The Summer's End (25 page)

Harper sat up and took notice when Taylor flicked on his signal. A blinking traffic light was the only marker for the turnoff.

“Not far now,” Taylor said as he turned off the seemingly endless stretch of Highway 17 and headed eastward toward the sea. Pinckney Street meandered through a dense tunnel of oaks, pines, palmettos, and scrubby shrubs that offered welcome shade from the blistering August sun. Harper stared out the passenger window of Taylor's truck at the Eden-like wilderness and sparse houses they passed.

Before long Pinckney Street entered the heart of the small, picturesque fishing village—a few blocks of quaint, gingerbread-trimmed historic houses and shops nestled between majestic live oaks. Harper felt as if she'd stepped back in time. Children played on the green lawns, dogs slept on the porches, and adults
strolled the narrow sidewalks that lined both sides of the narrow street. Her sharp eyes also took in the sobering effects of seaside living, evident in peeling paint, the wild growth of vines along clapboard houses, the streaks of rust. Empty storefronts where businesses had closed and
FOR SALE
signs on empty houses hinted at the hard times Taylor had spoken of. Still, the village had an ageless charm that brought her hand to the window glass with a sense of nameless yearning.

Taylor drove at a snail's pace through the historic district, allowing Harper time to gawk with a small, knowing smile playing at her lips. Pinckney Street came to an end at the glassy water of Jeremy Creek. He turned around and drove back up Pinckney Street, turning onto Oak Street, a smaller street that ran parallel to the water. This shaded street was bordered by an eclectic mix of larger, two-story Victorian houses and modest historic cottages. At the end of the winding road she spied the tips of shrimp boats.

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.