The Boat House

By Jana D. Barrett

Genevieve Vandermere Anderson lives in an elite world carefully crafted by her stepfather. While other girls her age are ecstatic to revel in the freedom of their first summer break from college, Genevieve has no choice but to return to her childhood home on Hilton Head Island, South Carolina and play sidekick to her vindictive stepfather. Forbidden from social media and isolated from her peers, she returns home from college, disheartened and oppressed by the actions of her past; the secret that her stepfather uses to control her.

Though she is fearful of the repercussions, Genevieve decides it is time to start making her own choices. She sneaks out of her fortified house to attend the annual beach bonfire. She meets a handsome stranger and follows him to an abandoned boathouse hidden in the low country marshes. Little does she know that this small act of rebellion will be the catalyst for unraveling the truth about her regretful past, and the layers of deception her stepfather has masterminded.

One thing is for certain, everything leads back to the boathouse....

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Sep 1, 2017
• ISBN: 9781543912517

Book preview

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Chapter 1

A black sedan eases onto the gravel driveway. As always, I’m the last to leave. Delicately I lift a hand to shade my eyes against the bold southern sun, but the gesture is automated, rehearsed. I know who is coming for me. The passenger window rolls down, and I muster a tepid smile as I greet my guardian and his new girlfriend. With one last look back, silently I say goodbye to my safe haven.

The test begins immediately: pass or fail. This part of our drive always pains me. It isn’t that the questions themselves are challenging; it isn’t that I am especially introverted; it is because they are always the exact same questions, and I’m being graded on my responses. I can’t risk falling into the mind- numbing monotony of this interrogation that is masked as a normal conversation. I might forget that as soon as I sit down on the plush leather seats of this luxury sedan, every tiny sprig of freedom I possess is squashed like an errant beetle.

The task of reading a person and framing my responses to fit into the parameters that best suit that person’s character is like a game to me. There has always been a key of sorts in my mind, even as a child, that enabled the lexicon of the average mind to unfold in my lap; like shaking out a folded picnic blanket, one small square becomes a larger purposeful picture. Gestures, expressions, ticks, schisms--they all mean something. When you put the pieces together, you can assess a person’s motives, their vulnerabilities and strengths. Is the person vain or humble? There are very few sincerely humble people. Once you know simple things you can use them to your advantage, extort them. No, assessing a person is not my challenge. To fake interest in this tiresome scheme, to feel at ease with its burden, that is my challenge.

I have a list somewhere, a handwritten list of five questions every one of Anderson’s new girlfriends ask. I would tick them off in my mind, a mental checklist as we drove south down the North Carolina coast to Georgia, or Florida, or wherever we were driving with our new victim that particular summer. They were different women, from different states and educational and ethnic backgrounds, yet they always asked the same effing questions.

Suzy Ann is asking you something, Honey. To an outsider like Suzy, Anderson’s tone sounds pleading or perhaps prompting, like a father might gently coax a child to be polite or stay on task. But I know my stepfather’s tone is implicit; I have no choice but to answer each and every question his Dior-scented Southern belle asks me. This is bound to be a long ride.

A feeling of shame creeps over me, a familiar friend. It is an odd conundrum to feel shame, because I don’t feel ashamed at my role in this facade. I have grown numb to feeling anything. I started hating Anderson long ago, but recently I hate the women too. These dimwitted ladies searching for love; they see a handsome bachelor, a wealthy physically-fit male, with grace and charm and deep pockets. As the nearly-grown stepdaughter whose mother died in a tragic accident, I became the puppy a guy brings along when he is trying to schmooze the girl, and I play my part well.

I know one thing: I will never fall in love.

We are heading south on I-77, making our way to our home on Hilton Head Island. We have houses all over the united states; we even had one in Turkey when Anderson decided to go international for a ‘change of sky.’ To an outsider, Anderson is the proverbial good guy. He is charismatic, energetic, a go-getter, but I learned the truth quickly. His whims are never satisfied and his lack of gratitude and genuine remorse are dangerous.

To the ladies, Anderson boasts the whole package. He is careful to fill his quiver with false humility. It is all a crock of shit, but this Suzy Q will fall prey to us just like the rest. I cringe at the thought, a tiny shudder of inner disgust manifested physically. Suddenly feeling queasy, I fight the urge to roll the window down, knowing Anderson doesn’t approve. Will my role in his schemes ever end?

I’m so sorry Suzy, I’m just so fatigued with my last day of exams that I didn’t hear you. Can you repeat the question? I answer in a heavy Georgian drawl. Lately I have become really good at practiced accents. Anderson flashes me a look in the rearview mirror that screams don’t overdo it. I grin back at him with a look that I hope is the equivalent of flipping him the bird. He shifts irritably in the driver’s seat, focusing his attention on his new conquest. Score! One point for Genevieve, I inwardly balk. There are little freedoms in momentarily pissing him off when he can’t retaliate.

