Folly Beach: Homecoming

Finding Jack

It was the Fall of 1967. Summer was over; the tourists had abandoned the island, the amusement park was closed, and the beach had a slightly forlorn look. Mary took all this in as she crossed the bridge and traveled the length of Center Street. She had never been to Folly Beach, but her mother had spent many summers there in her youth.

Mary had not come to Folly for surf and sand; she was there to deliver a Valentine card. A card that should have been mailed over thirty years before, and had it been mailed everything would have been different. Mary was on Folly Beach to deliver the card herself.

Along the way, Mary was destined to meet many of the people that lived on that little island. Some of them became determined to help Mary with her quest. Everything could be made right, she knew, it was just a matter of finding Jack.

Folly Beach: Homecoming

© 2016 BY JOHN C. LASNE’

ISBN-13: 978-1530001552

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted for commercial purposes, except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without written permission from the author.

This book is a work of fiction. Events or incidents included in this work are products of the author’s imagination and used fictionally.

The characters in this novel are fictional. However, there are several on people I knew while growing up on Folly Beach, relatives of mine, and some new friends I have made when I started this project.

Cover and illustrations: Public domain photos and computer graphics by John C. Lasne’

Contact information:

Phone or text 864-230-3036

Email  john@jlasne.com

Website www.jlasne.com

Published by John C. Lasne’

Author’s Note

They say you can’t go home, but I bet the people that utter that phrase didn’t grow up on Folly Beach.

I was born on Folly, in my Grandmother’s house in 1949. The first sounds I heard were the crashing waves and cries of seagulls. My first smells were of the salty air, fish, and marsh grass. The trips I made on foot and bicycle from my house to the home of my grandmothers, Lottie Blanton, would number many hundred. My Uncle Bud, Preston Blanton Jr., passed on to me the desire to learn as much as I could about everything. Mr. Jesse Porter was a second father to me and the love and time he had for his boys has been a guide for many things in my life. I learned the value of hard work from my father, Louis (Frenchie) Lasne, as I spent many hours on his shrimp boat and in his upholstery shop. My mother taught me to love books and art. I could continue naming names, but I don’t think I could do justice to them all.

I left Folly Beach many years ago, but it has never left me. Maybe most people remember their childhood home the way that I do. I will just say this, there is no place on this magnificent planet that I would have rather grown up. Folly Beach I know has changed a great deal, some for the better and some for the worse. One thing will never change, however, Folly Beach will always be a magical place.

Dedication

This book is dedicated to Maebelle Barnette Bazzel and her late husband Milton ‘Bubba’ Bazzel.

They are the kind of people that make Folly Beach the special place it has always been.

It is my hope that this book and others to come will bring good memories to Maebelle and all the others out there who love Folly Beach.

Chapter 1

Y ou look terrible! He knew they were the wrong words as soon as they left his mouth.

You always have such a way with the ladies, Carl Thompson. Mary Lassiter frowned, reached out, grabbed the front of his shirt, and pulled him into the house.

Following her into the living room, he realized why Mary looked as if she had stayed up all night; she had. The small room was littered with papers; some stacked neatly, some placed haphazardly on the coffee table and in a chair.

I take it I did not need to borrow my brother-in-law’s truck today, Carl spoke while smoothing the front of his shirt. I thought you broke our movie date so you could pack some of your mother’s things for storage. It looks like you did more unpacking than packing.

I’m really sorry, Carl, but you won’t believe what happened. Her voice was so laden with exhaustion that Carl could not be upset at her. He took Mary by the arm and set her down in the one empty chair. He then carefully cleared a spot on the sofa across from her and took a seat.

Ok, Mary, give me the whole story. Just what happened here last night?

Mary smiled wearily and sat back in the chair. I am sorry, you know, about the truck and the date and all, but... She picked up a neatly stacked pile of papers and handed them to him.

Do you know what these are?

Carl took the papers and glanced at them.

Letters? He asked.

These are love letters. Love letters my mother got from a man I have never even heard of.

You mean your mother was having an... Carl started.

