The Summer Wind (Lowcountry Summer)

by Mary Alice Monroe

  Dora trotted over to help Mamaw drag a chair deeper into the shade, then carried the ottoman over as well.

  “Come sit down, Lucille,” Mamaw said. “You should rest.”

  Lucille obliged, sinking with a soft grunt into the thick black-and-white-striped cushions. She put her feet up on the ottoman and rested her head back, already fatigued from the mild exertion. Dora caught Mamaw’s eye and saw her own worry reflected there.

  “You don’t have a fever, do you?” Mamaw asked, hovering over Lucille. “Is it the flu?”

  “No, I ain’t got no flu. I’m just tired. Like you said, I’m old.”

  “Not that old,” Mamaw said.

  Lucille looked at Mamaw and shared a laugh.

  “How about a nice glass of sweet tea?” Dora asked.

  “That’d be real nice.” Lucille glanced at Mamaw. “Want to play a little gin rummy?”

  Mamaw’s eyes lit up. “I’ll get the cards.”

  A call from Harper in the garden interrupted her departure.

  “Hey! I found something!”

  Mamaw’s hand flew to her heart. “Heavens, she found buried treasure!” she exclaimed dramatically. “We’ve been looking for the Gentleman Pirate’s treasure for generations. Legend has it that pirates buried their treasures for safekeeping in the deserted dunes and woods of these islands,” she told Dora. “And, with our history, well, it should be here somewhere. Although,” she said with a sigh, “no one has found anything so far.”

  “I’d better get out there before she claims finders keepers,” Dora exclaimed. “Just what a James needs, more treasure,” she added with sarcasm. “It’d be just my luck, too.” She took a final swig of iced tea. “I’m coming!” she yelled, and trotted to the garden carrying a frosty glass for Harper.

  Harper was on her knees before a deep hole at the fringe of the garden, bent over a mud-encrusted object in her lap.

  “It looks like some kind of chain,” she said as she busily knocked off clumps of dirt. Then she paused to gratefully accept the drink from Dora.

  “Maybe it’s a gold chain,” Dora said, excitement building.

  “Or just a chain. It’s metal. And it’s heavy.” Harper gulped down half the glass of tea, set the glass down, and returned to knocking dirt from the object. Gradually the object became a recognizable shape. Harper took off her sunglasses and lifted the item higher in her hands. She cocked her head, studying it.

  “I’m not sure,” Harper said a bit breathlessly, “but I think it might be handcuffs of some kind.”

  Dora scooted lower, then looked over to Harper with amazement and awe. “Slave shackles?” Though she would have preferred to have unearthed a thick gold chain from pirates, there was a historical significance to the shackles that rendered her speechless.

  Harper rose to her feet with the chain. “Let’s go rinse it off with the hose and show it to Mamaw and Lucille. They’ll know.”

  Mamaw and Lucille were sitting up in their chairs on the porch, necks craned as they followed Dora’s and Harper’s progress from the garden to the hose.

  “What you got there?” Mamaw called out.

  “Not sure,” Dora called back. “Be right there.”

  Dora held out the chain as Harper hosed the gushing water over the unknown hunk of metal. Water sluiced off the final layer of mud and muck, revealing what looked like thick, rusting, heavy metal handcuffs joined together with a chain. Neither woman spoke but stood in almost a reverential silence. Harper turned off the hose, then followed Dora across the porch to the two waiting elderly women. Their eyes were wide with curiosity.

  “What is it?” Mamaw asked.

  Lucille sat up and lowered her legs from the ottoman.

  Dora lay the dripping object on the ottoman. It settled with a clanking sound.

  Lucille sucked in her breath and stared at the object. Then with seeming trepidation, she reached out to place her dark, wrinkled hand on one of the handcuffs.

  “Lord above, girl, you done found slave manacles,” she said in a soft voice that shook with emotion.

  “I thought that might be what they were,” Dora said.

