Lowcountry Summer eBoxed Set

by Mary Alice Monroe

  “Really?” Harper said, surprised. “Isn’t that a good thing?”

  “It is not,” Mamaw answered emphatically. “He is being shamelessly selfish. It was all I could do not to put him in his place. Winnie, of course, was all agog with the possibility of a reconciliation. No divorce—no scandal. She didn’t give a thought to what was best for Dora.”

  “Mamaw,” Carson said cautiously, “I’m sure she does care about Dora. She’s her mother, after all, and entitled to her opinion.”

  “I agree with Carson. How can saving their marriage be wrong?” Harper asked, still not convinced.

  “But of course it’s not wrong, if the reasons are sincere,” Mamaw replied. “Cal Tupper doesn’t give a hoot about Dora. Or his son.” She straightened in her chair. “He might fool Winnie but he can’t fool me. She really knows nothing about the man. He wants to keep Dora in Summerville, close to that behemoth of a house, so she can supervise the repairs. Chop-chop. That was his motive.”

  “Excuse me, but again, what’s wrong with that?” asked Harper. “It’s what she’d be doing if they weren’t having problems in their marriage, isn’t it? She is his wife, after all. And being a homemaker is her job.”

  “That’s not the point.”

  “What is the point?” Harper asked.

  Carson narrowed her eyes and wagged her finger. “What aren’t you telling us?”

  Mamaw glanced toward the door and lowered her voice. “The point is Nate.”

  “What about Nate?” Harper asked.

  “He’s not included in the invitation to live at the condo.”

  Carson was incensed. “Not included? But he’s their son!”

  “That’s the point,” Mamaw said, nodding with satisfaction that her side had been vindicated.

  “You mean, he wants us to take Nate off his hands?” Carson asked, incredulous.

  “Exactly.”

  Carson leaned back in her chair. “You’re right. He is a shit. Poor Nate. Poor Dora.”

  “I don’t know him from Adam so I’m not defending him,” Harper said. “But do we know both sides of the story?”

  “How can you say that?” Carson blustered, turning to face Harper. “He’s a jerk. We all knew that before the divorce.”

  “But he’s Dora’s jerk!” Harper argued back heatedly.

  She paused, hearing her words, and they all burst out laughing.

  Mamaw brought the conversation back on track. “Dora’s made her decision to return here with us, so let’s not waste our time debating the merits and flaws of Calhoun Tupper.” Her tone of voice made it perfectly clear that she’d already wasted enough breath on the man.

  “Dora has spent most of her life doing what she was told. And putting others in front of herself—especially Nate. This is the first time she spoke up for herself about what she wanted, by insisting she and Nate would be best off at Sea Breeze. It’s a good start,” she added.

  Looking at Harper, Mamaw continued, “You’re quite right that Dora has to make this decision on her own. But we can guide her toward new habits that help her feel good about herself. Inside and out. Little things that you two take for granted—getting manicures and pedicures, taking time to exercise, going out with the girls—these are all foreign to her. She dotes on Nate and his needs, and then Cal’s, and then the house. She puts herself last, over and over. It’s no wonder she let her figure go. She just gave up. Plus, I doubt there’s been much money for such extras.”

  “Mamaw,” Carson said, leaning back in the wide chair and tucking her arms around her legs, “Dora wasn’t like that as a girl. During our summers, she made sure she had things her own way. I never thought of Dora as shy and retiring. In fact, she still isn’t. She’s downright bossy.”

  “Yes, she is,” Mamaw agreed. “Now think about it for a moment. Dora is a stickler for what?”

  “Nate’s schedule,” answered Carson promptly. “Nate’s food, Nate’s clothing . . .”

  “Following the rules,” Harper said quickly. “The Southern belle rules, I mean. Like not showing too much bosom or wearing skirts too short.”

  “Never wearing white before Easter or after Labor Day,” added Carson.

  “Manners, swearing, yelling, churchgoing,” continued Harper.

  Carson smirked. “Being a lady.”

  In a flash, the girls swung their heads around, pointed at each other, and blurted out, “Death to the ladies!”

