The Summer's End (44 page)

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-poster 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.”

“You're a brave girl.”

“I don't know about that.
I was shaking in my boots last night. Daddy's reputation preceded me.”

Mamaw sighed sadly. “Oh, Harper. Don't be ashamed of him.”

“No, not ashamed,” she hurried to answer. “But, all my life I lived with his name being the source of jokes in my family. So to tell my mother, or, by association, Granny James, that I was writing a book . . . I shudder to even think of what they might have said. I had to keep it a secret from them, and eventually it became so I couldn't talk to anyone about it. Not even you, Mamaw. At least not until I knew I could finish it. Given Daddy's history, I had to accomplish that much.” Harper nestled closer to her grandmother.

“I had no idea.”

“You couldn't have. I didn't tell you.” Harper paused as Taylor's face came to mind. “I couldn't have done it without Taylor. He helped me to overcome my fears.”

“He is a courageous man. A warrior.”

“Yes, but I don't mean that kind of courage. He risked his own skin in battle and was injured.” Harper looked up at Mamaw's face. “But he says that was the easy part.” She laughed at seeing Mamaw's surprised expression. That had been her own reaction when Taylor had told her that. “Taylor taught me that real courage is belief in yourself. To face and defeat your fear, or be defeated by it.”

Mamaw stilled and looked out the window. She said softly, “I understand that kind of courage.”

“I know you do,” Harper replied, thinking of all Mamaw's losses. To lose someone you love, especially your own child, Harper imagined, required great courage.

“You know,”
Mamaw said, the word
courage
comes from the French root
coeur,
which means ‘heart.' You, Harper, have great heart.”

“Whatever happened to his book?” she asked suddenly. “Is it upstairs in the attic? In one of those boxes?”

Mamaw shook her head. “He destroyed it,” she said sadly. “Parker destroyed everything he ever wrote. Even his letters. There's nothing left.”

“That's tragic.” Harper felt the loss deeply. “And selfish. I would have loved to read his writings.”

“Perhaps it was selfish. I read some of his early work. Let's just say Parker did not respond well to criticism. And, perhaps, having failed, he didn't want his work to be criticized posthumously.” Harper felt her grandmother's shoulders shrug under her head. “It was his choice. But”—Mamaw stroked Harper's hair—“his spirit is alive in you. And I know that he would be very proud of you. As am I.”

Harper's heart swelled. “And I am proud that I'm like him.”

“Yes”—Mamaw sighed—“except, my dear”—she kissed Harper's head again—“
you
have a gift that was missing in your father. Determination.”

Mamaw fanned her face as she sat in her favorite place in the shade under the black-and-white awning of her back porch. It was late afternoon, yet waves of shimmering heat still hovered over the water. Lord, she wasn't complaining, she thought. It was September and the weather in the tropics was calm without a threat in sight. She'd take the heat any day over a storm front. Still, she thought, reaching for her glass of iced tea, this
summer was ranking as one of the South's ten hottest on record, all those just since 1998. That, and the increasing number of manatees she was seeing in the Cove, convinced her the earth's climate was changing.

“Lord, Lord, Lord, it's hot,” she said again, then took a sip of tea, smacking her lips. That was good, she thought. Setting the glass on the table, she surveyed the playing cards laid out before her in a game of solitaire. Despite the heat, she was most comfortable out here in the shade where the occasional breeze brought relief. She couldn't bear to be cooped up indoors like a hen in a henhouse.

“Halloo! Marietta!”

She turned her head to see a woman walking around the side of the house. She squinted to be sure she was seeing straight. Yes, it was Imogene, but for a moment she thought it might be one of the girls. Imogene was wearing gray jogging pants with a racing stripe down the sides and a thin running shirt, the kind that Harper wore. Under her floppy hat, her black sunglasses were large and her face was pink. That woman looked rode hard and put up wet.

“It's beastly hot today,” Imogene exclaimed as she drew near.

Marietta removed her sunglasses and asked with veiled criticism, “You were running? In this weather?”

“No.” Imogene's tone implied she was not that silly. “Walking.” She was breathing heavily from exertion. “I've been walking for hours. I just love the beach,” she said with vigor. “And,” she begrudgingly acknowledged, “this is a particularly lovely stretch of sand. Crikey! I almost fainted when a cargo ship passed.”

