It's Not a Sequel, But...

“Please write a sequel.”

This is a frequent and flattering comment I get on my website guestbook pages, in my email inbox and at signing events. Interestingly, the majority of these requests are for The Beach House and its sequel, Swimming Lessons. People are curious to learn more about the lives of Lovie, Cara and Brett, Toy, Little Lovie and Ethan at the quaint, charming little beach house on the Isle of Palms.

It’s been ten years since I introduced you to Olivia “Lovie” Rutledge in my first NY Times hit, The Beach House. Lovie Rutledge is the island’s turtle lady, a widow trying to make amends for mistakes made long ago before the sun sets on her final summer.

Lovie stood alone gazing toward the west. The day’s light extinguished and the night grew dark and silent save for the clicking of the swaying sea oats and the gentle lapping of waves along the shore. As ghosts of the past rose up to swirl in the hallucinatory colors of twilight, she sighed deeply, clasping her hands tight in front of her as one in prayers. She was nearly seventy years old. There was no time left for regret or misgivings, no time for dreams of what might have been. There were plants to be made. The beach house—and all the secrets it held—had to be place in secure hands. Too much had been sacrificed for too many years to let the secrets slip out now.  (Prologue, THE BEACH HOUSE)

There’s an old saying” You must know where you came from to know where you are going. This is what motivated me to write the prequel, BEACH HOUSE MEMORIES. After reading The Beach House, my married daughter remarked that she couldn’t understand how Lovie could have stayed in a marriage with an abusive husband. I realized that she—like so many young women today—had no comprehension of the rigid social structure for women as recently as the 1970s. I explored the parallel of change occurring in women’s lives in Charleston at the onset of feminism and the destruction of the last vestige of wildness, a maritime forest, on Isle of Palms.

How far would you go, how much would you risk for love? Is the price of love worth your reputation, your marriage, your family? Now imagine answering those questions in the south in 1974. The repercussions of any woman seeking a divorce in the seventies, but especially one from ‘South of Broad’, were staggering. Divorce was scandalous. Adultery was unforgivable. “You made your bed, now lie in it,” was an often repeated phrase. The fight for women’s equal rights raged in the north, but no bras were burned in Charleston! The role and expectations of a southern lady held firm—to be subservient to her husband and to know her role as a homemaker and mother. She had no where to go if she was in trouble. As a supporter of women’s shelters, I knew I had to tell this story.

So all summer, I’ve been writing Lovie’s story. The year is 1974. Cara is nine years old and Palmer is teenager. It is a life-altering summer of secrets. Peeling back the layers of these characters’ past reveals complicated and thought provoking lives and decisions. I hope the prequel will answer questions that lingered in the pages of The Beach House-- and I have new surprises, too.

I’m curious—what questions do you have? Who is your favorite character?

The prequel, BEACH HOUSE MEMORIES, will be released in hardcover in May 2012. I hope you’ll enjoy this look back into a tumultuous, important time in Charleston’s history as well as that of the Isle of Palms, seen through the eyes of one of my most beloved characters.

A Turtle Season of Highs and Lows

The first breath of fall has come to the Isle of Palms.  An early cold front brought a chill to the dawn air.  I wake early and wrap favorite patchwork wool and cashmere shawl around my shoulders, slip my bare feet into sandals and step out into the morning.  The scent of pluff mud is strong this morning and I smile.  It is the scent of home.

There is an inventory of a turtle nest this morning.  The first one since Hurricane Irene’s waves battered our coast.  We dodged a bullet with that storm.  Originally it was predicted to hit our shores as a category 2 or 3 hurricane.  Instead, she veered north.  Who would have thought my brother and sister-in-law in Vermont would have been clobbered?  I always say, never turn your back on a hurricane.

Our island is saddened, however, because Irene destroyed dunes and we lost 9 nests and three that were due to be inventoried.  Which makes today’s inventory special.  I make my way along the narrow beach path bordered by high walls of sand dunes.  The tropical storm’s heavy rains and the cool air have gifted the lowcountry with a second spring.  The undulating dunes are blanketed with countless cheery heads of yellow primrose, gaillardia, and the tiny, sensual wild purple orchids I adore.  My heels dig into the cool sand as I climb the final, tall sand dune.  I can hear the roar of the ocean before I can see it. 

The vista of the mighty ocean spread out to infinity to meet the heavens never fails to take my breath away.  The ocean is moody this morning, gun metal gray with long, choppy waves that curl to shore foamy white.   The recent storm has ravaged the shoreline, cutting through the dunes and leaving a long line of wrack, a foot high in places.  Shells of all kind and size littered the wrack with sponges and sea whip and the ubiquitous plastic bottles.

I’m amused, as I always am, by a flock of sandpipers playing tag with the wave.  They are poking their little black awls in the sand with an urgent hunger. One little black and white peep dares to venture close.   We stare at each other a moment, its shiny black eyes unblinking.  Curious, I take a small step closer and it skitters away.  Above, a laughing gull seems to mock my pensive mood.  

The turtle team taking inventory

I am met by my fellow Turtle Team members, Mary, Tee, Bev, Linda and the Barbaras. We divvy up duties and begin the first of two inventories that morning.  Our only observer this morning is Elizabeth and her fiancé.  They are getting married on the weekend and they glow like the dawn breaking overhead.  Elizabeth is a volunteer and found this nest.  It was a healthy nest with a total of 106 eggs hatched for a 91% hatch.

Releasing the hatchling

We move on to 9^th Avenue for a second inventory.  I found one little hatchling trapped in the cold sand and put it into the now famous red bucket.  This is another successful nest with114 eggs and had a 92% hatch success.  Elizabeth releases this lone swimmer to the sea.  He leaves a watery trail on the sand before he reaches the sea.  Instinct kicks in and the hatchling dives and swims off, disappearing into the waves. 

I stare out at the sea and wonder if I’ve ever seen a more beautiful morning on the beach.  A pale blue sky is covered with a thin layer of pearly gray, wispy clouds, like lace over a gown.  The ocean absorbs the gray color, mysterious, even threatening. Yet in the distance hints of pink fringe the horizon, promising dawn. The tide is going out leaving a wide watery sheen on the sand that is aglow in rosy hues.

As this season comes to a close, I think how it’s been filled with an unusual number of highs and lows.   Early in the season the turtles came in greater numbers than we’ve had in years. We were so excited at racking up the number of nests, betting we’d get to forty and feeling exultant when we hit forty-four.  A few of the nests were hard to find when the wind destroyed field signs.  There were three CSI triumphs for the team.  The Pink Panty nest remains one for the books (read my August blog posting if you missed that story).  And, of course, there was Irene’s destruction of the nests we’d carefully moved to a location we’d always thought was safe. 

As the sun rises higher in the sky and we head back to our homes, we talk about the season and we find comfort in knowing that despite the loss of nests to the hurricane, because we had so many nests this season in the end we helped more hatchlings to the sea this year than last.   Nature is the great teacher if we stand back and take the long view.   We might face storms and incessant rain, but there is hope in each dawn.  I take a final look back at the ocean and smile.  That one small hatchling is racing to the Gulf Stream.

Hatchling rescued from the sand