  Mamaw had to laugh. When Carson and Harper were little girls, they prowled the island pretending they were pirates searching for buried treasure. Mamaw knew full well the two tomboys chafed under her rules and squirmed when she told them to take their sandy feet off the beds and elbows off the table, to spit out the chewing gum and use tissues rather than shirtsleeves for wiping noses. She’d made them clean up for dinner, brush their hair, lower their voices, and always told them to “act like a lady.” So the girls had created a secret mantra that they’d shout as they escaped out the door— Death to the ladies!

  “Exactly,” Mamaw replied. “Dora is like some herd dog who barks and nips to keep the sheep in line. She takes pains to follow the rules. To be the good, well-brought-up girl.” She offered a sly grin. “I say she needs to channel a bit more of the pirate in her blood, don’t you?”

  Carson and Harper both responded with grins.

  “Death to the lady—of course!” Carson exclaimed, catching on.

  “Dora needs to break a few rules,” Harper said, obviously enjoying where this was heading. She leaned forward. “What can we do to help?”

  Dora didn’t have any idea how long she’d been lying there, immersed and fully relaxed, but the water was cool when Mamaw returned. She held out the thirsty terry-cloth robe like a lady’s maid for Dora to step into, then escorted her into the bedroom.

  Mamaw’s vanity was a piece of art. It was a French antique, triple mirrored with a glorious slab of white marble in the brass frame.

  Dora remembered when she was a young girl watching Mamaw dress for one of her nights out with Granddaddy Edward.

  Dora sat cross-legged on Mamaw’s big bed, transfixed at the sight of her beautiful grandmother sitting at her shiny mirrored vanity. She thought her grandmother looked like a queen in her ruby-colored robe. The silk fell glamorously from her slender shoulders to puddle on the floor. Dora looked at her My Little Kitty pajamas and wished she could be as beautiful as her grandmother, with her long golden hair gathered on her head by jeweled pins. Mamaw lifted a brush and delicately dipped it into one of her pots of color. She leaned closer to the mirror and applied the makeup with deft strokes. Dora sighed when Mamaw brought various pairs of earrings to her ears, turning her head from left to right as she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the three mirrors to better decide which to wear. For the coup de grâce, when she carefully applied the ruby red to her lips, Dora almost swooned.

  Mamaw turned on her bench and smiled at her. “Would you like to try a little?”

  “Who? Me?” Dora asked, sitting bolt upright. Her mother had never offered to put makeup on her face. The one time she’d asked to try her lipstick, Winnie’s eyes widened with shock and she exclaimed, “You’re much too young for makeup!”

  “Yes, of course you,” Mamaw replied, rising from the bench. She reached out to take Dora’s hand and led her to the bench. Dora stared in awe at her reflection in the magnificent three mirrors.

  Mamaw picked up a boar bristle brush and began brushing Dora’s hair in long, smooth strokes. It felt dreamy.

  “Your hair is the same color as mine,” Mamaw said in a tone that indicated she was pleased with that fact. “You must brush it one hundred times each evening so it will shine.”

  Mamaw set the hairbrush on the vanity and reached for her makeup brush. She dabbed it in some pink powder, then gently applied a few strokes to Dora’s cheeks. Dora held her breath when Mamaw applied a hint of blue to her eyelids.

  “Just a light touch when you apply makeup,” Mamaw instructed.
“You want to enhance your beauty, tastefully. Too much, and you look like a common floozy.”

  Dora wasn’t sure what a floozy was, but she caught the gist of Mamaw’s meaning. When she saw her reflection in the mirror, Dora had felt so grown-up—even beautiful! In that moment, Dora loved no one in the world more than her grandmother.

  Now, all these years later, Mamaw was once again setting her in front of these same triple mirrors. Dora slumped her shoulders and averted her gaze, still feeling like the gawky girl. Without looking at her reflection, Dora felt more the jester than the queen.

  “Now, dear girl, drink this,” Mamaw told her, handing her a glass.

  Dora looked at it with suspicion.

  “It’s only water,” Mamaw said with a light laugh. “After a hot bath you must replenish your moisture. Your skin must never be dehydrated.”

