The Summer Wind (3 page)

D
ora sat clenching her hands tightly together in her lap in her lawyer’s office. The air-conditioning was working valiantly against the day’s record-breaking heat, but the two lawyers and Cal had removed their suit jackets and rolled up their sleeves. Dora was the only woman in the room, and she still had her suit jacket on. She was resolved not to remove one shred of her armor. And in her mind’s eye she could see the safety pin holding her skirt together because she couldn’t quite fasten the button. So she sat with her jacket on, chafing at the collar and sweltering with a simmering fury while Cal’s lawyer, Mr. Harbison, went on explaining why the amount they were offering for settlement was exceptionally fair.

It was all she could do not to jump from her seat in frustration and rage. Fair? The amount offered wasn’t enough for her to live on, much less take care of Nate and all his therapy sessions. She glanced at her lawyer, Mr. Rosen, hoping to catch his
attention. He had been very clear that she mustn’t engage but simply respond when directly questioned. His gaze was fixed to the pile of papers beside his open laptop and he was busily making notations as the items were discussed.

Frustrated, Dora glanced across the long conference table at Cal, raising her brows in a signal. Her soon-to-be ex-husband sat resolutely looking at his hands. He’d not bothered to meet her gaze when she’d stepped into the office. Nor did he offer a word, or even a glance of comfort or concern during the entire morning’s meeting. He never once established eye contact. Cal had never been a touchy-feely sort of man, but today at the lawyer’s office he was positively void of all feeling.

She hadn’t seen Cal in the past few months, though they’d talked on a need-to-know basis. When she walked into the office earlier that morning, she’d been surprised to see he’d lost the spare tire around his waist and that he was taking more care with his appearance. He wore the classic Southern seersucker suit and she’d had to take a second look to believe his dapper bow tie.

She kept her rigid posture and blasé expression, but beneath the table her foot was shaking. She glanced at the clock on the wall. It was nearing noon. She had endured a brutal morning listening to the cold recitation of positions from both lawyers. Now they had moved on to itemizing her and Cal’s possessions.

She followed the long itemized list as the lawyer droned. But when Cal’s lawyer began divvying up the Muir family antiques, Dora sat straight in her chair and blurted, “No!”

The room immediately went silent as the three gentlemen turned their heads toward her.

“There must be some mistake,” she said. “We are
not
divvying
up the family antiques. Cal and I have already agreed that he would get his family furniture and I would get mine.”

Mr. Harbison offered her a benign smile. “I’m afraid, Mrs. Tupper, that wouldn’t be equitable.”

“I don’t . . .” She stopped when Mr. Rosen placed a hand on her arm.

“You see, all your possessions are considered communal property,” Mr. Harbison continued.

“No, they most certainly are not,” she barked at him, feeling her face color. “I don’t care if it’s equitable, communal, or whatever you want to call it.” Her voice was rising. “My family furniture is mine and he can’t have it. We’ve already discussed this and agreed.”

Cal’s face mottled. “Dora, we may have discussed it, but it was premature. It’s clear that’s no longer fair.”

Dora’s eyes narrowed. “Because now you know how much some of my pieces are worth. You went and had the furniture appraised. I can read the report.”

“If it were just a few hundred dollars . . .” he said. Cal tapped the papers in front of him, a slight flush rising in his cheeks. “But the Chippendale chairs and sofa, and the Empire chests . . . Those alone are worth over one hundred thousand dollars! The silver is worth another thirty.”

Dora lifted her brows in acknowledgment. Their value had been a pleasant surprise, but she couldn’t bear the thought of selling off pieces of her lineage to the highest bidder.

“This is not about the money. I don’t want to sell my furniture. It’s been in my family for generations. And it’ll go to Nate after me. We’re only the caretakers for the next generation. We don’t sell.”

“We do when we have to,” Cal said succinctly. “And with the costs of Nate’s therapy and the fact that the house you wanted has turned out to be a money hole, we have to now.”

“Those expenses are not new,” Dora fired back. “And let me remind you that you wanted that house every bit as much as I did. You saw the potential profit. But you never thought we needed to fix the house up before. You wouldn’t let me do anything. It was good enough for us to live in. Suddenly we need the money to make all the repairs and update the appliances?”

