The Summer Girls

by Mary Alice Monroe

  “Oh, wow, I wonder how I’ll ever make it to shore,” she teased him.

  “You never know,” he said with a twinkle in his eye, then laughed. He put his sunglasses on, picked up his backpack and slung it over his shoulders, grabbed a large towel and draped it around his neck, then slid off the boat into the water.

  They strode together through the muck to where the mud was dry and sandy. Blake chose a dry patch and spread out the towel, dropped his backpack, and indicated she should join him. She sat next to him on the towel and stretched her mud-and-sand-streaked legs out in the sun to dry.

  They were enclosed in a private world rimmed with sparkling water and brilliant green grasses and trees. Above them was a vast azure sky dotted with thick white clouds. While Blake unpacked the food, Carson leaned back on her arms and listened to the sound of wind in the spartina grass and the occasional plop that could’ve been air bubbles in the banks, shrimp, or even a fish jumping in the distance. From above she heard the piercing cries of the osprey, and looking up, she saw a black and white fish hawk circling.

  “It’s so peaceful here,” she said with a sigh. “I feel a million miles away.”

  He smiled, pleased to see she was having a good time, and handed her a brown paper bag from the local island deli. She sat up, surprised at how hungry she was. Inside she found a thick turkey sandwich on whole wheat bread, a large chocolate chip cookie, and an apple. Blake opened a large thermos and poured her cup full of chilled sweet tea.

  “I’m surprised you haven’t gone out here before,” Blake said.

  “I’ve been out on boats many times, but never in this area.” She looked around uncomprehendingly. They’d journeyed so far and so long. “Wherever we are,” she added with a light laugh. “And it’s been a long time since I’ve been in the lowcountry.” Her voice turned wistful as she gazed out for the thousandth time that day. The view never got old. “I’d forgotten how beautiful it is . . .” She let her voice trail off.

  “These waters have always been my backyard,” Blake said, then bit into his sandwich.

  Carson chewed and imagined him as a boy out in this great playland. No doubt skinny and as brown as a berry, his wild curls framing curious black eyes. He and Ethan were probably a lot like she and Harper used to be, only, even then, those two ruffians would’ve known every twist and turn of these waterways, where the sandbars were and the shallows. The best spots for fishing, swimming, and as they got older, tossing back a few cold ones. She smiled at the thought.

  “What’re you thinking?” he asked.

  Startled, she realized she’d been daydreaming. She saw him sitting beside her with a huge sandwich in his hand, his cap over his head and his cheeks slightly pink from the sun, and she could see the boy in the man.

  “Were you a rebellious kid?” she asked, a gentle teasing tone in her voice.

  Blake barked out a laugh. “Me?” he asked, his eyebrows raised, pointing to himself like the little boy she’d imagined.

  “Yes, you,” she replied, laughing.

  “Yeah, I guess I was. A little. In a good way. Never broke the law or anything like that.” He took a hearty gulp of his tea, then wiped his mouth with his hand. “I might’ve bent it a little.”

  “I’ll bet,” she said with a chuckle.

  “What about you? Were you a wild child? Or were your parents the strict type?”

  She drank some of her tea, thinking about how while Blake had been riding the water and kicking up a little dust on the roads, she had been in L.A. taking care of her father, cooking meals, cleaning their apartment, and shopping for food. The wildest it got for her was when she had to rise from her bed late at night, put on a coat, and go out alone to fetch him home from the bar.

  “When I was a girl, Harper and I ran amok on the island, but the most trouble we ever got into was for exploring the tunnels of Fort Moultrie by ourselves. I only spent summers here when I was a girl. After that, I was in L.A. I didn’t have much time to fool around. My mother died when I was four. So it was just me and my father. He depended on me.”

  Blake’s brows gathered. “I’m sorry about your mother.”

  Carson shrugged the apology off, not wanting to spoil the mood. “I didn’t really know her.” Deftly, she turned the subject back to him. “What about your mother?”

