Chapter 12

Mr. Everett’s house is similar to the Hilliard’s, at least its layout is. I open the door to a living space, decorated in of course, early beach; blonde wooden floors throughout, white trim and seafarer blue walls, much like my bathroom at home. I smile as I round the corner to the wide open kitchen; passing the breakfast bar to continue down the hall one small bedroom on the left, lavender and green commands this room. Further down the hall are the laundry facilities and a large bathroom. A soaking jet tub dominates the room, directly across is a double sink basin, flanked by a large mirror and it’s painted a soothing, creamy yellow.

At the end of the house is the master bedroom; which Mr. Everett has decorated differently from the rest of the house. I stand at the end of a chestnut wooden bed with a leather inlaid headboard covered in chocolate and powder blue bedding. Matching accompaniments of furniture but my eye is drawn to a portrait hanging on the wall of a young woman from the early 1800’s. At the bottom of the portrait a bronze plaque says Augustine Covell, 1810; First Inhabitant of Emerald Isle. I nod and say, “Nice to meet you Augustine.”

After I get all my baggage and supplies in the house I realize how hungry I am. Living with the Gunnar’s I never had to worry about eating, with Henley on staff I could barely miss a meal. I open the refrigerator and pull out the fruit I bought at the store on my way in. I open the plastic container of strawberries and start cutting; I peel four or five tangerines, along with two bananas. I cut up and eat a giant fruit salad before flipping through my phone. I see that not only did Justus create a playlist but he programmed his phone number into my phone; I know because I missed two calls and a text from him. No voicemails, just a text, “Get there OK?”

I text back, “Safe and sound, call later.”

I’m cleaning my bowl in the sink when I hear a new ringtone to match my newly programmed phone number, “Wicked Game” but it’s not the original Chris Issac version, it’s the Finnish band H.I.M.’s cover. I roll my eyes before answering, “Hi Justus.”

“Hi, yourself. Have you found him yet?” He laughs

I mirror his laugh, “I’ve been here two hours Justus.”

“Keep me posted.” Is all he has to say.

“Will do.” I retort. “Good-bye Justus.”

“Good-bye Babet.” That sexy motherfucker pronounces the ‘T’ with precision. I roll my eyes. God, he makes me do that a lot.

I get cleaned up and change into one of my sundresses. I slide on my flip flops, pack my camera and cell phone before I get into my car with the intent to head toward Atlantic beach. Before I leave Watersedge I deposit an envelope of cash into Mr. Everett’s mailbox and hop back into my car. The sun is beginning to go down the further I drive 24, so I stop off at one of the many public accesses to take a few pictures.
I get back in my car and make another stop at the only art supply store on the Island. The door chimes as I enter. I’m immediately greeted by a man my age with thick black hair, hazel eyes and overly tanned skin, “Welcome, holler at me if you need any help.”

“Thank you.” I reply making eye contact with him. My gaze is diverted to a framed copy of Molly’s New Orleans cityscape mounted to the wall behind the counter. The gentleman is trying not to notice my staring above his head, but he can’t for long.

“It’s very expensive.” He says looking above him then back to me.

“I know. The photographer and I discussed pricing when she took it.” I smile at him before moseying around the store. I don’t get far.

“You know this artist?” He asks.

“Yes.” I retort, albeit a bit smug I admit.

“Molly DuBois?”

“Yes. Look.” I pull out my cell and show him the last picture Frankie took of Molly and me.

“Holy shit!” He exclaims taking my phone for a closer look. His eyes widen and his brow shoots up, “That’s her all right. How do you know her?”

“I should ask you the same, I didn’t think her work was familiar this far north.”

“I’m originally from Texas.”

“That explains it. She and I grew up together; she’s one of my oldest, closest friends.” I boast.

“Are you a photographer as well?” He inquires.

I laugh, “No; I paint.”

He holds his hand out, “We have a vast section for artists such as yourself. Please feel free to peruse our wares. Any friend of Molly DuBois is a friend of mine.” He smiles.

I bow my head, “Thank you.” I turn from him and walk but as I do, I text Molly to let her know I met a fan of her work. She immediately texts back a cheesy grin smiley face. I turn back to the store owner, “What is your name?” I ask.

“I’m sorry?” He is quite confused.

“I want to give Molly your name.” I say holding my cell up to show the text screen.

Hi eyes widen again, “Uh…Barron, Barron Hawk.”

The touch screen vibrates with each letter selected, “Barron Hawk of Hawk’s Eye Art Supply in Emerald Isle.” I hit send and smile at him.

