The Summer's End

by Mary Alice Monroe

  As lovely as the scenery was, Dora much more enjoyed the sight of Dev and Nate at the wheel. Dev stood a few paces behind Nate as the boy took a turn to steer. She could tell by Nate’s rigid stance that he was taking his task seriously. And having the time of his life. It was an easy thing to offer, yet something Cal never allowed his son. Her heart expanded with gratitude to Devlin.

  He was a fine figure of a man, she thought, sprinkling drops of cool water on her face. She thought back to when she and Dev were young and rode along these same waters. They’d drop anchor and jump without a thought into the water for a swim. Ah, youth, she thought with chagrin. No way she’d do that today. Age brought reason, and she knew how fast a boat could come speeding out of nowhere.

  Devlin pointed to a small creek ahead. “That’s where we turn off. It’s my secret spot, and, man, oh, man, we’re gonna catch us some fish!”

  “When school starts, does that mean I can’t go fishing no more?” Nate asked.

  “Anymore,” Dora corrected automatically. “Of course not. You can go fishing all year round, if you can bear the cold.”

  “Then I’m gonna,” he replied, picking up Devlin’s speech. “I don’t mind the cold. Fishing is my most favorite thing in the world.”

  Devlin met Dora’s eye and smiled before he called back to Nate, “That makes two of us.” Then Devlin turned the engine low. “Okay, son, I best take over here. You keep an eye out on the edges. Call if I get too close.”

  Devlin veered off into a narrow creek that looked to Dora like all the other small creeks they’d passed. She always marveled at how Devlin could navigate these backwater creeks and never get lost. She’d heard stories of less confident captains getting lost and then stuck in the mudflats when the fickle tide turned. Once stuck, they’d have to wait hours until the tide returned.

  A soft wind swayed the spartina. Dora listened to the rhythmic scraping of the salt-grass stems and in the distance heard the loud hyena cackle of an unseen bird.

  “Look!” Nate exclaimed.

  Dora turned to see Nate leaning over the edge of the boat, pointing.

  “Someone’s found out your secret spot!” Nate exclaimed, offended. “Can they do that?”

  A small johnboat sat anchored along a mudflat with fishing rods already in the water.

  “It’s a free country.” Devlin steered the boat to the opposite side of the creek so as not to cause a wake for the other fishermen. “Plenty to go around. We’ll just mosey on a little farther up the creek.”

  Dora turned her head to view a gray-haired man and woman sitting side by side in the boat. Their backs were to Dora, but something about them was familiar. Dora turned her body to lean over the boat’s railing, squinting to get a better look.

  “Oh, my word!” she exclaimed. “That’s Mamaw!”

  “What?” Devlin slowed the engine to a growl, then moved to the side of the boat for a better look. “Well, I’ll be damned, it is. Who’s she with?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Nate exclaimed, “It’s Old Mr. Bellows.”

  “Are you sure?” Dora squinted.

  “Oh, yes.” Nate gave a confident nod. “They’re friends. I saw them talking at the dock.”

  A small smile played at Dora’s lips. “Really?”

  “Yes, really,” Nate replied matter-of-factly.

  As they drew nearer, Dora cupped her hands over her mouth and called out, “Hey, Mamaw! Ahoy there!”

  Mamaw swung her head around, following the call. Her mouth opened in a silent gasp at recognizing them. Dora laughed at her grandmother’s startled expression and waved her arm in a wide arc, gleefully thinking, Aha, caught in the act! Nate and Devlin called out greetings as well. Mamaw waved back with a feeble gesture, obviously flustered. They were traveling farther away from the couple, but Dora could still see them sitting, shoulders touching.

  “Mamaw, what are you up to?” Dora murmured to herself. She couldn’t wait until the card game that night.

  Mamaw was well aware that she and Girard were sitting so close that their shoulders were touching. She’d not only allowed it, she enjoyed it. It had been a long time since her stomach had fluttered at the touch of a man. And it was harmless enough. They were two old acquaintances, even friends, fishing together on a summer morning. It was all perfectly innocent.

