all potential attackers. Maybe she’d been cowardly to slink away like a mistreated puppy with its tail between its legs. Well, so be it. Fear of the grip of Walter’s powerful hands haunted her day and night.

Her Venetian blue Buick Riviera two-door hardtop’s wide white wall tires clattered in rapid sequence across the uneven ancient bridge, interrupting her bothersome thoughts. The rubboard sounds had always signaled to her on her family’s vacation trips that they had arrived at Great-Aunt Clara’s. Her aunt had lived year-round in her beach house until recent years when her advanced age and health problems determined she needed to move closer to her doctors.

Aunt Clara’s late husband had left her financially secure, so she didn’t need the money from selling her beach house. Instead, she kept it for her family members to enjoy spending time at the beach without the expense of lodging rental.

Before Rose reached the other end of the bridge, she breathed in the salty ocean air rushing through the open car windows, filling her with its therapeutic benefits. Her gloom lifted on the gusts that fanned through the car. Nothing like the beach to improve attitudes and dispel frowns. Rose slowed her car to a stop at the guard shack just beyond the end of the bridge.

An elderly uniformed security guard stepped out of a small gray wooden building carrying a clipboard. “Good afternoon, ma’am, welcome to Silver Island. May I have your name, please?”

“Yes, I’m Rose Henley. I’m staying at my Great-Aunt Clara Henley’s beach house.” She reached for her purse and withdrew an envelope. “Here’re the identification papers she gave me.”

The guard took the papers she held, and while he looked them over, she scanned the area. She saw the familiar, sun-faded sign that read, Warning: No swimming in tidal pool on south end of island. She’d never seen the tidal pool that the sign referenced, although she’d seen similar signs posted in many places on the island.

The security guard returned the papers to her through the open window. “I’ve missed seeing Miss Clara since she moved off the island. Is she doing all right?”

“Yes, sir, she’s doing well. I’ll be at her house all summer.”

“Glad to have you with us. Enjoy your summer.” He tipped his cap to her.

“Thank you.”

The island’s only market still stood just across the bridge as she remembered, and she steered the car into its parking lot. She’d brought along some nonperishables, but she would stop to get a few items like vegetables, milk, and ice cream. She looked into the rearview mirror to tidy her windblown brunette hair, then stepped out of the car and smoothed the wrinkles from her red sundress’s full skirt.

Mr. Ingram, the market’s owner, met her inside the door and offered her an empty grocery buggy and a hearty welcome. “Well, if it’s not Clara Henley’s pretty niece. You’re here earlier than you used to come with your family. Are they joining you later?”

Mr. Ingram remembered everybody who’d ever visited the island. She removed her sunglasses and dropped them into her purse. “No. Just me this time.”
“Not many vacationers on the island yet. I hope your aunt has the house ready for you.”

How fortunate that he would know her—so much for her summer’s secret island stay. She’d go back to the mainland for groceries the remainder of the summer. “Yes, Aunt Clara’s had the telephone and utilities turned on already. I’ll just gather up a few things and be on my way.”

“Sure thing. Let me know if you need any help. I’ve got some fresh shrimp just off the boat this morning if you’re hankering for seafood.”

It didn’t take Rose long to collect the few things she needed. And, of course, she couldn’t pass up the fresh shrimp. Mr. Ingram steamed them with medium seasoning for her, placed them in a plastic bag, and then put them on ice in another bag. She set her purchases on the floor of her car’s back seat and left the market’s parking lot.

Not much traffic to contend with on the island. She drove past the Pure Oil filling station, the only place on the island to buy gasoline for the car. Several one and two-story motels faced the ocean. The public beach area lay on her left, as well as a few souvenir shops with beach towels hanging out front, flapping in the gentle wind.

Next came the Cut ‘N Curl across the street from the beach, a couple of places to eat seafood, and a hardware store. Then she saw the only major place on the island to buy fresh seafood, a small store next to where the fishing boats docked.

Driving south, she noticed several For Rent signs at the driveways to small beach houses and passed a dozen other available rentals on her drive. Aunt Clara’s house sat back from the beach at the south end of the island, the front overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. Rose turned onto the shell-covered driveway and parked her car close to the back door, which faced the narrow beach road at an angle. Beyond the backyard, a stand of pine trees marked the boundary of Aunt Clara’s property.

The wooden house welcomed her. Over the years when the house had needed new paint, Aunt Clara chose a different pastel, beach-worthy color. This summer her house remained the soothing coral she’d painted it the last time before moving off the island.

