The Summer's End (3 page)

Dora's arm shot out to silence the alarm clock. She groggily opened one eyelid: 7:00 a.m.

“Rise and shine,” she mumbled.

Dora moved in a stupor, accustomed to the routine. She dressed quickly in running clothes, splashed cool water on her face, applied SPF moisturizer, then did a few stretches. This past summer she'd learned that she had to get her exercise done first thing in the morning, because if she waited, she'd slip into a thousand lame excuses why she didn't have time. She'd learned to make time for the things that mattered to her.

And nothing mattered more to her than her son.

Dora swiftly walked down the hall and gingerly pushed open the door to Nate's room. She wrinkled her nose at the stuffy, closed-in smell. Nate, unlike the rest of the inhabitants of Sea Breeze, did not like to sleep with his windows open. He was adamant about his likes and dislikes, quick to let you know if something was right or, more often, wrong. She went to the side of his bed and stood for a moment, staring into her nine-year-old son's face.

Her heart bloomed with love for him. Did a child ever look more angelic than when asleep? she wondered. Nate's long, pale lashes fluttered against his cheeks. His lips were slightly parted as he breathed heavily. He was small for his age, but his
thin frame had filled out this summer at Sea Breeze and his skin glowed with a tan. Sea Breeze had been so good for Nate, on many levels. He loved the water now. Dora smiled. She called him her little fish. As her eyes hungrily roamed his face, she noted that his shaggy blond hair needed a trim, and she made a mental note to take him to the barber. It would be a fight, she thought with a sigh. Nate hated to have his hair cut.

Poor little guy, she thought as she reached out to gently stroke hair from his forehead. She felt the perspiration at his brow. Cutting his hair was the least of the changes he'd be facing soon. Her obstinate, fretful son who hated any change would soon transition from homeschooling to a classroom. It was a big decision, long and hard in coming. She'd found a private school that specialized in bright children with special needs, like his Asperger's. The school offered highly individualized instruction and schoolwide positive behavioral support. Dora had to face the reality that Nate was older and needed more than she could offer. He needed to learn to communicate and socialize with his peers.

Dora sighed. They both did. Isolation had not been good for either of them.

On the heels of this decision was her intention to move to Mt. Pleasant, closer to the school. A new school . . . a new home . . .

She bent to gently kiss Nate's cheek, breathing in the scent of him. When he was awake, he didn't like to be kissed.

“We'll be fine,” she whispered close to his ear. “Mama's here. I won't let you down.”

As Harper pedaled back to Sea Breeze, her mind filled with words that could capture that glorious sunrise:
iridescent, shimmering, glittering, ethereal, inspiring
 . . . Harper parked the bike in the garage and hurried toward the house, eager to slip quietly back into her bedroom and begin writing. She wanted to describe what she'd seen and her feelings that had swirled like brilliant colors. As she made her way across the back porch, a cough drew her attention. Harper turned her head to the back corner of the porch and was surprised to see her grandmother sitting tall and straight-backed in one of the large, black wicker chairs. In the dim light, wearing her long, white cotton nightgown, Mamaw appeared almost ghostly.

“Mamaw!” Harper exclaimed. “What are you doing out here?”

Mamaw smiled as Harper approached, but it was a tired smile. Her pale blue eyes were sunken and her arms were wrapped around her slender body as though she were chilled.

“I couldn't sleep. I woke very early and my mind kept wandering.” Mamaw shook her head. “It's so exhausting when that happens. A curse of old age. I just gave up and came out here to sit a spell. I thought the fresh air might help.”

On the glass-topped table Harper saw a line of playing cards. Her heart pinged. Mamaw was playing solitaire. The image of Mamaw and Lucille playing endless games of gin rummy together on the porch at all hours of the day and night flashed in Harper's mind.

Harper hurried to put her arms around her grandmother's shoulders. “How long have you been out here?” she asked, alarmed. “You're chilled to the bone.” She rubbed Mamaw's arms briskly with her hands, trying to warm her.

“Mmm . . . that's nice. Thank you, dear.”

Harper pulled up a chair and dropped into it. She leaned forward, elbows resting on her knees. “What's got your mind wandering?”

“Oh . . . I was thinking of Lucille,” Mamaw said wistfully.

Of course,
Harper thought.

“It was a nice funeral, wasn't it?” Mamaw asked.

“It was. I'd never been to a Gullah funeral before. So much song, tears, and rejoicing.”

“And
amen
s,” Mamaw added wryly.

Harper smiled in agreement. She'd been moved by the unrestrained calling out at the service, the passion, the strong sense of community.

Mamaw looked back out over the water. “I was sitting here, looking across the Cove, and it brought to mind what the preacher talked about at Lucille's service. How their ancestral spirits who came to the lowcountry—those by force and those who came after—lived, thrived, and died here. They worked hard, cooked rice, cast nets for shrimp, raised children, and now they've all moved on to the bounty of the afterlife. That's what Lucille believed, you know. She was tired at the end, I daresay looking forward to crossing the water.” Mamaw sighed, remembering. “I confess, lately I might be ready, too.”

Harper leaned forward to grasp Mamaw's hand. “Don't go yet. We still need you.”

Mamaw's lips slipped into a wobbly smile, briefly, then fell again. “I'm having a hard time believing she's really gone.”

“It all happened so fast.” Harper also felt deep sorrow at Lucille's swift battle with cancer.

Mamaw looked at Harper. “Do you believe in an afterlife?” she asked pointedly.

