The Summer's End (5 page)

Harper thought that sounded defeatist. “Any luck on the job front?”

“There's not a big demand for a stills photographer in Charleston,” Carson added sarcastically. Then more seriously: “I'm knocking on everyone's door in LA but nothing's turned up yet. I've called everyone I know, and I mean everyone. It's embarrassing. But I need to get
something.
I'm not kidding when I say the coffers are empty.”

“I could lend you some money,” Harper hesitantly offered. She averted her gaze. The subjects of her wealthy family and her trust fund were touchy between her and Carson.

“Thanks, Sis, but no. I don't want to feel beholden to you. Our relationship is too important to me to risk.”

Harper could appreciate that. She glanced back at Carson with a sly smile. “How about I pay you for a job?”

Carson cocked her head. “Like what?”

Harper considered. “Like surfing. I've always wanted to learn. I could pay you up front for a series of lessons. How does that sound?”

“I'd love to,” Carson replied soberly. “But surfing isn't exactly recommended for pregnant women. In case you forgot . . .” She motioned toward her belly.

“But I thought—” Dora blurted.

Carson sent Dora a level gaze. “You thought what?”

Harper heard the cold challenge and tensed, fearing the abortion argument between conservative Dora and liberal Carson would erupt again.

Harper jumped in the fray. “She thought, as I did, that you'd decided not to have the baby.”

Carson's face was difficult to read. “I wasn't aware that I'd decided anything.”

“Oh.” Harper picked up her mug and took a quick sip.

An awkward silence followed, a sharp contrast to the easy banter of only moments earlier.

Carson's face changed, seeing her sisters' confusion. “I went to talk with Lucille, the night she died.”

“You did?” Dora tilted her head to catch every word. “What did you talk about?”

“Oh, we talked about a lot of things. Mamaw, Blake, the baby . . .” Carson looked at her sisters. “You two.”

They chuckled and muttered comments about what might have been said.

Carson added, “It seems like it was just last night.”

Dora sighed in commiseration. “I know. I miss her terribly. So does Nate.” She turned to Carson, truly interested. “So what did Lucille tell you?”

“She didn't tell me what to do. That wouldn't be her style. It was an emotional evening. I was teary and she was consoling.” Carson shook her head in disbelief. “She was the one dying, and she was consoling me.”

“That was Lucille,” said Dora.

“Lucille told me how she used to watch me surf.” Carson picked at her nail, trying to keep her voice level. “All these years and I never knew that.”

“Sounds like something she'd do,” said Dora.

“She and Mamaw both. We talked about the waves, and how when she watched me, she could tell that I knew instinctively how to move, where to place my feet to keep balance. She told me to remember that I had good instincts. And that I had to trust them. Now more than ever.”

“What are your instincts telling you now?” Harper asked softly.

Carson rested her hands over her belly. “My instincts are telling me to stop obsessing over this decision and to just
be.
To live and let live. This baby is here.” She patted her belly softly. “I'll just have to work out the details as they come along.”

There followed a moment's stunned silence.

“You mean . . . you're keeping the baby?” Dora asked.

Carson nodded.

Dora's eyes widened as comprehension sank in. “We're having a baby!” she hooted, clapping and practically bouncing in her chair.

Carson put up her hand to still the explosion. “Let's not start all that again. I'm trying to get used to the idea. You know me. Just the thought of being tied down to anything, anyone, makes me panic.” She put her hand to her heart. “Oh, God, my heart's pounding at the thought. I'm not sure I'm ready. If I'll ever be ready. I worry if somehow I'll lose myself. Become invisible.”

Dora grabbed her hand. “You won't disappear. We won't let you.”

“You'll shine,” added Harper.

“Promise me you'll keep reminding me of that,” Carson entreated.

Dora put her hands to her cheeks in wonderment. “We're having a baby!”

“Slow down, sister mine,” Carson admonished. “Let's take it one day at a time, like you said.”

Dora asked, “Does Blake know?”

Carson shook her head. “And you're not going to tell him. Or Devlin.”

Dora opened her mouth to argue but, on second thought, snapped it shut.

Dora's come a long way, Harper thought, pleased to see her eldest sister showing some restraint where, only a short time earlier, she would have plowed full steam ahead with her unwanted advice.

“Okay,” Harper said to Carson. “I guess I'll pay you for the surfing lessons
in advance.
”

Carson laughed with resignation and relief. “Yeah, okay. And thanks.”

“If you really want to
thank me, you can start vacuuming.” Harper pushed off from the counter. “Don't think being pregnant gets you off easy. Dora, you've got garbage duty. FYI, it's recycling day tomorrow. I'm going to start in the kitchen. Come on, girls.” Harper clapped her hands. “We're wastin' daylight.”

Dora looked at Carson, her arms spread out in a gesture of incredulousness. “Who
is
that girl?”

Hours later Mamaw walked into the kitchen to prepare lunch. She was arrested at the threshold by a vision of utter chaos. The entire contents of the cabinets—boxes of food, tins, spices, and all the dishes—had been emptied out and grouped into piles on the kitchen table and counters.

Mamaw put one hand on the doorframe and stared in mute shock at the pots and pans littering the floor. “What on earth . . . ?”

Harper was scrubbing the inside of a cabinet. Hearing her grandmother's voice, she crawled out from deep inside and raised her head. The sponge in her hand dripped water to the floor.

“Hi, Mamaw,” she called in a cheery tone.

“Child, what in heaven's name are you doing?”

“I'm cleaning the kitchen.”

Of course, Mamaw thought ruefully, it wasn't enough for Harper to simply tidy the kitchen. She had to disassemble it, scour it, then reorganize it. Where did she get her energy? Mamaw wondered. She couldn't ever remember having that kind of energy. It seemed as if all Harper's domestic talents, dormant all these years, were bubbling out at Sea Breeze.

