The Summer Girls (12 page)

D
inner that evening was as long as a month of Sundays. Not that the meal wasn’t delicious—Lucille had put her back into preparing a spicy gumbo, crisp hush puppies, and Carson’s favorite banana pudding for dessert. It was the tension at the table that Carson couldn’t stomach.

It should have been a happy homecoming. A time of laughter and catching up. Instead, Carson could feel a headache blossoming from holding in the dozens of pithy comments pressing against her tight lips.

To be fair, the evening started off badly. Dinner was late and everyone was still on tenterhooks after Nate’s hissy fit. Dora had prepared a special plate for him and brought it on a tray to his room for him to eat while he watched his favorite programs on television. Then Harper caused brows to rise when she refused the white rice. And they couldn’t help but stare when she began daintily picking out the pork
sausage from her gumbo with her fork. Lucille harrumphed loudly but everyone held their tongue politely.

Except Dora.

“Are you a vegetarian now?” she asked in a censorial tone.

“No,” Harper replied blithely. “I just don’t prefer red meat.”

“Pork is a white meat,” Dora said, correcting her.

Harper looked squarely at her sister and smiled. “Then, meat,” she clarified.

When the hush puppies were passed, Harper refused those as well.

“You don’t like hush puppies anymore, either?” Dora asked, clearly annoyed. “There’s no meat in those.”

Carson gave Dora
the look,
the one that told her to stop badgering Harper about her food, but Dora ignored her. Carson remembered Harper being quiet and subdued as a child. That, and her petite size, earned her the nickname “the little mouse.” Dora could never boss Carson around the way she did Harper. In fact, sticking up for Harper was one old habit that Carson could settle back into quite seamlessly.

“It’s not that I don’t like them,” Harper replied pointedly. “I don’t eat fried foods. Or anything white, for that matter.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Dora asked, pressing her. “You don’t eat anything white?”

“White flour, white rice, white noodles, etc.” Harper shrugged. “It’s not as healthy as brown.”

“Oh for pity’s sake. Lucille slaved over this dinner, you know,” Dora said, fuming. “The least you could do is try it.”

“Dora, she’s not your child. She can decide for herself what to eat,” Carson said.

Harper’s pale cheeks turned pink. She turned to Lucille and smiled sweetly. “In that case, I’ll definitely try one of these magnificent hush puppies, Lucille.” She pinched a single hush puppy and laid it on her plate. Then she reached for the collard greens and began serving herself a big helping. “These smell heavenly. You make the best collards anywhere, Lucille.”

Lucille puffed up, her pride assuaged. “I’ll make some whole-wheat waffles in the morning,” she offered. Then under her breath she added, “I’ll fatten you up some, don’t you worry. You’re so skinny I can’t find your shadow.”

“I, for one, am going to eat every bite,” Dora said, picking up her fork.

“I’ll bet,” Carson muttered, then caught a warning glance from Mamaw.

“The amount of food one eats doesn’t imply the appreciation of the food,” Mamaw said, picking up her fork. “Harper never was a big eater, if I recall. Dora, you’ve always had a healthy appetite.”

Dora flushed and stared at her plate, heaped with food.

The dinner conversation took a turn for the worse when Dora began to complain about how the island had changed, how much she missed its sleepier days, and how the Northerners—especially Manhattanites—were destroying the South all over again, this time using dollars and loose morals as bullets.

Divorce or no divorce, Carson thought Dora needed to be taken down a peg. To Harper’s credit, however, she
seemed to have her own method. Harper ignored Dora’s comments, focusing instead on cutting her shrimp and okra into ever-smaller pieces, which was driving Dora to bristle more than any comeback could.

As soon as the dessert of banana pudding was finished, Mamaw rose and announced that she was tired and going to retire. Then she suggested that the girls do the dishes, seeing as how Lucille had worked all day preparing the meal.

Dora immediately left to check on Nate, with a promise to return. Harper and Carson went into the kitchen and faced, flummoxed, a mountain of dirty dishes, pots, and pans.

“Welcome home!” Carson called out, grabbing a towel from the counter.

