“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.”
“You’re welcome.” She sounded so terribly formal.
Lightning flashed at the windows, followed by a renewed burst of rain. It pounded the roof with a clap of thunder that felt as if it exploded right overhead. Startled, Harper leaped from the floor into Taylor’s arms. For a moment she clung to him as the storm wailed outside and a deluge of rain blew sideways against the house, into the open window. The attic echoed with vibration.
She closed her eyes, feeling the warmth, the strength of his arms around her. Smelled the lingering scent of soap on his skin. He didn’t release her. She felt her breathing quicken to match his, in and out, aware that he was counting their breaths, too.
Taylor moved to look down at her. He framed her head with his hand and gently tilted it so that she would look at him.
When she looked in his eyes, all the noise around them ceased in her mind. Her whole world was focused on those two green eyes, pulsing with emotion.
“Harper . . . ,” he whispered.
Suddenly all the doubts in her mind fled. She saw only herself reflected in his eyes. She read desire and something more . . . something that felt very much like déjà vu. She took his hand from her face and brought it to her lips and gently kissed each finger. She heard his breath suck in.
In a sudden swoop he pulled her higher in his arms and his mouth came down on her open one. The storm roared outside as they kissed hungrily, like lost lovers who had found each other again. Kisses that meant to go on forever.
Until thunder clapped again, shaking the house. They both pulled back. Taylor tightened his hold on her. Then, in a burst as sudden as the thunder, they both started to laugh at the deafening roar.
She looked into his eyes and he smiled back. They both knew that the other had felt it. They both knew that this kiss was as earth-shattering as the thunder.
“Will you go out with me?”
“Love to,” she said.
He put his hand to his ear in mock deafness against the din. “What?”
“Love to,” she shouted at him.
He grinned. “I’d like to take you to Monday Night Poetry and Music.”
“Okay. . . . What’s that?”
“It’s one of the poetry readings that takes place in Charleston. Locals read their stuff, but we also get visiting poets sometimes. Poet laureates. It’s very cool.” He had to lower his head and talk by her ear to be heard.
“Sounds perfect.”
He bent to place another kiss on her lips, this one gentle. Then, reluctantly, he lifted his wrist to check his watch. “It’s getting late.”
“I don’t care.”
“We’d better get those knobs.” He moved out from her arms to stand, pulling her up beside him. He had to talk close to her ear to be heard over the noise of the rain pounding the roof. “I’ll close the window and meet you back there.”
She nodded. Taylor helped her to her feet, then wound his way to the window. Harper walked foot over foot, in the opposite direction to the back of the attic. Luckily, she spotted in the forefront the two boxes marked in large letters KNOBS. Beneath them was another, la
rger box labeled DOOR HANDLES. The tape was so old the glue had dried off. Pulling back the bubble wrap, she was thrilled to discover dozens of glass knobs, wooden ball knobs, and old brass and ceramic pulls. Sorting through them, she saw that most of them were in good condition.
By the time Taylor came beside her the thunderous rain had subsided to a steady patter. He slipped an arm around her waist possessively. “Find anything?”
“A treasure trove! There are so many. Mamaw must’ve taken off every knob and pull in the house.”
“You did say you had pirate’s blood in you.”
Harper laughed at that, imagining her proper grandmother going from door to door removing the door handles. He laughed again, and she knew he was imagining the same thing. She hadn’t laughed with a man as openly or freely in a long time. Taylor was slowly opening up to her, and she to him.
“These are perfect. Can you carry these boxes?”
“I think I can manage it.” Taylor smirked and stepped forward and picked up all three boxes as easily as if they were filled with feathers. “If you can grab the small trunk. It’s not heavy.”
She picked up the trunk.
Taylor turned and cast her a hooded glance. “Careful. I can’t catch you this time.”
As she followed Taylor down the stairs, leaving the dust and rising heat, she was sorry to leave the attic.
Very sorry, indeed.
