The Summer Girls

by Mary Alice Monroe

  “Is Carson out surfing?” Marietta asked. Carson had been the first of the girls to arrive at Sea Breeze.

  “Oh, sure,” Lucille replied with a chuckle. “That girl is up with the birds while the rest of us are still in bed. She’s not lazy, that’s for true.”

  “She’s happiest when she’s on the water.” Marietta looked again at the mercurial colors of the pearls and thought of that same quality in Carson. Fire and ice. She was warmhearted to the core but quick to cool. It worried her that her beautiful granddaughter couldn’t find a place—or a man—to hold her. Something dark burned in her soul, like these pearls. That was dangerous for a woman’s heart. Marietta let the pearls slowly slide from her finger into the velvet bag.

  She looked at the three velvet bags lying on the coverlet. It was an old woman’s prerogative to own up to the mistakes of her life. She recognized now that her sins of omission with her son sowed the seeds of the problems in his marriages. Yet it was too late now to worry about the daughters-in-law, disappointments all of them. But her Summer Girls . . .

  This summer was her final attempt to circle back, to recognize each granddaughter with clear vision, to close the gaping distance that had been growing between them over the last decade, and hopefully to restore some measure of their affection for each other.

  Three granddaughters, three necklaces, three months . . . she thought to herself. This was the plan.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Carson had always believed salt water ran in her veins. She couldn’t bear to be inland too long. A day spent without her toes dipping at least once into an ocean was a day half lived. Simply put, the ocean was her life.

  The day had begun as a typical May morning on Sullivan’s Island. After just a couple days back at Sea Breeze, Carson was already settling into a comfortable rhythm. She awoke as the pale rays of dawn painted her bedroom walls a pearlescent pink. Soundlessly, the young woman rose from the single bed of the room she’d always claimed in her grandmother’s house. This morning, her head was woozy and her mouth felt like dry cotton from the wine she’d drunk the night before. She still didn’t know how Mamaw could stop after just two glasses. When would she ever learn that heavy drinking and early rising didn’t mix?

  Carson slipped into a bikini, still cold, damp, and sticky with salt from yesterday’s late swim. Peeking out the shutters as she applied a thick coating of SPF 50 to her face, she spied the ghostly remnants of a moon in the dusky dawning sky.

  She smiled at the possibility of catching a wave while the red sun broke free of the horizon. It was her favorite moment of the day.

  Carson hurried, stepping into flip-flops and loosely tying back her long, dark brown hair into a sloppy bun with an elastic. The pine floors creaked in the old beach house as she crept along the narrow hall to the kitchen. The last thing she wanted to do was awaken Mamaw. Her grandmother didn’t appreciate the importance of getting out on the incoming tide.

  Except for the newer appliances, the ancient kitchen with its pine cabinets and flooring and multipaned windows had never changed. Lucille wouldn’t allow it. Long ago the kitchen had been painted yellow, but over the years it had dulled to a hue that, in the heat of a Southern summer, always made Carson think of rancid butter. Still, Carson loved everything about this house and it pained her deeply to think that Mamaw might be selling it.

  Opening the screen door, she stepped out into the morning’s fresh promise. There was a hush in the air. The day was as yet cool and unspoiled. As she crossed the porch and made her way across the dewy grass, her gaze swept the leaning garage, the house, and the quaint cottage that Lucille lived in. The buildings clustered together around an ancient oak drooling long trails of moss. In the morning light, the sight looked like an Elizabeth Verner pastel depicting historic Charleston. Mamaw adored Sea Breeze and had always seen that it was meticulously maintained. It struck Carson that now the place was as tired and aged as its matron. Carson thought again how precious each day was.

  Beside her surfboard she kept a large canvas bag filled with sandals, suntan lotion, a towel, and a cap. To it she added a fresh towel and an icy bottle of water and headed across the yard to her car, nicknamed the Beast. The car smelled of salt and coconut oil and the floors were covered in sand and empty water bottles.

