“What can I get for you, miss?” asked the bartender, stepping up. She recognized the gray-haired man from the times she’d eaten lunch in this pub. He was the manager, and Carson’s former boss. She couldn’t remember his name, and he didn’t recognize her, either.
“A glass of white wine, please,” Dora answered.
“Chardonnay’s the house.”
“That’ll be good.”
He delivered it quickly, then served another customer. Dora took a sip, needing the bolstering.
Time passed agonizingly slowly. She looked idly around at the photographs, designer beer cans, and sports memorabilia that decorated the pub, pretending to take an interest, but it was no use. She wasn’t enjoying herself. Outdoors, the light was fading. She didn’t relish driving home in the dark in the golf cart. Wasn’t even sure the front lights worked. She looked at her watch, then glanced behind the bar, hoping to catch the bartender’s eye for her bill.
“Dora! You came!”
She felt an arm slide around her waist.
“Devlin! You’re here,” Dora said, trying to keep her voice pleasantly disinterested instead of immensely relieved.
“Sure I’m here. Told you I would be.”
“But I didn’t see you.”
“Had to make a quick call. Can’t hear my phone in here. You didn’t think I stood you up, did you? I knew if I did that, Dora Muir would never give me a second chance. Hell, I’m dumb, but I’m not that stupid. I told Bill to keep an eye open for you.” Devlin turned and signaled the bartender, who promptly came with a cold beer and set it in front of him.
“Thanks, Bill. Hey, I told you to keep a lookout for Dora here.”
Bill looked at her, eyes narrowing. “You’re Dora? Sorry. He told me you were Carson’s sister but I didn’t see the resemblance.”
“No one usually does,” Dora replied, then added, “We’re half sisters.”
Devlin said, “Dora’s the pretty one.”
It was cheesy, Dora knew, but his eyes gleamed with sincerity and the compliment warmed her.
“They have the same eyes. That blue,” Devlin said, shaking his head with appreciation.
“Nice to know you,” Bill said with a curt nod. “How’s Mrs. Muir? Haven’t seen her about lately.”
“Good. Real good.”
“Put hers on my tab,” Devlin told him, indicating the wine.
“Got it,” Bill said, then moved on to another customer.
The couple beside Dora stood to leave and Devlin smoothly slid onto the vacant stool.
“You hungry?” he asked, playing the perfectly solicitous gentleman.
Dora shook her head. She hadn’t eaten dinner and the French fries smelled heavenly. Ordinarily she’d have ordered some, just to nibble, but they no longer were on her diet.
Devlin took a long swallow of his beer.
“Bill knows your order without you telling him?” she observed.
“Oh, sure. We go way back. This is kind of my office.”
Dora raised a brow. “Really? I can’t imagine you get much work done here.”
“Enough,” he said with a sly grin. “Real estate is a lot about who you know. And everyone on the island stops by Dunleavy’s.”
“And there’s plenty of beer on tap.”
“That, too,” he agreed with conviviality. “I haven’t seen you in here this summer. Or anywhere, for that matter. Where you been hiding yourself?”
“Hiding? I live in Summerville. I come here for a few weeks in the summer with my son, Nate. I don’t go out much.”
“What about your husband?”
She paused, noting his increased interest. “He stays in Summerville during the week and comes for the weekends. Or did,” she amended, looking at her wineglass.
“I’d heard you might be getting a divorce.”
Dora looked sharply up. She didn’t like hearing that her private life was being talked about on the island. “From Carson, I suppose?”
He shrugged.
“Uh-huh.” She looked at her wineglass. “We’re separated,” she replied, deliberately vague.
“I’m divorced.”
“Yes, I heard. Sorry.”
“It happens. I’m not gonna lie, it’s tough when you go through it. But I have my little girl to show for it. Cute as a button. The same age as your son.”
Dora turned her head, interested. “How did she fare in the divorce? I’ve heard it can be hard on children.”
His face clouded and she caught a glimpse of hurt behind his happy facade.
