“Mmm . . . that’s nice. Thank you, dear.”
Harper pulled up a chair and dropped into it. She leaned forward, elbows resting on her knees. “What’s got your mind wandering?”
“Oh . . . I was thinking of Lucille,” Mamaw said wistfully.
Of course, Harper thought.
“It was a nice funeral, wasn’t it?” Mamaw asked.
“It was. I’d never been to a Gullah funeral before. So much song, tears, and rejoicing.”
“And amens,” Mamaw added wryly.
Harper smiled in agreement. She’d been moved by the unrestrained calling out at the service, the passion, the strong sense of community.
Mamaw looked back out over the water. “I was sitting here, looking across the Cove, and it brought to mind what the preacher talked about at Lucille’s service. How their ancestral spirits who came to the lowcountry—those by force and those who came after—lived, thrived, and died here. They worked hard, cooked rice, cast nets for shrimp, raised children, and now they’ve all moved on to the bounty of the afterlife. That’s what Lucille believed, you know. She was tired at the end, I daresay looking forward to crossing the water.” Mamaw sighed, remembering. “I confess, lately I might be ready, too.”
Harper leaned forward to grasp Mamaw’s hand. “Don’t go yet. We still need you.”
Mamaw’s lips slipped into a wobbly smile, briefly, then fell again. “I’m having a hard time believing she’s really gone.”
“It all happened so fast.” Harper also felt deep sorrow at Lucille’s swift battle with cancer.
Mamaw looked at Harper. “Do you believe in an afterlife?” she asked pointedly.
Harper released Mamaw’s hand, leaned back, and scratched her head, thinking this was a heavy conversation to have before a first cup of coffee. She’d never warmed to the idea of a God that rewarded the good with heaven and the others with an eternity of brimstone and fire. It seemed so unforgiving. Still, after much soul-searching, she’d come to believe there was a higher being. She’d felt a connection to that infinite power this morning while staring out at the sunrise.
“I guess so,” she said with hesitancy. “I don’t think much about it.”
Mamaw smiled ruefully. “You’re young. You think you’re immortal. When you get to my age, you’ll think about it . . . a lot.”
“I don’t like to see you out here alone, playing solitaire and thinking of death. It’s a tad morbid.”
“I’m not feeling the least bit morbid. Quite the opposite.” Mamaw patted Harper’s hand with a weary smile. “Death is becoming an old friend.”
Harper rose and tugged gently on Mamaw’s arm. “Come inside and I’ll make you a nice breakfast. Something warm.”
Mamaw resisted, leaning back in her chair. “I’m not hungry. I’ve just got the dwindles.”
“How about I bring you a nice hot cup of coffee?”
Mamaw perked up at the suggestion. “Well, I wouldn’t say no to that.”
“Coming right up.” Harper paused. Mamaw was always an elegant woman who took great care with her appearance. She had been a leading Charleston socialite known for her extravagant parties as much as her polished beauty. To see Mamaw sitting on the porch still in her nightclothes, her white hair flowing unbrushed, wrapped up in a coverlet like a bag lady, shook Harper to the core. This was an outward sign of the state of Mamaw’s mind.
Harper made a bold suggestion: “Mamaw, while I make coffee, why don’t you get dressed?”
Mamaw turned her head to deliver a stern face with a brow raised. “I beg your pardon?”
Harper rushed on, “Don’t you remember, you used to tell us how Thomas Jefferson wrote his eleven-year-old daughter letters on deportment from France? He admonished her to always rise and dress promptly. Neat and clean and tidy.” Harper paused, pleased to see her grandmother was listening. “You told us your mother read you his letters, and you read them to us. Why, if you caught us lying about in our jammies, you sent us straight to our rooms to get dressed.”
“I’m delighted to learn you paid attention.” Mamaw offered her hand in a regal manner. Harper took it and helped Mamaw to her feet. “Very well. The sun is up and so I should rise with it. It is, to paraphrase Scarlett O’Hara, another day.”
Chapter Two
The kitchen was as quiet as a tomb.
Here, in the kitchen, Lucille’s absence was most felt. Every morning during Harper’s childhood summers spent on the island, she’d wander sleepyheaded into the kitchen to be greeted by the clanging of pots, the smell of coffee, biscuits in the oven, bacon sizzling on the stove, and a hearty hello from Lucille. The comparative silence now caused an ache deep in her chest.
Harper stood at the threshold and looked at the dimly lit, empty room through her pragmatist eyes, not clouded by the blur of nostalgia. It was the classic kitchen found in a house that once held a staff. It had what people in real estate called good bones. The room was big, with windows that overlooked the Cove. A butler’s pantry with glass-front cabinets separated the kitchen from the dining room. It was all charming, if outdated. To her, the room was like a vintage dress that needed a good cleaning and maybe a new zipper.
The once-butter-colored walls now appeared rancid, and the appliances were terribly out-of-date. Harper frowned to see dirty dishes in the sink and, on the long wood table, an empty package of fig cookies, crumbs scattered. Wouldn’t Lucille claim she was going to “look for a switch” if she saw the state of her normally spotless kitchen?
Harper entered the empty room, wrinkling her nose at the smell of bitter coffee grinds and day-old garbage. She tossed the cold filter, then went to the sink for water to make a fresh pot of coffee. As she lifted the sponge in the sink, out from under it skittered an enormous brown cockroach. Harper screamed, dropped the coffeepot into the sink, and leaped back. The commotion sent the enormous bug flying past her head.
Dora came running into the room, her eyes wide and searching. “Harper? Are you all right?”
“Yes,” Harper said breathlessly, her hand over her pounding heart.
“You screamed bloody murder!”
“I just saw the biggest cockroach. At least I . . . I think it was a cockroach. I swear . . . it flew past me!”