Mamaw stuck out her hands toward the table. “I came in to fix some lunch, but there’s no room to make a cup of tea, much less a meal. Everything is everywhere!”
“Is it lunchtime already?” Harper looked around at the mess. “I guess I lost track of time. I started cleaning the drawers and . . .” She made a face. “Oh, Mamaw, they were so dirty and dusty. That led to the cabinets. Do you even know how long it’s been since anyone scrubbed those out? And there’s no rhyme or reason to where things are put. Everything is helter-skelter. And”—Harper shivered in disgust—“I’m putting roach traps everywhere. It’s war.”
Mamaw felt a twinge of guilt that Lucille’s kitchen was being criticized, as if she should defend Lucille somehow. Yet, truth was, Lucille had been so ill before she’d passed on that she hadn’t even had the energy much of the time to leave her little cottage, let alone march into the house and whip things into shape. Even before that, she’d lost her zeal for cleaning and projects. Not that Mamaw could find fault in that. She felt the same way. Old age had a way of taking the starch out of one’s sails.
She pointed to a specific trash bag. “Why are the pots and pans in the trash?”
Harper had the grace to look sheepish. “Yeah, about that.” She sat back on her heels. “Honestly, Mamaw, some of these have to be tossed.”
“No! You can’t throw them away. Lucille used these for fifty years.”
“My point exactly. They’re no good any longer. Take this iron skillet, for example.” Harper dug it out from the trash bag and held up a rusted iron skillet with a long wooden handle, distaste skittering across her features.
Mamaw, her face reflecting her horror, rushed to grab the skillet from Harper’s hands. “This was my mother’s skillet! Her mother gave it to her when she was married, and she gave it to me. I was saving it to give to one of you girls. It’s an heirloom!”
“Oh.” Harper looked slightly ashamed. “But, I mean, who’d use it? It’s all rusty.”
“It simply needs to be reseasoned with oil,” Mamaw said with a hint of scold. “Any good southern housewife appreciates the sentiment of an iron skillet that’s been passed down. Knows how to maintain it. I tell you, this skillet is perfectly good. I’ll show you how to season it. You should know.”
Harper looked at the rusty skillet with an expression of doubt, but didn’t want to fight Mamaw on it. “Thank you,” Harper had the manners to reply. “Okay, the skillet is a treasure. But these aluminum pots,” she continued, not to be deterred, “they’re hopelessly battered, and frankly, they’re not safe to use anymore.”
“Lucille cooked some very good meals in those pots.”
“This is no comment on Lucille’s cooking, Mamaw. I know you have an emotional attachment to them, but look at them. They’ve worn down to nearly nothing. I’ve gone online and learned that not only are these old aluminum pots and pans leaching dangerous metal, but research has linked aluminum cookware to Alzheimer’s.”
“Oh,” Mamaw said, her complaints suddenly silenced.
“I’m going out today to buy some stainless steel pots and pans.”
“You mustn’t spend your money—”
Harper put up her hand to stop Mamaw’s objections. “I’ll need them anyway if I’m going to set up my own place.”
Mamaw’s attention sharpened. “You’re making plans, are you? Going back to New York soon?”
Harper shrugged. “I suppose so.” She looked at her grandmother. “I better start firming up those plans, I know. But till then,” she said in a more upbeat tone, “Dora, Carson, and I huddled together this morning like a bunch of old crones. We had a good heart-to-heart.”
Mamaw brightened. “Really? I’m so glad.”
“There was a method to the madness. We know you’ve let go the cleaning service and we haven’t done our part. So we put on our big-girl panties and divvied up chores. We’ve organized the cooking, too.”
“Mercy!”
“Brace yourself, Mamaw. It’s time to get a food processor.”
“Whatever for? I won’t cook in the old-folks home I’m heading to.”
Harper scoffed at the term old-folks home. The place Mamaw was intending to go to was lovely and up-to-date. “Like I said, I have to buy this stuff anyway for wherever I’ll set up a kitchen.”
Mamaw’s attention riveted on that comment. “You’re not going back to your mother’s apartment?”