  Mamaw drew closer to study the heavy metal cuffs. “They say if you dig anywhere on this island you’ll uncover history. When we renovated the house, we found Revolutionary War bullets, Civil War coins, buttons, broken pottery, all manner of memorabilia. But never any pirate’s treasure. Or anything as profound as this,” she said, indicating the shackles. “This is a part of our history I’m not proud of.”

  Lucille’s hands shook under the weight as she lifted the manacles and put them in her lap. “They so heavy I can hardly lift them.”

  “Can you imagine how they managed to walk with those?” Dora said.

  Harper asked, “What are slave shackles doing on Sullivan’s Island? I thought the slaves all went to the market in Charleston.”

  Mamaw’s face grew reflective. “The slaves weren’t sold at the market. They were usually sold at the Charleston ports, right off the boat. After quarantine. The local residents were terrified of infectious diseases like cholera, measles, and smallpox coming in on the ships. This was a major port for the country, don’t forget. So they built pest houses here on Sullivan’s Island for quarantine. It was a convenient location, a barrier island right along the port entry. Throughout the eighteenth century, slaves flowed through our port in large numbers. And all of them were sent for quarantine before they were sold.”

  “If they survived the journey,” Lucille added somberly.

  Mamaw rested her hand over her friend’s. “Sadly true.”

  “How many slaves came through Charleston Harbor, do you know?” asked Harper.

  “No one knows for sure,” Mamaw answered. “So many died here in the pest houses—men, women, and children.”

  Lucille said sadly, “I heard somewheres between two hundred and four hundred thousand slaves came through.”

  Harper gasped. “That many?”

  Lucille glanced at her. “You think that’s a lot? It ain’t so many when you know ten to twelve million were shipped out of Africa.” Lucille sighed as she stared down at the shackles. “Africa done bled her children.”

  “Charleston was the major port of entry for slaves in America,” explained Mamaw. “Near half of African Americans in this country can trace their roots through Charleston. And most of them were quarantined right here on this island.” She looked at the shackles and added, “I’ve always felt that we needed to do more here on Sullivan’s Island to honor all those slaves who died here. A monument of some kind. After all, this was an Ellis Island for the hundreds of thousands of slaves who passed through.”

  “Hardly Ellis Island,” Harper corrected Mamaw. “Immigrants who passed through that island came willingly and sought a better life, political or religious freedom. Ironic contrast, wouldn’t you say?”

  Dora felt a flurry of irritation. Harper always had to argue a point. And it rankled because she was usually correct.

  “My ancestors came here on a slave ship,” Lucille said in a low voice.

  She was bent over the shackles, her hand resting on the metal protectively. It appeared to Dora that the old woman was folding into herself.

  “Only the strong in spirit survived the journey,” Lucille continued. “Black families lived on Sullivan’s for as long as I know. Used to be small farms here.” She stretched out her hand toward the garden. “Big gardens. There were chickens, too. Maybe a pig. But they’s all gone now. Poor folk moved to Daniel Island when this one got built up. Now they gone from Daniel Island, too.” She paused as her mind seemed to drift back to the past.

  “Do you miss your family?” Harper asked gently.

  Lucille blinked and seemed to return to the present. “No, there’s only me.” She looked at the other women. “And y’all. And that’s all right. We all have our time, there’s no use fightin’ it. I like to think we’ll meet up again someday on the other side.”

  “You have your a
ncestors’ strength,” Dora said emphatically.

  Lucille appeared moved by the comment. “I hope so. I’ll need it when times get hard.” She looked at Harper. “What you plan to do with these?”

  “I don’t have any plans,” Harper replied. “Donate them to a museum maybe?”

  “If you don’t mind, I’d like to hold on to them, just for a while.”

  “Of course,” Harper said. “Take them. They’re yours.”

  Lucille looked down at the shackles in her lap. “Thank you. I’d just like to study them awhile. Maybe I will go back to my cottage now,” Lucille said. “I’m tired.” She attempted to rise, but with the heavy chain weighing her down it took more strength than she had. Alarmed, Dora and Harper each took a side while Mamaw grabbed hold of the chain. They helped Lucille to her feet.

