The Summer's End

by Mary Alice Monroe

  Taylor’s shoulders visibly relaxed. He ventured a slight smile and turned to Harper, sitting beside him, for verification. Harper smiled knowingly and placed her hand over his.

  “Taylor, speaking for Jeffrey and I, we welcome you to the family. A toast!” Imogene raised her glass higher. She was smiling now, whereas earlier she’d frowned. Radiant with joy. “To Harper and Taylor.”

  “Harper and Taylor,” everyone at the table joined in, glasses raised.

  The whole table dissolved into laughter as they touched their glasses together in celebration. Mamaw, amazed, puffed out the breath she’d been holding. She’d never forget the sound of the joyous peals of mirth blending with the clinking of crystal.

  Girard moved closer, his wineglass held between him and Mamaw. She turned her head, her face inches from his. So much drama tonight, she thought, she’d practically ignored the poor man. Yet he’d handled it all with his usual grace and charm.

  “Marietta,” he said in a low voice so only she could hear him. He raised his glass. “To us.”

  Mamaw raised an eyebrow at him teasingly. “Don’t you mean to you and Imogene?”

  Girard let out a belly laugh. “No.” His eyes flashed. “I most certainly do not.”

  Mamaw’s heart skipped as she lifted her glass and, staring into his eyes, took a sip. Never, she thought, had champagne tasted so sweet.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Don’t leave yet!” Harper called out to everyone. “I have one more surprise.”

  Devlin was half-risen from his chair, his napkin on the table. Others were following suit, but everyone sat back down at Harper’s words, exchanging glances of anticipation.

  Harper rose from her chair as the others returned to theirs. Then she took off down the hall at a fast clip.

  Imogene returned to her chair to sit. She and Mamaw exchanged polite smiles.

  Mamaw leaned closer to ask her, “Do you know what this is about?”

  “Not a clue. I seem to be getting all the news secondhand.”

  During the wait, no one ventured to start conversation.

  Devlin coughed and reached for the water.

  Carson drummed her fingers on the table.

  Dora reached for another chocolate.

  Taylor looked down the hall for Harper. When he spotted her, her arms loaded with bundled paper, he leaped to his feet and went to her. Taylor lifted the burden from her arms and followed her into the dining room.

  “Where do you want them?”

  “You can set them right here.” She tapped the table.

  Piles of papers were bundled together with red ribbon. Taylor set them in two tall stacks, the focus of everyone’s attention.

  “Whatever is this?” Mamaw’s eyes gleamed with anticipation.

  Harper turned to Taylor, the only one who knew what was up. He asked, “Are you ready?”

  “Ready as I’ll ever be.” Harper turned to the family, who were watching her expectantly.

  “Don’t keep us waiting.” Dora leaned forward. “It’s already late.”

  Harper cleared her throat and clasped her hands tightly. “Someone very wise once told me”—she looked at Taylor—“that sharing one’s writing is to give a gift. Because you’re giving a piece of your soul. Everyone here has given me gifts, none more precious than your love. This”—she placed her hand on a stack of manuscripts—“is my gift to you.”

  Harper looked at each face in the room, capturing the moment. “I’ve written a book.”

  There was a collective gasp.

  “I knew it!” Dora turned to Carson. “I told you so! Didn’t I?”

  Carson smiled smugly. “I’ve already read it.”

  “What?” Dora said, immediately deflated.

  Harper looked at Granny James. Her eyes were alert beneath raised brows. Clearly she had not seen this coming. She cast a questioning glance at Taylor. He met her gaze with an I told you so grin.

  Mamaw was shocked. Harper thought she looked as if she’d just seen a ghost.

  “Do you want me to pass them out?” Taylor asked in a low voice.

  Harper licked her lips, feeling parched, and nodded. She grabbed two off the top of the stack and went directly to Mamaw.

  “I told you I’d let you read it someday,” Harper said quietly.

  Mamaw slowly took the manuscript in her hands. They were trembling.

  Harper moved on to personally deliver a manuscript to Granny James.

  “Is this what you’ve been up to? Your newfound passion?” Granny James gently teased.

