She speared Dora with another hard look. “Another example. I was the one who came up with the idea of taking Nate to the dolphin therapy program. I don’t want a thank-you and I get why it was Carson who took him to Florida.” Harper recited by rote, “She’s the one with the experience with dolphins. She knows Florida. She and Nate have this Delphine bond going on.” Her voice softened. “But it still hurt that you didn’t even consider letting me take him.” She asked Dora directly: “Would you have let me take him?”
“I . . . I . . .” Dora stammered.
“No, you wouldn’t have,” Harper answered for her. “Because you don’t trust me with Nate. You don’t even trust me with the bloody garden!”
“I don’t trust anybody with Nate!” Dora fired back. “Not even his father. Do you even know how huge it was for me to let Nate go with Carson? Letting him go was the most trust I’ve ever shown anyone. And that trust includes you. I trusted what you told me about the program. I listened to you because, well, damn it, I know you’re smart and you think things through and I respect you.”
Harper went very still.
“I was freaked out letting Nate go,” Dora said, shaking with emotion. “I still am. I miss him.” She rubbed her arms, suddenly very cold. “Please, just leave now.” She shuddered. “I’m so done with this.”
“All right. I’m done, too. I’m leaving.” Harper turned to leave. Then she swung around again.
Dora turned away.
Harper looked at her sister’s back, and her own shoulders slumped. “You’re my sister,” she said in a flat tone. “I love you. But right now, I don’t like you. Do whatever you want. I don’t care. I’m going to the coffee shop at the corner. When you’re done, meet me there and we’ll drive home.”
Harper turned and left, closing the door behind her.
Dora stood motionless in the dressing room, her body shaking with hurt and shock and anger at Harper’s outburst. How dare she say those things to her? Harper didn’t like her? Well, she didn’t like Harper much, either, she thought, grabbing her shorts and ramming her legs into them. As she fastened the button, she saw again how loose they were at the waist and hips. In a rush, she remembered the elation she’d felt at discovering she’d lost ten pounds, and how immediate and sincere Harper was with her congratulations.
And who was that girl? Dora wondered, stunned at Harper’s outburst. The mouse had roared! And Dora had to admit, she admired this side of Harper she’d never seen before. She had gumption, and that was something Dora could respect.
Dora’s anger was quickly replaced by remorse. She slumped onto the chair and stared at her reflection in the mirror. Her cheeks were pink from the sun but her hair was mousy and her Bermuda shorts and bra looked like something her mother would wear. How could she be upset with Harper when Harper was right? Dora hated the way she dressed.
Was Harper also right about those other things? Did Dora push people away? She thought of Cal. How many nights had she pushed him away, claiming fatigue and headaches? She knew plenty of women used any number of those excuses on the nights they weren’t in the mood, but it got old with Cal, and he got angry. “You’re never in the mood,” he’d complained. She couldn’t explain to him that not feeling pretty, sexy, desirable, or even feminine was often the real source of the problem. Pushing people away was easier than letting them get close.
Harper was right. Again. She had pushed her away. She’d been jealous. She’d always thought both Harper and Carson lived exciting lives. They’d traveled the world while Dora had never left the South. They were younger, slimmer, richer—or at least Harper was. Dora’s claim to fame was her marriage, her child, her stability. She’d held up the facade of her being the perfect Southern woman. Until the facade crumbled, leaving her with nothing to feel good about.
Facades were easier to maintain over distance.
But it was about time that all their facades were cracking and crumbling. Since they’d all returned to Sea Breeze, the truths were slowly being unearthed. Carson had been brutally honest, sharing the sordid details of her childhood. Harper revealed the loneliness behind the wealth of the James family. Why had Dora been ashamed to tell her sisters about the divorce?
The voice in her head that told her divorce was an embarrassing scandal, something to avoid at all costs, was the same harsh critic that whispered she was fat, not pretty. Were her insecurities what made her act so inflexible and stuck in her ways? Was she too judgmental, always finding fault and pushing people—and any hope for happiness—away?
She brought her hands to her face. In the past week she’d caught a glimpse of how her life could change. She liked the way she was beginning to feel about herself. In her reflection she was catching a glimpse of the young girl she once was. The girl who had confidence and dreams. The girl who believed anything was possible.
How could she break the old patterns that had grown like kudzu vines around her heart? How could she quiet the negative voices and listen to the positive ones?
Dora dropped her hands and slowly raised her eyes to the dresses hanging on the wall hooks. Harper had told her she had looked pretty in the dresses. Devlin had told her she was beautiful. When was she going to start believing?
“Oh, give me that damn dress,” Dora said to herself as she rose to her feet and grabbed the first one within reach.
Harper sat at a small table in City Lights café, a pile of napkins covered in her handwriting on the table before her. Whenever she was hurt or angry, Harper found it therapeutic to write out in dialogue all the things she wished she’d had the courage to say. She’d scribbled in a heated fury a vitriolic scene of Dora and herself in the changing room, hurling insults, throwing clothes, a real catfight. Finished, she sat back in her chair, released the pen, and grabbed her latte.
