The Forgotten Cottage

I woke to the sound of a crash, but not one of those heart stopping, train wreck sort of crashes. No, this one had been pulling at me for more than an hour in my subconscious state of dreams, gently lulling me with each passing minute. The crash that finally succeeded in shaking me from slumber was that of the water. One foot glass spirals of salty Atlantic hurdled against the rocky sand of early morning. I lay entranced in the new stillness as the waves retreat, anticipating the next brush of nature, yearning to hear it again. I could hear the Seagulls calling to one another, one member of the tribe had apparently found a washed up creature worthy of becoming breakfast.

It happened this way every morning since I took up residence in the Aiken Cottage on Sullivan’s Island. My mornings no longer involved screeching alarm clocks and bumper to bumper traffic as they had for so long. It was a conscience choice, a determined one, to become one with the island that I so loved, the one place where I could feel content with the world around me. So much has happened in the last few years that I feared the weighted feeling of loss that has permeated my soul would form a permanent hold that never gave way. Others could see it in the bend of my back, a slouched manner to which I had become accustomed to carrying myself. I never realized how these types of tensions could be carried throughout your body, but now, living in harmony with the ever enlightened impressions of the Atlantic, I was more aware.

Tossing the patchwork quilt across the bed, I stretched as my feet landed on the chilled hardwood floor. The first touch of the smooth heart of pine floor was always startling, like a horror movie scene you know is coming, but you still manage to jump anyway. While shuffling bare feet across the floor in an effort to feel every inch of wood beneath them, I threw on my battered robe and make my way down the hall that runs the length of the cottage. I could already smell the coffee-maker brewing my Sanka as I opened the back door and surged out onto the back porch. As I inhaled several deep breaths, the smell of hazelnut began to mix with the salty ocean air and a tinge of honeysuckle. I always felt the dire need to close my eyes for this part.

Exhaling back into reality, I retrieved the paper from the front porch and my trusty jolt of caffeine from the kitchen. I knew that at some point I would have to return to the world of the working so I perused the classifieds each day, but I still was in no hurry. I had moved to Sullivan’s Island to make what I was told was a smart investment, a real estate purchase on one of the most expensive islands for real estate in the country. There were several grand homes for sale, but none of them seemed exactly like the fit I needed. Honestly, I hadn't been sure what I needed.

Until I saw Aiken Cottage.

She and I fell in love at first sight. That much I knew to be true. Of course she wasn’t a grand beauty compared to some of the other historic homes on the island, but there was something about her. She was perched on the shore with a view of the expansive Charleston Harbor, where she stood like a shy child that had been shoved by an eager parent into the spotlight. Overgrown vegetation allowed her to hide from the shore and the other more imposing houses, but I saw right through that.

Standing in front of the house for the first time, I was overwhelmed with the details, with all of the angles I wanted to see up close. Climbing along the walk through the chubby Needle Palms in total disarray, I ran my hand along one of the 3 Palmetto Palms standing tall and proud. And them I saw them. Two Pindo Palms, hidden by overgrown weeds, encasing the spacious staircase leading to the front porch. The breeze of that afternoon drifted amidst their billowy arms draped around the trunk like a fringed shawl gesturing for you to come on in for a glass of tea.
I was hooked, and I hadn’t even reached the porch yet.

Crouching down to touch the pine planks that had long ago begun to chip, I imagined the carriage pulling up to this very spot which was built at exactly the right height to allow the lady of the house to step from the carriage to the porch. Those same pine planks ran nearly the length of the front of the weary cottage. A screen door was askew, teetering on only one of its hinges, one of the screens torn away. Beyond the dust and cobwebs, I could see intricate carvings along the panels framing the doorway. The most pronounced carving was that of a pineapple on each side of the door.

The original doorbell still hung from a hook on the wall to the right of the door. As I reached up to it, I knew, somewhere in the recesses of my mind, that if it still worked I would be the next owner of this too long neglected treasure. Lightly tugging the pull, I heard something click and a crank and then a resounding bell emanating through the house.

“Marty, are you sure that this is the one you want?” My real estate agent, Glenda, glared at the eyesore from under the cover of her left hand, before turning her gaze to me again.

“Without a doubt, Glen,” I said, unable to conceal my broad smile.

Two months later, she was beginning to take shape. I had ripped up carpets that someone had thought valuable in 1973, to reveal wooden floors in a monochrome of mahogany shades. Once sanded, re-sanded and stained, they began to take what I hoped was a piece of the opulence they had known more than a century ago. The only room where I even allowed a rug of coverage was the living room where it might be feasible that I would lay in front of the fire with a good book.

Although I knew that the kitchen should be next on my list, I was overcome by curiosity toward a closed off room in the corner of the cottage. It had been listed as a 3rd bedroom, but Glenda confessed that her firm was unable to open the door. The arched door had warped into its molding by some sort of leak from the roof above in just the right fashion, and the agents were concerned about further destroying the wood. Now that I owned Aiken, she was going to have to open up to me.

Retrieving a crowbar from the trunk of my Mazda, I wedged it into the door jamb ever few inches around the entire circumference. The first day she wouldn’t budge. Nor the second or third or fourth. But on the fifth day, when the island was experiencing Spring warmth for the first time of the year, she decided to cooperate. I was able to wrangle the door an inch at the bottom, enough to see inside.

Amazing. The only word I could think of.

It was a library. A small, dusty, neglected library. My excitement rose, my heart beating faster at the thought of the treasures stashed in this little room for so long. I painstakingly maintained my patience as I pried, with all the gentleness I could, at each inch of doorway. Finally she gave way. Impelling the door open, I heard the scrapes of rebuff against the hardwood, a child imploring mom not to come into his domain. I slashed my way through the cobwebs of time, running my hand along the wall, searching in vain for a light switch for the windowless room, but there were none to be found.

This room had not been entered since electricity was installed in the house? I ran to the hall closet to retrieve my large flashlight. Dragging the narrow beam of light throughout the room, I saw a rocking chair and a side table caked with dust, a book still lying on the table as though someone had just put it down. The light then fell upon candle holders on one wall behind the rocker and on either side of the doorway before moving toward the spines of books long forgotten yet preserved in this little room.

I reached toward one of the shelves to retrieve a book title that I knew all too well. Opening the front cover of the book, the copyright date of 1884 leapt up from the page like a lightning flash. My now trembling hands held an original printing of “The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn”. I slid the book back on the shelf as my feet began to wobble. Staggering backwards, I bumped into the rocking chair which leaned against the table.

Aiken was holding more secrets than I could've ever imagined.