Free On Folly Beach by Karen White Page B

wail of the saxophone, she’d crawl to the top of the stairs and watch as her parents held each other tight, kissed, and spoke softly, reminding Emmy that there had once been a them before there’d been an us.
    She’d watch for a short while, and when she returned to her bed, she’d lie on her pillow with a lump in her throat, wondering if it was from resentment that she wasn’t the center of their world or from a distant hope that one day she would find someone who liked to dance in the living room and who would look at her as if she was loved best.
    Emmy flipped the radio off again as the silent fist of her grief squeezed her heart. She marveled that the entire time she’d been in the car, she hadn’t thought of Ben. She was angry with herself yet relieved, too, thinking this might be part of the recovery everybody had been promising her yet had remained as elusive as catching sand in the wind.
    She glanced down at her lap to the map her father had drawn for her and took a left on Folly Road, the long, straight road that would take her over two small bridges before spilling her out on the little knife shape of land her father had labeled Folly Beach. Her car passed churches, strip malls filled with nail salons and realty offices, and a large Piggly Wiggly. Emmy hesitated only a moment before bypassing the entrance to the parking lot of the grocery store. If she didn’t have food and supplies, it would be that much easier to turn around and head back to Indiana if what she found on Folly wasn’t what she was looking for. Whatever that was.
    She was nearly lulled to sleep by the heat of the sun through the window until her attention was caught by a brightly painted wooden boat off to the right of the road with The Luv Guv and Don’t cry for me, Argentina spray-painted in white against a spatter of bright colors splayed over every flat surface.
    Emmy nearly ran off the road as she craned her neck to get a better look at the locals’ attempt at a billboard commentary about the South Carolina governor’s extramarital exploits recently making the national news. She wasn’t sure if she liked it or not, but it sounded just like what she’d heard about the people of Folly Beach, whose physical exertions and attitudes were directly related to the intensity of the heat from the Southern sun.
    After crossing over the first bridge, Emmy sat up straighter to take in a better measure of where she was headed. Off in the distance to the left was a large blue water tower with FB in large black letters inside a white oval announcing that she was at least going in the right direction. Traffic slowed as the road narrowed approaching the Folly River Bridge, the docked shrimp boats announcing the proximity to the Atlantic Ocean. A salty breeze filled the car—a new smell that was strange yet oddly familiar, too. Maybe her mother’s childhood memories had been transferred to Emmy during infancy, as if the memory of warm sand between your toes were as tangible a thing as nourishment and security.
    Red-flowered bushes Emmy had never seen before waved from each side of the road like spectators at a welcome parade, easing the tightness in her chest just a little. The Edge of America, she thought, recalling the Folly Beach nickname her mother had told her, an appropriate name for a destination for someone with nowhere else to go.
    Glancing at her map again, she headed straight where Folly Road became Center Street, the only street on the island with a stoplight. In the old days, her mother had explained, if you stayed on Center Street, you’d run right into the ocean. Now, though, a monolithic cement Holiday Inn blocked access and the view, forcing all vehicles to either turn right or left on Ashley Avenue.
    The light turned red and Emmy stopped. Perspiration trickled down her back and forehead, but she still resisted rolling up the window and turning on the air. The voices of the tourists and locals filling the sidewalks, shops, and