Suzy asks in an upbeat tone, I just wanted to know about school. How are you liking Davidson College? She is excited and obviously nervous. Ugh. I smile and prattle on all the answers that she wants to hear, fluffing when necessary and embellishing just enough to make us sound like a very modern, humble version of the Kennedys. Anderson grins at me, lapping up my fictions like a kitten with a dish of fresh milk. Inwardly I cringe again, and the nausea ratchets up a notch.

After ticking the first three anticipated questions off the checklist, at last I have a reprieve when Anderson and Suzy Q begin chatting more intimately. I listen haphazardly, smiling and nodding when necessary. From what I gather, Suzy is very eager to see our coastal home. Suzy is very eager to try Anderson’s southern cuisine. Suzy is very eager to see historic Savannah. I look out the window and roll my eyes at her naiveté. I want to shout at her that there are warning signs flashing in her face like burning lasers, but she just blathers on about a special kind of binoculars she brought along for whale watching. I stifle the urge to laugh. There aren’t whales anywhere near the inlet where our house is. I want to tell her she has a great white shark sitting next to her that doesn’t require binoculars to see, but I remain silent. In a momentary patch of silence, I put my ear buds in and begin reading a book on my iPhone. I’ve found ear buds a very effective way to politely avoid a conversation.

I gaze out the window, longing to roll my window down and breathe in the briny coastal air that presses closer. Six years ago, when my mother was alive, she and I would cruise down the coast in her old beat up Chevy truck, windows down, blaring Joe Cocker and Van Morrison with a truck bed full of fresh vegetables purchased at random fruit and veggie stands along the way and three happily yapping mutts secured in the back. I felt like a gypsy in those days; it was just us against the world until she met Anderson.

He hadn’t seemed like her type of guy, so I wasn’t worried at first. But she was lonely, more so than a twelve-year old girl can fathom, and Anderson was cunning. He weaseled his way into our lives and married my mother a few years after my father passed from cancer. My mom went from being capricious, fun-loving Claire to Mrs. Vandermere-Anderson. One year later she died in a tragic boating accident, leaving me utterly alone, with absolutely nothing; nothing but a wicked stepfather.

Chapter 2

Suzy oohs and ahhs over our beachfront property, clicking her manicured nails over the fancy lacquered woodwork and quartz countertops. I can’t blame her; my childhood home really is breathtaking. The sprawling traditional Georgian porch with pale v-groove ceilings and hand distressed hardwood floors, with double doors open wide, welcome us into a spacious open floor plan. Handcrafted wooden beams frame vaulted ceilings. In the morning sunlight will gleam through the floor to ceiling window panes, giving the main room a cathedral feeling. My mother had been ahead of her time in many ways, including her decor choices. There is a simple elegance to each room. Anderson has multiple properties, and typically after crossing off a conquest from his list, he liquidates his newly-acquired assets and moves on. No doubt, cash from said sale collects interest in some untraceable offshore account. Why he has held on to my childhood home is still a mystery to me.

Maybe it is the alluring charm of a southern home chock-full of intriguing history, or perhaps it is the architectural eye for detail, a lost art for certain. Homes certainly aren’t designed this sturdily anymore. The houses from this era were designed to last a lifetime. As a child, I always felt this house and the grounds were whispering to me, its crooks and crannies begging to reveal decades of history.

This house stood strong during the Civil War, hurricanes and many more secrets the history books aren’t privy to. I used to love living in this old home; now it is bittersweet. Though I long to be here and lead a normal life apart from my stepfather, that is an impossibility.

I stifle a sigh of relief when after a few hours of unpacking and settling in, Anderson exclaims, I have a special trip planned for you, Suze. Wrapping his arms around her faux-tanned shoulders, he beams at me. Per the usual, he is laying it on as thick as molasses. At times like these, I have to force myself to smile back and stifle the bile rising in my throat.

I muster up some false cheer for his benefit because it is mutually advantageous to my own. Oh, really? Where are you going? I stand poised and eager, waiting for the answer to a question that I already know. In each respective city, he woos his quarry with the same trip. His art is fine-tuned, and about as tasteless as a rice cake.

What, we’re leaving already? Suzy whines while suggestively running her hands over his biceps. It looks like Suzy Q has other plans. Oh, dear heavens, please let them go soon, I silently beg. I am dying for the opportunity to wipe this ridiculous smile off my face and retreat to the respite of my room. Pretending is emotionally and physically taxing on the mind and body; it exhausts the very soul.

