1. Charlotte: The Low PointCharlotte The Low Point This was my low point. Even I knew that. Standing in the lobby of Suncoast Bank, saying, in a louder-than-appropriate voice, "But why should I be punished for what Bill did? It wasn't like I had anything to do with it!" was pretty much the closest to a total meltdown I had come. Three days ago, I'd arrived home from dropping my daughter at tennis lessons to find police cars and FBI swarming the five-bedroom, four-and-a-half-bath cedar-shake beach house that we had just spent two years building. Two years of paint samples and fabric choices with one of the country's finest designers, flown in from Palm Beach, to give my family our dream home. And in an instant, it had become a nightmare. The fact that I was in a bank lobby nearly yelling this at Enid Plyler, who was in her late sixties with short gray hair and had, it seemed, been born behind the loan officer desk at Suncoast Bank, made it even worse. I loved Enid, stopped by her office to chat each week when I came in to make deposits and get cash. We were a bit of a study in contrasts. Enid was short and wore an ill-fitting lady's suit, paired with tan orthotic shoes that I would need too if I were pacing back and forth on this beautiful but very hard white marble floor every day. I am nearly five ten, so I was towering over her in my three-inch wedges paired with one of my old dresses I had found stashed at my parents', a little rose-pink number with a deep V-neck that I knew complemented my summer tan. I should not have been taking my panic out on her. Fortunately, while I was losing it, Enid remained very calm. "Charlotte, I hear you, sweetheart. And I want to help you. I do. But I think you understand that convincing the board of directors at a financial institution to hire a woman who is married to a man awaiting trial for stealing massive sums of money from his clients might be a hard sell." Ten points for frankness. "So, what am I supposed to do, Enid?" I asked in a frantic, high-pitched voice that made Paul Lucas and Gabe Montoya, who were both waiting in the teller line, turn and take notice. Well, that was just great. Of all the women who had been unfriendly and unwelcoming to me when we moved here from New York three years ago, their wives might have had spot number one and number two on the list. I was sure they would just love this. "I've called everyone ," I said, suddenly feeling light-headed, the room starting to go soft and blurry around the edges. "All those big New York firms who promised they would have a job for Charlotte Nicholson who stepped away from finance too soon? No one will touch me now." Enid grimaced, and I shuddered at the thought that I might be back to my maiden name. Would I be a Nicholson again? But, no, Iris was a Sitterly. I would remain one too. I continued, realizing that I was sounding more like a lunatic by the second: "My degree is in finance. My master's is in finance. My job history is in finance. I realize an investment firm might not be jumping to have me, but I assumed my local bank might throw me a bone. All my assets are frozen." My voice going an octave higher, I added, "I have a child to raise, Enid." Enid took my elbow and said, "Why don't we step into my office?" It was a kind gesture. I wasn't being exactly polite, after all. I took a deep breath, tried to calm myself, realizing that all the tellers, several with cash in their hands, were staring at me. The lobby had gone silent. "Actually," an even voice from behind me said, "Charlotte, why don't you come with me?" I turned to see a woman I was sure I knew, but couldn't quite place. She was petite and thin, a little older than I was, and had this sort of ethereal glow about her. She had on no makeup, her hair was long and looked as if it had perfectly, naturally fallen into waves, and she was wearing a loose, flowing dress that screamed I live at the beach . She had a preternaturally calm presence that I obviously needed right now. The room was starting to come back into focus, and the full weight of my humiliation was sinking in. What was I doing ? "I'm sorry, Enid," I whispered. "This isn't about you." Enid smiled encouragingly. "I know, sweetheart. I will see what I can do to help you," she promised. "It's going to be okay. This town loves you." I turned back to the woman behind me, realizing that what Enid said wasn't really true. I wasn't from here, wasn't "local," and, while everyone knew who I was--well, everyone knew everyone, to be fair--I wasn't exactly beloved . "From church," the woman behind me said. "You know me from church." A little laugh-sound escaped from my nostrils. "I know," I said, as if it had been obvious to me from the beginning. "You're in the choir." I snapped my fingers, actually recognizing her. "Your solos always make me cry!" That was true. She had the most angelic voice. I smiled at her and ran my fingers through my hair, trying to seem relaxed and nonchalant to mitigate some of the damage I had done with my outburst. Just what I needed: everyone in town would be talking about this now. Well, that was great. Maybe that would be more interesting than Bill's arrest, the tidbit that, much to my chagrin, they were still discussing three days later. Not that that was a long time, of course. In fact, it was probably just enough time for the news to have reached fever pitch. In a larger place, full of scandal, people moved on to the next thing. Here, there was no next thing to move on to . Well, no, maybe that's not true. The usual appetizers of small-town bad behavior--who left his wife for the babysitter, who got way too drunk at Coterie Club and skinny-dipped in the pool, whose facelift was entirely too drastic--were always available to gobble up. But Bill's arrest was an entrée that everyone was eating in teeny, tiny bites. "My name is Alice Bailey." "I'm Charlotte Sitterly," I replied. Under my breath, I added, "But I think everyone in the country--or at least the state--knows that." "Things are never as bad as they seem," she said. Then she scrunched her nose. "I don't know why I said that. Sometimes things are even worse than they seem." That made me laugh--and remember. There was something shadowy about this Alice person. I tried to ignore rumors because this town had so many of them, but she definitely had a story. And I got the feeling that Alice knew all about things being worse than they seemed. But I didn't have time to sit around and share sob stories. I had to figure out my next move. "Okay, well... I think I'll call the Shores Shuttle and head back to the hotel now. Maybe yell at an unsuspecting waiter." I was trying to lighten the mood. I knew I was lucky that the town offered a public transportation system that I could call for pickup, but I was dreading waiting in the parking lot for it to come. I was dreading going back to the modest hotel that I could afford for two more weeks. Then what? Just a few weeks ago, I had been ignorant about the lack of affordable housing here. I had also taken the basic, simple amazingness of car ownership completely for granted. "I'll drive you," Alice said. I gestured toward the teller. "Don't you have banking to do?" Alice shrugged. "It's okay. I can come back later." I was about to protest, but then I thought better of it. I was used to having enough money and agency that I didn't need anyone else. I was going to have to depend on other people if I was going to make it through. So I said, "I would appreciate that so much, Alice. That's very kind of you." We walked outside, Alice hit the unlock button on her key fob, and I got into the passenger side while she slid into the driver's seat. She pushed the start button. "Charlotte," she said. She looked at me, and I found myself locked in her cool, appraising gray stare. I saw something there. It wasn't pity, wasn't sadness. It was something more like determination. "I can help you." I had always been leery of people who wanted to help other people. I knew that said something unflattering about me. Yet now I was surprised to find that those words out of Alice's mouth made every tense and tightened muscle in my body and jaw relax just a squidge. "Why would you do that?" I asked. "Let me rephrase that," Alice said. "Charlotte, I think maybe we can help each other." Now, that was more like it. Pity was hard; transactional relationships I could manage. "I like the sound of that, Alice," I said, feeling a smile grow across my face. "What did you have in mind?" Excerpted from Beach House Rules by Kristy Woodson Harvey All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