Harper shook her head firmly. “No way. I won’t go back there. Looking forward, Mamaw.” She gave Mamaw a kiss.
Mamaw put her hands to her cheek where Harper’s lips had been. “Well, if you think so . . .”
Harper seized the moment. “While the cabinets are empty, wouldn’t it be a good time to give everything a fresh coat of paint? What do you say?”
“Paint?” Mamaw said feebly against the onslaught of energy and ideas.
“Absolutely. A clean white. Let’s do the walls, too, while we’re at it. They’re dreary.”
Mamaw looked around at the dingy walls. “I’ve always wanted to freshen things up a bit, but Lucille chased me out every time I suggested it. It was her kitchen, you know.”
“Let’s do it now. There’s no hope for the appliances, but it’s probably not worth replacing those if you’re moving.” Then Harper’s voice changed, softening. “Other than that fabulous old Viking oven. It’s built like a tank. Anyone who buys the house will probably gut the room and build a kitchen around the oven.” She sighed and let her gaze lovingly linger on the mammoth appliance. “I know I would.”
Mamaw felt suddenly as ancient as the oven. “But the cost . . . I’m afraid I have to be, shall we say, conservative now.”
“It’s my idea, thus my expense.” Seeing Mamaw open her mouth to object, Harper pushed on, “No arguments. Consider it rent. And tuition for the cooking classes that I’ll be getting from you and Dora.”
Harper noticed the confused look on Mamaw’s face and changed the subject. “Enough about the kitchen. Let’s do something fun today. What would you like to do?”
“Oh, I feel a bit tired. I might lie down after lunch.”
Harper came closer and her eyes sparkled with enthusiasm. “Perhaps after dinner we could play cards.”
“We?”
“All of us. You, me, Dora, and Carson. Like we used to.”
Mamaw rallied. “Oh, that would be nice. All right, dear. But”—she looked around the disarray in the kitchen—“what should I do about fixing our lunch?”
“You don’t have to do a thing.” Harper hugged her. “I’ll order something. You just relax and I’ll get this mess all tidied up in no time.”
Mamaw cast a final glance at the trash bag filled with the old and worn aluminum pots. Useless. Outdated, and ready to be tossed out.
Like her. She turned and walked slowly from the room.
Chapter Three
By midafternoon, Harper had finally finished scrubbing the kitchen. All she had to do now was put all the dishes in boxes and store them until after the paint job. She pushed back a wayward lock of red hair from her brow as she surveyed the room. Her back ached from bending, her manicure was ruined, and she was covered from head to toe with dirt and spills. Hard work, yes, but she was enjoying herself. In an odd way, by cleaning Sea Breeze she was developing an even deeper bond with the old house. As though each scrub were a caress. Each stroke of the broom on the floor made the house somehow hers. It didn’t make sense, but it was how she felt.
She leaned against the counter and thought back to when she was twenty-two and spending the summer in England with her grandparents before entering Cambridge’s postgraduate program. Greenfields Park was an imposing house in the countryside with a manicured lawn in front, expansive flower gardens in the back, and a kitchen garden close to the house. Farther out on the property was the orchard. She remembered the cherry and apple trees heavy with fruit and how raspberries ripened in profusion. The gardens were a delight.
Inside, however, the hou
se was somber. Large rooms with fine plaster and wood rococo decoration were filled with well-formed antique furniture that had been passed down in the James family for generations. There wasn’t a comfortable chair to be found where one could curl up and read a book. Harper wanted to feel an attachment to the house, knowing full well that it was her grandmother’s dream that she marry an Englishman and settle down at Greenfields Park.