He can’t stop smiling, like I secured him a meeting with Molly, “Wow, Molly DuBois knows my name. My band isn’t going to believe me, ya know?”

“Your band?”

“Yeah, I play various clubs on the island with my band.”

“What is the name of your band?”

“No Signal.” He states.

I nod, “So you can’t be an art supply store owner without being an artist yourself. Where is your work?”

“I’m a welder, so my work is too large to feature in house, I have a website. My studio is off island, I live in Swansboro.” He turns back to the counter to hand me his business card.

“Thanks.” I drop it into my bag, “Welder, Store owner and musician. You have a lot on your plate.” I comment.

“That I do, but it keeps me out of trouble.” He smiles.

I mirror him, “Well, my name is Babet, Babet Beauregard. It was nice to meet you Barron.” We shake hands prior to my departure from Hawk’s Eye.

I get into the Atlantic beach area and like a beacon there is my former employer’s store, “A Little Pot?” I pull into the parking lot and bound across to enter the store.

It’s exactly as it was thirteen years ago, dark wood paneling with multi-colored tapestries from ceiling to floor, which is also a dark bamboo color. I don’t get the opportunity to case the rest of the store before I hear a very familiar voice, “Babet! Babet Beauregard, is that you!?”

I zero in on the counter and there stands Chloe Warren, big long ringlets atop a skinny body. I swear the biggest thing on this girl has always been her hair and as beautiful as it is, she hates it.

“Chloe!” I shriek and race over to embrace her as she crests the counter. I can’t help but be incased by her tresses which smell like coconuts and lime, she pulls away but keeps her hands clasped on my arms. She’s wearing baby blue vintage corduroy board shorts and a yellow store t-shirt that says, “Need a Little Pot?”

“How long has it been, I swear you haven’t changed. You are as pretty as ever.” She says sincerely.

“Thank you Chloe, but you…look at you, you look great! How’s married life?”

She sighs and looks up thoughtfully, “Wonderful; JB (short for Jethro Bodine, yep, that one) is doing so well with the golf course. I mean, hell I don’t have to work here, but I love it so much. And Helena; she really needs reliable help, the last girl she had was stealing from her. And you know Helena, sweetest woman in the whole world…” Chloe trails off when a customer enters the store, “Welcome! If you need any help, let me know.” She doesn’t wait for a response, directing her attention right back to me, “So what have you been up to?” Her tone is one of hope for gossip.

“Well, I had my own studio and gallery back home, until it burned to the ground,” Her mouth drops but she doesn’t interrupt, “You know I had a baby right,” She nods, “well Scarlet; she’s thirteen now and I have a two year old son, his name is Henri.” This time she interrupts.

“So, did you marry that John guy?” She cranes her neck to visually check on the customers.

“Uh, no.” I snicker, “I ended up marrying a guy from back home, Griffin Benoit.”

“Oh is he here in town with you?”

“No, he passed away after the fire.” I look down at my ring finger, the indentation of my rings are still present. I take a deep breath and smile nervously. She is pitying me with her stunning hazel eyes but I swat at her and say, “It’s okay and it’s part of why I’m here!” I buck up like a champ and smile brightly.

“That’s great! Why here though?” She makes a face, “Why not go to like, Jamaica?” She winks and smiles

“You remember me well, my dear.” We both laugh heartily, “Speaking of, you and JB?” I make a gesture she knows.

“Yeah, actually, JB’s turf horticulture degree pays off in more ways than one.” She continues to smile.

“Give me your number, I left all my stuff in Wrightsville and I may be here a while.” We exchange phone numbers and discuss possibilities for getting together later this evening. She mentions the annual music festival at Ziggy’s among other up and coming events.

“Where did you get the stuff you left in Wrightsville from?” She asks inquisitively.

“Home; NOLA baby. In fact I’d like to take a bit from here to my dude back home.” I laugh. “I left it in Wrightsville because I eventually have to go back, thought it would be nice to go back to.” I smile.

“What are you doing in Wrightsville?”

“I’m an Au Pair to the sweetest little boy, short of my own son and I’ve been fortunate with the employer, he lets me paint. In fact I painted two port…well, one and a half portraits while I was there. Made a nice chunk of change too, I sent the majority of the money to my Daddy this morning before I left.”

“That’s awesome girl!” She exclaims.

“Thanks; while I’m here I intend to replace some of the work that got torched.” I feel someone behind me; Chloe’s customers are ready to check out.

“All set?” She asks receptively.

The couple places a set of beach towels and a slender bag of incense on the counter. Chloe rings them up and once they leave the store we resume our conversation.

“Do you have pictures of your kids with you?”

