“I, for one, am going to eat every bite,” Dora said, picking up her fork.
“I’ll bet,” Carson muttered, then caught a warning glance from Mamaw.
“The amount of food one eats doesn’t imply the appreciation of the food,” Mamaw said, picking up her fork. “Harper never was a big eater, if I recall. Dora, you’ve always had a healthy appetite.”
Dora flushed and stared at her plate, heaped with food.
The dinner conversation took a turn for the worse when Dora began to complain about how the island had changed, how much she missed its sleepier days, and how the Northerners—especially Manhattanites—were destroying the South all over again, this time using dollars and loose morals as bullets.
Divorce or no divorce, Carson thought Dora needed to be taken down a peg. To Harper’s credit, however, she seemed to have her own method. Harper ignored Dora’s comments, focusing instead on cutting her shrimp and okra into ever-smaller pieces, which was driving Dora to bristle more than any comeback could.
As soon as the dessert of banana pudding was finished, Mamaw rose and announced that she was tired and going to retire. Then she suggested that the girls do the dishes, seeing as how Lucille had worked all day preparing the meal.
Dora immediately left to check on Nate, with a promise to return. Harper and Carson went into the kitchen and faced, flummoxed, a mountain of dirty dishes, pots, and pans.
“Welcome home!” Carson called out, grabbing a towel from the counter.
Harper grinned wide and walked across the room to take an apron from the wall hook. “I don’t think I remember how to wear one of these things,” she said with a laugh as she slipped the loop over her head. The apron was pale green with ruffles along the shoulder straps and hem. Her hands fumbled with the strings behind her back. “I haven’t worn one since I was maybe ten. In fact, I think this is the same apron.”
Carson laughed and stepped behind her. She tied the apron strings tight. Her sister had always been little, and it didn’t look like she’d grown much since she was ten. “I think you’ve actually got an eighteen-inch waist.”
“Me and Scarlett O’Hara,” she quipped, walking to the sink.
Carson rolled up her sleeves and turned on the radio. Country music blared out.
“I see Lucille still loves her country tunes,” Carson said. “Do you remember how the radio was always blasting out her music?”
“That or baseball games. I don’t think I’ve listened to country music much at all since I was last here.”
“Me neither,” Carson said. She gave Harper a quick glance. “I’d forgotten how much I loved it.”
“Me too!”
As they washed and dried the mountain of dishes, they shuffled their feet and sang out refrains about love lost and found, regrets and hopes, red dogs, and sexy black dresses. The time flew by as they began sharing bits of their own stories with the lyrics. Gradually, the ice that had formed over dinner began to thaw.
No sooner was the last pot washed and put away than Harper tossed the apron on the counter, turned to Carson, and said with heart to her sister, “I need a drink. Let’s go out.”
Carson could have kissed her. They hurried to Carson’s bathroom to refresh their makeup and brush their hair. Carson was enjoying the novelty of a sisterly bond as they chatted about shoes and designers they both loved, blissfully avoiding any heavier topics. It was as though Dora’s rant had bonded them, unfortunately against her.
“What’s her problem, anyway?” Harper’s eyes flashed in warning. “God, it burns me to admit it—and don’t you dare tell her I said this—but it hurt when Dora said those things about ‘Northerners’ and New Yorkers at dinner. She’s about as subtle as a dump truck.”
“And filled with as much garbage,” Carson added. “I hope you don’t take her opinions to heart. I never do. Sometimes she’s so stuck-up she’d drown in a rainstorm.”
Harper chuckled at that. “She was always so much older than me. I think I was afraid of her at some level when I was a little girl.” She paused. “But I’m not anymore,” she said more boldly.
“She’s in a bad place right now. Cal’s left her. They’re getting a divorce.”
Harper paused for a moment. “I didn’t know.”
“I just heard myself.”
“That explains a lot. Still,” Harper said, “she shouldn’t take it out on me.”
Carson waved her hand dismissively. “Let’s not think about her right now. I’m getting seriously bummed. And this is your first night here.” She reached for the perfume bottle and sprayed some on her neck.
