“I thought about that tonight,” Harper said in a darker tone. “I may have learned the difference between an ultimatum based on love and one based on selfishness.” She plucked at her shirt. “Damn my mother,” she said, her heat gaining fuel. “She treats me more like a lackey than a daughter. A lackey with no talent. She doesn’t have any faith in me. Sometimes, when she looks at me and she gets this look of distaste in her eyes, I know she sees my . . . our father.” Harper laughed bitterly. “And we all know what she thought about him.”
Carson said nothing.
“I can’t work for her anymore,” Harper declared, her eyes flashing. Then, as though the ramifications of that statement had just hit her, her shoulders slumped and her face fell. “The problem is, I don’t know what I want to do instead. I’ve always been the good little girl who did what she was told.” She tossed a pebble into the water.
“But not anymore,” Carson said in an effort to bolster her sister.
Harper lifted the corner of her mouth. “Not anymore. I’m done being her servant.” She looked up and held Carson’s gaze, as though daring her to believe her. Carson had no reason not to believe her and pulsed a message of support.
“So here I am,” Harper said. “I guess I’m not much different from you, Carson. I’ve nowhere else to go.”
Carson felt a rush of sympathy for her sister. She looked out over the black water. At the tip of the pier, a soft green light pierced the blackness. It blinked on and off, on and off, with a reassuring consistency.
When Carson turned back, weaving slightly, she wore a wry grin. “In a crazy way, I’m glad,” Carson told Harper. “It’s nice not to be all alone in the lifeboat.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Dora was sitting in the living room enjoying a peaceful afternoon of reading when she caught sight of Harper walking down the hall to Mamaw’s room. Dora was surprised to see her dressed in white shorts and a T-shirt rather than the usual black garb New Yorkers always wore. She glanced up at the grandfather clock and saw that it was already past three o’clock. Wasn’t Harper supposed to be on a plane for New York?
Dora marked her place in the book and set it on the sofa. Rising, she quietly made her way to Mamaw’s room, pausing at the door. She heard voices and strained to listen. She couldn’t quite make out what they were saying, but it sounded like Harper might have been crying. Curious, Dora took a measured step farther into the room, cringing as the floorboards creaked beneath her foot. Easing forward, she peeked around the door. She saw Mamaw sitting in her easy chair, framed by her beautiful windows. Pink roses in a crystal vase sat on the table beside her. At her feet sat Harper, her head in Mamaw’s lap, while Mamaw lovingly stroked Harper’s hair.
Carson was late for her meeting with Blake.
She refused to call it a date, grabbing her bag from the car. It was a windy day in the lowcountry. Bad for surfing, but good for kiteboarding. The fluctuation in wind made Charleston a go-to location for water sports. On any day one could ride the waves.
She followed the winding beach path bordered by an impenetrable barrier of groundsel shrubs. This barrier was home to countless animals and birds and a major source of food and shelter for the migrating monarch butterflies. A small green lizard scampered across the path and a young couple passed her going in the opposite direction. They nodded their heads and smiled in neighborly acknowledgment. Station 28 was on the northern end of the island near Breach Inlet, where swimming was forbidden due to hazardous currents. Though it wasn’t officially zoned for kiteboarding, the locals quietly understood that this area was designated for the wild aerobatics of the fast-moving kiteboarders.
The shaded path opened up to a wide spread of sunny beach. Beyond, the Atlantic Ocean caressed the shoreline in foam-tipped waves. Carson stepped into the sun and stopped, taking it all in and grinning from ear to ear. She’d not been to the beach since the shark incident. She’d missed the punch she felt every time she saw the infinite vista of sky and water. She’d missed the feel of sand between her toes.
But on this beach, the sky exploded with colorful kites! Eight years back there had only been three or four kiteboarders skimming over the water. Today she counted at least thirty kites. She laughed, thinking it looked as though an entire flock of enormous, brightly plumed birds were catching thermals over the ocean.