  It was a short drive to her favorite spot on the neighboring Isle of Palms. Carson recognized the few cars already parked along Palm Boulevard near Thirty-Second Avenue. Grand houses sat side by side between the road and dunes like a pastel-colored fence blocking the view of the ocean from the street. She walked along the beach path, her heels carving deep prints in the cool sand. The dunes were alive with spring wildflowers—yellow primroses, purple petunias, and the brilliant red and orange gaillardia. She spotted the ravaged frame of a dead bird, barely visible among the blossoms. Ants were marching to and from the hollow bones while bits of broken feathers stirred in the breeze. Poor thing, Carson thought. Nature, she knew, wasn’t always pretty.

  The weight of the surfboard was heavy on her arm but she pushed on without pause up the final dune. Reaching its peak, she felt the first gust of salt-tinged air. Carson rested her board in the sand and her face broke into a wide grin as she took in the unparalleled vista of dark sea and sky melting into an endless horizon. Closing her eyes, she breathed deep the taste of home.

  Carson couldn’t deny the unswerving pull of the tides. There was something about the smell here—the tangy mud mixed with salt—that sparked memory. The Southern coastline with its glassy, peeling waves was softer, more welcoming, than the rocky cliffs and powerful surf of California. Everything about the lowcountry soothed. And no matter how many times she’d left, or how often she’d sworn never to return, those deep tidal roots kept tugging her back.

  The beach was dotted with a few tanned men and women waxing their boards and chatting with one another. The camaraderie between local surfers ran deep. They grew up together, and over years of seeing each other daily on the water, those loose friendships forged bonds that lasted a lifetime. Echoes of their high-pitched laughter mingled with birdcalls. Farther out in the ocean, a few surfers were already on their boards, bobbing in the lineup while waiting for a decent wave. She quickly joined them and freshened up the board wax where her back foot had worn through the last coat.

  She wasted no time. The swell was two to three feet, solid by South Carolina standards. She felt her enthusiasm begin to bubble in her veins. Lastly, she wiggled into a spring suit—a short-sleeved, short-legged wet suit—that hugged her body like a second skin. It was a tight squeeze and she ignored the annoying stares from some of the men on the beach. Done with her preparations, Carson hoisted her board and took her first few steps into the brisk water.

  Here we go, she thought as she plowed through the surf, paddling hard in the chilly water out to where the breakers hit. When she caught sight of the first blue wall of a good wave she gripped the sides of her board, pushed down, ducked her head, and dove under it. The board cut through the water as the cold wave broke over her. She burst from the water, hair streaming, gasping for air, droplets of water shimmering on her face in the sunlight.

  Carson loved this first exhilarating immersion in the ocean. For her, it was akin to a baptism, leaving her refreshed and clean, forgiven of all sins. That epiphany was what kept her coming, morning after morning. It was addictive. Grinning, she kept paddling as she braced herself for the next wave.

  Once out beyond the breakers, Carson pulled herself up to sit on her board and wait for a wave. Her long bare legs dangled in the murky coastal water as she looked out at the sandy shore beyond. From this distance, she felt more a part of the sea than of the land. There was a profound sense of solitude this far out in the ocean, an awareness of how small one truly was in the scheme of such vastness. Rather than feel small, however, in this arena she felt part of something much bigger than herself. This gave her both a sense of power and peace.

  Fellow surfers joined her in the ocean, bobbing o
n their boards like pelicans on the water as they waited for the right wave. Surfing was a solo sport but surfers chose their favorite spots. This was hers. She’d surfed here when she was a teen, and had readily gotten to know the current community of surfers. There were even some familiar faces. Despite the fact that she was a loner at heart, it was nice having someone to watch her back out on the mercurial ocean.

  She bobbed in the water for a long while, waiting for a good wave. Looking up at the rising sun, she realized that the tide was beginning to suck back out and she was floating farther out than usual. Behind her, a shrimp boat was trawling. The distance between them was uncommonly short. In fact the trawler was so close she could hear the raucous cry of the seagulls hovering over the green nets, vying to steal a meal. Pelicans circled and a few dolphins arched nearby as well, searching for a handout.