No one had stayed here since last summer, and the small house needed fresh air. Rose went throughout the house opening all the windows to allow the sea breezes inside. Aunt Clara’s furnishings were solid but lovingly used. Other than exterior painting, her aunt hadn’t updated anything inside the house. The décor was not tropical except for several displayed seashell collections.

The house was a cramped, typical three-bedroom that one might find in any small town—not a structure on stilts found on many beaches. The kitchen appliances were basic and did not include a dishwasher. Rose considered Aunt Clara’s truly a home away from home.

Within thirty minutes, Rose had her groceries and luggage inside the house. She had traveled light, not bringing many clothes with her—she had no intentions to impress anybody over the summer. The only person she had to get along with for the next three months was herself. Even that might prove difficult—she didn’t expect she’d be very good company.

Rose stepped outside the front door. She pushed a white Adirondack chair to the front edge of the wide, covered porch that spanned the front of the house.

Before taking a seat, she leaned both hands on the porch railing and faced the breathtaking view of the majestic ocean. She would never cease to marvel at the continual waves that swelled as they made their way to the shore, finally crashing onto the beach. Years ago, Aunt Clara had hired landscapers to expertly place several palm trees around her front yard that was covered in a thick blanket of grass.

Rose raised her hands above her head and stretched her tense muscles. She sat and tried to pull her thoughts into some form of intelligent design for the future. Walter didn’t know where she was and even if he did, he wouldn’t dare come to the island. Would he? Her parents, Aunt Clara, and Amy had seen the fresh bruises on her neck and arms over three months ago.

Walter knew what he’d done. He’d even written to her and apologized for hurting her. She kept that note from him tucked away for safekeeping, in case she ever needed it for legal purposes.

Just the thoughts of that March day caused her insides to twist like a pretzel. Suddenly cool in the sea breeze, she hugged both arms around her waist. Her stomach growled in protest. In her hurry to get to the beach, she had skipped lunch. She left the porch and made her way into the kitchen to fix an early supper.

Rose turned on the hot water faucet and reached for the soap to wash her hands. She waited for the water to run warm. And waited. No hot water! She went to the bathroom and tried that water faucet. No hot water there either. She’d have to call the handyman her aunt had always used. She checked her watch and hoped it wasn’t too late to get him out to the house today.
She pulled a notepad from her purse and flipped to the page where she’d jotted down the telephone number her aunt had given her. She lifted the receiver from the phone on the kitchen counter to listen for the dial tone. Relieved when the telephone came to life, she dialed the number.

A feeble voice answered. “Hello. This is Sutton’s Hardware.”

“Mr. Sutton?”

“Yes, who’s this?”

“Mr. Sutton, this is Clara Henley’s niece. I’m at her house here on Silver Island for the summer and just arrived. She gave me your telephone number to call if I had any problems.”

“Yes, ma’am. What seems to be the trouble?”

“I don’t have any hot water in the kitchen. I checked the bathroom too. No hot water either place.”

“Oh, that is a problem. Is your husband with you?”

Should she tell him the truth? She never lied. “No, sir, I’m not married. I’m alone.” And likely to remain that way. “Mr. Sutton, could you possibly come out here today and check on this, please?”

“Actually, I don’t do any repair work, anymore.”

“You don’t? What should I do, Mr. Sutton?”

“My nephew’s taking care of the house calls now. Me, I stay in the store all day. My arthritis won’t let me get out and about much anymore. If you want me to, I’ll get in touch with my nephew.”

“Oh, yes, please do. I hope he can come by here today.”

“For Clara Henley’s niece, it’ll be a special rush job. Franklin will be there soon.”

While Rose waited, she phoned her parents to let them know she had arrived safely. Before long, as Rose stood at the kitchen sink to watch for Mr. Sutton’s nephew, a rattletrap of a dark green pickup truck pulled into the driveway and parked behind her car.

The driver’s door swung open, and she read the sign on it that identified the truck from Sutton’s Hardware. One brown, well-worn cowboy boot dropped onto the shells, and another one settled next to it as a man unfolded himself from the driver’s seat. He reached into the bed of the pickup and lifted out a toolbox before starting toward the house.

Oh, mercy! Last year Rose would have been thrilled to see Mr. Sutton’s over-the-top handsome nephew approach her back door. Now, the sight of every male between the ages of twenty and forty caused alarm bells to go off in her head. In red neon, the words high risk blinked before her eyes. She tamped down any potential excitement and answered his knock.

He spoke through the screen door. “I’m Frank, from the hardware store. My uncle sent me over on a rush mission. I don’t see any smoke, so the problem must not be a fire. What can I do for you?”

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