A happy sight, and it filled her with excitement that she was going to learn the sport. Carson felt like skipping across the beach, she was so thrilled. But she strolled at a leisurely pace to stand with the other rubberneckers along the shore watching the practitioners of the popular new sport. Some of the kiteboarders were far out, hydroplaning across the water, catching air and doing breathtaking turns and lifts of their boards. Some were struggling closer to shore, just learning how to maneuver the kites and getting in the way. And still more were on the beach, pumping air into their kites and laying out long tether lines, or waiting in a queue to go out.
Carson loved surfing—was good at it. But she’d long been curious about trying her hand at this new sport that would allow her to surf the air rather than the waves. She preferred solo water sports. Out on the water you needed a buddy, but the rider caught the wave or the wind on her own. Every day was a fresh attempt at soaring. She smiled to herself, wondering if she shouldn’t start applying that approach to all aspects of her life.
Holding her hand over her eyes like a visor, she scanned the beach for Blake. She noticed a man covered in tattoos glancing at her repeatedly, usually the warning sign that a pickup line was coming. She picked up her bag and began walking in the opposite direction. Across the beach she heard calls—“Launch!” “Good wind!” “What size kite is that?”
A tall, slender man caught her eye. He was holding on to the bars of his kite while at the other end of the long tether lines another man was assisting, lifting the arcing blue kite into the air. The man in the harness had a swimmer’s body, broad at the shoulders and slim at the hips. Sinewy muscles strained as the kite caught the wind. A beautiful body, she thought with her photographer’s eye, symmetrical and tanned. Something about the way his dark curls fell over his forehead made her look closer, squinting in the sunlight.
At that moment the man turned his head her way and their gazes met and held. Her toes curled in the sand. Blake. She felt a rush of embarrassment course through her veins at being caught staring. His lips turned into a confident smile, full of a rogue’s tease, and he lifted his hand in a brief wave before the kite surged in the wind and his attention was riveted back on it. She watched as Blake deftly maneuvered the broncolike kite in the air, steering it as he advanced toward the water, carrying his board under his arm. At the shoreline he dropped the board and mounted it. Then he released the kite to the wind and was off, slicing through the ocean with a ruffled wake.
He was good. Or he was showing off for her, she thought with a smile. Blake took air time frequently, soaring high and doing aerial stunts that had many on the beach pointing to him. Carson looked from left to right, smiling smugly because she knew him, even in such a distant way. She spread her towel out on the sand, claiming a spot. It was a beautiful afternoon with a fine breeze. She enjoyed watching the people and, farther off, closer to the inlet, a flock of peeps running along the shore, hunting for food in their straight-legged fashion.
At last she spotted Blake returning to the coast in a diagonal line, his muscles straining as he dragged the kite in from the water. She felt her stomach flutter as she rose to shake the sand from her towel. She was actually looking forward to talking with him again. Her interest was piqued, now that she’d seen his skill on the water. Athleticism had always been a major turn-on for her. Carson tossed the towel into her bag with the water bottle, her book, and her lotion, then hastily slipped a T-shirt on over her bikini. She began walking to where Blake was rolling up his kite, though not so fast as to appear anxious. Halfway there she stopped abruptly when she saw a young, curvy blonde prance to his side and begin talking in that fl
irtatious way young women do, twisting on her heel and playing with her hair. The three tiny rainbow triangles that made up her bikini exposed her taut, tanned body. Blake, as any other male would have, was enjoying the flirtation. Carson’s lips tightened in annoyance when the girl slipped an arm over his shoulder and leaned into him, laughing.
Without a second thought, Carson turned on her heel and detoured to the beach path. She was like a horse with blinders and couldn’t get out of the area fast enough. They were supposed to meet today and though she might have been late, she’d waited patiently while he kiteboarded. As she walked away, she grimaced. To think she’d almost embarrassed herself by going to talk to him. She made it back to the Beast, her name for the car, unlocked the door, and tossed her bag on the passenger side. It was as hot as an oven inside the car and as filled with sand as the beach. Empty water bottles littered the floor, and CDs, crumpled paper, gum wrappers, and hats covered the seats. She rolled down the windows and got behind the wheel. Her thighs stuck to the burning leather.
