The Summer Wind (24 page)

“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 shut 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 beaming 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.”

Harper laughed and shook her head, embarrassed.

Lucille had pulled on her reading glasses and was studying her candle. “Says here it’s called Summer Nights. I don’t know what that means, but this smells like jasmine to me. I love me my night-blooming jasmine.” She looked up, grinning.

Dora returned to the bags on the sofa. “Wait till you see what else I got.”

“Girls,” Mamaw said, clasping her hands close to her breast. She glanced at Lucille, who nodded in agreement. “There’s something I’d like to show you first. It’s my own little makeover.”

Dora released the shopping bag and glanced at Harper. “Is this connected to all that knocking and pounding of the past few days?”

“You’ll just have to look and see,” Mamaw replied cagily.

“I love surprises,” Harper said.

“Good. I hope you like this one. Come with me.”

Mamaw led them from the living room down the hall toward her bedroom. She opened the doors that led into the anteroom of the suite, where a framed photograph of Mamaw and Granddaddy Edward greeted them over a small foyer table. Immediately to the left was a small computer room that had been built into a large closet. They proceeded into the large bedroom, adorned with a collection of paintings of the lowcountry landscape that Mamaw adored, all done by local artists. Every spare inch of her walls was covered in paintings. She’d often told the girls that lying in bed, especially now that Edward was gone, she felt surrounded by friends.

Mamaw went to stand before a pair of sliding wood doors separating her bedroom from her sitting room that were not there several days before.

Harper looked to Dora and they shared a look of confusion.