The Summer Wind (43 page)

It would be a good day, she thought with a light step as she made her way into the kitchen. The clock chimed eight times. So late? Strange that the house was still so quiet. She busied herself measuring coffee grinds into the machine and water into the teakettle. Then she put two pieces of whole grain bread into the toaster. Humming a nameless tune, Mamaw pulled out the floral tray that was Lucille’s favorite and set out a Limoges floral china bowl, matching teacup and saucer, and silver. She put the kettle on the stove and hurried out the front door to collect the newspaper. The pavers were soaked through and the scattered leaves of trees and shrubs littered the ground like dead soldiers after a war. There was cleanup to be done later in the day, she thought. As she glanced at the cottage, all was quiet. She was glad Lucille was still asleep.

The kettle was whistling when she returned to the kitchen and the rich aroma of fresh coffee filled the air. She poured
herself a cup, then set about preparing Lucille’s breakfast. She ate so little these days, Mamaw had to tempt her with her favorite foods and a nice presentation. If she served her several small meals a day, Lucille ate more. Mamaw didn’t want her to lose any more weight. She plucked the hot toast from the toaster and, skipping the butter that bothered Lucille’s stomach, slathered a thick coating of her favorite blackberry jam over the bread. Next she filled a bowl with blueberries, poured the tea, then arranged it all prettily on the tray. Lucille, for all her no-nonsense brashness, liked pretty things.

Humming again, she lifted the tray, steadying herself, feeling its weight. She might feel like a girl, but she had the strength of an old woman, she chided herself. Nonetheless, she moved on through the house, navigating doors, steps, pavers, and gravel to cross the driveway to Lucille’s cottage. She set the tray on the porch table, knocked as a courtesy, then opened the door.

“Lucille! It’s me!”

Picking up the tray, she walked into the cottage, humming the cheery tune. “Breakfast,” she called out as she made her way down the hall to Lucille’s bedroom. The drapes were drawn and the room held a strange crepuscular light.

She pushed open the bedroom door with her shoulder. “The storm is over and the sun . . .”

Mamaw stopped talking when she saw that Lucille was still asleep in her bed. Poor thing, she thought. She must be tuckered out after all the excitement of the night. Mamaw set the tray down on the bureau, relieved of the weight, and turned to approach the bed.

She stopped short. Suddenly, all her joy drained from her, replaced by a sudden sense of dread. In the shadowy light,
Lucille lay on her back, her arms at her sides, her head tilted toward the windows. Mamaw felt her blood go cold. Lucille was not asleep. She appeared to be looking out at the morning sun. Only Mamaw knew her eyes no longer saw.

Mamaw’s heart beat like a trapped bird’s as she stepped closer to the bed. She hesitatingly stretched out her arm and laid a hand on Lucille’s chest. There was no heartbeat. She lay still, her gaze vacant and empty. Mamaw moved to grasp Lucille’s hand. Her body was not yet cold. Despair immediately filled Mamaw.

Have I just missed her passing? If only I hadn’t dallied. If I’d hurried, if I’d woken just a little earlier . . .
She was alone when she passed. With a choked cry, Mamaw brought Lucille’s hand to her mouth and kissed it, then held it close to her breast.
I didn’t get to say good-bye.

After she had sat by Lucille’s bedside for some time, alternating between crying heaving tears and staring blankly at the shell that had housed her dearest friend, Mamaw went out of the cottage. She paused at the threshold of the porch, leaning against the white pillar. She stared out at a world that, though in many ways was the same world she’d stared out at earlier that same morning, was now somehow all changed.

Lucille gone. She couldn’t grasp it. She knew Lucille was dying, realized the end would come—but not so soon. Not today. They’d spent the night talking. It still didn’t seem possible that they’d never talk again.

She brought her hand to her throat as her practical nature took stock. There were things to do, phone calls to make. She
was, sadly, experienced in matters of death. She should go to the house and begin, she thought. But she couldn’t so much as move a muscle. All the energy she’d felt only a short while ago when she was rustling through the kitchen had fled, leaving her feeling so very old. Numb.

The weight of her deadened heart made her weary. She walked slowly to the rocking chair. Water had pooled in the seat. She was beyond caring. She eased into the seat, feeling the cold dampness through her silk gown.

Mamaw was no stranger to grief. There could be no grief worse than the death of one’s only child. Yet she’d survived. When Edward had passed a year after Parker, she thought she’d go mad. She didn’t believe she could continue. Or want to. It was Lucille who had nursed her back, who would not allow her to wallow. And again, she’d persevered.

But now? Lucille wasn’t here. Her loved ones were gone. What was the point of continuing the fight?

A gust of wind sprayed droplets of rain from the tree’s leaves across her face. Mamaw sucked in her breath at the chill of it. Turning her head from the rain, she saw Lucille’s chair beside her rocking back and forth. Mamaw’s breath caught in her throat. She sensed Lucille’s presence, very real and very close. So close that she called her name.

“Lucille?”

There was no reply. Only the calls of birds and the rustle of leaves. “You old fool,” she muttered to herself. It was just the summer wind. Yet, closing her eyes, she still felt Lucille’s presence.