  Carson frowned with annoyance. This was a recipe for trouble. Anytime fish gathered, wildlife hovered. Instinct told her to paddle farther from the boat, but in the distance she saw a strong wave building. “At last,” she murmured, and gripped her board tight. This would be her ride in. Suddenly her attention was caught by a pelican tucking in its long wings and dive-bombing into the ocean, a mere ten feet from her board.

  “Whoa,” she exclaimed as she felt the ripples in the water. The bird had barely disappeared under the water when from the same spot the sea exploded in spray as a massive shark burst from the water, the pelican dangling in its jaws. Carson’s breath froze in her chest as she watched the shark spin in the air, a glistening gray missile, then fall with a bombastic splash mere feet from her board. Carson pulled her legs onto her board and stared in shock as she rocked in the powerful wake.

  For a second it seemed as though the whole earth had sucked in its breath. On the shore, people clustered near the water and pointed toward her. Yards away, a fellow surfer’s eyes were wide with fear.

  “Get out of there!” Danny shouted as he paddled hard toward shore.

  What do I do? her mind screamed. She was fearful of putting her legs and arms back into the water. She’d missed the wave and the shark could be anywhere in the murky water, even right below her. Carson scanned the sea. The sun glistened like diamonds on the water. Overhead, the seagulls had resumed their grating cries as they circled the receding shrimp boat. All appeared peaceful. Carson released her breath and slowly leaned forward to her belly to paddle.

  Then, from the corner of her eye, she caught a swift movement. She turned to see the unmistakable dorsal fin of a shark circling the shrimp boat. Dear God, don’t let the beast be inflamed into a feeding frenzy, she prayed, paddling hard, focusing all of her mounting adrenaline on just making it to shore. Amid the cries of the birds, Carson heard the shouts of fellow surfers calling to her to get out of there. Moments later she felt a rough bump against her right leg from a large body. It felt like wet sandpaper. Carson’s stomach dropped and she yanked her legs back up onto the board, holding tight.

  “Oh God, oh God,” she cried against her knees. The salt water burned her eyes and her whole body shook as she searched the dark sea. She knew from beneath the surface her surfboard resembled a sea turtle or a seal—ideal prey for a shark. For the first time in the sea, Carson felt hunted and helpless.

  She shivered, waiting, watching as time crept by. All seemed quiet again. The sun was changing the sky from dusky to a brilliant, cloudless blue. She raised her hand like a visor over her eyes and squinted as she scanned the blue water that went on forever. She was alone. The other surfers had made it in to shore and the shrimp boat was heading north in its leisurely trawl. For a moment Carson felt a sense of hope. Surely the shark would follow the trail of the boat’s fish-chummed water.

  Then her surfboard rocked as a dark shadow passed close, fully as long as her six-foot board. Carson choked back a scream as the large gray body emerged from the depths beside her, but she released her breath in a sigh of relief at the sight of the rounded head, the long snout, and the sweet smile of a dolphin.

  The dolphin circled her board, arching in its typical fashion, then circled twice more before it disappeared again. Carson swiped her hair back and took a deep breath. She’d read somewhere that dolphins didn’t swim near sharks. Encouraged, once again she slowly loosened her legs and began to tentatively paddle toward shore, trying not to splash. She was making progress when she spotted the shark circling to her left. Cursing it to hell, Carson jerked her legs back on her board.

  The shark was maybe ten feet in length and at least four hundred pounds of hard muscle. It was a bull shark, one of the most aggressive and unpredictable sharks that prowled shallow waters. Humans were not part of their diet, but the bulls were testy and had been known to deliver fatal bites. And this predator was clearly curious about her. It advanced toward her in its unmistakable zigzag pattern.

  Suddenly, the dolphin emerged again. It swam close to her board and began slapping the water with its tail fluke aggressively, as if beating a drum in warning. It seemed to work; the shark suddenly veered away and the dolphin submerged again. Carson felt the seconds tick by, clutching her legs, teeth chattering. What was happening? She’d heard that dolphins protected humans from sharks, and she prayed that was happening in this moment.