  Then why did it feel like anything but when Dora had caught them together? It was downright disconcerting, she thought as her hands tightened on the rod.

  Girard chuckled at her side, lost in his own thoughts.

  “What’s so funny?” she asked, slightly annoyed.

  “Oh, just feeling a bit like two teenagers caught sneaking out.”

  Mamaw glanced at him, saw his amused expression, and couldn’t help but laugh. “It’s true,” she said ruefully. She’d wanted to keep this to herself. The outing was above suspicion, yet she knew the thoughts racing through her mind were far from dewy innocent.

  She’d been remembering the crush she’d had on Girard Bellows some fifty years ago. She’d met Girard at a welcome party thrown for the Bellowses by their good friend Bitsy. Sullivan’s Island was a small community and, in those days, close-knit. Many of the families in their group had connections that spanned generations in Charleston. They’d grown up together, went to the same churches, their children and their children’s children went to the same schools. The Bellowses, however, were considered “from off” by the local families. This created a powerful curiosity factor that had the island gossips eager to learn more about them.

  The party had been at Bitsy’s shore house. On this balmy night the katydids were singing. Cars were parked along the narrow streets for blocks and Bitsy had the cottage lit up. A group played soft jazz, and tables creaked under the weight of food. Marietta had stepped out onto the back porch to escape the smoke-filled rooms. She remembered the heavy scent of jasmine lingering in the air. The sun was setting and candles were flickering in the hurricane lamps like fireflies.

  Across the porch a tall, lean man was standing in a cluster of men drinking scotch or bourbon and talking about guns or money or business. Although most of them were tan, his was darker—that of a man who spent time on the water. His blue eyes shone brilliantly against the ruddy color, and when he laughed, which he did freely, his teeth shone white. Bitsy had thought he was dreamy, like Cary Grant. And, she’d added meaningfully, his family was very old money. His wife, Eleanor, was exceedingly beautiful and well-bred, yet Marietta had always found her dull and even dim.

  Marietta had walked up to the cluster of men. Bitsy’s husband, Bob, was in his cups and grandly introduced her as “our resident nature lover.” Girard had immediately turned an interested gaze upon her and began asking a series of questions, surprisingly well informed, on the local wildlife. His upper-crust New England accent fell sweet on her ears, though, she recalled, it had grated against Edward’s.

  That initial conversation was the beginning of a longtime friendship. Though there might have been a slight undertone of flirtation to it, the only passion they’d shared concerned wildlife and the local landscape.

  “Do you remember the first night we met?” she asked him.

  Girard turned and smiled. His blue eyes, paler now with age, still had the ability to capture her attention and hold it. “I most certainly do. I remember thinking you were the most interesting woman I’d met that night.”

  “Only that night?”

  “The most interesting woman I’d met in my life.”

  Marietta scoffed at that. He always was a charmer. Though it was his intelligence that had attracted her the most. He had eclectic tastes and she found his opinions challenging. Girard could discuss finance, science, art, and politics with equal ease and distinction.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “No reason. I was just remembering how, even from the first, you and I could talk on and on and I’d lose track of time. Like right now. I have no idea whatsoever what time it is.” She laughed. “And
I couldn’t care less.”

  That first evening at Bitsy’s party they’d stood together on the porch and talked while the night darkened around them and the candles sputtered in the lamps. It was terribly rude not to mingle, but she despised idle gossip and was having such a good time talking about environmental issues with someone who cared.

  “I remember being annoyed when your husband came to draw you away,” Girard said.

  “Later, he admonished me for sparking gossip. We had quite a row about it.”

  “I can’t imagine you being silenced by a bunch of gossips.”

  “Hardly. We were doing nothing wrong.”

  “A bit, perhaps. Evelyn was jealous.”

  “Of what?” she asked, shocked.

  “Of our shared interests and projects.”

  “I never meant not to include her.”

  “Precisely. Conservation never interested her.” He looked out over the water.

