The Summer's End (12 page)

Devlin laughed again and moved to slip his arms around her and rest his hands on her ample bottom. He gave a gentle squeeze. “You might be if she had a little more meat on her bones.”

Dora laughed out loud, then kissed him full on the lips, amazed at how this man could always make her feel beautiful.

“You know,” he said in a low voice by her ear, “I fell in love with you at first sight.”

“I was thirteen,” she said as a rebuff. “What did you know about true love back then?”

“Hell, woman, I'm not talking about when you were thirteen. I'm talking about last June, when I spotted you walking down Middle Street. All red in the face, sweat soaking that USC T-shirt.”

Dora barked out a laugh and slapped away his roving hand. “You dog! I was trying so hard not to look winded.” She laughed harder. “I thought I was going to die either from the heat or from you seeing me like that after fifteen years.”

“I never saw anyone more beautiful. Like I said, I fell in love with you on the spot. Again.”

Dora softened and, reaching up, tenderly brushed his shaggy blond hair from his forehead. “You do turn a girl's head.”

Devlin slipped his arms around her again. “Shame you put that dress on,” he murmured in her ear.

Dora glanced at the clock on the wall, then smiled at the sound of her dress zipper humming down the track.

Mamaw stood on the dock, staring out moodily as she did so often lately. It was early in the morning, but warm, hinting at the heat that was surely coming as the sun rose higher. Normally she wasn't one to sulk and let days slip away without notice. She had interests, hobbies, friends. Still, here she was, wandering about aimlessly, feeling pitifully lost without Lucille.

Lucille had come into her employ when Mamaw was a young bride in her new home on East Bay in Charleston. They'd grown old together. While always a treasured employee, Lucille had evolved over the years into Mamaw's companion, her confidante—her dearest friend. Lucille had held Mamaw up during the dark days following her son's death, then her husband's. She'd stood by her side, made sure she ate, encouraged her to get outdoors and walk. Day by day they had created a routine that altered the nature of their relationship. Marietta had no secrets from Lucille. They'd been like two peas in a pod.

Unlike Edward or Parker, Lucille had been a part of Mamaw's everyday life. Every question—concerning her granddaughters, the house, meals, the garden—was discussed between them. Every decision—from major issues such as finagling a way to get her granddaughters to agree to come to Sea Breeze for the summer,
to minor ones such as what to watch on television—was negotiated with Lucille. Usually over a game of gin rummy.

Now Lucille was gone. The wheel that turned Mamaw's daily life was missing a cog. She'd known that she would grieve, yet she hadn't anticipated how Lucille's absence would be felt countless times a day, in all the small details Mamaw had come to take for granted. Being with Lucille had been as natural as breathing. Without her, she couldn't seem to take an easy breath. She knew her granddaughters were worried about her. The dears, they'd all gathered the night before to play a game of canasta with her after dinner. She stroked her arms. It was fun, she supposed. She just couldn't seem to muster excitement about anything these days. Was this what they called depression? she wondered.

“Marietta!” a voice called, drawing her from her reverie.

She turned her head toward the voice. Across the water, standing on the neighboring dock, was her neighbor Girard Bellows—Gerry, his friends called him. He was precariously bent over a small johnboat as he loaded gear. When he straightened, he lifted his hand in a neighborly wave. His long, lean frame could make even his nylon fishing pants and patched shirt look elegant.

Marietta smiled, remembering how Girard Bellows had always been a handsome man, especially back in the days when his hair was as black as an eagle's wing and her hair was as golden as sunlight.

Marietta returned the wave.

Girard shouted, “How've you been?”

“Fine, thank you,” she called back, trying to be neighborly.

Girard raised his finger in the universal signal to wait one minute. She nodded, then watched, curious, as he climbed into his small johnboat, fired the outboard motor, and came cruising the short distance over to her lower dock. Mamaw, perched on the upper dock, leaned over the railing and watched him jump to her dock and tie up with the grace of a man half his age. When finished, he looked up at her with a wide, white-toothed grin. He wore a Harvard baseball cap over his shock of white hair that contrasted handsomely with his tanned face. Girard had a vigor about him that was as youthful today as it had been back when she fished with him almost fifty years earlier on this very dock.

“Couldn't see making a lady shout,” Girard called out as he drew near. He pulled off his sunglasses, revealing his pale blue eyes.

My, but Girard Bellows has aged well,
Mamaw thought to herself. She'd always found him attractive. Even fancied him a bit, though it was all innocent enough. Girard came from an old moneyed family in the Northeast somewhere. He had that grace of movement that she thought was a gift of one's DNA. He always liked to tease her that his folk, who had come over on the
Mayflower,
were on the eastern coast long before hers in Charleston. That's when she claimed her pirate ancestry as her trump card. Who knew when and where the Gentleman Pirate first arrived on these shores? It had been a running joke between them for years, and she smiled now, remembering it.

When they were younger, neither of them lived on the island full-time. Local couples shared occasional drinks on weekends when families returned to Sullivan's Island for the season. The Bellowses were never invited to the Muirs' Charleston house, nor were the Muirs invited to the Bellowses' home . . . it was in
Connecticut, she remembered. Later, both families retired to Sullivan's Island. Then Edward had died, followed soon after by Girard's wife, Evelyn. Mamaw hadn't seen much of Girard at all since Evelyn's funeral.

