The Summer Girls

Praise for the lyrical, evocative writing of

MARY ALICE MONROE

“Mary Alice Monroe has become the premier nature writer among southern novelists . . . In
The Summer Girls,
she sings a song of praise to the bottlenose dolphins that bring so much joy to the men and women who gaze at the creeks and rivers of the lowcountry each evening. Like all her books,
The Summer Girls
is a call to arms.”

—
New York Times
bestselling author Pat Conroy

“
The Summer Girls
is more than just a beautifully written, moving portrayal of three sisters finding themselves and each other after years of separation. It also deals head-on with significant issues so skillfully woven into the narrative that I often stopped to consider the import of what I’d just read.”

—
New York Times
bestselling author Cassandra King

“As inspiring as the natural wonder about which she writes.”

—
New York Times
bestselling author Dorothea Benton Frank

“Monroe brings authenticity and a sense of wonder.”

—
Publishers Weekly

“Makes her characters so believable, the reader can almost hear them breathing.”

—
Booklist

“Her lyrical, emotional, and gripping stories make for superb reading experiences.”

—
RT Reviews

“Allows Monroe’s fans to feel they have grown up on the beautiful coastal waters of South Carolina.”

—
Charleston City Paper

“Mary Alice Monroe knows how to pull the readers into the world instantly and keep them there till the very last word on the very last page.”

—
The Huffington Post

To Nana

Elizabeth Potter Kruesi

With Much Love and Gratitude

Sea Breeze, Sullivan’s Island, SC

April 5, 2012

My darling granddaughters—Dora, Carson, and Harper,

Greetings, my precious girls! On May 26 I celebrate my eightieth birthday—can you believe I’m so ancient? Will you come home to Sea Breeze and your old mamaw and help me celebrate? We will do it proper with a lowcountry boil, Lucille’s biscuits, and most of all, each other.

My dears, like an overripe peach, I’m past my prime. My mind remains sharp and my health is good, considering. Yet, with an eye to the future, I’ve decided to move to a retirement community, and it’s time to sort through all that I’ve managed to clutter my house with all these years.

And I’ve realized that it has been far too long since we’ve been together. I know your lives are busy and your summers filled with engagements and travels. Yet—please say you’ll come to my party! For the summer, if you possibly can! That is the only gift I want. I yearn so very much to share this final season at Sea Breeze with my Summer Girls.

Yours,

Mamaw

P. S. This invitation does not include husbands, beaus, or mothers!

C
arson was sorting through the usual boring bills and circulars in the mail when her fingers paused at the thick ecru envelope with
Miss Carson Muir
written in a familiar blue script. She clutched the envelope tight and her heart pumped fast as she scurried up the hot cement steps back to her apartment. The air-conditioning was broken, so only scarce puffs of breeze that carried noise and dirt from the traffic wafted through the open windows. It was a tiny apartment in a two-story stucco building near L.A., but it was close to the ocean and the rent was affordable, so Carson had stayed for three years, longer than she’d ever lived in any other apartment.

Carson carelessly tossed the other mail onto the glass cocktail table, stretched her long limbs out on the nubby brown sofa, then slid her finger along the envelope’s seal. Waves of anticipation crested in her bloodstream as she
slowly pulled out the navy-trimmed, creamy stationery card. Immediately she caught a whiff of perfume—soft sweet spices and orange flowers—and, closing her eyes, she saw the Atlantic Ocean, not the Pacific, and the white wooden house on pilings surrounded by palms and ancient oaks. A smile played on her lips. It was so like her grandmother to spray her letters with scent. So old world—so Southern.

Carson nestled deeper in the cushions and relished each word of the letter. When finished, she looked up and stared in a daze at the motes of dust floating in a shaft of sunlight. The letter was an invitation . . . was it possible?

In that moment, Carson could have leaped to her feet and twirled on her toes, sending her long braid flying like that of the little girl in her memories. Mamaw was inviting her to Sullivan’s Island. A summer at Sea Breeze. Three whole rent-free months by the sea!