Chapter Nine
For the next several days as the rain pattered the roof and Taylor painted the kitchen, Harper’s fingers tapped at her keyboard. Taylor’s words had sparked her enthusiasm anew. She couldn’t stop the flow.
“But of course she’d tell you that you can’t write. She doesn’t want you to be like him. Your dad. It wouldn’t matter if you wrote like Charles Dickens, she’d have told you that you had no talent.” The more she thought about it, the more true Taylor’s words rang.
It had been a good week. She was making progress on her novel. In some ways it was more memoir than pure fiction, rather what she imagined Louisa May Alcott must have thought while writing the first draft of Little Women. Harper wasn’t putting any pressure on herself to make it one thing or another. She was simply intent on getting the words down on paper, and she’d edit it all later. She didn’t yet know how the story would end.
By one o’clock her stomach growled. She’d risen early and dived right into her work. She hadn’t eaten yet that day, though she’d drunk coffee like a camel. She rubbed her eyes, then closed her laptop.
Looking out the window, she saw that the rain had finally blown off, leaving in its wake a clear, fresh day with an azure sky that stretched to forever. The birds were out in force, calling out songs of joy in the sunlight. Harper rose and stretched. After so much rain, it was too beautiful a day to be cooped up indoors.
She’d been working at the desk in Lucille’s cottage because it was the only place that didn’t smell of paint. Nothing in the cottage had changed since Lucille’s death. The girls had talked about sorting through her things, but Mamaw had promptly put a stop to anything of the sort, declaring that she wanted everything left untouched until she had time to go through it herself. Harper looked around at the cottage, as crammed full as the attic. Clearly Mamaw wasn’t ready to tackle that emotional hurdle yet. But the house had to go on the market. Sooner rather than later, she and her sisters would have to confront Mamaw with the reality that time was running out.
Harper went to the cottage kitchen, which they’d been using during the painting in the main house. She made herself a cream-cheese, tomato, and sprouts sandwich, then carried it out with a glass of almond milk to the front porch of the cottage. She found Mamaw sitting on one of the rockers, reading.
“There you are. Hungry?”
“I already ate. Thank you,” Mamaw replied distractedly.
“What about Dora and Nate? And Carson? Did they eat?”
Mamaw looked up from her reading and pulled off her glasses. “It’s just us chickens, I’m afraid. Dora’s gone out to visit the new school with Nate, and I don’t know where Carson is. She left without a word.”
Harper looked off to the garage. The door was open and inside it was empty. “So Carson took the Blue Bomber?”
“She did.”
“And Dora took her car?”
“Of course.”
“Rats. I need to pick up the lighting fixture I ordered for the kitchen. I guess I’m stuck here.”
“There’s a bicycle in there somewhere.”
“Oh, Mamaw, I can’t very well pick anything up with that old thing.”
“I suppose not.” Mamaw put her glasses back on and returned to her book.
“I can’t be cooped up at the mercy of whether Dora or Carson are home to let me borrow a car. I should just rent one. Where’s the closest place?”
“Mt. Pleasant, I’m sure.”
“I don’t know why I didn’t do this before. I’ll call a cab to take me to the rental office.”
Mamaw lowered her book. “Won’t renting a car for a month or longer cost a small fortune?”
“What choice do I have if I want wheels?”
Mamaw’s expression turned crafty. “You could buy a car.”
“Buy one? What would I do with a car once I leave? I live in Manhattan. The only people who have cars there are commuters, the very rich, or crazy.”
“I suppose your mother would fit into all three categories,” Mamaw said archly. “Doesn’t Georgiana need a car to go to the Hamptons?”
“Mummy has a driver take her everywhere she goes.”
“Of course she does,” Mamaw remarked snippily.
Harper ignored Mamaw’s tone, not wanting her to go off on a Georgiana rant, which she was apt to do with little prompting. “I had a car when I was in college. To get back and forth. But I sold it when I started working in the city. It was expensive to keep up and traffic in the city is beyond ridiculous. I catch the subway or a cab.”