Harper grinned wide and walked across the room to take an apron from the wall hook. “I don’t think I remember how to wear one of these things,” she said with a laugh as she slipped the loop over her head. The apron was pale green with ruffles along the shoulder straps and hem. Her hands fumbled with the strings behind her back. “I haven’t worn one since I was maybe ten. In fact, I think this is the same apron.”

Carson laughed and stepped behind her. She tied the apron strings tight. Her sister had always been little, and it didn’t look like she’d grown much since she was ten. “I think you’ve actually got an eighteen-inch waist.”

“Me and Scarlett O’Hara,” she quipped, walking to the sink.

Carson rolled up her sleeves and turned on the radio. Country music blared out.

“I see Lucille still loves her country tunes,” Carson said.
“Do you remember how the radio was always blasting out her music?”

“That or baseball games. I don’t think I’ve listened to country music much at all since I was last here.”

“Me neither,” Carson said. She gave Harper a quick glance. “I’d forgotten how much I loved it.”

“Me too!”

As they washed and dried the mountain of dishes, they shuffled their feet and sang out refrains about love lost and found, regrets and hopes, red dogs, and sexy black dresses. The time flew by as they began sharing bits of their own stories with the lyrics. Gradually, the ice that had formed over dinner began to thaw.

No sooner was the last pot washed and put away than Harper tossed the apron on the counter, turned to Carson, and said with heart to her sister, “I need a drink. Let’s go out.”

Carson could have kissed her. They hurried to Carson’s bathroom to refresh their makeup and brush their hair. Carson was enjoying the novelty of a sisterly bond as they chatted about shoes and designers they both loved, blissfully avoiding any heavier topics. It was as though Dora’s rant had bonded them, unfortunately against her.

“What’s her problem, anyway?” Harper’s eyes flashed in warning. “God, it burns me to admit it—and don’t you dare tell her I said this—but it hurt when Dora said those things about ‘Northerners’ and New Yorkers at dinner. She’s about as subtle as a dump truck.”

“And filled with as much garbage,” Carson added. “I hope you don’t take her opinions to heart. I never do. Sometimes she’s so stuck-up she’d drown in a rainstorm.”

Harper chuckled at that. “She was always so much older than me. I think I was afraid of her at some level when I was a little girl.” She paused. “But I’m not anymore,” she said more boldly.

“She’s in a bad place right now. Cal’s left her. They’re getting a divorce.”

Harper paused for a moment. “I didn’t know.”

“I just heard myself.”

“That explains a lot. Still,” Harper said, “she shouldn’t take it out on me.”

Carson waved her hand dismissively. “Let’s not think about her right now. I’m getting seriously bummed. And this is your first night here.” She reached for the perfume bottle and sprayed some on her neck.

“That’s Mamaw’s scent!” Harper exclaimed, sniffing the air. Her big blue eyes were even wider with wonder. “How . . . what is it? Where did you find it?”

“Mamaw gave me a bottle. I’m supposed to test it, see how it smells on me.” Carson sprayed a bit on her wrist. “What do you think?” She held out her arm so Harper could lean in for a sniff.

Harper sniffed, then, looking up, smiled a knowing smile. “It smells really good on you. Like it belongs on you,” she said ruefully. “Very sexy.” She snorted as she drew back up. “Figures.”

“Why do you say that?”

“You’re the one who is most like Mamaw.”

“No, I’m not. I don’t look like anyone. Y’all are blond and pale. I’m dark and tall and I have big feet.”

Harper laughed and reached for the bottle of perfume.
“Maybe not in looks.” She shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s hard to name. You’re her favorite, that’s for sure.”

“Not that again,” Carson said with a moan.

“Let me try some,” Harper said, spraying perfume on her wrist. “What do you think?”

Carson obliged and bent to sniff her wrist, then immediately recoiled. “Oh, no,” she said, waving the air. The musk smelled more like body odor on her. “Really, Harper, that’s just bad on you.” She chuckled. “You’re going to have to scrub it off if you want a guy to come within twenty paces of you.”