“That’s Mamaw’s scent!” Harper exclaimed, sniffing the air. Her big blue eyes were even wider with wonder. “How . . . what is it? Where did you find it?”
“Mamaw gave me a bottle. I’m supposed to test it, see how it smells on me.” Carson sprayed a bit on her wrist. “What do you think?” She held out her arm so Harper could lean in for a sniff.
Harper sniffed, then, looking up, smiled a knowing smile. “It smells really good on you. Like it belongs on you,” she said ruefully. “Very sexy.” She snorted as she drew back up. “Figures.”
“Why do you say that?”
“You’re the one who is most like Mamaw.”
“No, I’m not. I don’t look like anyone. Y’all are blond and pale. I’m dark and tall and I have big feet.”
Harper laughed and reached for the bottle of perfume. “Maybe not in looks.” She shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s hard to name. You’re her favorite, that’s for sure.”
“Not that again,” Carson said with a moan.
“Let me try some,” Harper said, spraying perfume on her wrist. “What do you think?”
Carson obliged and bent to sniff her wrist, then immediately recoiled. “Oh, no,” she said, waving the air. The musk smelled more like body odor on her. “Really, Harper, that’s just bad on you.” She chuckled. “You’re going to have to scrub it off if you want a guy to come within twenty paces of you.”
Harper sniffed, then wrinkled her nose. “Oh God, you’re right,” she said, going straight for the sink and soaping up. “I’ll stick to my Old Dependable—Chanel Number Five, thank you very much. Funny how that works, isn’t it? A perfume can smell so dreadful on me but so fabulous on you. Like it has its own personality. Its own particular preference for people.”
“Or genetics,” Carson said softly, looking at the label of the bottle in her hand. She brought it to her nose, sniffed again, and grew pensive. “It was my mother’s scent.”
“Really?” Harper said, turning her head to look at Carson. “I didn’t know that. I always thought of it as Mamaw’s scent.”
“I just found out myself. It’s not like I remember her,” she said in an offhand manner. Even as she said the words she knew that was a lie. There was indeed memory associated with the scent, unexplainable, that spoke of being cradled, sung to, loved. The scent she’d always associated with Mamaw triggered feelings of safety and comfort. These were emotions she connected with Mamaw, true. Only now she knew the memories went deeper—to her mother. And knowing this, she felt strangely uneasy, even sad, as she inhaled the scent.
“I . . . I don’t think it’s right for me.” Carson moved to the sink and, like Harper, began washing the perfume from her wrists and neck.
“Really? I thought it smelled really great. I have to admit, I’m a little disappointed. I’d have liked to share something with Mamaw.”
Carson blotted the moisture from her neck with a towel and wondered at that comment. “I’d always figured that you didn’t enjoy any connections to your Southern heritage.”
Harper finished drying her hands and leaned against the bathroom counter. “That sentiment is my mother’s. She never wanted any contact with my father— our father. Or his family. I grew up thinking that to be like him, or to be attached in any way to him or his family, was somehow . . . bad.”
Carson felt stung. “What a bitch,” she blurted. Then quic
kly added, “Sorry.”
Harper shook her head. “She can be a bitch. But she’s my mother, so . . .” She shrugged and turned again to the mirror to smooth her hair. “You know, when I’m in New York, I don’t think about the Muir side of the family. It’s out of sight, out of mind.” She looked down at her hands, the ring finger bearing a gold signet ring with the James family crest. “I’m proud of my family. Love them, of course. But there’s a lot of baggage being a James. When I come here, I feel . . . I don’t know, freer. More at ease. Always have.”
“It’s the humidity. Once it starts heating up you have to move slow,” Carson teased. “Your brain softens.”
Harper laughed. “Well, it is good for my skin. But no, it’s this place. Talk about smells . . . The air here is rife with scents, and each one of them is connected to some memory. They started gushing back the minute I smelled the pluff mud. Memories of Mamaw braiding our hair, diving with us into the surf, lazily reading on hot summer days, those big container ships cruising by.” Her voice shifted and she added softly, “Most of all, of you and me, Carson.”