She finished her drink, set down the empty mug, and looked around the coffee shop. Big stainless-steel espresso machines lined the wall, pastries were arranged on the counter. Women and men of all ages sat at the small tables, talking, reading, typing on laptops. She found the heady scents of freshly brewed coffee and sweet pastries comforting, and she needed that now.
In New York, she often went to coffee shops with her laptop and people-watched. She enjoyed describing what she saw—the people, the setting, what they ordered. She jotted down comments she found amusing or poignant. Sometimes she’d be so inspired by a conversation she’d overheard that she finished the snippet with a short story, letting her imagination run wild. She never showed anyone her writing. She’d learned long ago that she didn’t have any talent. But she still enjoyed writing. She either threw the pieces out or hid them away in boxes in her closet. She didn’t know why she wrote. It was just something she’d always done.
When Harper was little, she used to show people her stories. They were just silly ones about whatever caught her fancy. But she’d been proud of them. Then one day, when she was eight, her mother had called her into her office.
“Harper James-Muir!” Her mother’s voice rang out in their New York City condominium. “Come into my office, please.”
Harper had been sitting at the kitchen table, idly kicking her legs and eating cinnamon toast while staring at the ice-crystal design on the window. Hearing her mother’s voice, she froze and darted a fearful gaze at her nanny. Her mother used her full name only when she was in trouble, and to be called into her office meant this was serious.
Luisa, her nanny, shook her head to indicate she didn’t know what this was about.
Harper set down her toast while Luisa rushed to her side to wipe crumbs from her mouth and school uniform. She smoothed Harper’s hair, then, taking hold of her shoulders, guided her to her mother’s office.
Georgiana was sitting in her book-lined office behind a sleek ebony desk. She was dressed in her work clothes, a stylish black houndstooth wool suit. Harper crinkled her nose at the stench of the cigarette smoke that always made her stomach upset.
“Come in,” Georgiana said. “And s
hut the door behind you. That will be all, Luisa.”
Harper heard the officious tone and, nervous, did as she was requested. She stood with her hands held before her.
“Sit down.”
Harper walked across the plush carpeting to sit in one of the hot-pink velvet chairs with her shoulders back and ankles crossed, as she’d learned to do. Her gaze swept her mother’s desk for clues as to why her mother had called her in. She spotted her handmade book, Willy the Wishful Whale. Harper had been especially proud of this story of the adventures of a young whale searching for his family. She’d painted the illustrations herself, bound the book using a three-hole puncher and ribbon. She’d even written a song to go with it. She released a sigh of relief, thinking that her mother, an editor of books, would be proud of her effort. After all, she’d created her first book!
Georgiana lifted the paper book. “Did you write this?”
“Yes.”
“Do you write many stories?”
Harper smiled, encouraged. “Yes. Well, sometimes. I mean, I just do it when I get an idea.”
“Where did you get the idea for this one?”
Harper shrugged. “I don’t know. It just popped into my head.”
“It just popped into your head,” Georgiana repeated slowly. “I see.”
Harper knew that when her mother became frosty, she was on the verge of losing her temper. Harper waited, holding her breath.
“Are you lying to me?”
Harper paled and her stomach suddenly felt sick. “No!”
“You got this idea from one of the books you read, didn’t you?”
“I . . . I . . .” Harper didn’t know what to say. Her mother was frightening her. “I don’t know.”
“I thought so,” she said, taking a drag on her cigarette, then setting it down on the ashtray. She folded her hands on the desk. Harper stared at her perfect pink nails. “Harper, listen to me very carefully. You must never, ever copy the work of others. In the publishing world, that is called plagiarism. And it’s a crime. Not to mention a scandal. I won’t have it, not even for play. Do you understand me?”
Harper nodded, rendered speechless at the cruel accusation that she was lying and cheating when she wrote her book. The idea came to her as they all did—while she was dreaming, while reading, while listening to people talk. Sometimes they came to her while she was at the park or zoo with Nanny, just watching the animals. Was that copying? Was she being bad?
“Why are you writing books, anyway?” her mother asked, clearly upset. Then she skewered her with a pointed gaze. “Are you trying to be like your father?”
Harper shook her head no. She knew they’d suddenly moved onto treacherous ground.
Her mother’s eyes glittered with anger, as they did each time she brought up the topic of Parker Muir. “Well, don’t. You didn’t know him. I did, and trust me, you don’t want to be like him. He was a lush and ladies’ man. A ne’er-do-well.” She pointed one of her perfectly polished fingers at her. “You’re a James and you’re better than him. Better than the lot of them.” Her face hardened with the tone of her voice. “Your father wasn’t a writer,” she said with derision. “His work was derivative. He didn’t have the talent. And,” she said, lifting Harper’s handmade book and dropping it onto the desk as if it were trash, “neither do you.”
Harper felt her enthusiasm and pride for her book wither in her heart to be replaced by shame.
Georgiana took a final puff from her cigarette and blew out a stream of smoke as she eyed her daughter sitting slump-shouldered on the chair before the desk. Then she reached over to the ashtray and snuffed it out.
“I’m glad we had this little talk,” her mother told her. “You’re my daughter. I love you and have great expectations for you. I know you won’t disappoint me.” She smiled then, the same smile she gave to guests when they left the house, the megawatt one that made them feel like they’d been given a gift. “You can go now. I’ll see you at dinner, all right?”