Marietta reached for a fresh glass on the tray and poured tea
from the thermos she kept nearby. She handed it to Imogene. “You look parched.”

“What is it?”

“Iced tea.”

“Oh, perfect. Thank you.” Imogene took a big swallow and scrunched her face. “It's so sweet!”

“Of course it is. It's sweet tea. That's how we drink it here.”

“Do you have any unsweetened tea?”

“No. Not made. Would you care for some water instead?”

“Don't trouble yourself.” Imogene sighed with resignation, then took another swallow. She licked her lips and looked at the glass with curiosity. “What's in this? It's actually rather good.”

Marietta smiled and reached for her own glass. “I made it myself from an old family recipe. It's as sweet as a baby's kiss.”

Imogene set the glass down on the table along with her beach bag. Marietta watched with shock as Imogene began stripping off her damp shirt and pants. Underneath, she was wearing a swimsuit. The modest navy one-piece suit nonetheless revealed her slim figure. She was small boned, like Harper, and fit for a woman her age. Imogene was fit for a woman of any age, she thought with chagrin. Marietta smoothed her tunic self-consciously, glad Girard wasn't here to witness the spectacle.

“I'm going for a quick dip to cool off.” Imogene strolled down the steps to the lower deck. She stood at the edge of the pool, arched her arms over her head, and with a buoyant spring dove into the water. Marietta knew a moment of envy watching Imogene stroke across the length of the pool with vigor. Back and forth she swam, kicking her legs, clearly enjoying herself.
When she was done, she emerged from the pool as sleek as a seal.

“Bless her heart,” Marietta murmured, and took another long swallow of tea.

“That's much better,” Imogene exclaimed when she returned to the shade of the upper deck. She slicked back her auburn hair from her face, then grabbed a beach towel from her bag. After shaking off the sand from it, she rubbed her body vigorously. Wrapping the towel around her shoulders, she took a seat beside Marietta.

“May I?” Imogene lifted the thermos.

“Help yourself.” With a smile playing at her lips Marietta watched her pour another glass of tea. “Swim much, do you?”

“Every day. In the season, that is. I try to get to Georgiana's house in the Hamptons in the spring when it's still nasty in England. The water there is still nippy, but I grew up spending summers at my family's summer house in Cornwall, so I'm accustomed to a bracing dip in icy water.” Imogene looked to the pool. “Your pool water feels rather like a bathtub. Not very refreshing.”

That woman could start an argument in an empty room, Marietta thought. She answered cordially, “Here, the sun is a natural pool heater. I like it warm.”

“Hmmm.” Imogene settled into her chair. “Where is everyone?”

“Out.”

“Harper, too?” She sipped her tea.

Marietta's sunglasses hid her roll of the eyes. “Yes, Harper, too. She went with Dora to help hang curtains in her new house. She'll
be moving in next week. The first to go.” She gave a long sigh. “And Carson is taking water samples from the Cove in preparation for Delphine's release.”

“Delphine, that's the dolphin she befriended. The one that was injured?”

“Glad to see you're getting your stories straight.”

“Well, there are so many.” Imogene sipped her tea.

“We are nothing if not interesting. And we're all aflutter for the dolphin's release, coming up any day now. Maybe you'll
still
be here to witness it with us.”

“Perhaps.” Then, as if a veil were removed, Imogene's face drooped. She shook her head slowly. “I don't know how much longer I dare stay. I'm afraid I must leave soon. Jeffrey doesn't do well when I am gone.”

Mamaw was alert to the change in tone. “Is your husband ill?”

“Not in the usual sense. He has Alzheimer's.”

“Oh, I am sorry,” Mamaw said sincerely.

“Yes, well . . .” Imogene's face reflected a troubled heart. She placed her sunglasses on, then just as quickly took them off again. “He's had the diagnosis for several years. We've managed through the early stages well enough. He was forgetful, occasionally would mix up dates. That sort of thing. Then, two years ago, things took a turn. Now he's confused, he can't complete tasks, he wanders with a dazed look in his eyes.” She brought her hand to her forehead. “He can't read,” she said emotionally. “It's heartbreaking to watch. Jeffrey had a brilliant mind and was an avid reader. Books were his life. Now”—Imogene sighed and dropped her arm—“he forgets what he's read. Reads the
same book over and over without, I fear, comprehending. Even his speech . . .”