The Summer's End (9 page)

But it wasn't smugness that had kept Harper from responding to her mother's e-mail. Georgiana had been pleasant enough in the e-mail, but Harper could imagine the foot tapping in her mind. Rather, Harper didn't know what she'd say to her mother. She hadn't made up her mind what to do or where to go come fall. She'd
been hoping the answer would become clear to her. It seemed instead she was going to rely on her default program and return to New York for lack of other options.

Staring at her phone, she summoned her courage. Sitting on the edge of her bed, she dialed a number she hadn't called since Memorial Day.

On the second ring she heard the familiar clipped British accent. “Georgiana James here.”

“Mummy?”

“Harper!”

“Yes, hello. It's me.”

“I was just thinking of you.”

“Were you really?”

“Yes. I've just returned from the Hamptons and the apartment is so quiet with you gone.” Georgiana released a dramatic sigh. “I'm exhausted. It was a madhouse. Everybody was there. I had to come back to New York to get some rest before the next onslaught at Labor Day. But it's always so beautiful there, and I'm expected. We do what we must. You should have been there. Everyone asked where you were.”

Harper doubted that but she heard the thinly veiled criticism. No one even knew she was there most of the time. Harper wondered why her mother insisted on filling the house with tiresome guests only to complain about it later. There was never respite from the loud, slightly inebriated conversations, the raucous laughter, and the long string of parties. Her mother's packed social calendar was her life's blood. In contrast, Harper couldn't bear constantly being “on.” Usually she retreated with a book to the beach or with her laptop to her room, much to her mother's annoyance.

“It's quite peaceful here,” Harper said.

“I'm sure it is, darling.” Georgiana skipped a beat. “There's no
there
there.”

“Well, I'm quite content.” Harper could already feel herself growing petulant and contrary in the face of her mother's disapproval.

“About
that.
” Harper tensed at the tone that signaled a lecture. “When are you coming back from your summer vacation? I mean, really, darling, aren't you going stir-crazy lost in the swamps?”

“Not at all. They're called the wetlands, by the way.”

“Is that so,” Georgiana said in a bored tone. Then, getting back to her point: “Summer holiday is over. It's time to come home. We have a very exciting fall lineup. I need you back at work.”

“I didn't think I had a job to come home to,” Harper rejoined pointedly.

Harper heard the sound of her mother inhaling from her cigarette. “I vaguely recall that you quit.”

“I suppose I did.”

“It was a heated moment.”

“Yes, it was.” Harper recalled the bitter phone call the previous May when her mother made clear, in terse words, that Harper worked for her and had to do as she was told, not only for her job but in her personal life. That moment had crystallized for Harper the true nature of her relationship with her mother. With the veil of sentimentality ripped off, she was able to stand up to her mother for the first time and declare her independence. Or, a first step toward it. She'd found the strength to quit her job, which freed her up to spend the summer at
Sea Breeze. Something she'd not planned on doing, but had turned out to be a blessing.

“Actually, Mummy, that's why I called. I wanted to talk to you about a job.”

“Good. You must come back as soon as possible. You were quite right about that girl,” Georgiana pushed on in a confidential tone. “Absolute nightmare. She can barely spell, much less punctuate a sentence. And entitled?” She exhaled. “Can you believe the twit wanted to be promoted to editor? Already? Imagine. I sent her packing.” Another exhalation.

“Nina? You were singing her praises last time we talked. You were quite clear that you thought she'd be a better editor than I. How I wasn't ready.” Harper's cheeks flushed at the memory.

“You're imagining things. You've always been oversensitive, Harper. The salient point is that I need you back. All is forgiven.”

Forgiven?
Harper's fingers clutched the phone in a fistlike grip. Her mother always had the ability to twist things around so that in the end she was the victor. “I'm not coming back to—”

“Not coming back? Where would you go? Wait a minute . . . Has Mummy been talking to you again about moving to Greenfields Park?” Georgiana laughed, a high trill sound. “Typical. Now you know where I get my wheedling and conniving side from. Well, I can't blame you if you choose to move to England. I've been a disappointment to them, so I suppose there's some satisfaction in knowing that at least my progeny can fulfill their dream.”

“But I haven't—”

“Haven't what?”

“Mother, will you let me finish a sentence?” Harper said with heat.
There was a silence. She continued in a calmer voice, “I haven't chosen to move to Greenfields Park. I haven't chosen anything. What I began to say was I'm not coming back to being your editorial assistant. Though I appreciate the opportunity,” she hurried to add, “I've grown beyond that position.” She thought that more politic than declaring she no longer wanted to be her mother's lackey. Over the past two years she'd given more of the editorial jobs to the other employees and her personal agenda to Harper.

“Not be my assistant?” Georgiana sounded affronted. “But who else can do the job?”

Harper prayed for patience. Why was it her job to ensure her mother had a satisfactory assistant? “Mummy, you can hire someone new to be your personal assistant. I'll train her, if you like. But I'm qualified to be an editor. More than qualified.”

Harper waited. She knew her mother would often make whoever was on the other end of the conversation wait in silence for long periods while she thought things through.

“I'm going to start sending out my résumé,” Harper said flatly, ending the standoff. “I wanted you to know first. I'd appreciate a letter of recommendation.”

“When did you become so heartless?”

“I beg your pardon? How am I heartless?”

“Who do you think nurtured your career in publishing all your life? Sent you to the best schools, mentored you, introduced you to every important publishing house? Me. You never could have made the connections and have the opportunities you've had were it not for me. And this is how you repay me? You threaten me that you're going to another house? That's like turning down my option clause.”