Harper shivered at the memory and reached for her mug of coffee, frowning when she saw that it was empty and cold. She was bored with waiting and ready to leave. Where was Dora? she wondered irritably. She cupped her chin and let her gaze wander the café, then out the front window. She spied Dora through the window, approaching the store. She sat up, expectantly. The bell over the door chimed and Dora walked in.
Harper felt all the frustration and anger pent up in her chest release in her short laugh of delight. Dora was beaming, wearing one of the dresses that Harper had selected for her. It was a navy print with vertical lines that complemented her figure. Harper didn’t know what had brought about this change of heart in Dora, but it meant the world to her. Smiling, she shot her hand in the air and waved it in an enthusiastic arc. Dora spotted her and her eyes lit up at seeing her.
“You look gorgeous!” Harper exclaimed, standing to greet her. “I love you in that dress.”
Dora swept her in a bear hug and whispered by her ear, “And I just plain love you.”
They held tight for a moment, then a moment longer, not needing words this time to express their apologies and the enduring, unbreakable bond between them.
Dora released her and stepped back, a bit flustered. Harper could see the redness in Dora’s eyes that revealed she’d been crying.
“Want some coffee?” Harper asked.
“I’ll get it. My treat. I kept you waiting long enough.”
Harper watched Dora get in line to place the order with the barista. As she waited, a rush of ideas flooded her head, fun things they could do together—just two women, two friends, two sisters, with a free afternoon on King Street. Smiling, she hurriedly gathered the napkins filled with her angry scribbling and, crumpling them in her hands, walked across the room and tossed them into the trash.
The afternoon sun was lowering by the time the girls returned to Sea Breeze. Mamaw had been waiting by the front windows, watching for them.
“Lucille!” she called out, her heart beating a mile a minute. “They’re here!”
Lucille came rushing out from the kitchen in her stiff-legged gait, drying her hands on her starched white apron.
“At last,” she huffed. “I hope they didn’t eat nothin’. I’ve been cooking this rabbit food for an hour, trying to give it some taste.”
“I hope they’ll like what I’ve done,” Mamaw said nervously. She turned to Lucille. “Do you think they will?”
“ ’Course they’ll like it. Who wouldn’t?”
“I don’t want them to think I’m being, well . . .”
“Scheming?”
Mamaw frowned. “Such a harsh word. I like to think generous does the job.”
Lucille guffawed. “Well, look at them, laughing together. I ’spect your generosity been workin’ with those two.”
Mamaw felt her worry ease. “Yes. I swanny, they’ve been like oil and water.”
“Baking soda and vinegar, more like it. Hush now, here they come. Lord help us, looks like they done cleaned out the stores.”
The front door opened and Mamaw heard the laughter before she saw Harper and Dora saunter in, laden with brightly colored shopping bags in their arms.
“We’re back!” Dora called out gaily. “We had the best time! Harper is the sweetest girl in the whole world. Come see what we’ve bought! Or Harper bought. That woman is wild with that credit card!”
Mamaw turned her head to share a surprised glance with Lucille. This was certainly a change of heart between the girls, and Mamaw’s elation bubbled over in her greeting.
“Dora, you look stunning! Why, you’re positively transformed!” she exclaimed, walking toward her with her arms open.
Dora’s blond hair had been highlighted to punch up her color and trimmed in a sleek new style. The chic summer dress made her look as if she’d lost an additional ten pounds, and Mamaw wasn’t sure whether it was her happiness or the new makeup, but her face was positively glowing.
Dora was beamin
g as she stepped into Mamaw’s arms. “It’s all Harper. She did a complete makeover.”
Mamaw turned to find Harper already busily spreading out the shopping bags on the Chippendale sofa and opening boxes. It didn’t appear that Harper had bought anything for herself, which spoke volumes to Mamaw.
“You’re quite good at this,” she told Harper. “You should open a business!”
“I can’t afford it,” Harper said with a light laugh.
Dora gushed, “You think I’m bossy? I’m a piker compared to this girl. She made me get my hair done, and my makeup, and look! A mani-pedi. Lucille, what do you think of the color?” She held out her hands to reveal a bold hot-pink color. “Doesn’t it just scream summer?”
Lucille bent over her hands. “It screams somethin’, that’s for true.”
Dora giggled and hurried to the sofa to dig in one of the large bags. She fished out two small ones. “We picked out these for you together. Oh, Harper, you should give them. I’m forgetting my manners.”
Harper just laughed and waved her hand, enjoying Dora’s excitement. “Go ahead.”
Mamaw accepted the bag with surprise. “For me? Gracious, girls, I don’t deserve anything. It’s not my birthday.”
“It’s nothing, really,” Harper replied, watching. “A petit cadeau.”
Mamaw pulled a scented candle out of the bag. “Thank you, precious. It’s lovely,” she said.
Lucille had received a candle as well.
“They’re different scents,” Harper said. “Hope you like them.”
“You should,” Dora added. “They cost the world.”
The Summer Wind (Lowcountry Summer) Page 17