“Well, you can’t do that here.” Mamaw removed her eyeglasses. “As luck would have it,” she began in a tone that usually meant she had something up her sleeve, “I happen to have a friend who is selling a sweet little car. Very sporty. A Jeep, I believe it’s called. I wonder if you didn’t see it? It’s parked on Middle Street with a FOR SALE sign on the windshield.”
“You mean the one close to the fire station? The cream-colored one?”
“The same.”
“It is cute.” Harper remembered the Jeep Wrangler, which looked in good condition. “But it can’t be cheaper than renting.”
“It might be.”
“How much does she want for it?”
Mamaw rose to her feet, a woman on a mission. “I can call and find out. Follow me.”
They went straight inside the cottage to the phone sitting beside the sofa. The cottage still carried the barely perceptible smell of vanilla.
“Mamaw, we should really tackle the cottage. There’s a lot to sort through,” Harper suggested gently.
“Not yet. We have plenty of other things to do.”
“I know. Like the attic. I was up there getting those knobs for the kitchen, and it’s chock-full of stuff. Mamaw, when did you think you were going to sort through all this?”
Mamaw waved her hand, dismissing the subject as one would a pesty gnat. “Later, dear. Later.”
“Procrastination,” Harper muttered softly as she followed Mamaw. She knew full well that when later came, it’d be tinged with panic.
Mamaw sat by the phone and dialed a number. Her eyes sparkled with excitement when she glanced up at Harper. “Hello, Paula?” Mamaw said with a cheery voice. “It’s Marietta.” They exchanged pleasantries for a few minutes before Mamaw cupped the phone and got down to business. “I’m calling about that sweet little car you’re selling. . . . The Jeep, yes. Is it still for sale? . . . It is?” Mamaw winked at Harper. “Can I ask how much you want for it? . . . Uh-huh.” Mamaw made a face. “That much? You’ve had the car for quite a while,
haven’t you?”
Looking for clues, Harper watched Mamaw’s animated eyes as she listened.
“Well, thank you for sharing all that, Paula. My granddaughter Harper is in need of a car, nothing too expensive. This might be just the thing if you have a little wiggle room in the price. . . . Why, yes, I think she could come by and take a look at it right now. . . . What was that? You will?” Mamaw nodded at Harper. “Very good, then. We’ll be right over. It may take a few minutes. We’re walking!” She laughed.
“Mamaw, ask her if I can write a check,” Harper whispered at her side.
“Oh, Paula, one more thing. Harper is visiting for the summer, which is why she doesn’t have a car. If things progress, could she write you a personal check? I will personally guarantee it. . . . Oh, thank you, Paula. You’re a good friend. . . . What’s that?” Mamaw’s eyes widened and she gave Harper a thumbs-up. “Why, that’s very generous of you. . . . Yes, it would be nice to clear it off the grass. . . . Yes, it can be an eyesore.” Mamaw hung up and smiled at Harper.
“Well?”
“Let’s hightail it right over. She bought the Jeep years ago on a whim. Bless her heart, she thought her family might have fun driving it. Thing is, no one ever did, and a Jeep is not the style of car that, shall we say, suits a woman of her age and station. So it’s just been sitting in the garage all this time, collecting dust and taxes. She’s eager to get rid of it. She said if you buy it today and take it off her front lawn, she’ll give you the friends-and-family discount!”
Harper and Mamaw walked the six blocks to where the cream-colored Jeep sat parked on the grass on Middle Street. When they drew near, they stopped talking to walk around the car, peer into the windows, and check it out for bumps or rust.
As promised, the Jeep appeared pristine, obviously having been kept in a garage for the majority of its life. Harper didn’t spot any wear and tear on the removable top, either. “This is the proverbial car that was never driven and kept in the garage by an old lady.”
“We should just thank our lucky stars that it’s still here. Like it?”
The Summer's End Page 13