Nate had connected them again earlier this summer when he'd wanted to learn more about fishing. Nate had spotted the older man fishing on his dock and somehow found his way next door to ask Girard for help. Girard loved few things more than fishing and had taken immediately to teaching the boy, who proved to be an apt pupil. Nate called him Old Mr. Bellows, Mamaw recalled with a light laugh.

Then there had been the accident with Delphine, and all fishing stopped.

“Haven't seen you out here for a while,” Girard said.

Marietta shook her head. “I've been busy. Lucille passed.”

Girard's smile immediately fell and he offered sincerely, “My condolences.”

“Thank you.”

“And your great-grandson, Nate. Nice boy. He sure loves his fishing.”

“It was nice of you to take the time to teach him.”

“Did he go home?”

“No, he's still here.”

“Really? I haven't seen him out on the dock. He hasn't come asking for fishing advice.” Girard shook his head. “That's one determined little guy.”

“Nate hasn't touched his fishing rod since, well, not since the dolphin was hurt.”

“Oh, right.” Girard's face grew solemn at the memory. “Sorry business, that.”

“Yes.”

“Did the dolphin survive?”

“She did. Delphine went to the Mote Marine Cetacean Hospital. Nicholas Johannes flew the dolphin to Florida in his plane, otherwise I don't think the dolphin would have lived.”

“Good man to do that.”

Marietta nodded.

“Well, tell that rascal Nate he's welcome to come over anytime.”

“That's very kind of you.”

Girard looked down at his boat bobbing at the lower dock. “I seem to recall you were a pretty good fisherman in your day.”

“Fisher
woman.
I still am,” she replied, taking umbrage. “Fishing is like riding a bicycle. Once you learn you never forget.”

He looked at her, smiling. “Is that so?” Girard crossed his arms. “In that case, why don't you and I go fishing together sometime?”

Mamaw was startled by this invitation that seemed to come out of nowhere. Flustered, she felt her heart beat faster. Fishing, indeed . . . What a thought! She was busy. She had things to do. She couldn't just jump into a boat and take off on a lark.

As she opened her mouth to decline, she heard the high-pitched cry of an osprey. She could never refuse the call of an osprey, and looking up, she spied the beautiful, black-winged raptor circling the Cove.

Beside her, Girard paused to take in the sight. “The great fish hawk at work,” he said with awe, bringing his hand up to his brow to shield his eyes. “No better fishers in the world.”

“I've always loved ospreys. They're site loyal and mate for life. I think that makes them rather noble, don't you?”

“I do, indeed.”
He pointed to a small island to the right. “I built a platform on that hammock right over there. The same couple have returned to the nest, year after year, for about ten years. They've got fledglings now.”

Mamaw turned to study Girard with new eyes. “That was you?”

“It was.”

“I've wondered for years who did that. I've enjoyed watching that nest, the couple returning every February, checking for hatchlings, enjoying the fledglings. They're getting ready to leave again.” She turned to cast him an assessing look. “And I have you to thank.”

“'Fraid so.”

She remembered then Girard's love of nature, which she had appreciated when she was on the board of the land trust and had helped Girard arrange to put his family's considerable land holdings in South Carolina into a conservation easement. Like other wealthy northern families, his family had owned a large plantation upland that they'd used for hunting parties. South Carolina was richer today for the thousands of acres now in conservation across the state. That deal had been the feather in her cap at the land trust.

Marietta turned to study the handsome profile of the man beside her. She reconsidered his invitation. “I might could go fishing,” she said, slipping into vernacular. “When do you have in mind?”

“Why not right now? No time like the present.”

She scoffed. “Now? How could I? I'd need to get my fishing rod, sunscreen . . .”

“Excuses. I have all that.”

She closed her mouth, flustered. It was true. No one at the house needed her help. She was moping about aimlessly. In truth, she needed nothing but a little gumption. Marietta felt a lightening in her chest, the first since Lucille's death. Wouldn't that old marsh hen cackle to see her and Girard Bellows out fishing together again?

Marietta took a deep breath. Then she released it with a laugh that was carried out on a breeze like an echo to the osprey's call. “Why not, indeed?”

A
ugust was bearing down hard. The entire weekend the beaches were packed with colorful towels and sunburned bodies. Even on Sunday morning it appeared folks were skipping church and praying on the beach. Everyone was trying to beat the heat and cram every last beach day in before the school season began.

By Monday morning, it was hotter than a sauna, even early morning on the beach while Harper attempted her daily run. The sand felt baked beneath her feet and radiated the heat. Harper considered herself lucky that she seldom perspired. Today, however, sweat was dripping down her face. That summer storm the forecasters predicted for the end of the week couldn't come fast enough, she thought.

Harper swiped her hand in front of her face, shooing away a swarm of pesky gnats. Cursing, she gave up the fight and cut her run short, slowing to a walk on the way home. By the time
she reached Sea Breeze she was sweaty and as splattered with bugs as a windshield. She staggered along the tilting slate walkway to the back of the house, past the overgrown gardenia shrubs to the outdoor shower. A huge banana spider sat in its gorgeous web under the eaves. She jolted to a stop. She saw more of them out now in late summer as the humidity rose. She used to be spooked by them, mostly because of their size. But once she learned that the brilliantly colored spiders with tarantula-like legs were in fact not only harmless, but helpful because they ate mosquitoes, she'd reached a truce. She'd give the spiders their space if they didn't invade hers.