  “Yes.” Harper looked into her eyes without guile.

  Granny James accepted the manuscript solemnly, letting her fingers stroke the top. “I’m impressed. Profoundly so.”

  “I don’t know how good it is”—Harper backtracked, walking quickly to Taylor’s side—“but it’s finished. Beginning, middle, and end.”

  Taylor reached out and slipped his arm around her protectively.

  Mamaw held the manuscript in her hands and stared at Harper. She looked as if she’d suddenly aged. Her face was pale and her blue eyes were dull, clouded by memories. Harper knew she was thinking of her son, their father, Parker. Harper looked at Carson and Dora, but they, too, had their gazes set on Mamaw.

  Mamaw put the manuscript on the table and with two fingertips delicately untied the red ribbon.

  Granny James rose, the manuscript clutched to her chest. “I’m going to say good night. It was a lovely evening. A fine celebration. Thank you all. But”—she gave a quick smile, her eyes on her granddaughter—“I’ve got some reading to do.”

  Mamaw looked up, oblivious to Granny James’s departure. Her eyes were round with stunned surprise. “Harper! The title!”

  Harper released a short laugh. “What else could I call it?”

  Mamaw’s lips trembled as a million memories flitted across her face. “The Summer Girls.”

  Later that evening, after the party had disbanded and the attendees had all found their way to their beds, Carson slipped to the kitchen for a cup of tea. The undercabinet lights dimly lit the room and guided her path in the dark hall. Entering, she was surprised to find Mamaw there, standing by the teakettle as it simmered on the flame.

  “You’re still up?”

  “Of course,” Mamaw said. “I doubt anyone is sleeping. We’re all reading.”

  Carson crossed the room to fetch a cup from the cabinet. “Where are you in the book?”

  “Not far. I’m savoring every word. I’m at the part where you and Harper are playing pirates, climbing the hill at Fort Moultrie. I never knew you entered those dark dungeons. I’d have forbidden it.”

  Carson set her cup on the counter beside Mamaw’s cup. “That’s why we didn’t tell you.”

  The water came to a boil, sending the teakettle whistling. Mamaw lifted the kettle from the heat while Carson selected a tea bag from the open box of chamomile tea on the counter. Mamaw filled the cups with steaming water. Instantly the sweet scent of the tea filled the room.

  “She’s really exceptional.” Mamaw set the kettle back on the stove.

  “Yes, she is.”

  “I was terrified to begin. Afraid I wouldn’t like it.”

  “Me, too. What a relief, huh?”

  Mamaw laughed shortly. “Yes.”

  Carson grabbed two spoons from the drawer, then pulled honey out from the lazy Susan. She carefully scooped a teaspoonful of honey from the jar and transferred it to her steaming cup, then passed the honey to Mamaw.

  “So, it looks like someone in the family got Daddy’s gene for writing.”

  Mamaw’s spoon made soft clinking noises as she stirred. “So it seems.”

  “Dear Daddy. I got his gene for alcoholism. Gee, thanks, Dad.”

  Mamaw set the teaspoon down on the counter, moving it slightly to set it straight. “Are you all right with all of this fuss over Harper?”

  “Yes,” Carson replied honestly and without hesitation. “I’m happy for
her. It’s her turn.”

  “But it does shine a light on your own darkness. Is that it?”

  “I guess so.” Carson lifted her teacup with two hands, relishing the warmth that seeped into her palms.

  “My dear”—Mamaw set down her cup—“confide in your old grandmother.”

  Carson sighed. “I’m always talking about my problems. I’m tired of listening to myself.”

  “I’m not the least tired.”

  Carson cast a grateful smile Mamaw’s way. “It’s just . . .”

  “Just what?”

  “I was sitting at the table tonight, looking around at all the happy faces. Harper and Taylor, Dora and Devlin. Even you and Girard!”

  Mamaw lifted a corner of her mouth ruefully. “All couples.”

  “Yeah. And then there’s me. Poor Carson. All alone. Again.”

  “That was your choice.”

  “I know, I know. . . .” Carson sighed heavily. “I’m so good at messing up my life.”