Mr. Harbison cleared his throat, entering the fray. “Mrs. Tupper, I realize this is an emotional subject. The repairs are minimal, just enough to make the house marketable. In the end, the purpose is to bring in a better price, for both your sakes.”

Tears threatened and Dora pinched her lips to stop them from trembling. The men in the room shifted in their seats and exchanged glances in a manner that seemed to say,
What could we expect?
She was a woman, after all. She couldn’t handle the proceedings without a display of emotion.

Of course she was emotional! These men were dispensing her personal possessions with the same nonchalance as if they were divvying up potatoes. And she was getting cheated in the bargain. Dora remembered Mamaw’s words—
You’re a Muir. The captain of your own ship
—and bridling, she turned to Cal’s lawyer with resolution. She was not accepting Cal’s ultimatum.

Dora delivered a hard look to Mr. Harbison. “Let me make my position clear. I don’t care what price the house brings in. Nor do I care what the value of my possessions are,” she said, making an effort to speak in an even voice. “I’m not parting with my family antiques. They belong to my family. I’ll have
my grandmother write a letter to that effect. Y’all know Marietta Muir well enough that she’ll make certain nothing leaves the family’s hands.” She sat back in her chair and folded her hands in her lap. “That’s all I have to say.”

Mr. Harbison’s lips tightened in acknowledgment of the truth in that statement. He shot a glance at Cal, who stared at Dora with barely concealed frustration.

“Very well, Mrs. Tupper,” Mr. Rosen said in a conciliatory tone. He adjusted his spectacles and addressed Cal’s lawyer. “I suggest that we discuss this matter with our clients individually and meet again. We can consult our calendars and pick a date at a mutually convenient time.”

Dora resolutely looked at her hands during the uncomfortable time it took the lawyers to tidy up the few remaining details. She felt battered by the ordeal, refusing to look up for fear that now she’d meet Cal’s wrathful gaze. When at last the gentlemen began rising to their feet, Dora joined them. She reached for her purse and, muttering something about powdering her nose, hurried from the room before she had to face Cal again.

The afternoon sun was lowering as Dora drove along the shaded streets of Summerville, South Carolina. Sunlight dappled through the thick foliage, and summer flowers burst in brilliant colors wherever she looked. Dora always felt at home in the historic district where beloved Southern traditions were reflected in streetscapes, parks, and gardens. She never tired of glancing dreamily at the charming raised cottages, the classic
Greek Revivals, and sweeping Victorian homes. Cal’s family had lived in Summerville for generations, but it was the timeless quality of these historic homes in this district that ultimately prompted her to settle here.

Dora had thought herself so clever to “steal” her large Victorian at an auction ten years earlier. The historic location was very desirable and boasted one restored home after another. A house down the block from hers sold for a staggering sum. It had caused a ripple throughout the neighborhood and a flurry of renewed pride of ownership. She and Cal had been so young when they’d moved into the house, so full of hope, so sure they were on the cusp of change and poised for prosperity.

They had been so naive, Dora thought with a stab of sadness as she passed the town square framed by quaint shops that, in the spring, came alive with the azaleas that gave Summerville the moniker “flower town.” She passed St. Paul’s church, where she’d volunteered in the Women’s Mission; the quaint Timrod Library, which she’d helped to support through fund-raisers and where she’d spent hours with Nate while she homeschooled. This was her community, her home . . . yet driving through the winding roads she knew so well, she felt like a stranger.

She’d spent years developing her network of friends in her church and community. People she’d thought she could count on when the chips were down. Yet once she and Cal received Nate’s diagnosis of autism, it altered the nature of her friendships.

One by one, her so-called friends grew uncomfortable with Nate’s behavior. The children ignored him and the mothers stopped inviting her to bring Nate over for play dates. For her part, she’d stopped trying as well. Eventually, she simply
dropped out—of volunteering, school activities, and entertaining. Instead, Dora dove heart first into therapy and homeschooling for her son. Only the parent of a child with a disorder would understand that kind of commitment.