  Marietta cast him a furtive glance. “You know, Edward was always jealous of you, as well. A little.”

  Girard swung his head around again. “Was he?” His eyes sparkled.

  “Oh, yes. Especially the time you took me sailing.”

  Girard laughed then, a soft chuckle. “He’s lucky I didn’t sail off with you.”

  “Really . . . ,” she said with feigned scorn, and looked away feeling a slight blush coloring her cheeks. “Just as well I didn’t know you had such fanicful thoughts,” she said, enjoying the flirtatious banter. “After that land-trust deal you were my hero.”

  “So you’re saying I missed my chance to steal you away?”

  She turned and raised her brow. “You just might have succeeded . . . that one time.”

  They both laughed.

  “I think,” Girard said with finality, pulling in his fishing rod. “The fish aren’t biting today.”

  “Doesn’t appear so.” She was grateful for the distraction of pulling in her own rod. “We gave it the old college try.”

  “I owe you another shot. What do you say, Marietta? Are you up to try again?”

  “I owe it to myself to catch at least one.”

  “Good!” His white teeth shone against his tan. “We’ll try again tomorrow. For today, let’s shove off.”

  The boat’s motor ignited and churned the water with a great growl. Mamaw clutched her hat with one hand and the side of the johnboat with the other as Girard sped up. The small boat bounced as it cut through the water, spraying water in her face. She laughed out loud at the giddy experience. She looked up at the sun shining above, feeling its light warm her, reminding her of the spring of her youth, bringing her back to life.

  The midafternoon sky was cloudy, hinting at rain. Harper leaned against the back of the dock bench with her legs up and her computer in her lap. She was glad for the clouds that kept the pounding sun at bay and promised much-needed rain for her garden. She’d been out here for hours, her fingers flying on the keyboard as her story flowed. She was so caught up in her story that she startled when she heard a voice.

  “Want some lemonade?”

  She swung her head up to see Taylor standing beside her carrying two glasses of lemonade. Flustered, she hurriedly closed her computer and moved her legs to sit up.

  “Thanks.” She took the cool glass dripping with condensation. She took a sip and found it perfectly tart. “It’s delicious.”

  “My mother made it. She makes me a thermos every day.” He laughed lightly. “She hovers.”

  “Sit down.” She indicated the empty bench with her hand.

  “Are you sure I’m not bothering you.”

  “Not at all. I could use the break.”

  He seemed pleased by the invitation and sat beside her, letting his arm stretch out over the back of the bench. Taking a long drink from his glass, he looked out over the Cove.

  Harper turned her head as well. She’d been sitting here all afternoon and had stared only at her laptop. The sky was startling in its contrasts. Shafts of pearly light shot out from steely-gray storm clouds in sharp angles, looking like an art deco painting. The light cast translucent shadows on the murky water.

  “It’s beautiful here,” Taylor said.

  “I look out at this same view every day, and every time I see it differently. It’s always changing. Never boring.”

  “How long are you here for?”

  “Till the end of summer.”

  “Not long.”

  “No.” She let her finger trace the condensation on the glass. “Longer than I’ve ever spent before, though. When I was a child I only spent a few months. Had to be home in August for school.”

  “This is a pretty great place to spend the summer.”

  She smiled hearing the truth of it. “It was a magical time for me and my sisters. A real Huck Finn existence. Carson and I used to run wild over the island.” She leaned forward as though telling a secret. “My grandmother tells us that we are descended from a pirate.” She made a shocked face. “Imagine.”

  “Is it true?”

  “I honestly don’t know. But I like to think so. The Muirs have a long line of sea captains.”

  Taylor lifted his brow. “Really?”

  She laughed, not surprised that he’d found that tidbit interesting, given that his father was a captain. “Yep. Anyway, there’s this story, a legend really, that the Gentleman Pirate—that’s our ancestor—buried his gold somewhere on Sullivan’s Island. So naturally, Carson and I dressed up as pirates and searched for the buried treasure.”

  “Ever find it?”