Thunder rumbled softly in the distance. Mamaw opened her eyes and saw that the sun had emerged from behind the clouds. She gripped the arms of her rocker and rose to her feet to stand
again at the edge of the porch. Stepping into the mist, she felt the cool moisture against her skin. Looking at the dewy, fresh surroundings, Mamaw remembered Lucille’s words.
When the hard times come, just dance
.

She stretched out her arms and lifted her face to welcome the sun and the rain. Going up on tiptoe, she swirled around. She was alive! The night had been filled with terror, but the morning sun rose on another day. Lucille would want her to be grateful, even joyful, in this moment, despite the grief and the pain.

Mamaw lowered her arms and walked back toward Sea Breeze, taking the time to let her gaze sweep over her house and the landscape she loved. The old house with its mullioned windows, graceful, sweeping stairs, and gables had survived the storm, too. She didn’t want to go inside quite yet. Inside the house, the girls were still sleeping. Mamaw wanted a few more moments alone with her memories.

She took the pebbled path around the side of the house. She passed the outdoor shower and near the porch spotted Harper’s raised garden beds. The small stalks of starter plants were bent over from the storm’s driving rain and wind. Some of the tiny leaves were plastered with the mud. But a few hearty ones had already straightened, and in time, most of them would perk up in the sunshine.

She stepped out of the dappled shade into the light. The sun felt warm on her damp skin. The wet grass soaked her slippers but she ignored it, walking on toward the Cove. The air was heavy with the pungent scents of pluff mud and that powerful post-rain sweetness she called the perfume of the lowcountry. She breathed deep, feeling cleansed, looking at the refreshed
green of the sea grass. She walked with arms swinging across the rain-drenched ground to Harper’s garden.

Who knew her Harper had a green thumb? Sweet city girl was growing roots in the lowcountry, she thought as she took in the newly planted flowers. Drops of dew hung fat and heavy on the roses that she knew had been planted especially for her. Bending, she plucked the best one and cradled it in her palms. It was a bright pink, just opening its petals to the sun. She brought it to her nose. The bud didn’t have much scent, but she gloried in the fact that it was the first rose she’d gathered from this garden in years.

She heard the piercing cries of an osprey from the Cove. She looked up, searching for the great fish hawk. She’d always loved that plucky bird. Putting her hand like a visor over her eyes, she spotted it, circling gracefully over the water, on the hunt. This time of year there would be babies on the nest, squawking for breakfast.

“There she is!” came a call from the porch.

Turning her head toward the house, she saw her granddaughters walking toward her in the light. Her summer girls. Dora in a flowing floral robe, Harper in a sleek silk sheath, Carson already in her swimsuit and shorts. So different, yet united by blood. Together . . . Mamaw felt her chest swell, knowing that she and Lucille had done the right thing in bringing the three women back home to Sea Breeze for this final summer. This was their shared triumph. These young women were their legacy.

Mamaw felt her heart warm in her breast and pump with love. Despite all the as-yet-unsettled questions, regardless of the many decisions yet to be made, on this troubled morning,
looking at her granddaughters, she rediscovered her purpose for living.

Yes, they needed her, perhaps now more than ever. Yet not, she knew, as much as she needed them.

She raised her arm over her head in a wide-arc wave.

They were coming toward her.

Mamaw opened her arms.

“I’m here!”

I
owe a great debt of thanks to Dr. Pat Fair at NOAA for her mentorship and friendship; to Stephen McCulloch at Florida Atlantic University; and to Lynne Byrd at the Mote Marine cetacean hospital. A heartfelt thanks to the dedicated team at the Dolphin Research Center, especially Joan Mehew, Mandy Rodriguez, Linda Erb, Rita Irwin, Mary Stella, Becky Rhodes, and Sheri Peiloch. A shout of congratulations to Joan Mehew for winning the Wounded Warrior Project’s 2013 Carry Forward Award! Some readers may recognize the Dolphin Research Center and the Mote Marine cetacean hospital described in the book, but the depicted sessions, characterizations, and dialogue are strictly from my imagination and presented with their approval.

As always, I send my sincere thanks and love to Marguerite Martino, Angela May, Kathie Bennett, Buzzy Porter, Ruth Cryns, and Lisa Minnick for all their invaluable support.

Heartfelt thanks to the fabulous team at Gallery Books: Lauren McKenna, Louise Burke, Jennifer Bergstrom, Elana Cohen, Jean Anne Rose, Ellen Chan, Natalie Ebel, Liz Psaltis, and everyone there who has continually supported my books. Love and thanks to my agents at Trident Media Group: Robert Gottlieb and Kimberly Whalen, Sylvie Rosokoff, Adrienne Lombardo, and Tara Carberry. Many thanks also to Joseph Veltre at Gersh.

I especially want to acknowledge the children’s picture book
Shackles
, written by Marjory Wentworth (Legacy Publications). Her beautiful story of the discovery of slave manacles in her backyard on Sullivan’s Island inspired me.

Finally, my love and thanks to my husband, Markus, for all the cups of coffee, glasses of wine, handfuls of almonds, and words of encouragement during all hours of the day and night.