Harper released Mamaw's
hand, leaned back, and scratched her head, thinking this was a heavy conversation to have before a first cup of coffee. She'd never warmed to the idea of a God that rewarded the good with heaven and the others with an eternity of brimstone and fire. It seemed so unforgiving. Still, after much soul-searching, she'd come to believe there was a higher being. She'd felt a connection to that infinite power this morning while staring out at the sunrise.

“I guess so,” she said with hesitancy. “I don't think much about it.”

Mamaw smiled ruefully. “You're young. You think you're immortal. When you get to my age, you'll think about it . . . a lot.”

“I don't like to see you out here alone, playing solitaire and thinking of death. It's a tad morbid.”

“I'm not feeling the least bit morbid. Quite the opposite.” Mamaw patted Harper's hand with a weary smile. “Death is becoming an old friend.”

Harper rose and tugged gently on Mamaw's arm. “Come inside and I'll make you a nice breakfast. Something warm.”

Mamaw resisted, leaning back in her chair. “I'm not hungry. I've just got the dwindles.”

“How about I bring you a nice hot cup of coffee?”

Mamaw perked up at the suggestion. “Well, I wouldn't say no to that.”

“Coming right up.” Harper paused. Mamaw was always an elegant woman who took great care with her appearance. She had been a leading Charleston socialite known for her extravagant parties as much as her polished beauty. To see Mamaw sitting on the porch still in her nightclothes, her white hair
flowing unbrushed, wrapped up in a coverlet like a bag lady, shook Harper to the core. This was an outward sign of the state of Mamaw's mind.

Harper made a bold suggestion: “Mamaw, while I make coffee, why don't you get dressed?”

Mamaw turned her head to deliver a stern face with a brow raised. “I beg your pardon?”

Harper rushed on, “Don't you remember, you used to tell us how Thomas Jefferson wrote his eleven-year-old daughter letters on deportment from France? He admonished her to always rise and dress promptly. Neat and clean and tidy.” Harper paused, pleased to see her grandmother was listening. “You told us your mother read you his letters, and you read them to us. Why, if you caught us lying about in our jammies, you sent us straight to our rooms to get dressed.”

“I'm delighted to learn you paid attention.” Mamaw offered her hand in a regal manner. Harper took it and helped Mamaw to her feet. “Very well. The sun is up and so I should rise with it. It is, to paraphrase Scarlett O'Hara, another day.”

T
he kitchen was as quiet as a tomb.

Here, in the kitchen, Lucille's absence was most felt. Every morning during Harper's childhood summers spent on the island, she'd wander sleepyheaded into the kitchen to be greeted by the clanging of pots, the smell of coffee, biscuits in the oven, bacon sizzling on the stove, and a hearty hello from Lucille. The comparative silence now caused an ache deep in her chest.

Harper stood at the threshold and looked at the dimly lit, empty room through her pragmatist eyes, not clouded by the blur of nostalgia. It was the classic kitchen found in a house that once held a staff. It had what people in real estate called good bones. The room was big, with windows that overlooked the Cove. A butler's pantry with glass-front cabinets separated the kitchen from the dining room. It was all charming, if outdated.
To her, the room was like a vintage dress that needed a good cleaning and maybe a new zipper.

The once-butter-colored walls now appeared rancid, and the appliances were terribly out-of-date. Harper frowned to see dirty dishes in the sink and, on the long wood table, an empty package of fig cookies, crumbs scattered. Wouldn't Lucille claim she was going to “look for a switch” if she saw the state of her normally spotless kitchen?

Harper entered the empty room, wrinkling her nose at the smell of bitter coffee grinds and day-old garbage. She tossed the cold filter, then went to the sink for water to make a fresh pot of coffee. As she lifted the sponge in the sink, out from under it skittered an enormous brown cockroach. Harper screamed, dropped the coffeepot into the sink, and leaped back. The commotion sent the enormous bug flying past her head.

Dora came running into the room, her eyes wide and searching. “Harper? Are you all right?”

“Yes,” Harper said breathlessly, her hand over her pounding heart.

“You screamed bloody murder!”

“I just saw the biggest cockroach. At least I . . . I think it was a cockroach. I swear . . . it
flew
past me!”

Dora's face shifted as she burst out laughing.

“It's not funny,” Harper fired back, sourly eyeing Dora in her perky running outfit with her blond hair pulled back in a ponytail. Ironically, Harper had been the runner out of the three sisters at the beginning of the summer, but since Dora had taken up regular exercise, she'd been—literally—on Harper's heels.

Her older sister only leaned against the doorframe and laughed harder.

Carson rushed into the room looking as if she'd leaped from her bed. She was in her pajamas and her long, dark hair was loose down her back. “What happened?” Her eyes were wide with alarm. “Is anyone hurt?”

Dora muffled her laugh and waved her arm in a calming gesture. “No cause for alarm.” She caught Carson's eye and added with a smirk, “Harper saw a palmetto bug.”

“Not
just
a bug,” Harper said in self-defense. “It was as big as a rat.”

A smile of genuine amusement spread across Carson's face. “Ah, so our little sister's met our state bird?”

The laughter erupted again.

Harper didn't enjoy being the butt of their lowcountry jokes. Though the three half sisters shared the same father, each had a different mother and they'd thus grown up in different parts of the country. Dora and Carson were both raised in the Carolinas; Harper in New York. They loved to tease their Yankee sister about her city ways and her unfamiliarity with all things southern.