The engine strained and churned, but it didn’t fire. “Come on, Beast,” she muttered, and tried twice more. Each time the engine sounded weaker and weaker, like a beast giving up the ghost. Carson hit the wheel with the palm of her hand, then rested her head against it. At that moment, she didn’t know which was the bigger loser—the car or herself.
Carson felt sweaty and covered with sand when she finally returned to Sea Breeze. She quickly showered and changed into yoga pants and a clean cotton T-shirt. The bad taste of her ruined meeting with Blake and the final insult of the death of her car made her thirsty. She opened the fridge and stared at the opened bottle of Pinot Grigio. She yearned for it. Then, bolstering her resolve, she pulled out a pitcher of sweet tea and filled a large glass. Feeling slightly more confident after resisting the wine, she went in search of Mamaw. She found her sitting with Lucille in the shade of the back porch playing gin rummy. The fans were whirring above them, stirring up a pleasant breeze. Carson pulled up a black wicker chair to join them.
“Are you two at it again?” Carson asked.
“Every day, whether we need to or not,” Lucille replied with her cackling laugh.
“That’s the plan,” Mamaw said, and slapped down a discard. “Gin!”
Lucille grumbled, and after carefully checking to make sure Mamaw was right, she counted up points.
Carson cleared her throat. “Mamaw, I’d like to talk to you about something,” she began.
“Yes, dear?” Mamaw asked, looking her way with a smile of interest.
“Do you want me to go?” asked Lucille.
“No, please stay. Actually, I need you here, too.”
Mamaw and Lucille shared a curious glance, then focused on her.
“Well, see . . .” She licked her lips and dove in. “Harper and I were talking about Dad and his drinking. And about, well, about how we might carry the gene for the disease.”
“Oh,” Mamaw exclaimed with combined surprise and interest. “Do you think you might?”
“I don’t know,” Carson replied honestly. “It frightens me that I might. I drank a little too much in L.A. and may have done a few things I’m not proud of. But I don’t think I’m an alcoholic,” she added quickly. “I don’t need a drink to start the day or anything like that. I drink socially, with friends. And at dinner.”
Mamaw sat still, attentive to every word.
“Anyway,” Carson said in a deliberately easy manner, “Harper and I came up with this idea. We’d like to try and not drink for a while. At least not for a week. We want to see if we can stop. Kind of a bet,” she added, trying to make light of it.
“Oh, precious, that’s so wise,” Mamaw said. “If you only knew how many times I’d begged your father to stop, just for a while. He never would. He said he didn’t have a problem. That he could stop whenever he wanted to.”
“He couldn’t stop,” Lucille said. “He just couldn’t admit it.”
Mamaw leaned forward, cocking her head like a curious bird. “Sweet child, what can we do to help you?”
“Ditch the booze,” Carson said bluntly. Mamaw’s eyes widened, more from the vulgarity of her words. Carson smiled plaintively. “If you could please take away all the alcohol, hide it, do anything you like with it so I—we—can’t find it, I’d appreciate it. Just for a week, maybe more if all goes well. That goes for wine, too. If you serve wine at dinner, I’ll cave. I know I will. But if I eat my meals here and I don’t have alcohol around to tempt me, I’ll be able to really see if I can quit.” She rubbed her palms together between her knees, feeling clammy. “It’s not going to be easy. Just thinking about not drinking tonight makes me want a drink.”
“Consider it done!” Mamaw exclaimed.
“There won’t be a drop when you get back from work tomorrow,” Lucille said, her dark eyes gleaming like she was a woman on a mission. She glared at Mamaw. “Not anywhere. I’ll see to that.”
Mamaw narrowed her eyes, catching her meaning. Carson could see Mamaw working out in her mind if she could give up her nip of rum in the evenings.
“Who’s winning?” Carson asked in an upbeat voice, changing the subject.
Mamaw fluffed herself up like a queen and, with a smug smile, began shuffling the deck of cards. “I am, of course.”
“Today,” Lucille grumbled.
Carson was impressed. Mamaw dealt as smoothly as any croupier.