Mamaw always had the best timing, she thought, picturing the tall, elegant woman with hair the color of sand and a smile as sultry as a lowcountry sunset. It had been a horrid winter of endings. The television series Carson had been working on had been canceled without warning after a three-year run. Her cash flow was almost gone and she was just trying to figure out how she could make next month’s rent. For months she’d been bobbing around town looking for work like a piece of driftwood in rough waters.

Carson looked again at the letter in her hand. “Thank you, Mamaw,” she said aloud, feeling it deeply. For the first time in months Carson felt a surge of hope. She paced a circle, her fingers flexing, then strode to the fridge and pulled out a bottle of wine and poured herself a mugful. Next she
crossed the room to her small wood desk, pushed the pile of clothing off the chair, then sat down and opened her laptop.

To her mind, when you were drowning and a rope was thrown your way, you didn’t waste time thinking about what to do. You just grabbed it, then kicked and swam like the devil to safety. She had a lot to do and not much time if she was going to be out of the apartment by the month’s end.

Carson picked up the invitation again, kissed it, then put her hands on the keys and began typing. She would accept Mamaw’s invitation. She was going back to the lowcountry—to Mamaw. Back to the only place in the world she’d ever thought of as home.

Dora stood at the kitchen stove stirring a red sauce. It was 5:35
P.M
. and the rambling Victorian house felt empty and desolate. She used to be able to set a clock by her husband’s schedule. Even now, six months after Calhoun had left, Dora expected him to walk through the door carrying the mail. She’d lift her cheek toward the man who had been her husband for fourteen years to receive his perfunctory kiss.

Dora’s attention was caught by the sound of pounding footfalls on the stairs. A moment later, her son burst into the room.

“I made it to the next level,” he announced. He wasn’t smiling, but his eyes sparkled with triumph.

Dora smiled into his face. Her nine-year-old son made up her world. A big task for such a small boy. Nate was slight and pale, with furtive eyes that always made her wonder why her little boy was afraid. Of what? she’d asked his child psychiatrist, who had smiled kindly. “Nate isn’t so much afraid as he is guarded,” he’d answered reassuringly. “You shouldn’t take it personally, Mrs. Tupper.”

Nate had never been a cuddly baby, but she worried when his smiling stopped after a year. By two, he didn’t establish eye contact or turn his head when called. By three, he no longer came to her for comfort when he was hurt, nor did he notice or care if she cried or got angry. Except if she yelled. Then Nate covered his ears and commenced rocking in a panic.

Her every instinct had screamed that something was wrong with her baby and she began furtively reading books on child development. How many times had she turned to Cal with her worries that Nate’s speech development was behind the norm and that his movements were clumsy? And how many times had Cal turned on her, adamant that the boy was fine and she was making it all up in her head? She’d been like a turtle tucking her head in, afraid to go against him. Already the subject of Nate’s development was driving a wedge between them. When Nate turned four, however, and began flapping his hands and making odd noises, she made her first, long-overdue appointment with a child psychiatrist. It was then that the doctor revealed what Dora had long feared: her son had high-functioning autism.

Cal received the diagnosis as a psychological death sentence.
But Dora was surprised to feel relieved. Having an official diagnosis was better than making up excuses and coping with her suspicions. At least now she could actively help her son.

And she did. Dora threw herself into the world of autism spectrum disorders. There was no point in gnashing her teeth wishing that she’d followed up on her own instincts sooner, knowing now that early diagnosis and treatment could have meant important strides in Nate’s development. Instead, she focused her energy on a support group and worked tirelessly to develop an intensive in-home therapy program. It wasn’t long before her entire life revolved around Nate and his needs. All her plans for restoring her house fell by the wayside, as did hair appointments, lunches with friends, her size-eight clothes.

And her marriage.

Dora had been devastated when Cal announced seemingly out of the blue one Saturday afternoon in October that he couldn’t handle living with her and Nate any longer. He assured her she would be taken care of, packed a bag, and walked out of the house. And that was that.

Dora quickly turned off the stove and wiped her hands on her apron. She put on a bright smile to greet her son, fighting her instinct to lean over and kiss him as he entered the room. Nate didn’t like being touched. She reached over to the counter to retrieve the navy-trimmed invitation that had arrived in the morning’s mail.