Carson was moved to see tears swimming in her sister’s eyes. “I know what you mean.”
“What do you remember?” Harper asked Carson.
Carson puffed out air, considering. “The beach, of course.”
“You were always in the water. Such a tomboy.”
“You know what else?” Carson asked with the sparkle of memory in her eyes. “I remember running all over Sullivan’s Island like wild pirates searching for buried treasure.”
“Yes,” Harper agreed, her eyes widening in recognition. She raised a fist and shouted, “Death to the ladies!”
That had been their rallying call when they were kids and played pirates. They’d shouted it outdoors at the top of their lungs, and whispered it, too, in the house after Mamaw reprimanded them for being unladylike.
Carson burst out a laugh and raised her fist into the air as well. “Death to the ladies!”
The call still had the power to bond them as they laughed and shared a commiserating glance. In that flash of connection years melted away and once again they were two girls sneaking off to play pirates across Sullivan’s Island, ignoring the dreaded rules of feminine etiquette, determined to discover all the treasures of the world.
“What’s going on?” said a voice at the door.
Looking up, Carson saw Dora standing there, one hand clutching the frame. Her face was scrubbed clean and glowing with moisturizer and her blond hair hung to her shoulders. She had changed into a matronly nightgown that made her pendulous breasts and belly appear as islands in a sea of mauve.
“I thought you went to bed,” said Carson as Harper slipped a sparkly turquoise top over her braless torso.
“No. Nate had a hard time falling asleep. I’m sorry I didn’t make it back to the kitchen. I’ll do dishes tomorrow night.”
“No problem,” Carson said, wriggling into her jeans.
“Are you going out?”
“Just for a drink,” Carson replied, sucking in and zipping. Harper finished clasping on her necklace and Carson turned to admire the unusual arrangement of big chunks of turquoise stones encased in gold that blazed against Harper’s blue eyes. Carson couldn’t take her eyes off them.
“Isn’t it kind of late?” Dora asked.
Harper snorted. “No.”
“Where are you going?”
“Does it matter?” asked Harper, clearly testy. She refused to meet Dora’s gaze and instead leaned over the sink to apply gloss to her lips.
“Just down the road,” Carson replied, hoping to keep the peace between the eldest and the youngest. “Station Twenty-Two probably.” Carson saw a longing in Dora’s eyes and felt a sudden sympathy for her. She remembered what it was like to be the odd man out.
Dora reached up to tuck her hair behind her ear. “There’s something I want to tell you about Nate,” she said.
“What?” Harper asked as she applied gloss to her lips. Her tone implied she wasn’t interested.
Dora cleared her throat nervously. Carson was combing her hair. She checked out Dora in the mirror, curious. It wasn’t customary for Dora to be nervous.
“My son has autism.”
Carson’s hand stilled. Her glance darted in the mirror to Harper, who was applying blush to her cheeks. In that look they shared an immediate understanding and compassion.
Carson lowered her hand and turned to face Dora. She didn’t know what was an appropriate response. I’m sorry wasn’t right. What she felt was more sympathy for her sister, for what she could only assume meant more challenges.
Harper said, “Are you sure?”
Dora bristled. “Of course I’m sure. You don’t think I’m making this up?”
“No,” Harper quickly said, clearly embarrassed. “I mean, is he diagnosed?”
Dora still chafed at the question. “Yes, he’s been to a child psychiatrist and we’ve been through all the tests. There’s a wide range of diagnoses wrapped up in the autism spectrum. Nate has Asperger’s syndrome, a high-functioning form. Don’t misunderstand. He’s highly intelligent. It’s like he’s dyslexic in reading social cues. Things like facial expressions, gestures . . . those little ways we communicate with each other.” She paused while her gaze swept both Carson and Harper. “Like the look you both gave each other in the mirror—Nate doesn’t get those. And he doesn’t always show emotions like you’d expect.” She twisted the diamond on her ring finger. “He’s really a good boy. I didn’t want you to think he was some spoiled brat who throws tantrums.”
“Oh, no,” Carson immediately replied, more out of politeness. In truth, that was exactly what she’d thought.