  “You’re also good at living life to the fullest. My darling, you cannot live fully and not sometimes get hurt. Your capacity for love equals your capacity for pain.”

  “That’s why I don’t want a relationship. It hurts too much. I hurt them too much.” Carson shook her head decisively. “It’s not worth it.”

  “Then what is your choice? To armor yourself against love? To lock yourself indoors?” Mamaw reached out to place her hand on Carson’s arm. “Carson, that isn’t you.”

  “Maybe it should be.”

  Mamaw picked up her cup and, closing her eyes, took a bracing sip. When she set the cup down, she crossed her arms in front of her. “Remember back to last May. When that shark frightened you. You were terrified to go back into the water. Do you remember how miserable you were? You felt cut off from what gave you the most joy. But then you found Delphine. Her greatest lesson to you was to remind you how to live in the present. To laugh. To dive headfirst into the water without fear.”

  “And she got hurt.”

  “And she got well.”

  Carson frowned and looked at her tea.

  “In all my years I’ve made many plans.” Mamaw laughed at herself. “As you know. I’ve learned that my priorities often shift as time goes by, and I have to adjust my plans accordingly.” She shook her head with both resignation and humor. “Life is full of surprises. And timing . . . people always underestimate how important good timing is.”

  She paused and gazed off a moment. In the dim light, with her wistful expression, Carson caught a glimpse of how Mamaw must have looked when she was a young woman making those plans. Her profile so elegant. Her expression so full of intelligence and purpose and personality. Carson saw her father’s profile. Her own profile.

  Mamaw turned back with a wry smile. “Allow me to share this one piece of advice. Welcome change. Accept the good and the bad. Your triumphs and your mistakes. There will be plenty of both in your life, I assure you. It’s all part of the process. The secret to happiness is to embrace the humility to accept what comes and the courage to continue on your life’s path with an open heart.”

  Carson leaned against the counter and thought of the shark again. “Moving forward.”

  “Yes, dear.” Mamaw leaned forward to place a gentle kiss on Carson’s forehead. Then Mamaw straightened and took hold of her cup of tea. “I think we’ve had enough conversation for one night. I’m taking my hot tea and saying good night.” She wagged her brows. “I’m off to read.”

  Later, Carson lay on her bed, her hands behind her head and ankles crossed, staring up at the elaborately framed portrait of her ancestor Claire Muir.

  Mamaw had hung the portrait in Carson’s bedroom when she was an adolescent in her ugly-duckling stage. She’d desperately wanted to be the blond-haired, fair-skinned southern belle her sister Dora was. Mamaw had told Carson the fabled story of how Claire had brazenly broken with her family to marry the famous Gentleman Pirate. Their love story was legendary. Since then, whenever Carson had felt insecure or troubled, she’d gazed at the portrait of the beautiful woman with the raven hair and brilliant blue eyes and found solace, clarity, and inspiration.

  As Carson stared at the portrait now, she wondered how Claire had acquired her fierce courage and independence. Carson brought to mind Mamaw’s words: The secret to happiness is to embrace the humility to accept what comes and the courage to continue on your life’s path with an open heart.

  “Grandmother Claire,” Carson whispered, “give me strength.”

  Carson pulled herself into a sitting position and sat cross-legged on her bed. In AA she had learned that she had to examine her past mistakes. To ask for forgiveness for these errors. She lifted her phone and in her contacts found the number she was looking for. After punching the CALL button, she took a deep breath.

  A man’s voice answered, “Hello?”

  For a moment, Carson froze. Then she blurted out, “Hello. Is this Jason Kowalski?”

  “Yes.” The voice sounded impatient, as though he’d regretted answering the phone. “Who’s this?”

  “This is Carson Muir. I hope I’m not bothering you.”

  “Carson Muir?” The question in his tone indicated he didn’t remember who she was.

  “Yes. I was the stills photographer on your film Aimless. You fired me.”

  There was a pause, then a wary “. . . Oh, yes.”

  “I won’t take much of your time. You see, I joined AA recently, and part of the program is for me to make amends. I’m calling to apologize to you for getting drunk during the shooting of your film. I know I caused delays. It was unprofessional and I’m very sorry.” She took a breath. “That’s all. Thank you for listening.”