No! My mother was not having an affair... I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to yell. She received these letters before she ever met me, I mean my dad... Mary covered her mouth as a yawn she could not suppress came to the surface.

Carl put up a hand to quiet her, placed the papers on the table, and stood.

Mary, wait a moment. Let me fix us a cup of coffee. We could both use one, and then you can tell me all about these mysterious letters.

Without waiting for an answer, Carl headed toward the kitchen. When he reached the door, he looked back and saw Mary relax and close her eyes.

Thanks, Carl, I could use a cup of coffee.

When is the last time you washed this coffee pot? If the Health Department got wind of this kitchen they would close it down. Not getting an answer Carl swished the old coffee out of the pot and busied himself in making a new pot.

I used the high caffeine stuff this time... As Carl entered the room balancing the two cups, he saw that Mary was fast asleep. Quietly he set her cup on the only clear corner of the coffee table and took a seat on the spot he had cleared before. As he slowly sipped the hot brew, he studied the young lady asleep in the chair.

Mary Lassiter was twenty-six, five-foot-seven, with light brown hair and hazel eyes. She wasn’t model thin, but he doubted she weighed more than a hundred and thirty pounds. Mary didn’t think she was pretty, but Carl knew better.

Often, at work, he would find himself watching her from across the room. He was fascinated by the way her smile could light up the whole room; the way her eyes would sparkle when she laughed.

Carl smiled and placed his empty cup on the floor next to the sofa and continued to study her. Mary was a reporter at the DC Times, where they both worked. Her last series of articles had netted her much praise from the editor. She was definitely a confident, self-sufficient woman, but at the moment curled up in the big overstuffed chair she looked very innocent, almost childlike.

Actually, she was perfect; perfect for him anyway, if he could just get her to see it that way. He was sure he loved her and had even told her so the week before while they ate ice cream after their weekly movie date. They both loved the old classics and a little theater that showed them was just down the road from Mary’s house.

Mary had accidentally knocked her bowl off the table when he told her how he felt. She seemed very concerned with helping the waiter clean the mess up and he had decided Mary did not want to talk about it. He understood and did not push the matter. She was obviously not interested in becoming a wife at the moment.

It had not been an easy year for her with her mother getting sick; then Mary had to move in with her. Not that she had minded, because Mary had been very close to her mother. Margaret Lassiter’s sudden death had taken everyone by surprise.

The fact that Mary’s grandmother was in a nursing home more than fifty miles away didn’t help either. Mary made the trip to visit at least once a week and Carl tried to go as often as he could for support.

Carl knew Mary liked him, but if she would ever want to be more than friends; he wasn’t sure. Carl was six years older than Mary, wore his dark hair a little longer than the current fashion and stood six-foot-two. He had been offered more prestigious jobs at other newspapers but Carl had chosen to stay where he was; he knew Mary was part of the reason he stayed put. He could not imagine going to work and her not being there.

Face it, Carl, old pal. You are smitten with yon damsel. He said softly to himself.

Carl gave a little smile, shrugged his shoulders, and picked up the papers Mary had given him before falling asleep. He settled back to look through them. Mary shifted position and a stray beam of light through the curtains framed her face, catching Carl’s attention.

Forcing himself back to reality, Carl returned to the letters in front of him. He flicked on the reading lamp next to the sofa and adjusted the light so it would not bother Mary and began reading. He glanced up only when Mary shifted position, but she remained asleep so he returned to reading.

How long have I been asleep?

Carl had been so engrossed in the third stack of letters that he was startled at the sound of Mary’s voice. He put his watch in the light and squinted at the dial.

Let’s see, it is 11:30 now, so I would say just under two hours.

Mary slowly uncurled from the chair and stood, weaving a little. She lifted her arms high and stretched. The jogging suit rose to show about half her belly, a very nice belly Carl reasoned.

Why did you let me sleep so long?

You were pretty tired, and besides, it gave me a chance to read some of these, Carl said, holding up the letter he had been reading.

