The Summer's End (18 page)

“Yes.” Intrigued, she leaned forward. “That's why I write, too.”

He looked up. “You still write?”

She nodded.

“Poetry?”

She had not intended to tell anyone this most private secret, but she wanted to share this with Taylor. “Actually, I'm writing a novel.”

“A book.” She found him looking at her as though with fresh eyes.

“I know everyone is writing a book these days,” she said self-consciously.

“Even still. This is your book.”

“I've written for as long as I can remember. Wrote little stories. But I've never finished a novel. My father spent a lifetime writing a novel he never finished. It's kind of a family joke.”

“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, larger 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.

F
or 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?”