  “You better go back to bed,” Mamaw told her.

  “I might do that,” Lucille said in a pant. “I am weary.” She reached out for the shackles.

  “I’ll carry those for you,” Harper said.

  Lucille turned her shoulder and took the shackles from Mamaw. “No, no, child. I got them. I want to carry them. I want to know what it feels like to be worn-out and still have to walk, carrying this burden.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Dora received a text message from Devlin asking her to come by a house he was working on. He wanted her to see it and then join him for dinner.

  It was easy to text back an enthusiastic yes. Dora loved houses, especially on Sullivan’s Island, where so many—large and small, historic and new—had unique settings, or views, or history. She hopped into the golf cart with a bottle of water and bumped along the road to the southern side of the island, checking the address. She turned down a side street that led toward the marsh. Many old live oaks created heavy shade cover, welcome on a steamy summer day. She checked the address again and came to a stop before a small cottage barely visible behind a jungle of overgrown shrubs and palm trees. The driveway had long since been converted to dirt. Revving the engine, she drove the golf cart up beside Devlin’s big truck. When she reached for her purse, she heard her phone ringing.

  “Hello?” she said, expecting it to be Devlin. She was shocked when she recognized Cal’s voice.

  “Dora? It’s me.”

  “Yeah. What’s up?”

  “Well, you never called me back.”

  Dora cringed. She’d completely forgotten about him. “Oh, I’m sorry. I, uh, I’ve been really busy.”

  “Oh yeah? Doing what?”

  “Oh, uh . . .” She swallowed, thinking of an excuse. “Harper and I have started a garden. It’s been a lot of work.”

  “A garden? In July? Are you sure you should be doing that kind of intensive labor? With your heart?”

  “My heart is fine,” she replied, irritated that he still thought she was sick. “And we’re being careful. Anyway, I’m sorry I never called back. Is there something in particular you wanted to discuss?”

  There was a pause. “Yes,” he said in that tone that implied she should have known there was a topic. “We were going to discuss whether you were going to move into the condo. With me.”

  “I thought I was clear about that. I’m going to stay at Sea Breeze for the summer.”

  “I thought you might change your mind. You see, there are problems at the house.”

  Dora’s stomach dropped. Of course, that was why he was calling. “What kind of problems?”

  “The painters say that there was water damage on some of the upstairs bedrooms. That they can’t paint, so they’re stalled. They’re guessing it’s from the roof. So now we have to have someone come in to assess water damage in the attic. It’s never-ending,” he said with a hiss of frustration.

  “What do you want me to do about it? I’m out here on Sullivan’s. You’re in Summerville.”

  “Dora,” he said, reining in frustration. “That’s why it makes sense for you to be here. The house is a bigger project than we’d anticipated. It needs someone’s full-time attention to keep the crews in line.”

  “It’s not bigger than we anticipated,” she argued. “We always knew it was a big job, and that’s why we didn’t start, or at least that’s what you always told me. I’m going to say again what I told you at the lawyer’s office. Sell the house as is if you don’t want to take charge of the renovations.”

  “We can’t do that. We’d lose our shirt.”

  “We’ve already lost our shirt.”

  “Dora, please. I’m up to my ears in work right now. Can’t you help me?”

  Dora groaned inwardly. “Oh, all right. I’ll come to Summerville and take a look at the house. Make a few phone calls. But that’s it. I’m not moving into your condo, Cal. I’m not ready to go that far.”

  “Okay, that’s fine. But you’ll call someone about the leak, right?”

  She rolled her eyes and laughed shortly at his transparency. “I’ll call. Bye.” She ended the call and tossed the phone into her purse.

  Dora stretched her arms over her head, trying to release the frustration from Cal’s phone call before she saw Devlin. She didn’t want Cal in the room between them, again. She heard the high hum of a power tool from inside the house and, curious, followed the noise to the front door. It had been left ajar.