  But the shark would not be chased off. It reemerged farther out, refusing to yield. The dolphin turned and began swimming with agitation in the stretch of blue sea between her and the shark before it disappeared again. Carson kept her gaze pinned to the shark, which suddenly turned her way. At that moment time seemed to crystallize. Carson felt numb as all sound diminished into the vacuum of those soulless eyes. Her mouth slipped open in a silent cry.

  Out of nowhere, the dolphin suddenly streaked past her in a straight trajectory for the shark. The dolphin was so fast it hydroplaned across the water like a missile to T-bone the shark’s flank. The bulky shark seemed to fold in half under the force of the hit in its vulnerable gills. For a fraction of a second the stunned shark appeared to hang limp, suspended in the water. Then, in a swift, reflexive move, the monster swung its head, its blood-colored gums and fierce teeth exposed, in an attack. The dolphin bolted, but not before the shark’s teeth closed on its tail.

  “No!” Carson couldn’t stifle a cry as they both disappeared again under the water. It had all happened so fast—a matter of seconds.

  Her heart broke for the dolphin, but she knew she had to get away while she could. Mercifully, a decent wave was building. This would be her best, perhaps only, chance to escape. She paddled for her life, stroking deep, immeasurably grateful for the familiar feel of the water lifting her forward. Clinging tight to her board, with her eyes fixed on the beach, she rode the crest on shaky legs close to shore.

  Normally Carson was careful not to scrape her board by driving it into the beach, but today she rode the wave all the way in. Her legs felt like rubber and were scraped by the sand. Her friends ran to help her up and to carry her board from the sea.

  While people clustered around her, Carson stood on the shore and stared at the ocean, her arms crossed tightly around her chest, shivering violently despite the morning sun. She looked out in an uncomprehending daze. Somehow, for reasons she didn’t understand, a dolphin had saved her life, perhaps losing its own in the effort. She’d heard similar tales from fellow surfers, but this hadn’t happened to somebody else. It was real. It had happened to her.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The following day, Carson returned to the Isle of Palms and stared out from the beach at the familiar vista of ocean and sky. The surfboard felt heavy under her arm, and the late-afternoon sun was hot on her shoulders, but she lingered, staring out at the expanse of ocean and the mild waves cascading ashore. Only one other surfer was out there, bobbing in the calm sea, staring out at the horizon. The surf was unremarkable, barely enough to bother with. Yet that wasn’t what was keeping Carson’s feet rooted to the sand.

  She was afraid. Her mouth was dry. Her heart was racing, not in anticipation but in dread. As sh
e looked out at the vast expanse of the ocean, images of the shark flashed in her mind. She saw again the death in the soulless eyes, the rolling back of the mouth, exposing powerful pink gums and razor-sharp teeth. Carson felt again the terror of floating helplessly on her board while, underneath the murky water, a frenzied beast was biding its time.

  Never, not even as a little girl, had she hesitated to leap into the salt water, as eager as any other creature of the sea that had been on land too long. The ocean, the Atlantic especially, was her motherland. She knew she shared the water with countless other creatures. Sharks included. The ocean was their home, too, one she’d shared with them for all of her life. She told herself that what had happened yesterday morning was a freak occurrence.

  She shook her legs, swallowed hard, and expelled a long, shaky breath. “Get back in there. You belong there. Come on . . .”

  Carson rolled her shoulders, then took off into the water. The water was chilly as she splashed into the shallows. Her heels dug into the soft sand; then, when she was far enough out, she slapped her board onto the water. She felt the tingling cold on her bare skin as she lay flat on the board, then stretched her arms out and began paddling hard out to sea. Push, push, push, she told herself, puffing hard. The sunlight on the water was glaringly bright. Carson felt cold, and the salt water burned her eyes. The first wave was approaching. She gripped her board tight. Ducked her head. Took a breath to dive under it.

  Then she bailed. She couldn’t help herself. Her muscles were tightening and her heart was pounding in a panic. All she could think of was that she had to get out of the water, get back to shore. Gulping air, she paddled for her life. Once in the shallows she leaped from her board and dragged it ashore, collapsing on the sand.

  Carson crouched on the beach with her forehead resting on her knees as her breath slowly returned to normal. When she could, she wiped her face with her palms and stared out at the ocean again, stunned.