“I'm not turning anything down,”
Harper said with exasperation. “Other than the job as your assistant. You haven't offered me anything else yet.”

There was a pause and she heard her mother puffing away like a locomotive. At length Georgiana spoke again, this time in her business tone of voice—clipped, heavy on the British accent, impersonal. “You always were hard to reason with when you're at that place. I'd hoped you'd outgrown your grandmother's influence.”

“Which grandmother are you referring to? Not that it matters. Mother, I've not discussed this with either Mamaw or Granny James. I'm not talking to you as your daughter but as your former editorial assistant who wishes to apply for a position as editor.”

There was another long pause. This time, Harper waited her out.

“Very well. If you're serious about applying for a job as an editor, I'll be happy to discuss it with you. In my office, like any other applicant. Call me when you get back to New York to set up an appointment. Must go now. Cheers.”

Harper heard the click of disconnection. She fell back on the mattress to stare at the ceiling, momentarily stunned and confused. When she'd called her mother, she'd been filled with determination to make decisions, to return to New York. Yet once again her mother had shown her that her hopes were naive.

Working for her mother in any capacity was a bad idea. Harper realized that now. Georgiana James would turn on her. Tell her she wouldn't succeed. But what else was new? The logical, pragmatic side of Harper knew she had to stop stalling and apply to other houses.

But the emotional part of her was feeling belittled and hurt. Harper brought her hands in to cover her face, then turned on her side and curled up in a ball. Rejection hurt. Even after all these years. She thought she'd get used to it. But she kept this childish hope that someday her mother would, if not love her, at least appreciate her qualities. Not Georgiana James. She excelled at letting Harper know, in every manner possible, that she didn't matter. Or if she did, it was only in how Harper could fill her mother's needs and wants.

Any attempt at autonomy, even typical teenage experimenting with clothing and makeup, was strongly opposed. Harper wondered if her mother had any idea how crazy Harper could have gone at the boarding schools. Or what a good girl she'd been all those years when her friends were sneaking out at night, trying drugs, sex, and booze. Then Harper snorted a very unladylike laugh. Georgiana was too self-absorbed to have even noticed, let alone cared.

Harper wiped her eyes, feeling the spark of anger. She was twenty-eight now. Why did she still allow that woman to hurt her?

Harper rose and walked to the small wood desk. She had discovered the only way to release her pent-up hurt and emotions was to write. She sat and flipped open her laptop, placed her fingers on the keys, and started tapping furiously. She felt the tension ease the moment the words began to flow. Even the effort of writing a book, something her father had done, would be an affront to her mother. She hated anything in Harper that hinted at her DNA connection to Parker Muir.

Harper lost herself in the world of her characters. In Harper's book, she'd created an alter-ego character. Hadley was an
empowered woman, intelligent, and not easily swayed. One who didn't let anyone demean her or stand in her way of achieving her dreams.

When Harper was a young girl, she often wrote stories where she embodied a heroine who faced obstacles similar to the adventures of her favorite storybook characters. She journeyed through a wonderland like clever Alice, traveled through time and space like Meg Murry. As she grew older, Harper sat in coffee shops, in airports, train stations, places where people clustered, and eavesdropped on conversations. She enjoyed finishing their conversations or story lines in her writing, adding flourishes to the tales with an improvisational twist. Most of all, Harper had discovered that her journaling provided her with an outlet for her pent-up frustrations and hurt.

Harper sat at her desk and rewrote the recent telephone exchange, firing off the words to her mother that she wished she had said. The character Hadley was fiery tongued.

“Every word out of your mouth is a put-down!” Hadley shouted. “This is the end of your lifelong campaign of control over me.” “You violate my boundaries, undermine, demean, and criticize me.” “You are a destructive narcissist!”

Harper didn't realize that she was smiling as she wrote. When she finished, an hour had passed. She leaned back in her chair and let her hands rest on the keys, feeling the cathartic relief she always did after writing.

As she closed her laptop, her smile wavered and she wondered if she'd ever find the courage to confront her mother in the real world, not just in her stories.

Blake didn't smile when
Carson reentered the kitchen. “New friend?”

“Yes,” she replied in a deliberately breezy manner, ignoring his probing stare. “Grab your drink and let's go outside. It's hot, but not too bad in the shade. This room is a disaster, thanks to Hurricane Harper.” She took a sweep of the room and shook her head, muttering, “I don't know what that crazy girl was thinking.”

She led him to the shaded portion of the porch where the offshore breezes stirred the humid air. Carson loved hot weather—couldn't abide the cold. She was like any other fish that absorbed the sun and tolerated the heat. One of the things she liked about Blake was that he was equally at home outdoors. They both preferred to sit in fresh air than in air-conditioning. Carson pulled out one of the large wicker chairs, then slunk gracefully into it, tucking one leg beneath her.

Blake set his glass beside hers but hesitated before sitting. He stood before her, concern on his face. “How are you feeling?” he asked cautiously.

Carson tapped her fingers along the chair, knowing full well that he was fishing for whether she'd had the abortion. She knew he had the right to ask, and at some point she planned to tell him her decision. But she'd only just made it.

She looked directly into his eyes. “Queasy.” She slipped on her sunglasses.

Blake went still, appearing momentarily blindsided. “As in sick?”

“That's usually what
queasy
means. Nauseous. Also known as morning sickness.”