That same summer Granny James had initiated her campaign to introduce Harper to eligible young men from good families. Knowing that Granny James liked to prettify her house with bunches of fresh flowers in every room, Harper had gone out to the garden to pick some and make a surprise bouquet for her. Harper had been enjoying herself when she was chased away by the head gardener, politely of course. Later, in her bedroom, she’d moved the furniture to her liking, only to return from an outing to find the furniture put back in its original locations. Much like the household staff, her grandmother had also disapproved whenever Harper tried to cook or do some simple housework. “Best to leave that be,” Granny James had advised. “Betty gets quite upset if we mess her kitchen.” Harper found the house more a museum than a home, and though she appreciated its beauty, she never felt comfortable there. It was the same in her mother’s house in the Hamptons, and even their apartment in New York. Though Harper lived in the gorgeous postwar apartment overlooking Central Park, she never thought of it as hers. It was always—clearly—Georgiana’s property.
Sea Breeze, for all that it was elegant, surrounded by the giant oak in front and graced with a series of decks in the back, was an island home built for comfort. The antiques might not be as old as Granny James’s, or the paintings and portraits as historic, but Mamaw had developed a relationship with many of the local artists. She liked to say how each painting on her walls felt like a friend. At Sea Breeze, Harper’s help around the house was not only welcome, but needed.
She was ruminating on all these thoughts, finishing mopping the kitchen floor, when the front doorbell rang. Exhausted, she paused, put her hand on her aching back, and listened to hear if anyone else would answer the door.
The doorbell rang a second time.
“Can someone get the door?” she called out.
The house was silent.
Cursing, Harper set the mop back into the soapy bucket, splashing water on the floor. She hastily crossed her clean floor toward the entryway, dripping a trail of water from her gloves. Where were her lazy sisters? she wondered. Here she was, slaving away in the kitchen, and they were probably out lying in the sun reading a book. So much for the chore chart, she harrumphed inwardly.
The doorbell rang a third time, followed by an impatient rap on the door. Harper felt her temper rise. She opened the door with a frustrated swing.
The man at the door was tall, over six feet, with shoulders so broad and straight they stretched the blue chambray shirt. The shirttails hung out over sun-bleached jeans, and the sleeves were rolled back, exposing muscled, tanned forearms. His brown hair was cut short, but she couldn’t make out his expression because he was wearing aviator-style sunglasses. The military bearing in everything about him shouted, Back off.
Then he reached up and took off his sunglasses.
Her breath caught in her throat.
She knew him. She didn’t know how, but she felt it with the tingling in every fiber of her body.
He was handsome with a broad forehead, a straight nose, and full lips. The muscled, athletic type that she’d always fancied but rarely dated. But it was his eyes that captured her. They were a pale green—the turbulent, changing color of the sea. Their gazes met, and once held, all the words of polite greeting that she’d formed in her mind fled. Instead, she heard herself thinking, Oh, it’s you.
She felt as if she were standing still in time, staring at this green-eyed stranger with the overwhelming sensation that she knew him, would always know him. Yet another part of her brain told her she was being ridiculous. She didn’t really recognize him. She’d not met him before. At least not in this lifetime.
The long silence grew awkward and the man shifted his gaze.
Harper gathered her wits and offered a weak “Hello?”
He smiled, so quickly she almost missed it, seemingly embarrassed for his own lapse of staring. Then he looked at his feet. “Hello,” he said with a strained smile. “I’m looking for Carson. We met in Florida and, uh, I’m in town and I thought I’d look her up. Is she in?”
Carson? He was here to see Carson?
Harper’s heart fell as she looked down at her damp and dirt-stained shirt and torn jeans, the yellow rubber gloves dripping soap water, her flyaway hair falling out of its elastic. She inwardly groaned, imagining the picture she made. Of course it would be the beautiful Carson he was here for.
“Carson Muir,” he elaborated. When she still didn’t reply, his brows furrowed. “Do I have the wrong house? Hey, I’m sorry.” He turned to leave.
“Wait! You have the right house,” Harper rushed to say. “Carson lives here.”
Relief softened his face. “Is she in?”
Now that she’d set aside her romantic vision, caution intervened. “How did you say you knew her?”
“We were friends at the Dolphin Research Center. I was learning to train dolphins and she was there with Nate. Hey, is that little guy here, too?”
“Yes, they’re both here.” Now that she was satisfied that he knew Carson, years of breeding kicked in. “Won’t you come in?” She ushered him into the foyer.