  Blake settled back and launched into stories about the big and boisterous Legare clan. She listened, mesmerized by the idea of having such a large family. He had the soul of a Southern storyteller. He could embellish colorful details and string her along in his easy cadence, all while she was laughing so hard tears came to her eyes. She could see these people, knew them as she’d known so many good, decent people coming up on Sullivan’s Island. Even though she was here now, his stories made her feel homesick for the years she’d missed while away.

  Carson was wiping a tear of laughter from her eye when she caught Blake watching her, a faint smile on his lips, his eyes as dark and full of mysteries as the creek mud. She felt a shiver, what Mamaw might have called a palpitation, and felt the zing of connection. In the quiet between them she was suddenly aware that she wanted this man, wanted to feel his lips on hers, more than she’d wanted a man for a very long time. Her gaze turned sultry in invitation as she pondered the thoughts that were surely running through his mind at that very moment.

  Blake stirred and abruptly looked at his watch. “I guess we’d better be heading back. The clouds are moving in.”

  Carson felt a sudden deflation even as a gust of cooler wind stirred her hair and blew grains of sand in her face. She wished they could have stayed longer and talked more. They’d crossed some line and she would have liked to see where it led.

  Then she looked up at the gathering clouds and roused herself to action. As she collected their trash and put it into the backpack, he shook the sand from the towel and once again tossed it around his shoulders.

  Back in the boat, Blake was all business again, with one eye on the sky. His muscles strained as he pushed the boat off from the mud with a long metal pole. Once it was free, he rushed to the controls and opened the throttle. The big engine roared to life. Carson held tight to the rope and they took off in a spray of water. They rode without stopping, bouncing hard across the choppy water, making it back to the NOAA dock just as hearty, cool winds gusted through the grasses and the first drops of rain splattered hard, making pockmarks on the water.

  Harper paid the cab fare as thunder rumbled overhead.

  “That storm is moving in fast,” the cabdriver said, handing her back the change.

  “Yes.” She took the receipt. “Thanks.” Harper climbed from the cab and stood for a moment tasting the sweet moisture that always filled the air moments before a storm broke. She let her shoulders lower for the first time since she’d been away and just stood with her arms hanging at her sides, closed her eyes, and let the lowcountry breezes wash over her.

  It had been a soul-wrenching ten days in New York. Her mother, in a fit of fury, had thrown Harper’s clothing from her closet onto the floor. She’d ransacked her jewelry box and taken back any of the pieces that she’d given her.

  Harper felt a drop of cold rain on her face and her eyes opened. From where she stood in the driveway, she saw the quaint white wooden cottage with its red front door under the arched cupola and the wide welcoming stairs. Though thunder rumbled overhead, Sea Breeze appeared nestled safely between ancient oaks, the boughs of which seemed to cradle the house like the gnarled fingers of some ancient guardian. Harper imagined them beckoning her to come inside, where soft golden light flowed from the windows, inviting her in from the storm.

  Harper swayed on her feet as drops of rain splattered, cold and wet. She didn’t move. She couldn’t. She let the rain wash away the dust of the city, the grime of travel, and the stench of disillusionment. As she stood and stared at Sea Breeze, she felt the ice she’d formed around her heart begin to crack. She could almost hear the crackle as it splintered and melted to form tears t
hat overflowed from her eyes and mingled with rain.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The windshield wipers clicked at a steady rhythm as Blake and Carson headed back across the rivers, this time over the bridges in Blake’s jeep. It had been a long, full day and Carson was exhausted, but exhilarated, too. Skimming the waterways in a boat, she’d felt like a visitor in the dolphins’ world. The estuaries were their kingdom, where their families thrived. Blake had explained how a single pod could extend for miles and how they communicated by sonar across long distances and called to each other through a language of whistles and clicks. The resident dolphins were also intricately connected by elaborate social rituals.

  All this made her wonder about one dolphin in particular and why she would part from her dolphin community to befriend a lonely human.

  “I’m curious about something,” she said, turning in the front seat to look from the road to Blake. The interior was dimly lit by the lights on the dashboard. “What about the dolphins that come close to humans? To the boats or docks. What makes them seek out human company?” She was glad he was driving so he couldn’t meet her gaze, fearful that he’d read more into her question.