  Dora obediently took the glass and sipped.

  Mamaw pulled open a mirrored drawer and took out a jar of cream. Dipping in, she applied moisturizer to Dora’s skin with gentle strokes, taking time to make small circles at her temples. Dora kept her eyes closed as once again Mamaw brushed her hair, one smooth stroke after another.

  “You are a beautiful woman,” Mamaw told Dora when she had finished. “Open your eyes and see how your skin glows!”

  Reluctantly, Dora opened her eyes. In the reflection she saw a pair of luminous blue eyes staring back at her. Around them, her skin was pink from the steam bath. She stared back at her reflection, surprised that the woman there was actually rather pretty.

  “You’ve always had the best complexion,” Mamaw went on speaking as she brushed. “So soft. Look, not a wrinkle. You get that from me, of course. When you take your walks, be sure to wear sunscreen and a hat. The sun is not your friend.”

  “My walks?” Dora asked.

  “Of course. You must take long walks every day, like the doctor said. Early in the morning or late afternoon, when the sun isn’t too harsh. It’s the best exercise for your heart—and your figure will thank you, too,” she added. “You can begin this afternoon.”

  “I don’t know . . .”

  “Of course you do. We’ve already been through this at the hospital, dear. You know full well it’s time to begin anew.”

  “I don’t know if I can. I want to hide. I feel so hurt. So disappointed—in life, in Cal. In people.”

  Mamaw stopped brushing and met Dora’s gaze in the mirror. “ ‘People give pain, are callous and insensitive, empty and cruel . . . but place heals the hurt, soothes the outrage, fills the terrible vacuum that these human beings make.’ ” She put her hands on Dora’s shoulders. “Do you know who said that?”

  “No.”

  “Your namesake. Eudora Welty.”

  “Her,” Dora said with a frown. “Not very lucky in love either, was she?”

  “How do we really know? Besides, whether or not she was married or lucky in love is immaterial. She knew herself and lived her life fully.”

  “She spent her whole life alone, in the small town she was born in,” Dora argued.

  “You keep missing the point,” Mamaw said, tapping Dora’s shoulder. “The life Eudora created for herself was of her own making. No matter where she may have spent her life, she was at home within herself. Yes, she spent most of her life in a small town in Mississippi, but what Eudora understood, and wrote about so beautifully, was how love of place can fill the soul.

  “I sympathize with that sentiment. I take that to mean a deep-rooted attachment to the place where we find ourselves at peace. Content. Where we have roots.”

  Mamaw shook the brush for emphasis. “Dora, I’ve seen many sunsets all over the world, but to me, nothing matches a lowcountry sunset when the entire sky is alive with hues of sienna, purple, and gold. Or the thousand and one different ways one stretch of beach can appear on any given day. I resonate to this place because this is my home. This is where I’m from. It’s where I can be me.”

  Dora’s eyes moistened, making the blue shine like a torch. “I don’t know where my home is anymore.”

  Mamaw lowered to slip her arms around Dora and place a kiss on her head, moist and sweet-smelling from the bath.

  “Feel our love around you. We are holding you up. You’re safe. So go out, Dora. Walk the beach. Feel the sand in your toes. Prowl the streets, haunt the vistas. Walk, walk, walk. And I believe, in all your wandering, you will discover a place of stillness and peace. Find yourself, and you will find your way home.”

  Chapter Seven

  Immediately after the family meeting, Carson hopped into the golf cart and made a beeline to Blake’s apartment. It had been less than a week since she’d seen him, and she was surprised how much she missed him. She had the pedal to the metal, but the cart couldn’t go beyond fifteen miles per hour.

  “Come on, come on,” she murmured, leaning forward with a sense of urgency.

  At last she arrived at the long stretch of white wood apartments that once had been quarters for the military when they had a presence on Sullivan’s Island. She parked the cart and hurried up the stairs to knock sharply on the door. She heard a warning bark—Hobbs—then a moment later the door swung open and Blake was standing there in tan shorts, a brown T-shirt, sandals, and an expression of delight on his attractive features.

