The Summer's End

by Mary Alice Monroe

  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.”

  He narrowed his eyes, warming to the game. “And just how does a pirate kiss?”

  Harper thought to herself this was their first private joke. “He thrusts and parries.”

  Taylor kissed her swift and hard, proving the point, then released her as quickly. “Now ye saucy wench, stand aside. It’s time to get this old sow out to sea.”

  Harper stood by the railing, out of the way, and watched as he moved deftly across the deck to the pilothouse back to the side of the boat to shove off. She couldn’t ignore how his muscles strained at the task and how beads of sweat formed at his brow.

  Taylor fired the boat’s diesel engines and the growling noise filled the air along with the cries of seagulls and the strong stench of diesel fuel. He hurried to the pilothouse, grabbed the wheel, and began talking on the marine radio. Slowly he maneuvered the Miss Jenny away from the dock.

  She thought he looked so handsome standing wide legged at the wheel, his gaze on the water, a man born to captain a ship. Harper recalled her ancestor and thought, I know how Claire felt when she met the Gentleman Pirate.

  The great engine rumbled beneath them, and a few gulls cried and swooped in the late-afternoon sky as they pushed away from the dock. Taylor slipped his arm around her shoulder as they passed the long line of houses bordering Jeremy Creek. They stood side by side, faces to the sea, as he motored through the ribbon of racing water bordered by a maze of endless, bright green marshland. Harper thought that she’d remember this moment, standing at the wheel of a shrimp trawler, Taylor’s arm around her, for as long as she lived. She’d tell her grandchildren about it. Then she smiled. No, she amended, she’d write about it. Document this moment on paper to read over and over. She felt the words bubbling at her heart.

  When at last the vista opened to the Atlantic Ocean, Taylor released her and put one hand on the throttle. “Hold on, girl.”

  The engines roared to life and the boat vibrated beneath her feet. The water churned into whitecaps, and Harper laughed out loud for the pure joy of it. She felt the power of the engines racing through her body as she hurried back out onto the deck to clutch the railing. The wind coursed over her, lifting her hair from her shoulders, spraying droplets of cool water on her face. The big trawler was pushing hard through the chop, and above, the nets hanging on the outriggers were creaking as loud as the seagulls overhead. Taylor called out for her, and turning her head his way, she saw him point to the water just beside the boat. She followed his direction and looked over the side.

  “Oh, look!” She laughed again. A dolphin was racing alongside, riding in the wake. Her sleek gray body arched in and out of the whitecaps with obvious joy. Harper’s heart lurched as she thought of Delphine and wondered if that sweet dolphin she’d come to love would ever again enjoy living in the wild.

  Harper clung to the railing and watched the dolphin until it swam off, disappearing. Soon after, Taylor lowered the speed and allowed the boat to cruise at a crawl. He came to her side and slipped an arm around her waist.

  “Like it?”

  She lifted her face to him. “Love it.”

  “Thought you might. Hoped you would.”

  “I have to admit, I had no idea it was so beautiful. The lowcountry shows off her best side from the water.”

  “That’s how people first saw this land. Farther up there”—he pointed inland—“is the great Santee River, the birthplace of the plantations.”

  “Do they still grow cotton there?”

  Taylor barked out a laugh. “Why do people think the only crop on the plantations in the South was cotton?”

  “Because we all saw Gone with the Wind.”

  “Truth is, it was rice that built the plantation economy in these parts. Yellow gold, they called it. That and the know-how and strong backs of the slaves. Our swampy, semitropical landscape was perfect for it. The slaves from the Sierra Leone area not only knew how to grow rice, they brought their culture with them.”

  “The Gullah-Geechee culture.”

  “Right. A lot of what we think of today as lowcountry culture can trace its roots to the Gullah.” He pointed out over the wetlands that bordered the land. “Once upon a time, more than one hundred and fifty thousand acres were planted with rice. Imagine it.”

  As she looked out over the vast wetlands, Harper tried to imagine how hard a life the slaves must have endured in those swamps, fighting snakes, alligators, and disease all while laboring under that scorching sun and humidity. She thought, too, of the manacles that she’d found in the garden.

  “I can’t.” She turned to him. “Did your ancestors plant rice?”

  Taylor shook his head. “We weren’t planters. When the McClellans look out at the wetlands, we don’t see rice.” He smiled wryly. “We see shrimp.”

  “Aren’t shrimp bottom dwellers?” she teased.

  “They are,” he replied with equanimity. “But the estuaries”—a gleam was in his eyes—“girl, this is our nursery for shrimp. That’s where our crop grows.”

