“What are those?”
She wanted to cover the box from Taylor’s view. To hide them. “Books I wrote. When I was a little girl,” she said softly. She reached in and pulled one out. The square of cardboard had been painted blue and had faded over the years. On this was a child’s drawing of a whale, smiling and spouting water. Written in a child’s script was Willy the Wishful Whale.
In a flash, Harper was eight years old again, sitting across the desk from her mother in her elegant apartment in Manhattan. Harper had thought she’d been called in to be complimented for creating her first book. Something she was sure her mother, who worked with books, would be proud of. She’d preened with excitement, her heart fluttered with anticipation. Pleasing her mother was paramount to her.
Instead, her mother had been furious. Her anger was visceral, and though she never lashed out at Harper with physical abuse, her words could sting far worse. The scars, though not seen, were carved on Harper’s soul. That afternoon Georgiana accused Harper of copying the idea from something she’d read in other books. Worse, she compared her lack of talent to her father’s. To be like her father in any way was the worst insult her mother could bestow.
“Your father wasn’t a writer,” Georgiana had spat out, her eyes glittering with anger. “He didn’t have talent. And”—she’d dropped Harper’s book from her fingers as if it were trash—“neither do you.”
That day Harper had felt all her pride and enthusiasm for writing wither in her chest. Her mother had extinguished Harper’s dreams at eight years of age as brutally as she did the cigarette in her hand. It was months before Harper ventured to write again, and then only at Sea Breeze, far from her mother. Where she felt safe.
Then one day the following summer Mamaw had called Harper into her sitting room. She found Mamaw with her feet resting on the chintz ottoman. Sunlight poured into the room, lending Mamaw’s soft, white curls a golden glow. Harper had entered smiling until she spotted the ill-fated book in Mamaw’s hand. Harper shrank back, sure she was again in trouble.
“I found this under your pillow.” Mamaw lifted the small, cardboard-covered booklet in her hand. “Harper, did you write this little book?”
Harper was so nervous, she couldn’t speak. She hovered near the chair and could only nod, eyes wide.
Mamaw gestured for her to come closer.
Harper took reluctant steps to Mamaw’s side, where she reached out an arm to hold Harper close.
“What a wonderful book!” Mamaw gave her a squeeze. “Absolutely charming. Tell me, dear, did you make it up? All by yourself?”
Harper couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Was it a trap, like the one her mother had sprung? She simply shrugged noncommittally.
“You did, didn’t you?” Mamaw’s eyes shone with pride. “Clever girl. It’s wonderful. So creative. Imagine, a whale wishing to find his family, searching the sea. You have a real talent, do you know that? And you drew the pictures so well. You might be a writer when you grow up.”
Harper could only stare back in awe and wonder, confused.
Mamaw’s face shifted and her smile became bittersweet. “Your father wanted to be a writer, you know.”
“I know.”
Mamaw reached out and with her fingertip gently lifted Harper’s chin so that she looked deeply into her eyes. “I am very, very proud of you.”
Harper had felt her chest swell with relief and pride and love for her grandmother. Uttering a soft cry, she reached out to wrap her thin arms around Mamaw’s neck. She couldn’t help the tears that began to flow.
“Why, whatever is the matter, child?” Mamaw pulled Harper up into her lap and held her against her breast while stroking her hair until the tears subsided.
“Mummy told me that it was bad for me to write the book.”
“Rubbish.”
“She said that I was a bad writer. Like Daddy.”
Mamaw’s hand stopped moving. “Did she?”
Harper, ashamed, buried her face in Mamaw’s breast.
Mamaw said in a huff, “I’ve never agreed with your mother on any other topic before, and it is no surprise that I do not agree with her now.”
“Mamaw, was Daddy a bad writer?”
Mamaw began stroking her hair again. “Oh, child, honestly? We’ll never know for sure. Parker never finished his book. He tried, you see, but he just couldn’t manage it. And here you are, his daughter and only eight years old, and you finished a book! That in itself is very important. A triumph! Talent is only a part of writing a book. An important part, true. But the other part is putting in the hard work. That’s the part your father had a difficult time with, I’m afraid.”
Mamaw gently shook Harper in her arms. “But you listen to your Mamaw now. You do have talent. This is a wonderful story. Your mother is wrong, hear? So keep writing, Harper. Write your little heart out. And I’ll happily read anything you write.”
So Harper had started writing again. Story after story all that summer, and the summers after.
Harper looked at the four small cardboard-bound books in her hand. “She kept them.”
“From the little I know about your grandmother, I’m not surprised. Can I see them?”
Harper shook her head no. She couldn’t bear to hear him laugh at her books, the way he had at Dora’s magazines. “They aren’t very good.”
“Says who?”
“I know I’m not a good writer.” She retracted the books.
He dropped his hand, not pushing her. “Does it matter?”
“Of course it matters.”
“I don’t know that I agree. Not if you enjoy writing. It’s a way of communicating. Of sharing a part of your soul with the world. Maybe you won’t get published, but that’s not the end all of writing. Writing is a process. When I write, I do it for myself.”
“You write?” she asked, surprised by this admission.
He nodded and looked at her askance. “You didn’t expect it from me, did you?”
“Well . . . ,” Harper stumbled.
“It’s okay. Most people don’t.” He snorted. “They expect to see the long hair, the turtleneck, and the pained expression. A Marine? Not so much.”
Harper met his glance and felt a blush rise. “When you put it like that, I’m embarrassed. Of course there’s no one kind of writer.”