The Summer's End

She thought about that comment. “A few months ago I would’ve agreed with you. Back in May I didn’t think I’d be able to stand a whole summer with these women I hardly knew. Sure, we’re related, but did we like each other? Or would we tear each other’s hair out?”

“And . . . ?”

“And it turned out we did like each other.” She smiled. “Though we’ve had our moments of hair pulling, too.”

“Where do you fit in the lineup? Who’s the eldest?”

“Eudora’s the eldest. Then Carson. Then me.”

“So you’re the baby.”

She rolled her eyes. “Please . . . That’s a name I’ve been trying to outgrow most of my life.”

Taylor gave a low whistle. “Hold on. Eudora, Carson, Harper. I see a pattern.”

Harper shook her head. “Yes, right. That’s my father. He was a writer and had the idea to name his daughters after great southern authors.”

Taylor leaned back, looking at the sky in thought. “That’s Eudora Welty. Harper Lee. Carson . . .”

“McCullers. The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter.”

“Oh, yeah.” He nodded his head with approval. “That’s cool.”

Harper took a sip of lemonade and shrugged. To this day her mother rued the day she’d agreed to call her only child after a southern author rather than a British one.

“Are you close?”

“Me and my sisters?” Harper pursed her lips. “We couldn’t be more different. We each were raised in different parts of the country. Carson in California, me in New York, Dora in the Carolinas. We have different lifestyles, beliefs, style of dress. Mothers. But somehow, when we’re together, we all fit, like pieces of a puzzle made whole. Take this summer,” Harper said, warming to the subject. “We’ve all been in varying states of transition, and it’s been like Sea Breeze is our lifeboat and we’re all in it together, paddling for shore. We’ve helped each other along, and in the process, we’ve become more than sisters.” She looked back at the water. “So yes. We’re close. We’ve become best friends.”

Below, the water slapped the wooden dock, and the wood moaned. After a moment, Taylor said, “Sounds like you’ve found your treasure.”

Harper turned her head back to look at him, pleased at his perspicacity.

Taylor swallowed the last of his lemonade in a gulp. “I best get back to work. Nice talking with you, Harper.” He touched her shoulder, briefly, then turned and walked away.

Harper put her hand on her shoulder and watched his long, purposeful stride back up the dock to the house.

Chapter Seven

Canasta was a card game in the gin rummy family, so Mamaw felt her blood stirring when she pulled out the decks of cards. It was another steamy afternoon in the lowcountry, and feeling particularly thirsty, she poured two liberal fingers of rum over ice. It was almost five o’clock, wasn’t it?

She met her granddaughters in the living room. They were abandoning the porch due to the continuing heat wave. The room was more formal than the rest of the house, filled with what Mamaw referred to as “good” family antiques, which meant museum quality, all early American, with pale blue silk upholstery. Not the usual room for playing cards. The air was festive as they opened the folding card table and chairs, turned on music, and gathered around.

“Girls,” Mamaw called out when they clustered around the table, “before you sit, we have to choose partners.”

The girls eyed each other nervously.

“I hate choosing teams.” Harper frowned petulantly. “It always reminds me of when I was young and in physical education at school. No one ever picked me for their team because I was too little.” She looked at Carson. “You were probably the first one picked.”

“As a matter of fact, I was,” Carson said with a wry grin.

“No fears, my dear.” Mamaw fanned out a deck of cards across the table. “Pick a card. The closest numbers will be partners.”

Relieved, they all drew a card. Mamaw and Dora were paired against Carson and Harper.

“The South shall rise again!” Dora warned them.

“Here we go . . . ,” groaned Carson with a roll of the eyes.

“It feels weird to play cards in the living room,” Dora said, arranging four glasses of iced tea and a bowl of mixed nuts on the table. “I always felt this was the room we all had to be proper in. Well behaved.”

“A lady?” Carson asked teasingly.

Harper silently mouthed, Death to the ladies!

Carson chuckled at their childhood mantra. Then her smile fell as her gaze swept the room. “The last time we were all in here was during the storm. In July, remember?”

“Of course we remember, sugar,” Dora said. “It was her last night with us.”

Mamaw was shuffling the cards but paused to look around the room. Frank Sinatra was crooning “Summer Wind” and candles flickered. Mamaw closed her eyes and said softly, “Lucille still is with us.”

Harper smiled then, a sad smile.

Mamaw opened her eyes and, with determination, briskly shuffled the two decks of cards. They snapped in her hands with a croupier’s precise movements. “It’s better indoors today. I swanny, the weather is positively wilting. We’ll expire if we play outdoors. I’m old enough to tell you that I’ve suffered through plenty of years without air-conditioning—sleeping outdoors on porches, fanning ourselves relentlessly, drinking cool drinks. I might not be a big fan of air-con out here on the island, but on days like this I bless the birth of Willis Carrier.”

“Amen,” added Dora, raising her iced tea in a salute.

“I’m a convert,” said Carson, lifting the long braid from her back. “I used to hate it. Coming in from the water, air-conditioning always made me too cold. But ever since I got pregnant, I can’t take the heat like I used to.”

“It’s your body heat, dear,” Mamaw told her. “It’s warmer now. You’re working harder.”

Carson eyed Mamaw skeptically.

Mamaw’s eyes widened. “It’s a fact! Look it up.” She began dealing the cards.

“It’s not the heat that bothers me. It’s the humidity,” said Harper. Lifting her hair like Carson, she twisted her shoulder-length hair up into a French twist and secured it with a clip. Then she rubbed her arms, dotted with angry bites. “And the bugs. I got sucked dry yesterday during my run.”