  “You, Taylor McClellan, are the �
��son of a son of a sailor.’ ”

  He laughed, and his eyes revealed his appreciation that she knew the lyrics of a favorite Jimmy Buffett song. “I’m the son of a son of a shrimper,” he corrected. “Speaking of shrimp, I hope you’re hungry.”

  “I’m starved.”

  “Great. I’ve packed lots of food.”

  “Packed? We aren’t going to catch our own shrimp? We’re on a shrimp boat!”

  He looked at her with doubt. “Do you have a clue how hard it is to trawl for shrimp? It’s damn hard. You need muscle and experience and a whole lot of patience. Your hands would be raw and you’d smell like a fish house when you were done. We could’ve done that, but I didn’t think it would make for a very romantic evening.”

  “At least take me for a tour of the boat.”

  “All right, then. For starters, it’s called a trawler.”

  Taylor took Harper on a tour of the trawler. He explained how they lowered the nets on the outriggers on either side of the boat like butterfly wings. He showed her how to tie the thick rope knot that bound the nets against hundreds of pounds of shrimp. How the nets dragged the ocean floor, tickling the shrimp up into them.

  “I can’t explain what it’s like to pull in the nets dripping from the sea, let it hang over the deck then untie that knot and see the explosion of shrimp burst. But if you like, I’ll show it to you someday. When you’re dressed for it.”

  “You promise?”

  He bent to kiss her nose. His eyes crinkled with pleasure. “Yep.”

  “I’m going to hold you to it.”

  He grin widened. “I’m counting on it.” Then he released her and went to the pilothouse, returning with a folding table in his arms. “Tonight, we’ll have to settle for local shrimp that’s already been caught, headed, peeled, and cooked.”

  “I’ll have you know that I know how to peel shrimp,” she said in mock defense. “Lucille taught me when I was little. She always made us girls peel. With those red plastic-knife things. I’m pretty fast. Though I never took the heads off.”

  Taylor showed her a flicking motion with his thumbs and forefingers. “It’s easy. You just twist the heads off, like this.”

  Harper grimaced. “I’ll skip that part, thank you very much.”

  “Novice.”

  “Stubborn,” she corrected.

  She smiled at the banter as she took the blue-and-white-checked tablecloth from the basket and spread it over the table. “You have no idea how rare it is where I come from to even know where shrimp come from, much less how to peel a shrimp. We buy them all cleaned and wrapped up in paper at the grocery store or fish market.”

  “Imported shrimp, probably.” He scowled.

  “Probably.” She laid out the napkins and tableware. “I know the difference. What’s that saying? ‘Friends don’t let friends eat imported shrimp’?”

  He was impressed she knew that expression, smiling with approval. “Right.”

  Harper opened up thick wedges of cheese; he uncorked a bottle of chilled white wine. The sunset brought a change in temperature that chased off the heat of the day. A sudden breeze ruffled the tablecloth, and Harper lurched for the heavy plastic cups, just catching them before they blew overboard. They laughed as he poured the wine. Soon all was ready, and they each took a chair at the small makeshift table across from each other. The air was fresh and breezy, the sea was calm, and the sun was lowering into a dusky sky.

  Sliding back into her chair, she angled it so she could see his face and the glorious sunset behind him. The night was becoming as wildly exotic as a bird-of-paradise flower. The vibrant oranges, magenta, purples, and gold filled the sky as the sun slowly lowered. Balmy breezes swirled softly against her bare arms and legs. Harper tasted the sweet chill of the white wine on her lips and thought, This is heaven.

  As they feasted on a bounty of cold local shrimp and crab, seasoned artichoke hearts, heirloom tomatoes with basil, and crusty French bread and cheese, the flavor of salt hung in the air. Taylor lit hurricane lamps that flickered in the twilight like early stars. Harper swirled the wine in her glass and recollected how she’d been on luxury yachts many times in her young life, gone on cruises with her mother across the globe where gourmet meals and expensive wines were lavishly served. Yet sitting on the deck of the Miss Jenny with no one else on board but her and Taylor, the great green nets swinging in tempo with the rocking boat, the vibrant sun lowering in unparalleled grandeur across an infinite horizon where sea met sky, she couldn’t remember ever experiencing a more perfect evening on the water.

  She glanced at Taylor and saw that he was watching the sky as well. In the dusk, backlit by the magenta sky, his silhouette was etched in her mind—her memory.

  “This is,” she said softly, “the most romantic dinner date I’ve ever been on.”