  Blake groaned and shook his head. “Don’t get me started.”

  “I’m just wondering,” she said, persisting. “Is it normal for some dolphins to be friendlier than others?”

  “If you can call it friendly. I call it begging. Dolphins aren’t different than most other animals. If someone offers them food, they’ll take the easy way out. When it happens over and over, they learn to beg for a living and lose their fear of humans. Think of the bears at Yosemite. It’s no different here. They can become full-time moochers.”

  “Is it so bad to feed them? Even a little bit?”

  He swung his head from the wheel and she saw fury flash in his eyes. “Yes, it’s bad,” he said with heat. He turned back to the road. “Feeding wild dolphins disrupts their social groups, which threatens their ability to survive in the wild. You saw those mothers with their young calves today?”

  Carson nodded. It was a tender sight she’d never forget.

  “They were teaching their young how to forage and hunt. If they beg, their calves grow up as beggars and never learn those skills. How well do you think they’ll fare on a diet of hot dogs, pretzels, cookies, and candy? The calves won’t survive. Not only that, going near the boats and docks puts the dolphins in danger of getting hurt by propellers, or entangled with fishing hooks and line. It’s damned dangerous for the dolphins and heartless of the humans.”

  Carson didn’t respond.

  Blake tapped his fingers on the wheel. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to get so hot under the collar.”

  “It’s okay . . . It’s just, I don’t think the people who feed the dolphins mean to hurt them.”

  “Maybe not. They think they’re being kind. ‘Just this one little bit.’ ” His face hardened. “We put signs up all over the place stating in bold letters, ‘Do Not Feed the Dolphins.’ We have educational pamphlets, ads on TV explaining how it hurts the dolphins. But if one person thinks it’s okay if she does it, add that to a thousand others and you get the picture of how much feeding is going on.”

  “Right,” Carson said, feeling deeply uncomfortable and not wanting to discuss this any longer.

  Blake took his eyes off the road for a moment and looked at her. “I see the other side of the picture,” he said in a calmer tone. “I have to necropsy the dolphins that wash ashore. The calves are dying at an alarming rate. Maybe if we put those pictures out, people would see just how those ‘treats’ are hurting them. No, Carson, feeding dolphins is not kind. It’s self-indulgent. Selfish. People are thinking of themselves, not the dolphin.”

  Carson shrank back in her seat, silenced. She was one of those people. While she didn’t feed Delphine, she looked the other way if Nate tossed her a fish that he’d caught. She saw in her mind’s eye Delphine swimming gracefully in the water, the picture of health. Blake made her wonder if, in fact, Delphine was healthy. Was Carson drawing her away from her pod? Was Delphine becoming one of the dolphins increasingly dependent on human interaction and handouts from the dock?

  “You look tired,” Blake said, glancing at her.

  “I am tired,” she admitted. She felt flat, like a balloon that had deflated.

  Blake turned on the radio and they listened to music the remaining distance to Sea Breeze. When Blake pulled into the drive the rain had dissipated to a soft drizzle.

  “Would you like to go out again?” he asked.

  “Sure,” she replied. “When will you go next?”

  “Next month.”

  So far away, she thought. “I’d love to. If I’m here next month.”

  “Where might you be?”

  “Hopefully L.A. Or wherever I get a job.”

  He nodded his head but didn’t reply.

  “Or I may be here for months,” she tossed into the mix. “I don’t know.”

  “I see.” He opened the door but she reached out to grab his arm, stalling him.

  “Don’t get out. It’s raining. I’ll just jump out.” She offered a parting smile, but inside, she was cringing. She couldn’t wait to flee the interior of the jeep and the guilt trip she’d just taken. “Thanks again.”

  “Bye,” he said, and smiled, but his face appeared crestfallen.