Harper sniffed, then wrinkled her nose. “Oh God, you’re right,” she said, going straight for the sink and soaping up. “I’ll stick to my Old Dependable—Chanel Number Five, thank you very much. Funny how that works, isn’t it? A perfume can smell so dreadful on me but so fabulous on you. Like it has its own personality. Its own particular preference for people.”

“Or genetics,” Carson said softly, looking at the label of the bottle in her hand. She brought it to her nose, sniffed again, and grew pensive. “It was my mother’s scent.”

“Really?” Harper said, turning her head to look at Carson. “I didn’t know that. I always thought of it as Mamaw’s scent.”

“I just found out myself. It’s not like I remember her,” she said in an offhand manner. Even as she said the words she knew that was a lie. There was indeed memory associated with the scent, unexplainable, that spoke of being cradled, sung to, loved. The scent she’d always associated with Mamaw triggered feelings of safety and comfort. These
were emotions she connected with Mamaw, true. Only now she knew the memories went deeper—to her mother. And knowing this, she felt strangely uneasy, even sad, as she inhaled the scent.

“I . . . I don’t think it’s right for me.” Carson moved to the sink and, like Harper, began washing the perfume from her wrists and neck.

“Really? I thought it smelled really great. I have to admit, I’m a little disappointed. I’d have liked to share something with Mamaw.”

Carson blotted the moisture from her neck with a towel and wondered at that comment. “I’d always figured that you didn’t enjoy any connections to your Southern heritage.”

Harper finished drying her hands and leaned against the bathroom counter. “That sentiment is my mother’s. She never wanted any contact with my father—
our
father. Or his family. I grew up thinking that to be like him, or to be attached in any way to him or his family, was somehow . . . bad.”

Carson felt stung. “What a bitch,” she blurted. Then quickly added, “Sorry.”

Harper shook her head. “She can be a bitch. But she’s my mother, so . . .” She shrugged and turned again to the mirror to smooth her hair. “You know, when I’m in New York, I don’t think about the Muir side of the family. It’s out of sight, out of mind.” She looked down at her hands, the ring finger bearing a gold signet ring with the James family crest. “I’m proud of my family. Love them, of course. But there’s a lot of baggage being a James. When I come here, I feel . . . I don’t know, freer. More at ease. Always have.”

“It’s the humidity. Once it starts heating up you have to move slow,” Carson teased. “Your brain softens.”

Harper laughed. “Well, it is good for my skin. But no, it’s this place. Talk about smells . . . The air here is rife with scents, and each one of them is connected to some memory. They started gushing back the minute I smelled the pluff mud. Memories of Mamaw braiding our hair, diving with us into the surf, lazily reading on hot summer days, those big container ships cruising by.” Her voice shifted and she added softly, “Most of all, of you and me, Carson.”

Carson was moved to see tears swimming in her sister’s eyes. “I know what you mean.”

“What do
you
remember?” Harper asked Carson.

Carson puffed out air, considering. “The beach, of course.”

“You were always in the water. Such a tomboy.”

“You know what else?” Carson asked with the sparkle of memory in her eyes. “I remember running all over Sullivan’s Island like wild pirates searching for buried treasure.”

“Yes,” Harper agreed, her eyes widening in recognition. She raised a fist and shouted, “Death to the ladies!”

That had been their rallying call when they were kids and played pirates. They’d shouted it outdoors at the top of their lungs, and whispered it, too, in the house after Mamaw reprimanded them for being unladylike.

Carson burst out a laugh and raised her fist into the air as well. “Death to the ladies!”

The call still had the power to bond them as they laughed and shared a commiserating glance. In that flash of connection years melted away and once again they were two girls sneaking off to play pirates across Sullivan’s Island, ignoring
the dreaded rules of feminine etiquette, determined to discover all the treasures of the world.

“What’s going on?” said a voice at the door.

Looking up, Carson saw Dora standing there, one hand clutching the frame. Her face was scrubbed clean and glowing with moisturizer and her blond hair hung to her shoulders. She had changed into a matronly nightgown that made her pendulous breasts and belly appear as islands in a sea of mauve.