Page 145 of Save the Date
Cara shrugged. “Loblolly, like the house. It’s supposed to be near Plum Orchard, I think.”
“Sorry, never heard of it. Just be sure you have the bike back here thirty minutes before the four-forty-five ferry this afternoon. Okay?” The woman looked over Cara’s shoulder. “Next?”
She’d been relieved to find that her bike was a fat-tired beach cruiser. Cara wheeled it away from the concession area, and looked around. Campers were loading gear into large beach carts and headed down the crushed-shell pathway, bikers were wheeling away, and the hikers were setting off down the road on foot. But which way should she be going?
Spying a young woman in a khaki Park Service uniform addressing the group of Girl Scouts, Cara hurried over to her. She waited while the ranger explained the rules—no touching or approaching the wild horses, stay on the trails, leave no trash anywhere on the island.
When there was a pause in the drill, Cara touched the ranger’s arm. “Excuse me, could you help me with some directions?”
“I’ll try.”
Cara showed her the map. “I’m trying to find a private home called Loblolly. I think it’s near Plum Orchard, but I’m not really certain.”
The woman shook her head. “This is a national park. There aren’t any private homes here anymore.”
“Right. Well, I mean, I know it’s a park, but I read on the internet that there were still a handful of private homes on the island, right? Aren’t there still some Carnegies and Candlers who still own homes here? And also, Loblolly is one of them. Owned by the Updegraffs?”
“Sorry. Yes, there are still a very few private homes whose owners have retained rights, but I don’t know about one called Loblolly, and I don’t know any Updegraffs. I can tell you that those homeowners are pretty vigilant about their homes being private property. And most of them are reached through privately maintained roads, which are not open to the public.”
“Oh.” Cara adjusted her backpack straps, which were already cutting into her shoulders. “Well, now I’m more confused than ever. I know this place is called Loblolly, and that my friend is staying there.”
“Let me just go check with one of the other rangers,” the young woman said. Five minutes later she was back.
“You were right,” she said, handing Cara’s map back to her. “There actuallywasa house called Loblolly. But it wasn’t at Plum Orchard. It was actually on the south end near the Dungeness ruins.”
“Was?” Cara felt her stomach lurch.
“Loblolly was torn down last year, because the former owner’s life lease expired, and the Park Service didn’t consider it historically significant,” the ranger said. “That explains why I’d never heard of it. I’ve only been on Cumberland for about nine months.”
Cara felt her jaw drop open. “Torn down?” she said stupidly. “But my friend’s family owned it. She told me she was staying there.”
“I don’t know what to tell you,” the ranger said. “Maybe she was mistaken?” She took the map and pointed at a red circle. “This is Dungeness, if you want to take a look at where your friend’s house was. And this,” she said, stabbing another point just north of Dungeness, “is where you are right now. Sea Camp. Good luck!”
“Good luck,” Cara muttered, pedaling south. “Good luck, my ass.”
***
Any other time, Cara would have been entranced by Cumberland’s natural beauty. Grand Avenue wound beneath a canopy of live oaks whose heavy, curving limbs reached out from both sides of the hard-packed road. Lush green ferns grew up the trunks of the oaks, and the branches were festooned with thick, silvery Spanish moss. Beyond the oaks, Cara saw stands of pines, magnolias, palmetto, and palm trees whose names she’d not yet learned.
Far ahead of her on the road she could see a few specks of humanity, the Girl Scouts, on foot, but if she looked behind, all she saw was the road and the trees.
Birds twittered from the treetops, and she saw an occasional winged flash, but the aloneness struck her. Maybe that was what Brooke had come here looking for. Solitude.
***
There had been a picture in the brochure of Dungeness Castle as it had looked when it was built by the Carnegies, before it had been torched, in the fifties, by a poacher. Now, looking at the brick and tabby remains of the once grand home, Cara could see the outlines of the great house, and the way nature had already begun to encroach and overrun the ruins. Vines crept up walls and chimneys, palm trees sprouted where rooms had been. Cara held her breath when she spotted a group of three horses, two adults, and a colt, grazing on grass just inside the stone entryway, oblivious of her presence.
She circled the outskirts of the mansion, looking for some sign of Loblolly. She found collapsed and charred outbuildings, wound with what looked like decades’ worth of honeysuckle and kudzu vines, and even what looked like an old car graveyard, with the rusting hulks of the Carnegie’s once-splendid touring cars.
Finally, on the west side of the ruins, on a rise overlooking the river, she spotted what looked like a recently cleared spot of land. Neat piles of old bricks and worn timbers had been stacked to one side, but the outlines of mature boxwood hedges, bushy camellia shrubs, and a pair of twin palms were the only remnants of what must have been the foundation plantings for a fairly large house.
Cara laid the bike on the ground and walked around the property. The Park Service had done an admirable job of dismantling whatever had been here. From the siting of the palm trees, she guessed where the home’s porch would have been. She stood there now, wondering what her next move would be, kicking frustratedly at the pale sand with the toe of her sneaker.
“Ow.” Her toe hit something solid. She kicked it again, then knelt down to get a better look. She dug at the damp sand, brushing it sideways, until she spied a glimpse of dark gray granite. Her backpack swung awkwardly to one side, so she took it off and resumed digging. Five minutes later, she’d dug away enough sand to reveal a block of tile mosaic lettering. L-O… She dug on, until she’d exhumed a three-foot patch of granite threshold with the word Loblolly spelled in tile.
Cara sat back on her heels. So. The ranger had been right. Loblolly was gone. But where was Brooke Trapnell?
She glanced down at her watch. It was nearly noon, and she was hungry and thirsty, and the back of her sweaty T-shirt clung to her skin. She looked around for a shady place to take a lunch break. Just a few yards away was another of Cumberland’s enormous live oaks. And this one had a picnic bench beneath it. Perfect!