  “That’s good news.” Taylor grabbed the bottle. “More wine?”

  “Love some.” He filled her glass, then set the bottle down and reached over to the cooler to grab a bottle of water for himself.

  “You aren’t drinking?”

  “I’m driving.” He nodded toward the wheelhouse.

  “Ah, of course.”

  “But generally, I don’t drink much anymore. Sure I have a drink now and then. But not much. Anymore, that is.”

  “Did you used to drink a lot?”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “What changed?”

  Taylor paused to consider. “PTSD and drinking are a bad combination.”

  In the flickering light of candles she could see his face set in somber thought and felt him closing himself off.

  “Nature is the great healer. Surely all this”—her arm swept out indicating the view—“must be a salve on your wounds.”

  Taylor stared out at the landscape, and she knew him well enough by now to know he was working something out in his head. She gave him a wide berth to do so, staying silent and staring out at the water until Taylor began to speak.

  “When I return home, this place and all its history swallows me. This geography lives in my soul. My ancestors came here by the sea. My family’s survival depended on the bounty of the ocean, the wetlands, and these winding creeks. Our stories, myths, food, culture . . .” He paused. “It’s all here. I don’t know if it’s because of our history that we have this love affair with the land and waters that surround us, or if it’s just part of our DNA. Either way, this water is our mother’s milk. Our history races in our blood with salt water. It’s what makes us who we are. It also binds us. I feel a responsibility not only to my family, but to this boat, these waters. This place. I don’t know if we can separate one from the other.”

  “Is that a bad thing?”

  “No. Yes.” He shook his head. “It makes it difficult to stay and impossible to leave.”

  As Harper listened to the stirring timbre in his voice and watched his eyes, the same gray-green color of the sea he loved, she was transfixed. “I understand your love of history and your feeling bound to it. I grew up schooled in the illustrious history of the James family in England. I can name each of the dozens of stiff-faced ancestors in portraits that line the halls of Greenfields Park.”

  “It must give you a strong sense of belonging.”

  “Obligation.”

  “That’s not the same thing, is it?”

  She shook her head. “You know what I think?”

  Taylor shook his head.

  “I think you have a hard time leaving this place because in your heart you know this is your home.”

  Taylor didn’t respond but his green eyes flickered.

  “I long for a home. Growing up, I was moved from house to house but never felt I belonged in any of them. I always felt like a visitor.” She shivered. “I can’t recall even once when my mother wrapped me in her arms to hug me when I returned home from school. Or comforted me in my bed when I cried.”

  Taylor reached out to place his hand over hers on the table.

  “You must think me ter
ribly spoiled. Having lived in so many houses and still searching for a home.”

  “Not at all. It’s not the house that makes a home. It’s the people.”

  “Yes.” She gained heart that he understood. “Exactly. I had this big, gaping hole in my chest. And though I love the lowcountry, it was Mamaw and my sisters that filled me with a sense of belonging.” Harper smiled. “And to be fair, my Granny James always made me feel loved at home at Greenfields Park. My grandmothers have been the guiding lights in my life. I’m lucky to have them.” She smiled shyly. “And now you.”

  Taylor moved to slip one arm around her waist. With his other he reached out to take her glass and downed the remainder of her wine and set it on the table.

  Harper stared into his eyes and saw in his unwavering gaze that the rush of feelings she was experiencing—the undeniable attraction, the unexplained, spontaneous connection—he felt, too.

  Suddenly he released her and rose from the table to walk across the deck into the pilothouse.

  Harper sat motionless in her chair and stared after him. The evening breeze cooled her fevered skin. She blinked in confusion. What had just happened to cause him to leave her? she wondered in a daze. What had she said? Was she too personal? Too forward or too fast?

  A moment later Taylor emerged from the pilothouse carrying a large blanket in his arms. He stopped in an open space on the deck and shook open the blanket. It ruffled in the air like a flag before he lowered and spread it out on the deck. Then he walked directly to her side and faced her. His expression was tender, filled with love. He held out his hand.

  Harper put her small hand in his, and immediately his long fingers tightened around them. One firm pull and she was in his arms, her breasts crushed against his chest. She caught the scents of the sea and Taylor’s skin, a sweetness that had deep, strong notes. They drew closer to one another, desire welling. She leaned into him, and tilting her head, she felt his mouth on hers. She felt the moisture of his tongue and his desire strengthen. His hands raked her body, moving up her back and then to her breasts. She moaned deep in her throat and pressed harder against him, her leg riding up his.