The Summer's End

“I never saw anyone more beautiful. Like I said, I fell in love with you on the spot. Again.”

Dora softened and, reaching up, tenderly brushed his shaggy blond hair from his forehead. “You do turn a girl’s head.”

Devlin slipped his arms around her again. “Shame you put that dress on,” he murmured in her ear.

Dora glanced at the clock on the wall, then smiled at the sound of her dress zipper humming down the track.

Mamaw stood on the dock, staring out moodily as she did so often lately. It was early in the morning, but warm, hinting at the heat that was surely coming as the sun rose higher. Normally she wasn’t one to sulk and let days slip away without notice. She had interests, hobbies, friends. Still, here she was, wandering about aimlessly, feeling pitifully lost without Lucille.

Lucille had come into her employ when Mamaw was a young bride in her new home on East Bay in Charleston. They’d grown old together. While always a treasured employee, Lucille had evolved over the years into Mamaw’s companion, her confidante—her dearest friend. Lucille had held Mamaw up during the dark days following her son’s death, then her husband’s. She’d stood by her side, made sure she ate, encouraged her to get outdoors and walk. Day by day they had created a routine that altered the nature of their relationship. Marietta had no secrets from Lucille. They’d been like two peas in a pod.

Unlike Edward or Parker, Lucille had been a part of Mamaw’s everyday life. Every question—concerning her granddaughters, the house, meals, the garden—was discussed between them. Every decision—from major issues such as finagling a way to get her granddaughters to agree to come to Sea Breeze for the summer, to minor ones such as what to watch on television—was negotiated with Lucille. Usually over a game of gin rummy.

Now Lucille was gone. The wheel that turned Mamaw’s daily life was missing a cog. She’d known that she would grieve, yet she hadn’t anticipated how Lucille’s absence would be felt countless times a day, in all the small details Mamaw had come to take for granted. Being with Lucille had been as natural as breathing. Without her, she couldn’t seem to take an easy breath. She knew her granddaughters were worried about her. The dears, they’d all gathered the night before to play a game of canasta with her after dinner. She stroked her arms. It was fun, she supposed. She just couldn’t seem to muster excitement about anything these days. Was this what they called depression? she wondered.

“Marietta!” a voice called, drawing her from her reverie.

She turned her head toward the voice. Across the water, standing on the neighboring dock, was her neighbor Girard Bellows—Gerry, his friends called him. He was precariously bent over a small johnboat as he loaded gear. When he straightened, he lifted his hand in a neighborly wave. His long, lean frame could make even his nylon fishing pants and patched shirt look elegant.

Marietta smiled, remembering how Girard Bellows had always been a handsome man, especially back in the days when his hair was as black as an eagle’s wing and her hair was as golden as sunlight.

Marietta returned the wave.

Girard shouted, “How’ve you been?”

“Fine, thank you,” she called back, trying to be neighborly.

Girard raised his finger in the universal signal to wait one minute. She nodded, then watched, curious, as he climbed into his small johnboat, fired the outboard motor, and came cruising the short distance over to her lower dock. Mamaw, perched on the upper dock, leaned over the railing and watched him jump to her dock and tie up with the grace of a man half his age. When finished, he looked up at her with a wide, white-toothed grin. He wore a Harvard baseball cap over his shock of white hair that contrasted handsomely with his tanned face. Girard had a vigor about him that was as youthful today as it had been back when she fished with him almost fifty years earlier on this very dock.

“Couldn’t see making a lady shout,” Girard called out as he drew near. He pulled off his sunglasses, revealing his pale blue eyes.

My, but Girard Bellows has aged well, Mamaw thought to herself. She’d always found him attractive. Even fancied him a bit, though it was all innocent enough. Girard came from an old moneyed family in the Northeast somewhere. He had that grace of movement that she thought was a gift of one’s DNA. He always liked to tease her that his folk, who had come over on the Mayflower, were on the eastern coast long before hers in Charleston. That’s when she claimed her pirate ancestry as her trump card. Who knew when and where the Gentleman Pirate first arrived on these shores? It had been a running joke between them for years, and she smiled now, remembering it.

When they were younger, neither of them lived on the island full-time. Local couples shared occasional drinks on weekends when families returned to Sullivan’s Island for the season. The Bellowses were never invited to the Muirs’ Charleston house, nor were the Muirs invited to the Bellowses’ home . . . it was in Connecticut, she remembered. Later, both families retired to Sullivan’s Island. Then Edward had died, followed soon after by Girard’s wife, Evelyn. Mamaw hadn’t seen much of Girard at all since Evelyn’s funeral.

Nate had connected them again earlier this summer when he’d wanted to learn more about fishing. Nate had spotted the older man fishing on his dock and somehow found his way next door to ask Girard for help. Girard loved few things more than fishing and had taken immediately to teaching the boy, who proved to be an apt pupil. Nate called him Old Mr. Bellows, Mamaw recalled with a light laugh.

Then there had been the accident with Delphine, and all fishing stopped.

“Haven’t seen you out here for a while,” Girard said.

Marietta shook her head. “I’ve been busy. Lucille passed.”

Girard’s smile immediately fell and he offered sincerely, “My condolences.”

“Thank you.”

“And your great-grandson, Nate. Nice boy. He sure loves his fishing.”

“It was nice of you to take the time to teach him.”

“Did he go home?”

“No, he’s still here.”

“Really? I haven’t seen him out on the dock. He hasn’t come asking for fishing advice.” Girard shook his head. “That’s one determined little guy.”

“Nate hasn’t touched his fishing rod since, well, not since the dolphin was hurt.”

“Oh, right.” Girard’s face grew solemn at the memory. “Sorry business, that.”