Dora took a long, steadying breath, focusing on the present. None of that mattered, she told herself. None of
them
mattered. She’d managed well enough on her own, didn’t she?

Dora glanced at the coral brooch on her lapel. The sight of it comforted her, like a mental hug, reminding her that there were others who did care and who did matter—Mamaw, Lucille, Carson, and Harper. She felt her shoulders soften as she let go of the hurt and rejection that she still harbored in a place deep within. She had created a world of self-sufficiency. Her mother, Cal, the women she’d surrounded herself with were takers, not givers. When the time came that she needed help, they’d disappeared. But perhaps now, she thought with a glimmer of hope—with them—she could begin a give-and-take.

She turned on a road that led away from the park and arrived at the long driveway to her house. From the street entrance, she saw the house the way strangers might as they drove past. The white Victorian peeked out from the cloak of green foliage like a shy bride, enchanting with its charming red pyramid roof trimmed with elaborate bric-a-brac. Unfortunately, it turned out to be more of an old Miss Havisham.

Behind the veil of distance and foliage, the house revealed its turpitude and age. Decades of peeling paint, the crumbling brick foundation, porch pillars tilting under the weight of overgrown vines could not be clouded over with daydreams. She pulled in front of the old house and turned off the engine. She sat in the stifling heat and stared at the large white Victorian.
She didn’t feel a shred of the old excitement. Instead, despair spread through her bloodstream. Dora no longer saw what could be.
Everywhere she looked, Dora saw the rot that festered from foundation to roof and the realization that no amount of effort on her part could save it.

The comparison to her marriage was too obvious and too painful to ponder.

Heart weary, she reached for the bag of groceries, the chilled bottle of white wine, and the box of fried chicken she’d picked up on the way home from the lawyer’s office. Dora felt exhausted and utterly depleted, barely able to make it up the brick stairs to the front door. After a brief struggle with the lock, she pushed open the door and was met with a wall of musty heat. Her heart sank and her shoulders slumped.

“How many more disasters do I have to face today?” she groaned as she mentally added
Call air-conditioning repairman
to her burgeoning to-do list.

The house was as quiet as a tomb. The crews had left for the day but the heavy odor of paint and varnish hung in the air. Dust motes floated in shafts of light as she gazed around the rooms, checking the progress of the workmen. The antique pieces of furniture that she and Cal had inherited were clustered in the middle of the rooms. Wallpaper had been scraped off and repair on drywall had begun. Rotten windowsills had been removed. There was a long way to go but it was a start.

Seeing the improvements was bittersweet. She’d always dreamed of restoring the house—a new coat of paint, some cheery wallpaper, new fabric for the furniture, even flashy new appliances. She had manila folders overflowing with clippings from magazines. But Cal had told her there was no money to
update the plumbing or appliances. Now, at last, the work she’d begged Cal for years to get done was finally under way—and she wouldn’t get to enjoy any of it.

The lawyers had made it clear the house was to be sold as soon as possible. She had to pack up and move.

Dora suddenly felt as if the hot and humid house were closing in on her. She couldn’t catch her breath. She stripped off the constricting suit jacket, then rushed from kitchen to dining room to living room opening windows, since only a few windows in the kitchen had been cracked open. The wood was swollen with the humidity, but an inner rage that had been building in her chest while she’d sat helplessly in the lawyer’s office fueled her strength. Dora groaned, sweat, and swore, pounding the window frames with the palm of her hand until, at last, the stubborn windows yielded. She opened every last one of them wide.

She stood for a moment breathing in the fresh air, letting her heart rate slow. Turning, she surveyed the mayhem of her house. The afternoon at the lawyer’s had shaken her.
She felt rather like this old house, she thought, leaning against the wall. Beneath her ever-present smile, she was crumbling.

Dora had been raised to believe if she followed the rules of behavior for a Southern belle—a well-brought-up Southern woman, especially one with a pedigree—she could expect the fairy tale. Her life would be a smooth continuation of the one her mother had led, and her mother before her. These rules were not written but passed down by example and reprimand from mother to daughter to granddaughter, from generation to generation.