“I tried to make it easy for her. Gave my ex-wife all she asked for. But she still made me jump through hoops to see Leigh Anne. That was the hardest part.” He paused for a swig of beer.
“Leigh Anne—isn’t that your mother’s name?”
His eyes sparked with pleasure. “You remembered,” he said with a hint of surprise that she did.
“Of course. Your mother was always very kind to me.”
“She liked you.”
Dora smiled, remembering the heavyset woman with the beautiful, sad eyes.
“She passed a year after Leigh Anne was born. Too young. I felt robbed.” He drew a long swallow of his beer. “Well, she lived to see her first grandchild. I got that much right, at least.”
“I’m sorry, Devlin. I didn’t know your mama passed.” Devlin was an only child, and his mother, divorced, had raised him on her own. They’d been very close.
“It was hard,” he admitted. “I had a couple of dark years after. Looking back, I can see how it wasn’t easy for Ashley. I drank a lot, went out a lot. It cost me my marriage.”
Dora leaned closer as his voice lowered.
“But after a while you work things out, and the hurt and pain passes.”
“I am sorry you went through all that.”
“Life goes on,” he said in a more upbeat tone, clearly wanting to let that line of conversation drop. “You and I, we had something special, you know?” Devlin said, changing the direction. He waved his hand when she made a face. “I’m not just saying this ’cause you’re sitting here. I often think back on those days we were together. How long did we go steady? Four years?”
Dora smiled into her glass. “At least. Till you went off to college.”
“Columbia is only two hours away,” he chided.
“You forget my home was in Charlotte, and without a car, you may as well have been clear across the country,” Dora said archly.
“I called you, you know, when you went off to Converse College.”
She smiled, remembering the tingle she’d felt just hearing his voice again on the phone. “I was already dating Cal.”
“Yeah,” he said slowly. “Bad timing.” His glance leisurely swept her face. “You know, if we’d gotten together again a mite sooner, I might not have married Ashley and you might not’ve married what’s-his-name, and we’d be married right this minute.”
She laughed into her drink. “Maybe,” she agreed. “But then I wouldn’t have Nate and you wouldn’t have your sweet Leigh Anne.”
“We can’t change the past.” Devlin grinned and leaned forward. “But we can change the future,” he added flirtatiously. He turned and signaled to Bill for another round.
Dora slid her elbows onto the bar and swirled the wine in her glass as she listened to Devlin tell a colorful story of how he and his buddies had bagged a marlin. She noticed the pleasant cadence of his speech, the way his Southern accent, heavier than Cal’s, drawled out vowels, and the mirth in his blue eyes as he chuckled.
Devlin was the same amiable person she’d remembered, and yet so very different from the boy she’d dated so many years ago. He’d gained a confidence that replaced his cockiness, an assuredness that came from success. As she watched his animated face, it occurred to her that she wasn’t enjoying the story as much as the music of his voice.
In a moment of sudden clarity, she understood that was how it was for Nate, too. At bedtime he liked her to tell him st
ories until he fell asleep. When he had a meltdown, she knew what she said didn’t matter as much as how she said the words to calm him.
She listened to Devlin and sipped her wine, enjoying the simple pleasure of being out and having the attention of a man again. She no longer felt awkward or nervous sitting at the bar. She wasn’t a woman alone. She was with Devlin—an old friend, a former lover. She was merely having a drink at a bar. Yet it wasn’t a date, either. She could stay or she could leave. There were no expectations. No pressure.
And that, she realized with amusement, was enough.
Three days later, Carson was on her way to the Florida Keys. Her hands clenched the wheel of the Blue Bomber as she stared at the highway, counting the miles. She was overtired, over-caffeinated, and at her wit’s end. Florida was one long state—it went on forever!
The sun was beginning to set by the time she got off the mainland to the first of the islands of the Keys. She’d hoped to get to the motel before dark. The planned twelve-hour trip was taking fourteen because of all the stops Nate had to make. She glanced in the rearview mirror, relieved to see the boy sitting quietly absorbed with his handheld video game. “Thank God,” she muttered.