“There are a few other things you should know,” Dora continued, intent on making them understand her son. “Nate doesn’t like to be touched. So please don’t hug him or kiss him. And he’s very particular about things, like what he eats, and his routine. He gets very upset with any change. Which is why I didn’t want to move him from his room.” She laughed sadly. “You saw what happened there. When he’s overwhelmed he has his little meltdowns.”
Carson watched her twisting her ring. The skin beneath it was irritated and red.
“I should’ve told you right away,” Dora added. “But I still feel very defensive about him.”
“Don’t be,” Carson interjected. “I’m glad you told us. It helps us understand what’s going on. I’m sorry, too, about your divorce.”
“Me too. And I’m sorry we haven’t been in touch,” Harper added.
“Does Mamaw know about Nate?” Carson asked.
Dora shook her head. “I’ve only told my family in Charlotte and a few friends. I’ve been homeschooling, so . . .”
Carson looked at Dora, her face pale and tired, and thought of the beautiful, confident girl who’d dreamed of a future as the happy wife of an adoring husband with two or three perfect children and a beautiful, well-maintained home. Dora’s marriage was on the rocks, her child had special needs, and she was preparing to sell her house. Talk about having the rug pulled out from under.
“Aw, Dora,” Carson said, and impulsively wrapped her arms around her sister. “This has to suck.”
She felt Dora stiffen; then Dora burst out laughing. When she pulled back, Carson saw relief shining in her eyes. “It does,” Dora said, choking back a laugh that sounded more like a cry. “It sucks.”
Hearing the expression from Dora’s lips made Carson and Harper laugh with her. It was as though a valve had opened up and let all the pent-up steam in the room release.
“Hey, Dora, come on out with us tonight. We’re just going for a drink. It’ll be fun,” Carson said.
“Maybe another time,” Dora replied. “Nate’s still upset and I can’t leave him.”
“You sure?” Harper asked.
Carson saw longing in Dora’s eyes but she shook her head. “Next time.”
Harper zipped her makeup bag so fast it hummed. “Then
we’re off. Oh, Dora,” she added. “I totally get why Nate’s in the library. That’s cool. But I’m going to bunk in the twin bed in your room tonight so don’t freak out if you see me tiptoeing into your room.”
Carson winked at Dora as she followed Harper out. “Don’t wait up.”
Mamaw hid in the dim shadows behind the door of the library, a book clutched to her breast and her head tilted to catch the words of her granddaughters. She couldn’t sleep and had come into the library to find a book to read. Nate was fast asleep on the pullout sofa bed, exhausted, the dear boy.
Oh, Dora, why didn’t you grab the chance for a little fun and just go? She could hear the longing in Dora’s voice from across the hall.
She spied Dora as she went to her room and closed the door. Then she heard the clickety-clack of high heels on her hardwood floors. She waited until she heard the front door close, then hurried to peek out the window. She watched Harper climb into the passenger seat of Carson’s car, heard the pitiful creak of the rusty door as she slammed it shut. Carson gunned the engine and she heard the girls shout out, “Death to the ladies!”
Mamaw walked into the dimly lit living room and peeked around for Lucille. Seeing the coast was clear, she hurried to the small liquor cabinet. She’d had it fully stocked for the weekend. She poured herself two fingers of her favorite Jamaican rum, added ice, and took a sip. To hell with her doctor’s warnings. She was about to be eighty years old and needed a little fortification tonight. The sweet burn trailed down her throat to warm her belly. She smacked her lips with satisfaction.
Back in her room, Mamaw lit the bedside lamp and climbed under the billowy blanket of her big bed. Without Edward to share it, she felt adrift in an ocean of sheets and pillows. Still not sleepy, she opened a novel and began reading. After a few minutes, whether it was the slow start or her agitated mind, she set the book aside. She just couldn’t settle tonight. Her mind was running a mile a minute, going over and over every gesture, comment, and look her granddaughters had made. Giving up sleep, she climbed from her bed and went outside on the back porch to sit on a cushioned wicker chair.
Lowcountry Summer eBoxed Set Page 9