He dwarfed her as he stood beside her in the foyer. He held his hands behind his back in a military stance while his gaze scanned the hall and living room with such intensity she thought it was as if he were sweeping the house for mines.
The intensity was a bit intimidating, and again her guard went up. “I’m sorry, but I didn’t catch your name.”
“Oh, sorry. My name is Taylor. Taylor McClellan. From Florida.”
“Well, if you’ll wait here a moment, Taylor McClellan from Florida, I’ll go get Carson.” She turned to walk away.
“Wait,” he called after her.
Harper stopped and looked over her shoulder, their eyes meeting for a second time.
The man exuded confidence as a teasing half smile eased across his face. “And who are you?”
Was that flirtation she saw in his eyes? she wondered. Or was he merely offering tit for tat? “I’m Harper.” She did her best impression of her mother’s haughty, self-assured tone. “Harper Muir-James. From New York.”
Taylor put out his hand. His smile bloomed, softening the harsh edges of his face. She took her rubber glove off, wiped her sudsy palm on her jeans, and reached out to take his hand, returning the smile. His skin was rough and callused, accustomed to physical work. She felt her neurons tingle when his big hand tightened around hers. He held it longer than politeness required.
“Nice to meet you, Harper Muir-James from New York.”
Harper felt her face flush and tried to hide it by taking her hand back and turning her head. “Be right back.” She walked away down the hall in as ladylike a fashion as she could while dripping soapy water with her shoes squeaking. She could feel those green eyes on her back. Her head felt as if it were spinning as she hurried to Carson’s room. This man had unnerved her, shaken her to the core. She felt an undeniable attraction to him, as though, in some crazy, unexplainable way, he was supposed to be here to meet her.
But instead, he was here for Carson.
She knocked briskly on Carson’s bedroom door, then pushed it open. The room was shuttered and dim.
“Carson?”
No answer.
“Carson?” she called louder, closing the door behind her.
Carson jerked her head up from the pillow as one interrupted from a deep sleep. “What?”
“There’s someone here to see you.”
“Blake?” she asked with alacrity.
“No, not Blake.”
“Who?”
“It’s some guy. Taylor McClellan from Florida.”
After a pause, Carson sat up and mopped her face with her hands. “Taylor? Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure. Big guy. Good-looking. Military haircut.”
She sighed heavily. “Yeah, that sounds like Taylor.”
“You met him in Florida?”
“Yeah.” Carson groaned. “Shit. What’s he doing here? I told him I had a boyfriend.”
Just hearing those words made Harper’s spirits sink further. So he was interested in Carson and had come to see if there could be anything between them. Of course.
Harper made her tone neutral. “Only one way to find out. He’s waiting in the foyer.”
“Do me a solid. Can you stall him? Talk to him. Something.” Carson flopped back on her pillows with a sigh of resignation. “I need time to get dressed.” She shook her head in her hand. “Ugh. I feel sick. The last thing I want to do is entertain.”
“I could tell him to come back.”
“No.” She sighed again. “Be nice to him. He’s pretty closed, but once he lets his guard down, he’s a nice guy.” Carson reached over to take a sip of water from a straw. She groaned softly, then turned to Harper. “I’ll be there, but it might take a while.”
“Okay,” Harper replied as nonchalantly as she could. Inside, her heart did a cartwheel. “I just need a second to wipe the soap and grime off. I’m a mess.”
She rushed into Carson’s bathroom, slipping off the rubber gloves en route. She tossed them and the filthy shirt to the floor. Her heart beat the tempo as she gave herself what Granny James called a French bath, a quick once-over with soap on a washcloth at the sink. She yanked out her elastic, raked her tangled hair with a brush till it had the luster of burnished gold, then redid her ponytail. There was no time for makeup.
Once she felt refreshed, she hurried to Carson’s dresser to open a drawer. She was appalled as usual by the hoard of crumpled clothes she found crammed inside. When they were roommates, she’d been the neat freak Felix Unger to Carson’s Oscar Madison.
“God, Carson, don’t you ever fold your clothes?”
The Summer's End Page 4