“Oh yeah.” I dig into my bag and fish out my cell phone, I show Chloe a picture of Scarlet first; the day Frankie colored her hair hot pink, the second picture I show her is of Henri, wearing my sunglasses.

She takes my phone from me and gazes at the two pictures, “They are beautiful children, Babet; good job girl. Hey, how are your friends, Frankie and Molly?” She says handing my phone back to me

“They’re doing great, both very successful in their endeavors.” I take my phone from her and gaze a little while at my children; I’m about to drop it in my bag when my new ring tone plays again, “Excuse me…Hello?” I know who it is, but I don’t want Chloe to get the wrong idea about Justus, not to mention she may know who he is and that would open a whole new can of worms.

“Hi.” The voice on the other end has been drinking.

I smile and hold one finger up to Chloe; she takes the hint and goes about her duties. I retreat out of the store to talk to Justus, “Justus? Have you been drinking?”

“Yeah, sake.” His speech is slurred and I wonder how many bottles he’s had.

I don’t want to upset him in any way since he is clearly drowning his sorrows as it is, “Nice; how’s Soren?”

“Fine, he finally calmed down about an hour after you left.”

I laugh, “I miss him too.” And I realize where this is going to go, open mouth insert foot. I scrunch my face in anticipation of what’s next.

“And me?” Just as I though and when he says “me” his voice cracks.

“Yes, and you. I enjoyed my mix.”

This seems to perk him up, “Yeah, appropriate songs in my opinion.” He laughs.

I mirror him because I have to keep this lightly sarcastic, “Oh and thank you for programming your phone number in my cell.”

I hear the smile in his voice “Did you like the ringtone I selected?”

“It’s one of my favorite songs of all time, I grew up with the original recording and I love H.I.M. which only magnified my love for them with a killer cover of that song. Thank you Justus.” I say the last part whole heartedly and I know he can hear it.

He takes a deep breath and when he releases it a slight whimper comes out. I get a painful twinge through my body at the sound. I look into the store; Chloe is watching me through the chiming door.

“Listen, Jus…I have to go, I just ran into my old friend; Chloe. Can I call you later?”

He is silent and I hear him release a breath, he’s taking a shot. The glass hits the table, “Yeah, call me later.” He hangs up on me.

I press the end button on my phone and go back into the store. Chloe is nowhere to be seen, I call her name, “Chloe!?”

“Back here!” I hear from the store-room.

I walk back there; she is smoking a cigarette out the back door. She smiles while pulling a drag and holds the pack out to me, “You want one?”

“Sure.” I take the pack and lighter and pull one out. I stick it in my mouth and light it; I haven’t smoked since before I was pregnant with Scarlet and like riding a bike its second nature and tastes so good. Not that I condone smoking and I’ve been cigarette free for years, but it wouldn’t be hard to go back. Chloe and I talk and walk around the store, she shows me all the new local artists Helena is featuring. Chloe can talk…and talk. I mention heading back, before I go she calls JB to bring me a small bag of dank, it looks like bright green popcorn and smells like blueberries. I’m overly appreciative and get the details of the Ziggy’s music festival coming up in Atlantic beach.

I drive back to Watersedge and slowly case the Hilliard’s place; the Coop is gone. I quickly park my car at Everett’s and walk down to the Hilliard’s pier with my camera. The moon is out, hovering over the small island just left of our island; I take multiple pictures of that area and the sound side with the piers all in a row. I shoot the giant tree that hovers over the Hilliard’s house; it’s like a cranky old man, this tree. The knobs and chunky bark are thick and old; barnacles are growing on it along with sea moss. The Hilliard’s have built their deck around this old tree, respecting its age. This island has only been developed for the past sixty years. Various people have owned the land as it had gone untouched over time, sitting idle through death and inheritance the island has passed through the hands of sons and daughters.

I move back to the end of the pier after I focus on the tree and in the wind the sea and salt is all around me blowing through my hair. My tresses are whipping me in the face but I embrace it and close my eyes. In the distance I hear a car approaching; I open my eyes and begin to stride quickly back to the landing of the pier, headlights barely catch me before I’m out of sight. I feel like a secret agent running behind houses like I’m being chased but I’m not and when I arrive back at Everett’s I laugh at myself when I slam the door shut.

I take a hot bath, smoke a very small pin joint, and call Justus. He doesn’t answer so I wait for his voicemail and leave a message. I get into bed and I’ve opted for the lavender and green room; not that I have anything against the master bedroom; it’s just doesn’t have that beach feel like this one does. I bury myself under the gauzy green duvet and try to sleep. No luck, great we’re back to this again. Frustrated I grab my tablet and hope that Mr. Everett or someone close has WI-FI; I’m kicking myself for not asking Mrs. Hilliard.