The trip had been grueling. The front seat was littered with various brands of wipes she’d bought before Nate finally accepted one. Lord knew, the boy needed to keep his hands clean. Eating had been a nightmare. Dora and Lucille had specially prepared food that they packed in a cooler. Unfortunately, something was “wrong” with the sandwiches they’d made. Carson still wasn’t sure what. It was something about the way they were made or looked or how they smeared . . . Nate flatly rejected them. She’d resorted to trolling fast-food chains along the road, hoping he’d find something acceptable. The car smelled like a fast-food restaurant because she’d bought Nate hamburgers, fish burgers, submarine sandwiches, pancakes, until he finally agreed to eat chicken nuggets and French fries—as long as there was not a drop of catsup or sauce on them. She’d found that out the hard way.
If eating was tough for Nate, elimination was worse. As far as she could tell, Nate had the bladder of a pregnant woman. He had to stop to pee every two hours like clockwork. He was terrified of having an accident, and the minute he felt the urge he screamed for her to take the next exit.
“We’re on the Keys now,” she called in a cheery voice to Nate in the backseat after another shout for a bathroom stop. “Hold on. Shouldn’t be long now!”
“It’s six forty-seven,” Nate said. “We’ve been on this trip for twelve hours and thirty-two minutes. We should be there.”
Carson glanced in the rearview mirror to see Nate looking at his watch. She blew out a plume of air and wiped a strand of hair from her forehead. He was a good kid, she reminded herself. Dora had prepared her for his idiosyncrasies—how he didn’t show emotion in his voice or face. How he could develop an obsessive interest in something. How he could overreact to something seemingly inconsequential. But driving to Florida with Nate was like being in the car with a dictator. Meet his demands, or meet his wrath!
“Yes, we did plan to be there by now,” Carson said evenly, marshaling her frustration. “But we made so many stops it slowed us down. We’ve got at least another hour.”
“Oh.” A moment passed. “I can’t wait an hour. I have to go to the bathroom now.”
The motel was a 1950s-era stucco two-story painted lime green and billed as a “resort.” Carson had booked the room online, and as often was the case, the professional photos looked better than the actual location. Calling the small, scruffy, off-the-highway motel a resort was a long stretch, but it was close to the Dolphin Research Center and cheap and they had a room available. An undeniably attractive trifecta, in her budget-conscious mind.
It was dark by the time she parked in the gravel lot. After she checked in, she gathered their suitcases and led a wary Nate along the narrow, poorly lit pavement pathway to the rear of the motel, praying a snake or iguana or some rodent wouldn’t jump out from the shadows. The light over the cottage door was dim but she got the door open without trouble. Her hand felt along the wall for the light switch. In an instant, the room was revealed.
It was a small cottage, spartanly furnished with cheap, beachy white wicker furniture. And it was pink. Pink walls, pink fabric, pink bathroom tile, and splashes of pink in all the nautical prints on the wall. The space was divided into two sections by a half wall open to the front windows. The front area was narrow and long. To the left, a cluster of mini white appliances made up the in-room kitchenette. To the right was a lumpy-looking futon and an ancient TV atop a white wicker stand. The rear was a bedroom with a queen bed, a wicker bureau, a small wicker desk, and the bathroom.
Carson dropped her bags to the floor and walked around, surveying. She opened the fridge and checked for ice. There wasn’t any.
“Make yourself at home,” she told Nate. “This is where we’ll be living for the next five days.”
Nate stood by the door, ramrod straight and clutching his bag. “I don’t like it here.”
“It’s not a palace, but it’s clean.”
“It smells bad.”
“Yeah, it does,” she said. The scent of mildew was prevalent. “We’ll open the windows, okay? Get some of that nice ocean breeze in here.”
“It’s dirty.”
She followed his gaze to the corner where the linoleum was chipped and curling. “It’s not dirty, Nate. It’s just old.”
“I want to go home.” Nate’s face crumpled.
Carson’s heart went out to the little guy who’d tried so hard all day to keep it together. She brought to mind Dora’s warnings of a meltdown and immediately walked close to Nate and gently took his bag.