  The house felt strangely dark and empty. She heard the tinny voices from a television coming from Mamaw’s room. The kitchen was tidy but the scents of a fish dinner lingered. She looked at the fridge and thoughts of a glass of chilled white wine caused a physical ache in her body. She opened the door and peered inside. It was with a mixture of relief and regret that she saw that Lucille had been true to her word and had scoured the house to dispose of all alcohol. Damn her efficiency. Carson stood in front of the open fridge and just stared in, hungry but not knowing what for. She was beyond tired and her eyes felt gritty; she wondered if she wasn’t coming down with something. She reached for the filtered water and poured herself a glass.

  Her sandy heels slapped on the wood floors as she made her way down the narrow hall to the west wing of the house. As she approached the bedrooms she heard soft music and the sound of fingers tapping a keyboard. Peering in, she saw Harper sitting on a twin bed, head bent over a computer. Delighted her sister was home, Carson pushed open the door.

  “Harper?” she exclaimed, bursting into the room.

  Harper swung her head around and her face lit up with genuine happiness at seeing her sister. “Carson!”

  They leaped into each other’s arms, Carson spilling water from her glass. She set the glass on a dresser and they commenced hugging and laughing, then moving to the bed to curl their legs close and bubble over with news.

  “How’s the battle of the booze going?” Harper asked.

  “Pretty well, actually. Still resisting.”

  “Really?” Harper asked, instantly intrigued. “The bet was to give up booze for a week.”

  “I know, but I’ve managed to push on. I’m kind of testing my will. I can’t say I still don’t want a glass of wine or a margarita, but I can resist. Good to know.”

  “Maybe then you’re not an alcoholic after all?”

  “Maybe. And just maybe the slower pace and my general sense of well-being doesn’t demand the alcohol the way my life—and my lifestyle—in L.A. did.”

  “Doesn’t really matter, does it? I’m proud of you. Really. And by the way, you won the bet. I drank my weight in wine dealing with my mother in New York.”

  The girls erupted in laughter.

  Down the hall, Mamaw heard the commotion and crept on slippered feet from her room toward the west wing. Her hand rested on the wall and she leaned forward, tilting her head so her ear was closer to the noise. Mamaw heard the high-pitched voices rise and fall in conversation, punctuated with laughter. Her face softened as images from the past flitted across her mind. She didn’t mean to pry but she couldn’t help l
ingering a little while longer. She leaned against the wall and closed her eyes. She wasn’t able to comprehend the words but listened to the cadence of the sweet music of reconciliation and reconnection. Mamaw’s lips curved in a smile of deep satisfaction.

  Carson was roused from a restless sleep by the ding of her telephone, signaling that a message had been received. She stirred and reached out to the bedside table to retrieve her phone, blinking to adjust her vision. The text was from Blake.

  Dinner tonight?

  Carson fell back against her pillow and looked out the plantation shutters to the first gray light of dawn. Of course he’d already be awake . . . She lifted her phone and punched in her reply.

  Yes.

  “Want to go to Dunleavy’s?” Blake asked later that evening.

  Carson winced. “No, let’s not.”

  Blake grinned. “How does barbecue sound?”

  “I never say no to a good barbecue.”

  They were lucky to find a parking space in front of the restaurant. People of all ages overflowed from the restaurants, filling the night with the low murmur of conversation and the occasional piercing laugh.

  The Home Team restaurant had tables outside under the awning that were open. Blake hustled to claim one. The waitress was a perky young woman with enormous blue eyes and red hair that made Carson think of Harper. They’d spent hours the night before talking, mixing giggles with tears. Her sister had turned out be a deeply emotional girl. This surprised her. As a woman, Harper struck Carson as the kind of person who preferred to keep her distance. A watcher instead of a player. Her style of dress enhanced that impression. She was as sleek and refined as a Siamese cat. There was almost a tangible chill around her that kept others from invading her space. Other than when she drank, Carson remembered with a smile. Then it was as if she let down her barriers and became a girly girl.

  Last night, however, there had been no alcohol. She’d been animated and forthcoming, and funny as hell. Who knew the girl had such a wit? And she was observant. When they talked about their childhood summers together, Harper remembered so many more vivid, telling details than Carson did. She had the memory of a scribe.