“How’s your job coming along?” Mamaw asked Carson as she dealt the cards.
“It’s fine,” Carson replied. “The tourists have arrived in force so my tips are good. It should be a good summer.”
“That’s nice,” Mamaw said in a distracted manner as she picked up her cards. Her fingers moved quickly, sorting her hand.
Carson took a breath, then began to play out the game of finesse that was in her mind. “Mamaw, speaking of summer . . . Do you know what would make my summer really great?”
“I don’t really know,” Mamaw replied in a distracted manner. “Something to do with the water, I suppose?”
Carson took a breath. “No. It’s kind of out there, so hear me through, okay?”
Lucille kept her eyes on her cards, but under her breath she muttered loud enough for all to hear, “Here comes the windup.”
“Well . . .” Carson began, ignoring Lucille’s tease. She leaned forward in the manner of a salesman. “My car, the Beast, died today. On my way home from the beach. It’s been resurrected more times than I can count over the years, but this time it’s a goner. I think the cross-country trip done her in. At least it died here and not somewhere in the middle of the country.” Carson strove for levity.
“I hope you’ll remove that piece of junk from my driveway,” Mamaw said, looking over the rim of her glasses. “I don’t want Sea Breeze to become one of those white-trash places overrun with cars and kudzu.”
“I have someone coming by later this week to tow it away,” Carson assured her. “I got a hundred dollars for the carcass.”
“That’s good,” Mamaw said, her attention returning to the cards.
“So I was thinking . . .” Carson said, her toes curling beneath the table. “Would you consider . . . well . . . how about letting me have the Blue Bomber?”
Mamaw stopped arranging her cards and looked up, suddenly alert. “What was that?”
“I need a car, Mamaw, so I wondered, since the Cadillac is just sitting in the garage . . .”
Mamaw put down her cards and studied Carson’s face, her eyes narrowing shrewdly. “You want me to give you my car?”
“Not give,” Carson rushed to answer. “Unless you’re inclined to let me put it on my wish list?”
“I am not.”
“Oh.” Carson released a disappointed puff of air.
Lucille said under her breath, “Strike one.”
“You’re not helping,” Carson said to Lucille.
“I just calls ’em as I sees ’em,” Lucille replied with a slight shrug of her shou
lders, still chuckling.
Carson looked at Mamaw pleadingly. “Would you let me buy it?”
“You have the money for it?”
“Not yet,” Carson replied, squirming in her seat.
“Strike two,” Lucille muttered.
Carson glared at her. “I’ve got a job and I’m making good tips,” she told Mamaw. “I’ll get the money.”
“When?”
“By the end of summer. Sooner, if a job from L.A. comes up.”
“So you do expect me to give it to you?”
Carson exhaled heavily with frustration. Yes, she was hoping her grandmother would give her the car immediately and let her work out the payment later. The car was just sitting in the garage most of the time anyway. She wouldn’t even miss it.
“What if I gave you a down payment now?” Carson cringed. It was embarrassing to not have any money, to have to borrow and beg at her age. “Say, a hundred dollars . . .”
“That will barely fill a tank of gas in that big ol’ car,” Mamaw replied. “Sugar, even if I let you buy it, you wouldn’t be able to afford the gas.”
“I won’t need a lot of gas,” Carson argued. “I only need the car to drive back and forth from Dunleavy’s. And I really love that old car. You know I do.”
Mamaw picked up her cards and began sorting them. She took her time, flicking the edges of her cards as she moved them. “I have a better idea,” Mamaw said at length. “Since you’ll be here all summer and only need transportation to and from Dunleavy’s, you don’t need a car, either.” She discarded a two of clubs. “You can ride my bicycle. In fact, you can have it. Just think of all the money you’ll save on gas. And all the exercise.”
“A bike?” Carson exclaimed with disappointment.
“Strike three,” Lucille said as she picked up the card and discarded a jack of diamonds.
“What if it rains?” asked Carson, growing desperate as she watched the two old women calmly playing cards. “I can’t show up to work wet.”
The Summer Girls Page 16