  She chortled and shook her head. “Nope. But we had the best time looking. Mamaw didn’t allow television during the day and scooted us out of the house to play. Carson and I . . .” Harper smiled. “What a pair we made. We both loved adventure. I was . . . am . . . a big reader. I loved to come up with plots for our make-believe, mostly from books I’d read.” She looked out over the water as memories played in her mind. “Our imaginations knew no bounds. Day after day we went out, absorbed in our made-up worlds.” When she turned back, she found him studying her face. She blushed and looked at her hands. “You must think that’s silly.”

  Taylor shook his head. “Actually, I think that’s pretty great.”

  She flushed with pleasure and turned her head. The shimmering water was racing with the current. “This summer is the first time I’ve been here in years. Since I was ten or eleven. The first time all of us have been together since Dora’s wedding. It’s both strange and really nice to be living under the same roof with Mamaw and my sisters again.”

  “I get that. I’m staying with my parents. For a few weeks, anyway. It’s nice to visit, but I wouldn’t want to stay longer than that. I don’t think any of us could stand it.”

  She thought about that comment. “A few months ago I would’ve agreed with you. Back in May I didn’t think I’d be able to stand a whole summer with these women I hardly knew. Sure, we’re related, but did we like each other? Or would we tear each other’s hair out?”

  “And . . . ?”

  “And it turned out we did like each other.” She smiled. “Though we’ve had our moments of hair pulling, too.”

  “Where do you fit in the lineup? Who’s the eldest?”

  “Eudora’s the eldest. Then Carson. Then me.”

  “So you’re the baby.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Please . . . That’s a name I’ve been trying to outgrow most of my life.”

  Taylor gave a low whistle. “Hold on. Eudora, Carson, Harper. I see a pattern.”

  Harper shook her head. “Yes, right. That’s my father. He was a writer and had the idea to name his daughters after great southern authors.”

  Taylor leaned back, looking at the sky in thought. “That’s Eudora Welty. Harper Lee. Carson . . .”

  “McCullers. The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter.”

  “Oh, yeah.” He nodded his head with approval. “That’s cool.”

  Harper took a sip of lemonade and shrugged. To
this day her mother rued the day she’d agreed to call her only child after a southern author rather than a British one.

  “Are you close?”

  “Me and my sisters?” Harper pursed her lips. “We couldn’t be more different. We each were raised in different parts of the country. Carson in California, me in New York, Dora in the Carolinas. We have different lifestyles, beliefs, style of dress. Mothers. But somehow, when we’re together, we all fit, like pieces of a puzzle made whole. Take this summer,” Harper said, warming to the subject. “We’ve all been in varying states of transition, and it’s been like Sea Breeze is our lifeboat and we’re all in it together, paddling for shore. We’ve helped each other along, and in the process, we’ve become more than sisters.” She looked back at the water. “So yes. We’re close. We’ve become best friends.”

  Below, the water slapped the wooden dock, and the wood moaned. After a moment, Taylor said, “Sounds like you’ve found your treasure.”

  Harper turned her head back to look at him, pleased at his perspicacity.

  Taylor swallowed the last of his lemonade in a gulp. “I best get back to work. Nice talking with you, Harper.” He touched her shoulder, briefly, then turned and walked away.

  Harper put her hand on her shoulder and watched his long, purposeful stride back up the dock to the house.

  Chapter Seven

  Canasta was a card game in the gin rummy family, so Mamaw felt her blood stirring when she pulled out the decks of cards. It was another steamy afternoon in the lowcountry, and feeling particularly thirsty, she poured two liberal fingers of rum over ice. It was almost five o’clock, wasn’t it?

  She met her granddaughters in the living room. They were abandoning the porch due to the continuing heat wave. The room was more formal than the rest of the house, filled with what Mamaw referred to as “good” family antiques, which meant museum quality, all early American, with pale blue silk upholstery. Not the usual room for playing cards. The air was festive as they opened the folding card table and chairs, turned on music, and gathered around.