They are quite interesting. Seems your mother and this Jack Young fellow had quite a relationship.

A summer romance, Mary suggested.

Well, yes, but for quite a few summers it seems. Tell me, how did you come across these anyway? Were they in that box? Where was it? Carl pointed to a wooden box about two feet long and eight inches wide. There were dividers every four inches that formed compartments. The box still held some letters that Mary had not read.

It was in the attic under some boxes. I had this and figured it must fit something so I started looking until I found this box. Mary held up a small key that indeed fit the size and shape of the lock on the box.

Where did you get the key?

It was really weird, Mary came over and sat on the floor at her friend’s feet. In the glare of the lamp, with her hair uncombed and hugging her knees with both arms Carl thought she looked like a little girl.

Are you listening? Mary asked, noticing that Carl seemed to be lost in thought.

Me, yes, of course, I was just noticing how pretty you looked today.

Actually, ‘you look terrible’, were the first words out of your mouth. She tried to smooth her hair back into place as she spoke.

"A couple of months ago Mother called me to her room. She had her jewelry box sitting on the bed. Mother said everything in it was mine, but then she took the box and slid it under the bed instead of giving it to me. She said, ‘But not quite yet, dear, not yet.’ Then she said goodnight and never mentioned it again. Actually, I had forgotten about it until last night. When I remembered how she had made a point of telling me that everything in the box was mine, I had to go through it. Mostly there was just some inexpensive jewelry, except for Grams’ ring.  In the bottom, wrapped in tissue, was this key. You would not believe how many different kinds of locks there are in this house. I had just about given up when I found the box under a blanket in a corner of the attic."

Why would your mother hide her old love letters? She was just a kid spending summers at the beach. I mean seeing each other a couple months out of the year couldn’t make for too hot of a romance. Carl thumbed through the letters in front of him and pulled out the first one Margaret had received. He held it to the light and began to read.

I have met a lot of girls, but you are the neatest one I ever met. I had the best summer ever with you. Please tell me you will be coming back next year.

Hardly what you would call a sizzling affair, Carl concluded.

Carl, he was fifteen and mother was only thirteen when he started writing. I bet you wrote real great love letters when you were a kid.

Carl winced at the cut, How did you know their ages?

I am a reporter, remember. Mother had all the letters organized by when she received them. I found the letter where Jack mentioned mother’s sixteenth birthday and worked back from there. What are you smiling about?

Like mother, like daughter.

What do you mean? Mary asked.

Only a relative of yours would organize their old love letters. It obviously runs in the family since you are the only one I know that keeps their paperclips arranged by size.

Are you making fun of me?

Me? Not at all. Carl’s voice took on a serious tone. One of the reasons you are such a good reporter is the way you are able to organize things in your mind while the rest of us depend on little scraps of paper, which I lose most of the time. 

You wormed your way out of that quite well.

Hey, when you chew on your foot as much as I do you get good at getting it out. So... Carl calculated in his head for a moment, it is 1967 and the first letter is postmarked in 1935, so they met over thirty years ago. You think this young budding romance grew into something more?

Their relationship lasted more than six years, and it was much more than casual, Mary answered as she reached into the pile and pulled out another of the letters. Here, listen to this one. It would be... let me see, yes, this is the letter where he mentions mother’s birthday.

Well, Margaret, you aren’t a little kid anymore. You are finally sixteen, sweet sixteen. I wish so much I could be there for the party. Just being there in the room with you would be enough for me. You were really pretty when we met three years ago, but now, you are beautiful. I had copies made of the picture we took right before you left this summer so I could put them everywhere and then I can see you all the time. I had one left so here is one for you.

Love,

Jack

Quite a smooth talker for one so young. Ok, I guess you could say things had gotten a little heavier, Carl said as he leaned over to take the photograph from Mary. He held the picture up closer to the light and then looked at Mary.

Your mother looks just like you at this age. Very pretty.

Mary took the picture back and placed it next to a pile of other photos. Still trying to make up for that first comment about the way I look?

How am I doing?

