The Summer's End

He didn’t seem the least perturbed.

“I’d think you’d have a lot to write about,” she said.

He nodded.

“What do you write? Memoir? Novel?”

“Poetry.”

The man never failed to amaze her. “Really?” she asked, more a comment of being impressed. “I’ve always thought that poetry was the highest form of writing.”

“I don’t know if it’s any good. Don’t care. But I know it’s good for me.” He looked at his hands. “Writing poetry helps give me clarity. Life can be pretty confusing sometimes.”

“Yes.” Intrigued, she leaned forward. “That’s why I write, too.”

He looked up. “You still write?”

She nodded.

“Poetry?”

She had not intended to tell anyone this most private secret, but she wanted to share this with Taylor. “Actually, I’m writing a novel.”

“A book.” She found him looking at her as though with fresh eyes.

“I know everyone is writing a book these days,” she said self-consciously.

“Even still. This is your book.”

“I’ve written for as long as I can remember. Wrote little stories. But I’ve never finished a novel. My father spent a lifetime writing a novel he never finished. It’s kind of a family joke.”

“Not a very funny one.”

“I’ll always bear the onus of his reputation until I finish it. Beginning, middle, and end. It’s kind of like proving a point.”

“To whom?”

“My mother,” she answered with alacrity. “And myself.” She shook her head. “But even if I do, that won’t stop my mother from mocking and degrading him every chance she gets. She despises my father and anything to do with him, his family, or his writing.”

“That must make it hard for you.”

Harper nodded. “It hasn’t been easy. She’s furious that I’m spending the summer here. Behind enemy lines.”

“Is she furious you’re writing a novel?”

“God, I’d never tell her I was writing. She’s the one who told me I couldn’t write. I believe her exact words were I didn’t have talent.”

“Harsh.”

“Yeah.” She felt the pain anew.

“And you believed her?”

“Well, I was eight.” Harper smirked, then said more seriously, “And she’s a big-time New York editor and publisher at a major publishing house. So, yeah.”

“But of course she’d tell you that you can’t write. She doesn’t want you to be like him. Your dad. Not if she despised him. It wouldn’t matter if you wrote like Charles Dickens, she’d have told you that you had no talent.”

In the silence that followed, Harper’s mind went over and over that scenario. It would be just like her mother to lie for her own advantage. Georgiana James was, after all, a consummate liar.

Although Harper could hear the rain beginning again, tap-tap-tapping on the rooftop, it felt as though the sun had just come out and she could see for miles. The hope of possibility, the kind she’d felt as a young girl before her faith was quashed in her chest, sprang to life again. In a leap of faith, Harper picked up her worn and faded booklet Willy the Wishful Whale. She turned to the man beside her and was filled with gratitude because he had brought back her belief in herself. She handed the book to Taylor.

He took it into his hands carefully, as though he was afraid he might tear it. “Are you sure?”

“Remember, it was written and illustrated by an eight-year-old.”

Taylor nodded and offered a reassuring smile. “I wish I could have seen you then. I’ll bet you had pigtails and freckles.”

“Please . . .”

They laughed, easing the tension.

“Thanks.”

Harper sat back on her haunches and watched his face as he opened the book, catching any change of expression. She leaned forward against his legs. He tilted the booklet at an angle so she could read it along with him. One by one he flipped the pages, revealing neatly printed words and drawings of a whale and other sea life. As she read it aloud, it felt to her as though someone else had written the words. So many years had passed, she felt no claim to them.

Taylor closed the book. He tilted his head and stared into her eyes. “Harper, that was really good.”

She searched his eyes, not wanting to be patronized. In the pale green she saw sincerity and beamed at the compliment, believing it. “Yeah, it was kinda cute, wasn’t it?”

“Can I read the others?”

She looked at the other three booklets, reached into the trunk, and pulled them out. “You have to promise you won’t show them to anyone else.”

“I promise. What about your other book? Your adult book? Can I read that?”

She cringed. “Yes. But not yet.” She wasn’t ready to go that far. “It’s not done.”

He accepted that with equanimity. “I can wait. And it’s okay if you don’t want me to read it. I remember when I started writing poetry, I was terrified to show it to anyone. It’s scary to show your underbelly. I had a lot of anger inside of me. And pain.” He shook his head in a self-deprecating manner. “A lot. Poetry helped me get it off my chest. So, sure, it was tough to let someone see it. One of the scariest things I’ve ever done. And I’ve done a lot of life-and-death things. But it helped, you know? The more I wrote, the more I got critiqued, the better my poetry got.”

“Can I read some of your poetry?”

“Sure. I’ve self-published my first collection. I have a huge sales record of about ten. I bought eight of them. My mama bought the other two.”

“Aw, it can’t be that bad.” She laughed.

“It is.” He grinned. “Hell, I didn’t do it for sales. Mostly so I could have my poems collected in one place so I can give them to someone.” He skipped a beat. “Like you.”

She felt her breath hitch. “Thank you. I’d love a book. Be honored.”

“The way I see it, writing is a gift. Offering someone the chance to read your writing is akin to giving a bit of your soul to someone else.” Taylor lifted Harper’s children’s books in his hands a bit higher. “It’s a gift you’re letting me read these. Thank you.”