Anderson is going to be pissed if she doesn’t take the bait for his romantic getaway. I watch as she tries every blatant trick in the book for enticing him quickly into the lower-level master bedroom, the same room my mother and father once shared in another life. If he were my real father, I’d be seriously grossed out by her lack of subtlety, but by now this scene is all too familiar. My repulse reflexes have been stunned so many times over the past few years that they are virtually dormant.

I use the opportunity of their debate to survey his new conquest more closely. As she confidently tries to lure good old dad into the sack, he tries his hardest to convince her that his plans are better. I know inside he’s livid but cannot do anything about it, and I’m ashamed at how satisfactory that small fact is to me. Poor woman, she doesn’t realize that Anderson never deviates from his plan; narcissists need to be in control.

Upon inspection I decide she is kind of pretty. Despite her bleached blonde hair and fake tan, she isn’t wearing a lot of makeup. Her kohl eyeliner is a tad heavy, like she borrowed it from a teenager. She is wearing nice clothing but her ensemble definitely isn’t tailored, maybe because she is wearing one to two sizes too small for her robust body. Her cleavage is bursting out of her navy scoop neck dress, and I am certain that perkiness is the kind you pay for at fifty-five years of age.

Out of habit, I momentarily tally her estimated net worth based on her apparel and grooming:

Michael Kors dress $200

Jimmy Choos shoes $1,300

Prada bag $5,000

Highlights and lowlights $200

Botox and lip injections $1,200

Breast augmentation $3,500

I’m surprised that I deduce she is worth only a few million. Normally the women Anderson courts are super-high class, very old money. Geez, he must be getting desperate.

I recognize the almost-undetectable flicker of irritation brimming in his eyes, no doubt stemming from Suzy’s lack of elation over their impending surprise trip. Irritation he chooses to hide from his alleged soul mate, but I will suffer the consequences if his plan goes awry. I need to get them out of here, and quickly.

I choose to gain Brownie points by fulfilling my dreaded role as wing woman. Oh my gosh, Dad, are you taking her where I think you are? I tease, Are you sure you don’t want me to tag along? Please God, I silently pray, please let her take the bait.

Whenever I play back these little scenarios in my head, I see myself as a character in a fifties black-and-white sitcom. It’s like my limbs are always posed at odd, peculiar, perky angles, and my mouth is eternally framed in a jaw-breaking smile. I must look like one of those greeting cards with a cheesy old photo and a funny caption beneath. I hope I don’t really come across that way. What we rehearse often becomes our reality.

I watch his demeanor shift and feel the oxygen return to the room when Suzy Q’s interest piques. As they walk towards the front door, he looks over his shoulder giving me a slight nod, his indication that he is pleased with me. I feel equally elated and appalled with myself. Anderson is one step closer.

Don’t expect us back for a few evenings, sweetheart. We’re taking the car, but I’ll leave the credit card on the kitchen counter for groceries. He shuts the door, and I head up the spiral staircase to the loft which was once my childhood playroom, stopping for a moment of silence for a life lost. I then climb another small staircase to my bedroom in the third-floor turret, where I wait for the engine to start and listen for the most blessed sound I have heard all day, their departure.

Chapter 3

I peer out my turret window and smile while recalling childhood memories. Because of its charming octagonal shape, I used to pretend my room was a tower and that I was a princess locked inside. At eight, I had seen all the watered-down Disney princess movies, so my mother bought me a hardcopy of the real Grimm’s fairy tales. I remember holding the pea-green spine of the hardback book in my hands, so eager to devour the pages. The first time I read the original version of Rapunzel, the story frightened me so badly that I begged my mother to sleep with me for weeks afterward to ease my fears. Here I am a few years later, locked in a tower of obligation and fear, but I know no matter how fine my hair is, no wandering prince will climb up my ashen locks to save me.

In the distance through the dusty windowpane, I see the ombre gradients of a bonfire licking the navy crest of horizon. Every summer there are parties on the beach with raging bonfires attracting droves of university and high school students on their summer break. As a child I would sneak my father’s copper telescope to my window, shove up the crank sash, and spy. When my mother was alive I was much too young to attend the parties, though I thoroughly enjoyed my secret spying sessions. Now I am mostly forbidden social interaction if it doesn’t benefit Anderson’s thieving. I am not permitted to have any link to social networking sites. I made a few girl friends during my first semester at college, but I switch schools so often I learned that it is pointless to get close to anyone. I know undoubtedly that this is not the life my mother and father intended for me.

I look in the mirror for the first time since leaving my dorm room. My ash-blonde hair is pulled into a neat ballerina bun. I’ve removed my simple nude kitten heels, but am still wearing a pale blue eyelet dress with capped sleeves and a knotted pearl necklace. My makeup is natural but stunning; I look magazine worthy, but my eyes scare me. They look utterly empty.