  “Hello?” she called out, poking her head in. It was hard to be heard over the roar of the power tool. She stepped inside and saw Devlin in goggles, standing behind a woodcutter and slicing what looked like a piece of wood paneling. She had to pause to take in the sight of Devlin doing construction. It was another side of him she didn’t know about.

  “Hello!” she called again when he’d stopped.

  Devlin jerked his head up and broke into a wide grin. He lifted his goggles from his head, shaking sawdust into the air, and stepped forward to offer a quick kiss.

  “You’re here!”

  “Just got here,” she said, brushing away sawdust from his hair. “What’s going on?” she asked, looking around the house with curiosity. The cottage had been gutted and was now in the process of a major renovation. A lot of work had already been done—new walls, cabinets, counters, appliances. Dora had dreamed of renovating her house in Summerville for so long that she always got a thrill at the sight of a renovation.

  “This is a house I bought last year when the market dropped. Got it on a foreclosure. I’m renovating it in my spare time. When I’m done, I’ll put it back on the market.”

  “You’re renovating it? I didn’t know you were a handyman.”

  “A carpenter, thank you very much,” he said in the manner of someone who’d been doing it for a very long time. “That’s what got me in the real-estate business in the first place. I used to work construction—thought you knew that. I bought a fixer-upper back when I could afford anything on Sullivan’s, did all the work myself, then sold it for a big profit. I just kept on going, flipping houses, making profits. Found out I had a good eye for real estate.” He shrugged. “I was lucky and got in for the boom. The rest is history.”

  She looked at Devlin, seeing him in a new light.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like you’re about to have me for dinner.”

  She laughed, coloring. “I guess because I find the fact that you can do your own renovations very sexy.”

  He laughed, raised his brows, and set the piece of paneling down. “Well, hell, lady,” he said, reaching out and grabbing her around the waist, tugging her closer. “If I’d a known that, I’d a shown you my power tools right off.”

  He kissed her then, long and slow and deliberate, and she felt the humming in her veins. When the kiss ended, she leaned back in his arms and smiled coyly. “I wish I’d known you had this talent a few months ago. I could have used your help.”

  “Yeah? Why?”

  She disentangled from his arms and began walking around the room, not wanting to bring Cal and the house in Summerville into the conv
ersation. Devlin was installing cypress wood paneling into the back room, creating a lovely lowcountry feel. The back wall had been replaced with a long wall of windows overlooking the marsh. Dora crossed her arms and stood looking out over the wide swath of waving grass and the Intracoastal glistening in the sunlight.

  “This view never gets old.”

  Devlin followed her to the windows and stood beside her. “That’s because it’s always changing. Folks from off who come to buy always want the ocean views. I can find that, too. But it’s the wetlands that shows the change of scenery. The migrating birds, the changing grass—bright green in the summer, gold in the fall, brown in the winter, then the soft greening again in the spring.”

  He turned his head and looked at her, his gaze serious. “Why could you have used my help a few months back?”

  Dora sighed, resigned, and looked up at him. “I have to put my house in Summerville on the market. We bought it as a fixer-upper, only we never did the fixing-up. There was never the money. Now that we’re getting a divorce, we’re putting the house on the market. Suddenly everything that I’ve been waiting years to get done has to get done in a hurry.”

  “So, you’re trying to flip the house.”

  “Not even. We’re just trying to get it in decent enough shape to sell it. Cal wants to spend money we don’t have, and I want to sell it as is. He won, of course.”

  “Why of course?”

  “Because whenever it’s an issue of money, Cal makes the decision.”

  “Even when the outcome affects your financial situation?”

  Dora moved to the other side of the room, where a new fireplace mantel was being installed.

  “Cal is not as concerned about my financial situation.”

  Devlin gave a little laugh. “He’s an ass.”

  “Yes, well . . .” Dora looked closely at the wood trim of the mantel. She heard Devlin draw closer.

  “How can I help?”

  Dora turned and found he was standing very close. “Cal just called. There’s a problem of a leak. It’s probably the roof. He wants me to find someone who can take a look and tell us what needs to be done.”