Mamaw stuck out her hands toward the table. “I came in to fix some lunch, but there's no room to make a cup of tea, much less a meal. Everything is everywhere!”

“Is it lunchtime already?” Harper looked around at the mess. “I guess I lost track of time. I started cleaning the drawers and . . .” She made a face. “Oh, Mamaw, they were so dirty and dusty. That led to the cabinets. Do you even know how long it's been since anyone scrubbed those out? And there's no rhyme or reason to where things are put. Everything is helter-skelter. And”—Harper shivered in disgust—“I'm putting roach traps everywhere. It's war.”

Mamaw felt a twinge of guilt that Lucille's kitchen was being criticized, as if she should defend Lucille somehow. Yet, truth was, Lucille had been so ill before she'd passed on that she hadn't even had the energy much of the time to leave her little cottage, let alone march into the house and whip things into shape. Even before that, she'd lost her zeal for cleaning and projects. Not that Mamaw could find fault in that. She felt the same way. Old age had a way of taking the starch out of one's sails.

She pointed to a specific trash bag. “Why are the pots and pans in the trash?”

Harper had the grace to look sheepish. “Yeah, about that.” She sat back on her heels. “Honestly, Mamaw, some of these have to be tossed.”

“No! You can't throw them away. Lucille used these for fifty years.”

“My point exactly. They're no good any longer. Take this iron skillet, for example.” Harper dug it out from the trash bag and held up a rusted iron skillet with a long wooden handle, distaste skittering across her features.

Mamaw, her face reflecting her horror, rushed to grab the skillet from Harper's hands. “This was my mother's skillet! Her mother gave it to her when she was married, and she gave it to me. I was saving it to give to one of you girls. It's an heirloom!”

“Oh.” Harper looked slightly ashamed. “But, I mean, who'd use it? It's all rusty.”

“It simply needs to be reseasoned with oil,” Mamaw said with a hint of scold. “Any good southern housewife appreciates the sentiment of an iron skillet that's been passed down. Knows how to maintain it. I tell you, this skillet is perfectly good. I'll show you how to season it. You should know.”

Harper looked at the rusty skillet with an expression of doubt, but didn't want to fight Mamaw on it. “Thank you,” Harper had the manners to reply. “Okay, the skillet is a treasure. But these aluminum pots,” she continued, not to be deterred, “they're hopelessly battered, and frankly, they're not safe to use anymore.”

“Lucille cooked some very good meals in those pots.”

“This is no comment on Lucille's cooking, Mamaw. I know you have an emotional attachment to them, but look at them. They've worn down to nearly nothing. I've gone online and learned that not only are these old aluminum pots and pans leaching dangerous metal, but research has linked aluminum cookware to Alzheimer's.”

“Oh,” Mamaw said, her complaints suddenly silenced.

“I'm going out today to buy some stainless steel pots and pans.”

“You mustn't spend your money—”

Harper put up her hand to stop Mamaw's objections. “I'll need them anyway if I'm going to set up my own place.”

Mamaw's attention sharpened. “You're
making plans, are you? Going back to New York soon?”

Harper shrugged. “I suppose so.” She looked at her grandmother. “I better start firming up those plans, I know. But till then,” she said in a more upbeat tone, “Dora, Carson, and I huddled together this morning like a bunch of old crones. We had a good heart-to-heart.”

Mamaw brightened. “Really? I'm so glad.”

“There was a method to the madness. We know you've let go the cleaning service and we haven't done our part. So we put on our big-girl panties and divvied up chores. We've organized the cooking, too.”

“Mercy!”

“Brace yourself, Mamaw. It's time to get a food processor.”

“Whatever for? I won't cook in the old-folks home I'm heading to.”

Harper scoffed at the term
old-folks home.
The place Mamaw was intending to go to was lovely and up-to-date. “Like I said, I have to buy this stuff anyway for wherever I'll set up a kitchen.”

Mamaw's attention riveted on that comment. “You're not going back to your mother's apartment?”

Harper shook her head firmly. “No way. I won't go back there. Looking forward, Mamaw.” She gave Mamaw a kiss.

Mamaw put her hands to her cheek where Harper's lips had been. “Well, if you think so . . .”

Harper seized the moment. “While the cabinets are empty, wouldn't it be a good time to give everything a fresh coat of paint? What do you say?”

“Paint?” Mamaw said feebly against the onslaught of energy and ideas.

“Absolutely.
A clean white. Let's do the walls, too, while we're at it. They're dreary.”

Mamaw looked around at the dingy walls. “I've always wanted to freshen things up a bit, but Lucille chased me out every time I suggested it. It was
her
kitchen, you know.”

“Let's do it now. There's no hope for the appliances, but it's probably not worth replacing those if you're moving.” Then Harper's voice changed, softening. “Other than that fabulous old Viking oven. It's built like a tank. Anyone who buys the house will probably gut the room and build a kitchen around the oven.” She sighed and let her gaze lovingly linger on the mammoth appliance. “I know I would.”

Mamaw felt suddenly as ancient as the oven. “But the cost . . . I'm afraid I have to be, shall we say, conservative now.”

“It's my idea, thus my expense.” Seeing Mamaw open her mouth to object, Harper pushed on, “No arguments. Consider it rent. And tuition for the cooking classes that I'll be getting from you and Dora.”

Harper noticed the confused look on Mamaw's face and changed the subject. “Enough about the kitchen. Let's do something fun today. What would you like to do?”

“Oh, I feel a bit tired. I might lie down after lunch.”

Harper came closer and her eyes sparkled with enthusiasm. “Perhaps after dinner we could play cards.”