Damn Anderson. I feel mad for the first time in ages, and anger is often a healthier emotion than apathy. I search around in my suitcase and find a pair of faded jean shorts and a Civil Twilight t-shirt buried under my ‘appropriate clothes’. I throw on some Keds and let my hair tumble down my back in waves. Maybe I am a princess who will come to her own rescue.

I pocket a small flashlight and remove several heavy books from their perch on the window ledge and crank the chain with its antiquated pulley. The window eases up begrudgingly with a moan. My bedroom window hasn’t locked since I was a child; the house dates back to the 1860s when it was built as luxury waterfront home for a wealthy proprietor. The original owner was one of the first successful sugar cane plantation moguls during a time when there was an influx of English colonization and plantations flourished.

My father Atticus, always full of humor and ingenuity, taught me to use heavy books as an alarm system. I had chosen a thick copy of collected stories by Edgar Allen Poe and a thrift store copy of The Modern Prometheus as my sentinels; they seemed appropriate choices.

I climb out of my bedroom window, pulling the muslin curtains shut from the outside. The slide on my bottom down the slanted metal roof leads to a lower attached shingled roof. I jump from there to the L-shaped side of the front porch, and then downward to the sandy grass. I am like a cat confident in the memory her whiskers have etched in blind darkness. Though I never ventured as far as the bonfire, this isn’t my first rodeo.

I walk by the scant light of the moon and the gloomy white dock lights atop the wooden posts that walk the plank seaward. The golden glow of occupied porches provide sporadic visibility. Small rectangles of sand are flooded with warm light that gives way to darkness again as I pass by. I feel my heart reverberating around in my chest with rebellion. I revel in the warmth of the summer breeze swathing my skin and bask in the powerful sounds of the greedy waves claiming their treasured shells. I smile at couples along the way clinging to one another under the starless night sky, joggers, people walking their dogs. I enjoy laughter that bellows from occupied porches then dissipates into that hidden place where sound is lost.

Music wafting down the beach signals that I have almost arrived at my destination. Anderson would kill me if he knew I was fraternizing with a bunch of local miscreants. My feet stop momentarily at the edge, about fifty yards from the bonfire. I feel myself hesitate, ready for my normal routine, retreat. But tonight, I am not going to give into my fears.

I feel oddly giddy as I cross the invisible threshold into the circle of party-goers. As evidenced by the overall lack of sobriety, the party clearly began before sunset. College-age students and a few groups that look more high school-age huddle in groups around the fire talking and laughing. Random couples are making out. All around me, normal adolescent activities ensue, but I feel foreign in their midst. I have little experience with normal kids my age, just looking to have a good time, score, have a drink. I was homeschooled until my mother passed away, and the rest of my education had been facilitated by my stepfather. His emphasis always was the role I had to play, his agenda.

But not tonight, Genevieve, I remind myself.

A live band at a nearby bar sets the mood, playing covers from One Republic to Vampire Weekend. The raucous cacophony of voices and live music, the ocean waves breaking--it all forms a unity, a rhythm that sparks a bit of life into my fractured heart. For a few hours, all I want to do is to pretend to be a normal eighteen-year old student, a girl only worried about her university career and posting the perfect picture on Instagram. Even though I don’t actually have Instagram. A group of athletic guys are playing beach volleyball by the dim light of tiki torches. One of them gives me a thumbs-up as I walk by, but I’m not sure why.

I politely rebuff several offers of a drink from a few guys, and then sit down in an empty chair by the blistering fire. Facing the ocean, I observe life through the fire’s hazy filter. The disadvantage to being trained to read people is that you anticipate everyone’s motives and jump five steps ahead to what or why a person is interested in you, and that just takes the fun out of most social encounters. Anderson taught me that people are predictable, and from my short time scrutinizing this social encounter, he wasn’t wrong.

I watch tipsy girls as they shed their inhibitions along with their clothing and run into the beckoning sea, screaming with laughter. I watch as a guy playing volleyball is momentarily distracted by the entourage of naked girls running towards the ocean and is pelted in the face with the ball by his teammate. I watch lovers’ quarrels and friends reunited, all the encounters I spied as a child from my window, but now before my very eyes, making the emotions tangible. I feel peaceful surveying alone in my unclaimed chair. This is more freedom than I usually am permitted. Maybe a healthy dose of age-appropriate reality is just what I needed.

That’s my chair, a tall, broad-shouldered guy says as he approaches me. I listen carefully to his voice and observe his mannerisms while he skirts around the edge of the bonfire to claim his seat. It is obvious right away that he has an easy confidence. I notice he’s not just tall, he’s really tall, at least 6’4". His hair isn’t the typical State Trooper cut that most of these Southern frat boys are sporting; it’s quite a bit longer. He tucks brown locks behind his ears and I see several tattoos on the inside of his inner bicep, inked phrases and symbols mostly hidden from plain view.

He gestures towards the