The Summer's End

Harper put the hat on a high box. “Mamaw said the knobs were in the boxes in the back right. Next to the rocking chair.”

He reached her side. “I see a rocking chair.”

The space was so narrow between the boxes that he couldn’t pass her. The air suddenly felt close between them.

“This way,” she said awkwardly, then turned and led the way single file. The floor under the rafters was nothing more than wooden planks, which wobbled as they crossed the attic. Moving around a table that jutted into the walkway, she stumbled. She flailed her arms, trying to catch herself. Suddenly Taylor’s hand shot out and grabbed her arm just in time.

“Whoa.” He pulled her back.

She fell back against his chest, aware that he held her arms while she steadied herself. “Sorry. Clumsy me.”

“Watch out for land mines.”

Her heart was pounding as she brushed away hair from her face. He was still holding her, longer than necessary. Self-conscious, she looked at his hands, so large he could wrap his fingers around her forearms. “Thank you,” she said in a hushed voice.

He immediately released her.

She rubbed her arms nervously. “I would’ve fallen facedown in that pile of . . .” She paused when she looked to where she’d have fallen.

She squinted and stepped closer to the small, leather-bound trunk. It was so old patches of the dark brown leather had dried and chipped off like bits of paint, exposing the wood. The initials MC were carved in a brass plate on the top. Marietta Colson. Mamaw’s maiden name.

“I know that trunk.” Harper reached for it. Her fingers could just touch it but she couldn’t lift it.

“Here, let me get it.” Taylor moved around her as they changed places in the narrow walkway. Their bodies pressed against each other, and the neurons of her body traced each touching point. His shirt was still damp from the rain, and she caught the scent of something musky lingering in the fabric.

“Cozy,” he said to break the tension between them.

“Yes.” She laughed lightly, glad he’d named what they both were feeling.

Taylor easily lifted the small trunk and carried it to an open space in the center of the attic. Harper knelt before it, her long pants collecting a layer of dust. Taylor went to the nearest window and, grabbing hold of the handles, pushed to open it. The swollen wood wouldn’t budge. He pounded the frame several times with the palm of his hand and tried again. This time the old window rattled up the frame, but only halfway. Immediately a cooler breeze blew in that smelled of sweet rain.

“The rain’s stopped. At least for a few minutes.” He slapped his hands on his shorts.

“The breeze is nice.” Harper felt the cool breeze cut through the musty air. “This was my grandmother’s trunk,” she told him when he returned to her side. He lowered to his haunches beside her. “She gave it to my sisters and me to store our treasures at the end of the summers.” Her expression softened as the memory came alive in her mind. “It was always a special moment when we returned the next year. Mamaw would gather us together and she’d open the trunk in a grand manner.” Harper smiled. “Mamaw can be quite dramatic. She has a gift for making even the simplest thing seem extraordinary.” Harper ran her fingers gently over the top of the trunk. “I haven’t seen this since I was, oh, ten or twelve. I can’t imagine what’s still in it.”

Taylor moved to sit on an old footstool. His legs were so long, his knees nearly touched his chin. “Aren’t you going to open it?”

“Okay.” Harper pried open the lid. Bits more of the leather flaked off in the effort. She gasped in wonder when she discovered the trunk was filled with items from the sisters’ childhoods. “To think she kept all this all these years.”

Harper pulled out a yellowed handmade collection of papers filled with cutout letters and clippings of fashion models and teenaged movie stars glued to them. It was all tied together with colored string through the punch holes. On the cover, in big letters, was Southern Stars.

Harper remembered, “It’s Dora’s magazine! She created lots of these magazines every summer. She spent hours working on them. Whenever Carson and I tried to help, she’d shoo us out of the room. She was the older sister, you see. She saw us as pesty girls and made a show of not wanting to play with us. We were mad at the time, but in retrospect it was a blessing. Carson and I bonded and we created games of our own.” Harper smiled wickedly. “One of which was to spy on Dora.” Harper opened the magazine. “She was so proud of these things. She boasted that someday her magazine would be a national hit.”

“Creative.”

Harper refrained from replying as she began leafing through the pages while Taylor bent low to look over her shoulder. The carefully cut out photos of teenaged stars of the nineties included Winona Ryder, Marky Mark, the cast of 90210, and others, mostly country-music stars. When they saw Dora’s head shot superimposed on the bodies of blond teen stars, they both howled. Harper leaned against Taylor’s legs, laughing till her sides hurt.

“She never let me see that part.” Harper wiped her eyes. “This is priceless. I’ve got ammunition for years. No wonder Mamaw kept them.”

As the laughter subsided, Harper became aware that her hand was resting on Taylor’s knee and his hand was on her shoulder. When she turned to look at Taylor, he was still smiling, totally relaxed. Laughter had broken the ice between them at last, she thought, looking at his sparkling eyes.

Reluctantly she set aside the other four Southern Stars magazines, vowing to share them with her sisters later. Returning to the trunk, she next pulled out several swimming trophies and award ribbons. “These were Carson’s. Of course. She was really proud of them. That girl is more fish than human.” Harper handed them to Taylor, then looked back into the trunk.

She spied a black bandanna and two eye patches. “Oh. My. God.”

“What are they?”

“Carson’s and my pirate patches! I can’t believe it.”

“Maybe there’s some of the lost pirate gold in that trunk?”

“Fingers crossed.”

Harper rummaged through the remaining contents, pulling out a few old shells that had broken over time, a troll doll with neon-green hair, a pale blue My Little Pony. She handed them to Taylor, who chuckled at each one. Then her hand went still and she felt a sudden chill. Four small square booklets made of cardboard fronts and paper were stacked on the bottom of the trunk. Like Dora’s magazines, these had holes punched into the edge and were bound by yarn.