A Delirious Summer by Ray Blackston

Author:Ray Blackston [Ray Blackston]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781441238948
Publisher: Baker Publishing Group

16

Even plastic Elvis looked relieved when we turned toward the sandy paradise of Pawleys Island.

Darcy made a left onto a two-lane blacktop and rumbled slowly past a row of beach homes. Our four-hour jaunt to the coast had become seven, and not even the feathered white ascent of a heron’s neck, rising through a canvas of green marshland, prompted any comment.

Beyond the stilts and to the west, an inlet curved behind the island, rippling waters drawn shallow within the unrelenting suck of a falling tide. I watched the current etch its signature in wet sand, a silent adios exposing what was formerly submerged.

“This is all very scenic, y’all,” Darcy said, braking for a wooden stop sign. “But I still want my hubcaps back.”

This obsession with pilfered car parts was too much for Alexis. Lounged in the passenger seat, bare feet on the dash, she reached over and poked Darcy in the ribs. “You are not going to do this, girlfriend.”

“Do what?”

“You’re not going to mope around all weekend longing for two stupid pieces of chrome that would never appreciate being at the beach . . . even the two you have left won’t appreciate the beach.”

I thought there was going to be a fight, right there on that scenic island road. Darcy, however, controlled herself—a slow wrenching of the steering wheel was her only sign of frustration. “Lex,” she said, driving even slower as we neared the far reaches of the island, “my set of original hubcaps happens to be very important to me.”

Alexis leaned forward and inspected her toes. “They’re just shiny pieces of metal that turn.”

I avoided their disagreement, preferring instead to dwell on weightier issues, thoughts of submerged things that eventually get exposed.

At the northern tip of Pawleys, where the dunes grew larger and the houses more weathered, Darcy turned us between two prodigious homes and into the sandy driveway of one far less impressive. Initially she didn’t pull all the way in, allowing Sherbet to idle between two clumps of pampas grass while we stared up at the tiny two-bedroom with half a paint job. Faded taupe was partially covered in a warm pastel, somewhere between pumpkin and coral. Whoever had been working had painted just under the second story windows before heading for the beach, tiring of the color or running out of paint. Further down the front of the dwelling, centered on the front deck, a conch shell held open the screen door to the humble rental house dubbed “Point o’ View.”

Darcy eased forward and parked us beneath the house. The cool of the afternoon shade joined the tonic in the salt air to ratify furlough, and when she cut the Caddy’s engine, the only sound was of flitting gulls welcoming us to their habitat. “What do you think it means?” she asked.

“That sorry paint job?” I replied.

“No, the name of the house.”

Alexis got out and went around the car and waited for the trunk to release. “Since we’re not on the oceanfront, I think it means that your own point of view determines if the house is worth the price.

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