  “Wait. You said you joined AA?”

  Carson hesitated. “Yes.”

  “How long has it been since you’ve had a drink?”

  “Three months.”

  “Good start.”

  “Thanks.”

  He coughed. “I’m in AA myself.”

  “Oh?” She held her breath.

  After a pause, Mr. Kowalski cleared his throat. “Listen, you do good work. When you’re sober,” he qualified. “If you’re interested, I might have a job for you.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Morning came softly to Sea Breeze. The women slept in, all thoroughly tuckered out from the events of the previous evening.

  Harper rose slowly, yawning loudly as she squinted against the sunlight, bright and piercing, pushing through the seams of the closed shutters. It was a late-morning sun, Harper thought, but for the first time in months she didn’t feel the urge to leap out of bed.

  She would not run today, she decided. She’d had too much to drink last night, too much excitement, and, she recalled, stretching luxuriously like a sated kitten, too much kissing. Harper rubbed her face with her palms, yawned again, and rose slowly. The room spun a bit so she sat on the edge of her bed, waiting for equilibrium.

  “Water,” she murmured through parched lips. “I need lots and lots of water.”

  She rose and went to her desk to finish off a half-empty glass of water. Her mouth moistened, she opened the sliding door that separated her room from Mamaw’s, heading for the kitchen. She stopped suddenly, seeing Mamaw sitting in her bed.

  “Oh, excuse me!” Harper exclaimed, embarrassed for having invaded her grandmother’s privacy. Ever since Mamaw had transformed her sitting room into a private bedroom for Harper, she’d been exceedingly careful not to invade Mamaw’s space. Harper usually left her room early in the morning through her door to the porch, and even then she often found Mamaw already making coffee in the kitchen. It was highly unusual for Mamaw to be in bed so late.

  Harper began to duck out of the room, closing the sliding door.

  “Wait, Harper!”

  Harper stilled.

  “I’ve been waiting for you to wake up. Come here, child.” Mamaw held out her arms.

  Harper smiled and scrambled to the large four-poste
r bed. She crawled across the bed to cuddle against Mamaw’s chest as she had as a little girl. Soon she was enveloped in Mamaw’s arms, inhaling her signature scent. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

  “You didn’t. I read till very late. Then slept like Rip Van Winkle. I had the best dreams.” Mamaw bent her head to kiss the top of Harper’s head. “All of my summer girls.”

  Harper had promised herself she wouldn’t ask, but she couldn’t stop herself. She tilted her head up to meet Mamaw’s gaze. “Did you like it?”

  Mamaw’s smile was like the sun coming out, resplendent and inspiring. “Oh, very much. I loved it.”

  Harper blew out the puff of air that she’d been holding and beamed. Mamaw’s opinion meant the world to her. “I want to thank you.”

  “Me? Whatever for?”

  “For encouraging me. For believing in me when I didn’t believe in myself.”

  “Oh, my dear . . .”

  “I was very worried about you.”

  “Worried about me? But why?”

  “You looked unsettled last night when I gave you my book.”

  Mamaw’s expression shifted from confused to knowing. “I admit, I knew a moment of sadness. Not because you wrote your book,” she hurried to assure Harper, “but because for all his dreams, Parker never could manage to do that.” Mamaw paused and said softly, “I would have liked to see him finish his book. Maybe not publish it, but at least to have had the satisfaction of seeing his project through to completion. To write The End, as it were. But I suppose that was his weakness. And it is rather sad, isn’t it?”

  Harper nodded against her grandmother’s chest. “Maybe not his weakness,” she mused after a short while. “Maybe his fear. After so many years spent talking the book up, claiming to be writing, taking your money . . . he set the bar pretty high. He boasted he was writing the Great American Novel, after all.” Harper laughed sadly. “Who can live up to those expectations? I suspect he figured he’d rather fail by not finishing than finish and have his book fail. Because that would have meant the end of his dream. He was afraid that he’d never had the talent after all. I know that fear. It takes a lot of courage to see the book through. And even more to let someone else read it.”