The Summer's End

Chapter Twelve

As a girl, Harper had often journeyed south with Mamaw and her sisters across the Grace Bridge to Charleston for shopping or an event. Only once in a blue moon, after much begging by the girls, did Mamaw head north to Myrtle Beach for the popular amusement-park rides, restaurants, and the occasional live show. But never had Harper been to McClellanville, the fabled shrimp-boat community, one of the few remaining on the southeastern coast.

Until now.

Taylor had reminded her of a promise he’d made when they’d first met to show her a shrimp boat.

Harper sat in Taylor’s black truck and stared out the window at miles of passing pine trees of the magnificent Francis Marion National Forest and the Cape Romain National Wildlife Refuge. This was God’s country, she thought, much of it the same today as it had been back in the eighteenth century when old rice plantations thrived. History breathed along the old King’s Highway. Dotting the four-lane highway were the tilting wooden stands of the local women who filled the shelves with their hand-sewn sweetgrass baskets.

Harper cast a surreptitious glance at Taylor beside her, relieved to find his eyes steadfastly on the road ahead. She loved his strong profile, his thick brows, straight nose, and full lips. She idly wondered what he’d look like with his shorn hair grown out. He tapped his fingers against the steering wheel in time to the country music playing on the radio. The two hadn’t done much chatting throughout the drive, oftentimes falling into a comfortable silence as Harper watched the magnificent scenery go by. She’d learned Taylor was the strong and silent type. Not shy but reserved. Even wary. She sensed she still had much more to learn about him. Then again, she thought with a self-deprecating chuckle, she had never been the chatty type.

Harper sat up and took notice when Taylor flicked on his signal. A blinking traffic light was the only marker for the turnoff.

“Not far now,” Taylor said as he turned off the seemingly endless stretch of Highway 17 and headed eastward toward the sea. Pinckney Street meandered through a dense tunnel of oaks, pines, palmettos, and scrubby shrubs that offered welcome shade from the blistering August sun. Harper stared out the passenger window of Taylor’s truck at the Eden-like wilderness and sparse houses they passed.

Before long Pinckney Street entered the heart of the small, picturesque fishing village—a few blocks of quaint, gingerbread-trimmed historic houses and shops nestled between majestic live oaks. Harper felt as if she’d stepped back in time. Children played on the green lawns, dogs slept on the porches, and adults strolled the narrow sidewalks that lined both sides of the narrow street. Her sharp eyes also took in the sobering effects of seaside living, evident in peeling paint, the wild growth of vines along clapboard houses, the streaks of rust. Empty storefronts where businesses had closed and FOR SALE signs on empty houses hinted at the hard times Taylor had spoken of. Still, the village had an ageless charm that brought her hand to the window glass with a sense of nameless yearning.

Taylor drove at a snail’s pace through the historic district, allowing Harper time to gawk with a small, knowing smile playing at her lips. Pinckney Street came to an end at the glassy water of Jeremy Creek. He turned around and drove back up Pinckney Street, turning onto Oak Street, a smaller street that ran parallel to the water. This shaded street was bordered by an eclectic mix of larger, two-story Victorian houses and modest historic cottages. At the end of the winding road she spied the tips of shrimp boats.

Taylor stopped the truck at the wharf. Bright green marsh grass stretched out from shore to the sea, the tips waving when a breeze passed. Cutting through this, a jagged, fencelike line of pilings bordered the long stretch of docks splattered with gull droppings. Two pelicans perched there, staring in the water for their next meal. The boats were clustered together along the docks like shorebirds on a narrow strip of beach. The tips of the masts bore colored flags, and beneath them hung the great green nets that provided the fishermen’s livelihood. The sound of gulls cawing pierced the air as they circled the sky, and beneath them Harper heard the creaks and moans of old wood and the gentle slapping of water.

From where she stood, it appeared the shrimping industry was in fine shape. She counted a dozen trawlers lining the main dock. Five more were moored at a second, all rocking gently against the creaking wood pier. Then she realized that these were not working boats. A number of the boats had a FOR SALE sign.

“There she is.” Taylor pointed with pride to the last boat in the line of trawlers.

The Miss Jenny was one of the bigger trawlers. Sixty feet of white with dark green trim. She was not young, Harper thought as she noted the peeling paint and rust strips crusting the gear. But she was majestic. Looking at Taylor as he gazed at the trawler, she saw his love of the old boat shining in his sea-green eyes.

“The Miss Jenny may be an ol’ rust bucket, but she’s ours. There’s a trick to getting aboard. I’ll climb up and help you.”

She watched, impressed, as Taylor deftly scaled the high wall of the boat. He turned and reached his arm out to her.

“I don’t know . . .”

“What? Are you afraid I’ll drop you?” he scoffed. “I’ve lifted coolers over this wall that weigh more than you.”

Harper exhaled a plume of air, then took his hand. She tried to be as graceful as she could while being pulled up the side of the boat. At the railing she was hanging on her belly, one leg dangling. As graceful as a hippo, she thought as she righted herself on deck. Once she was on two feet again, Taylor hopped with practiced ease over the railing back to the dock.

“You leap about like Johnny Depp,” she teased.

He laughed loudly at that. “You calling me a pirate?”

“You’d make a handsome pirate.”

Taylor looked at her askance over his shoulder as he hoisted the supplies into her waiting arms as if they weighed nothing. Finished, he lifted the cooler and climbed back onto the boat.

“You know, we Muirs are attracted to pirates. We can’t help ourselves. It’s in our blood.”

His eyes sparked with humor. “You know what pirates say about the ladies, don’t you?”

She shook her head.

Taylor lifted his arm in a fist pump. “Death to the ladies!”

Harper burst out laughing, delighted that he’d remembered her telling him about her childhood rallying call. “You already kiss like a pirate.”