“Hey, little man, let’s check out the bedroom. We’re tired and it’s dark. We’ll feel better in the morning. Tomorrow we’ll eat breakfast, then go right off to see the dolphins,” she told him, hoping he’d feel more comfortable if she laid out the plan of the day. “You can have the bed in front of the TV. Does that sound good? This is your space,” she said, walking over to pat the futon mattress. “Tell you what. While I jump into the shower, you can watch TV and unpack. Take your time. Okay?”
He stared at the futon but didn’t respond.
Carson felt the miles clinging to her skin and couldn’t wait to wash them away. She turned on the television, found a local station of cartoons, then pulled down the futon into a bed. The sheets were crisp and smelled clean. She poured him a glass of water, set it on the table by the futon, and waited. Soon, Nate’s interest was captured by the cartoons. She wanted him to acclimate at his own pace. She went to the back room, stripped off her clothing that reeked of fast food, and went into the pink bathroom. It was barely large enough for one person to stand in but the water in the shower was hot. After a blissful scrubbing, she felt revived.
Wrapping herself in a towel, she went back out into the room. She found Nate standing in the back bedroom, putting his many dolphin books and clothes into the bureau drawers. On top of the bureau, he’d laid out in a neat row his toothbrush, toothpaste, hairbrush, comb, shampoo, liquid soap, and a book.
“Nice job,” she told him, feeling relieved that he was settling in. She followed suit, unzipping her bag. She casually set her toiletry bag on the dresser.
“No!” he exclaimed with alarm. “This is where my things go.”
“Can’t we both put our things here? There’s plenty of room.”
“No.”
Biting her tongue, Carson withdrew her toiletry bag and went to put it in the bottom drawer.
“That’s where my books go,” he told her in a voice bordering on panicked.
“Nate, there are three drawers. We have to share.”
“No!” he exploded. “My books go in there.”
“Where do my clothes go, then?”
“I don’t know.” He thrust out his chin and turned his back to her.
Carson heard obstinacy in his tone and knew he was teeterin
g on the brink tonight. Hearing the triggers, she held her tongue and went to the small closet and set her suitcase in there. She’d lived out of a suitcase before, she told herself.
“When you’re done, it’s your turn for the shower,” she said in a cheery voice.
“I take baths.” His voice, though monotone, trembled.
Carson skipped a beat and cursed her luck. No tub . . . She knew he was struggling with everything being different; he was out of his routine. Sensing he was a time bomb about to go off, she tried for humor.
“You’re in luck. You don’t have to take a bath tonight! You can take your choice. You can brush your teeth first or get in your pajamas first.”
“I’ll get in my pajamas.”
“Good.”
Carson, exhausted after fourteen hours of driving stop-and-go and dealing with the child’s demands, knew her work wasn’t over yet. Leaving Nate to change clothes, she went to the door and stepped out on the front porch. She dialed Dora’s number and said a prayer of thanks when Dora answered on the second ring.
“Are you there?” Dora asked, sounding slightly breathless.
“Yes, we got here. The motel’s okay, not great. It’ll do. But it doesn’t have a tub.”
“Oh, Lord, batten down the hatches,” Dora said in mock horror.
She laughed. “And Nate says it smells bad.”
“Oh, Lord,” Dora said again.
It was exactly what Carson needed to hear. She’d been worried that Dora would freak out and then she’d have two hysterias to deal with. But here she was, making a joke and defusing the tension. She was pleasantly surprised by how her older sister was reacting.
“What’s he doing now?” Dora asked.
“He’s changing into his pajamas. I told him he didn’t have to take a bath tonight. Bought me some time.”
“Good thinking. The thing to keep in mind is that right now Nate’s dealing with a lot of new stimuli and he doesn’t have any place safe to sort things out. You and I have the apparatus to deal with these things, but he doesn’t. He’s rearranging his mental map of the world. It’s a scenario for a meltdown. Remember, though, if he has one, he’s not angry, he’s reacting.”
The Summer Wind (Lowcountry Summer) Page 12