I’m in luck and get a signal immediately. I check my emails, something I rarely do and it shows; two hundred thirty seven in my inbox. I flip through the social networking notifications and delete the spam. I see I have a few emails from my girls, Frankie and Molly; I open one from Frankie first since she is my boss.

Babe,
I hope you’re having fun, we all miss you, call me when you can.
Frank


Babe,
Your dad is cooking up something big for you when you get home; you didn’t hear it from me. 
Frank


Hi Babe,
I hope you are taking lots of pictures for me!
Luvies, Molly

There is also an email from Lars.

Babet,
I apologize for having to deliver this news through email, but I am not coming back to Wrightsville after my vacation. Studio issues, which could change; it’s an inconvenience I know and again, I apologize. Please pick up and finish Soren’s portrait, Justus will be at the house until October. If you do not hear from me by October first…Thank you for your trustworthy service and I hope to speak to you and your father soon.
Lars

I hope the studio works its issues out, I promised to take Soren to the Battleship again. After I check my email I try calling Justus again, but again, I get his voicemail. I hope he’s okay and I wonder, if he got the message my position had become more intermittent than it already was and got piss drunk over it. I send him a text to call me as soon as he is conscious. I close out the tablet but I figure, if I have the access I might as well check out his show. I pull up my favorite search engine which also serves as my email provider and in the long box I type Justus’s name. Instantly I see his face; pictures related to his show or him alone on the red carpet. I scroll down and see the Wilmington airport and Justus sauntering through it the day I met him. I gasp and shoot up in the bed as further down I see a picture of Justus, Soren and me exiting the airport. I have my hand clasped over Soren’s head and Justus is ducking to avoid the photographers. I have to admit, I look pretty good. I laugh at my silliness.

I watch a couple of snippets of Justus’s show; it’s sexy and wildly entertaining not to mention seeing more of Justus’s body on television than I ever did living with him. He plays a werewolf, who while on a bounty hunting job, finds his long awaited love; that sounds familiar.

At some point in the night I do fall asleep and I start to think that my time with Justus has disrupted my Cian tracker. In the morning I make my coffee and sit on the deck to enjoy the morning air. I have my phone and decide to answer all my emails including Lars’ when the light bulb goes off to call and check on Justus since he has yet to call me.

It rings and rings until a female voice picks up, “Hello?” She sounds exhausted and put out by the call. I start to think I called the wrong number, but I know that isn’t the case. In the background I hear the familiar sound of Justus waking up, “Who is it?” He says faintly, until as clear as I bell I hear, “Hello?”

I quickly hang up. Instantly my phone rings, “Wicked Game”, I silence it and get dressed to go out. Let’s see how he likes being avoided. I eat the remainder of my fruit salad and make a plan to go to Fort Macon. On my out of Watersedge I see the Coop is back and the tint on the windows is nonexistent. I park my car off to the side of the driveway and take my time to look over this magnificent vehicle. I run my finger over the paintjob while I check out the interior. The dark blue leather interior mimics the satin Midnight blue exterior and I think, I was sure it was tinted. It could be the electronic tinting where two pieces of glass hold darkness between them activated by a switch in the car. I occasionally listened when Griffin talked about such things.

I get back in my car and drive down the main drag of Emerald Isle which turns into the main drag for other parts of the island like Salter Path, Indian Beach and Atlantic beach where the highway ends at Fort Macon. I park and walk through the newly erected museum and gift shop area, populated with families and make my way down the stone path that leads to the fort. I pass through the large wooden doors, which resemble castle doors, to enter the pentagonal structure. I shoot the doors, the floor and the ancient brick. Inside the fort are various displays, life as a soldier at Fort Macon; what they ate, how they slept and the hardships of the time they endured. Other displays show the fort as a prison and when the structure was forgotten, left to be taken over by the elements. The Parks system in North Carolina took it back and refurbished it, making it a National Park.

I shoot a pathway of stone arches in black and white along with the old brick oven they used to make bread; I open the cast iron door and shoot the interior. I follow the labyrinth until I get into the far depths of the fort; no man’s land apparently since I’m suddenly alone and really cold. I stand quietly in the damp dreary darkness and shoot my flash off continuously trying to see further in. I check the pictures and see nothing but an empty corridor. I take a deep breath and let it out in a laugh; but when the scents of the area hit me, it’s there; alluring and indiscernible.


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Babet's Epiphany


Augusta Fern


See who I pictured when I wrote Babet's Epiphany on Pinterest.com

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