You’re a fast learner, but you still have some ways to go, Mary smiled and then turned back to the letters stacked around the chair as Carl went back to the kitchen to refill their cups.

A moment later, Carl handed Mary her coffee and returned to his niche on the sofa.

Jack wrote a letter every week telling my mother about everything that was happening on the island, Mary explained as she took a careful sip of the hot brew and leaned back in the chair.

Whew, that’s a lot of letters. I guess that is why the box is so big. Did you say island? Carl asked.

Yes, Folly Beach is where my mother used to spend her summers. It is a small island about ten miles from Charleston, South Carolina.

That’s not exactly close to here. Why was your family going all the way down there to go to the beach?

I guess a lot of families do that. They rent a house for the whole summer in some out of the way place. I never even knew Folly Beach existed before now. I don’t understand why mother never mentioned the beach or Jack. It is so strange. Mary picked up some of the letters and shuffled through them. She chose one and unfolding it, began to read.

Imagine how lucky I am. My house being right next door to yours, and all. Too bad y'all can’t stay here year around. The house seems so lonely boarded up all winter.

How come you never went down to, what was it, Folly Beach when you were young? Carl questioned.

I don’t know. Maybe because my father died so young and we couldn’t afford it. Maybe the answer is in one of these letters, Mary said, sweeping her hand across the box of remaining letters.

Jack wrote a lot of letters to my mother and I have to assume she wrote back. They were real young and I guess something happened to break it off. But Carl, they were in love; I don’t mean just teenage infatuation, I mean real love. Here, listen to this letter.

My Dearest Margaret,

I know that others cannot understand how we could really be in love when most of the year we don’t even get to see each other. But, it is just like you said in your last letter. The heart doesn’t measure love the way miles are measured. Even if I never saw you again, my love for you would never die.

He wrote that when my mother was a senior in high school. I don’t understand why mother kept it secret for so many years. I am sure she loved dad, but they were only married for three years before he was killed in an automobile accident. I didn’t even really remember my father so why wouldn’t she mention Jack and why didn’t she ever get married again?

Both good questions. What about those? Carl asked, pointing at the box.

The letters I have read so far go up through high school, so I imagine those go on from there. I was just getting ready to start on them when you arrived.

Mary unfolded her legs and stiffly got to her feet. She bent and stretched to try and unkink her body. It has been a long night. I have read so much my eyes hurt.

I’ll read a couple to you if you would like, Carl volunteered. He plucked the rest of the letters from the old box and returned to the sofa. Mary took her place back in the chair. Carl took the first letter from the pile and removed it from the envelope, unfolded it, and holding it under the light began to read.

Dear Margaret,

I hope you got registered for college ok. I had sure hoped you would be coming to the College of Charleston, but I can understand your parents want you to stay closer to home for a while. If my father didn’t need me to work the shrimp boat, I would be up there in a minute. He knows I want to come and said he would get a replacement as soon as possible. Unfortunately, there are few men that work as cheap as I do (free for the most part).

Carl read the rest of the letter, which contained information about what had been happening on the island. Obviously, Mary’s mother had gotten to know several of the locals during her visits. When he had finished, he took another from the pile.

My Dearest Margaret,

I miss you so much. I wish it was summer. My life will begin again as soon as you cross that bridge. I will admit that I have been a little jealous of all the guys there at the college. They get to see you every day. Dad is still feeling bad, but he says that in a couple of weeks he is going to try and find someone to run the boat for him. That means I won’t have to Captain the boat and we can have plenty of time together. In fact, I am thinking of entering college myself. I sent for the information last week. I plan to start right after the summer if I can. Keep your eyes open for a cheap place for me to live, because I am coming up there to be with you!

So, the plot thickens, Carl said, sipping his coffee. Your mother’s boyfriend can’t bear to be away from her anymore. Leaving the ocean and moving up here would be quite a change. Would you like me to read another one? Wait, I have a better idea. Why don’t you get a shower and eat something and then we can finish these?

Mary rubbed her eyes and smiled.

"That sounds like a good idea. I am rather hungry;