  “At last!” he exclaimed, and reached out to grab her around her waist and hoist her against his chest before he planted a solid, impatient kiss on her mouth.

  As usual, the natural spark between them exploded. Carson wrapped her arms around him, starved for his kisses. She hung on, still kissing, as Blake walked her into the room, tottering as he reached out to close the front door. Hobbs barked excitedly beside them, pawing to get their attention.

  Blake tore his mouth away to growl at his dog, “Hobbs, get down!”

  Hobbs grunted and went to his bed and settled with a disappointed thump.

  “This one’s all mine,” Blake said against her lips, his eyes gleaming, and claimed her mouth again.

  Giddy, laughing, kissing, they stumbled into Blake’s bedroom, kicking off shoes en route to the bed.

  Later, lying naked in Blake’s arms, Carson wondered at the red-hot quality of their passion. Undressing and getting into the bed was a blur, all part of one seamless, hungry, relentless kiss that demanded more. It was often like this with him, she thought as she let her finger slide lazily up and down his arm.

  She played with the soft, dark hair of his chest, thinking how she’d driven twelve hours home from Florida, slept in her own bed, reconnected with Mamaw and her sisters. Yet only now, in Blake’s arms, did she feel truly home again. It was a new sensation for her, as confusing as it was pleasant.

  She leaned back to look into his face. “I missed you.”

  He laughed in that satisfied, ego-laden manner men sometimes did. “I could tell.”

  She smirked and gently, teasingly tugged at his hair.

  “You done good with Delphine,” he told her.

  She smiled against his chest. The subject of Delphine’s accident was still a tender subject between them. She knew, despite his spoken forgiveness, some part of him was still angry at her for drawing a wild dolphin to the dock with food and attention, so this praise fell sweet on her ears.

  “Lynne told you?”

  “She called after you left. Actually, it was kind of a thank-you call. She told me how Delphine turned the corner after you visited. She was very pleased. And impressed.”

  Carson felt warmth bloom in her chest. “I felt badly leaving so quickly and on such short notice.”

  “She understood. It was a family emergency. Besides, she thought it might’ve been for the best.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “Your bond with Delphine is so strong. If she’s got any hope to be released to the wild, she can’t continue to seek out humans. Especially not you.”

  Carson turned on her back and looked at the ceiling. The fan’s blades slowly stirred the air above them. She still couldn
’t imagine a world without Delphine in it. A small pang of sadness pierced her insides whenever she thought about it. Yet she knew if she truly loved the dolphin, she had to let her go.

  “I want that, too.” She moved to sit up on the bed, comfortable with her nakedness. “I need your advice on something,” she began.

  Blake moved to put his hands under his head. His dark eyes gazed at her with full attention.

  “It’s about Nate. We’re worried about him. He’s having a hard time getting past Delphine’s accident. Harper did research about dolphin programs for children with special needs and wondered if a program like that wouldn’t help Nate get past his guilt over what happened with Delphine.”

  “Could be.” Blake’s brows gathered, a signal she recognized that he was considering the question. “I don’t know anything about the benefits of dolphin programs with special-needs kids. It’s not my area.”

  “But you know the Dolphin Research Center.”

  He raised his brows.

  “That’s the program we’re interested in,” she explained.

  “And it’s no coincidence that the DRC is also the place they’re thinking of moving Delphine.”

  Carson smiled conspiratorially. “I figured, why not check out the facility while I help Nate out.”

  He raised himself on one elbow. “You’re going to take Nate to the DRC?”

  She shrugged. “Me or Harper, or both of us. It’s still up in the air.”

  He gave a little groan. “I can’t see Dora letting you or Harper take Nate.”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “I think I can follow.”

  Carson reflected on the long family meeting earlier that day. They still hadn’t presented the idea to Dora. That would come next.

  “In a nutshell, Dora’s pretty fragile right now. She had, well, kind of a meltdown the other day. With that on top of her health, Mamaw wants Dora to take some time to heal without worries or responsibility. So Harper and I thought if we took Nate to this program, it would provide both Dora and Nate time to heal. I think it’s a win-win deal. So I’m asking if you can help me make arrangements for Nate at the Dolphin Research Center?”