Something to Read at the Beach

 

Asperger's, detective story, child molestation, credit card fraud, hoarding, underage drinking, underage smoking, goat farming, attempted murder and theft--how could all these subjects appear in one novel? 

Beach Story 

The North Carolina Foothills:

Twenty-seven-year-old Dove Abernathy, a beautiful woman with Asperger’s, has established herself as an artist. She depends on Bess, her mother, for emotional support. After Bess receives a severe head injury while in the prayer garden, their lives are forever changed.

A North Carolina Barrier Island:

Dove’s father, Harold, is generous with his wealth but stingy with affection for Bess and Dove. He sends them to live in two condominiums by the beach. Someone wants to destroy both women. Harold hires Vic Brunson, a private investigator, to find the evil force seeking to kill the mother and daughter. Harold demands that Vic serve as a bodyguard for Dove. Once the criminal is discovered, Vic must determine her motive and prevent her escape. All the while, can he keep Dove safe?

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Shell Gathering

 In and around Taylorsville, Mississippi, during my childhood, almost every classy living room had a big conch shell on the mantle above the fireplace. I wanted one. Shells are beautiful.

When I was twelve years old, I went to 4-H Club Short Course camp at Ocean Springs. To this day, I remember everything that happened on that trip. Since no one else from my hometown went with the group, I hung around by myself and participated in as many activities as possible.

The entire group of campers rode a boat to Ship Island. No camper could have been less prepared. I vomited all the way there. I didn’t know about sea sickness. Back then, we’d never heard of SPF. My mostly Irish skin turned lobster red before forming clear blisters.

When we were turned loose onto the beach, I remember being alone. The girls and boys I’d met went their own ways, but I wanted to collect shells. The 4-H Club agents gave me a sack, but they didn’t tell me I needed to collect empty shells. (Or if they did, I didn’t heed their warning.)

After we returned to the camp at Ocean Springs, we spent another night. The next day I insisted on taking my shells home. The agents tied my collections securely and placed them in the trunk of the car.

Back home, I proudly presented my collection to my mother, who said, “Take those stinky things to the faucet outside and get to washing.”

I washed my shells for days, dried them in the sun, and eventually retrieved them. Little did I realize I was killing the poor creatures just because I wanted their houses.

This trip remains one of the best in my youth, despite the sea sickness, sunburn, and stinky shells. Every night, the 4-H Club members assembled on the top of a building to dance the Virginia reel, we took swimming lessons, we learned about collecting rotten eggs in our henhouses, and saw a presentation about etymology. I didn’t know the study of bugs had such a neat name.

Christie placed some of the shells I 
collected in North Carolina in this
shadow box.

All my life, I’ve wanted to acquire a big, beautiful conch shell for the living room. A few years ago, John and I went to visit relatives at Emerald Isle off the coast of North Carolina. I spent every spare minute walking along the beach and collecting lovely shells—only the dried, empty ones. None of them were as big as I’d hoped for, though.

At last, I have a large, lovely conch shell. I bought it in Ruston, Louisiana, at a garage sale for thirty-five cents.

What do you like to do on the beach?