The Summer Wind (23 page)

“Uh, okay,” the salesgirl replied, sensing the tension. “I’ll just step in and clear these away so you have a little more room,” she said, slipping past Harper to the door.

Dora frowned at the intrusion but stepped aside, hastily covering herself with one of the dresses draped across the small chair. When the dressing room door opened, Harper got a glimpse of Dora in her large white bra and granny underpants. Harper stared at the dressing room and was shocked. It looked like Armageddon, with dresses and blouses and skirts flung everywhere. Harper stepped into the capacious dressing room and helped the young lady pick up some of the scattered
clothing, embarrassed at the condition of the room, the lack of respect for the clothing. When the clerk left, Harper stayed in the dressing room with Dora, clutching with white knuckles the last three dresses she’d selected.

Dora rounded on her, eyes narrowed with anger. “I want you to stay out. I saw the look on your face when you saw my body. You were shocked.”

Harper closed her eyes and groaned. “I wasn’t shocked at your body,” she said with strained patience. “I was shocked at the state the dressing room was in!”

“Yeah, right.”

“Well,” Harper admitted with a half grin, “I might’ve been shocked at your underwear. Next stop, we’re buying you a decent bra! Something from this century.”

Dora knew she was trying to make light of it, but Harper didn’t realize how insulting her quips could be. Didn’t she know she already felt like an outdated matron compared to her and Carson? Dora glared at Harper in the mirror.

“Please get out, Harper,” she said with forced civility. “I want to get dressed and go home.”

“Why are you making this so hard?” Harper cried with frustration. “This outing was supposed to be fun, and all you’re doing is sulking and throwing clothes around like a spoiled child.”

“Then stop acting like my mother!” Dora shot back.

“What? How am I acting like your mother?”

“You’re not listening to what I want. You’re telling me what to wear. Ordering me around. This isn’t a shopping trip. It’s a damn makeover!”

Harper was so angered by Dora’s accusation that she tossed the remaining dresses onto the chair. They promptly slid off to the floor.

“I’m trying to be helpful! I know fashion and I’m showing you some outfits that I think you’ll look good in. But you won’t even try them. God, you’re impossible. You’re so stuck in your ways.”

“I didn’t ask for a makeover. Stop trying to change me.”

Harper exploded. “You dress like a grandma!”

Dora’s mouth dropped open and tears flooded her eyes.

In the shocked silence, Harper felt terrible for losing her temper. In the mirror she saw Dora cowering behind the slip of fabric. Everything about Dora—her posture, her crumpled face, her defiance—spoke of defeat.

“I’m sorry,” Harper said, softening her tone. “The last thing I wanted to do today was to make you feel bad. I don’t know, maybe I
was
trying to give you a makeover. It’s only because I wanted you to see how beautiful you are.” Her tone changed to reveal her frustration. “But you won’t have it. You’re so stubborn, Dora, and for no good reason. I’m beginning to wonder if you don’t like the rut you’re in because it’s comfortable.”

Dora didn’t answer.

There followed a heated silence, during which Harper bent to pick up the dresses from the floor and hang them on the wall hook. Dora remained rigid against the wall, her face turned away, holding the dress tight against her body like a shield.

Harper turned and faced Dora. “I’m sorry if you don’t like the way you look. But you shouldn’t take it out on me. And you know what? It’s not just today. From the moment I got here you’ve been pushing me away. You do that a lot, Dora.”

“I’m not pushing you away,” Dora said defensively. Then she shrugged one shoulder insolently. “I just figured we didn’t get along.”

Harper appeared slapped. “But
why
? I’ve tried, God knows I’ve tried.”

“Maybe it’s just the way we were brought up. You’re from New York and I’m from Charleston.”

Harper’s voice went cold. “Don’t play that north–south card with me. It’s such a cliché, and you and I have moved way beyond those differences. This goes deeper. To trust.”

“What do you mean?”

Harper looked up at the ceiling. “Where do I begin?” She lowered her gaze and met Dora’s. “Okay, here’s a recent one. I really had fun playing video games with Nate. But you chewed me out pretty good over that without even giving me the chance to explain why I did it. FYI, games are what he likes, Dora, and what he’s good at, and there’s solid evidence it’s okay for him to play them with someone else. The operative word there, Dora, is
play
. He wasn’t alone. We were interacting.”

She speared Dora with another hard look. “Another example.
I
was the one who came up with the idea of taking Nate to the dolphin therapy program. I don’t want a thank-you and I get why it was Carson who took him to Florida.” Harper recited by rote, “She’s the one with the experience with dolphins. She knows Florida. She and Nate have this Delphine bond going on.” Her voice softened. “But it still hurt that you didn’t even consider letting me take him.” She asked Dora directly: “Would you have let me take him?”

“I . . . I . . .” Dora stammered.

“No, you wouldn’t have,” Harper answered for her. “Because you don’t trust me with Nate. You don’t even trust me with the bloody garden!”

“I don’t trust
anybody
with Nate!” Dora fired back. “Not even his father. Do you even know how huge it was for me to let Nate go with Carson? Letting him go was the most trust I’ve ever shown anyone. And that trust includes you. I trusted what you told me about the program. I listened to you because, well, damn it, I know you’re smart and you think things through and I respect you.”

Harper went very still.

“I was freaked out letting Nate go,” Dora said, shaking with emotion. “I still am. I miss him.” She rubbed her arms, suddenly very cold. “Please, just leave now.” She shuddered. “I’m so done with this.”

“All right. I’m done, too. I’m leaving.” Harper turned to leave. Then she swung around again.

Dora turned away.

Harper looked at her sister’s back, and her own shoulders slumped. “You’re my sister,” she said in a flat tone. “I love you. But right now, I don’t like you. Do whatever you want. I don’t care. I’m going to the coffee shop at the corner. When you’re done, meet me there and we’ll drive home.”

Harper turned and left, closing the door behind her.

Dora stood motionless in the dressing room, her body shaking with hurt and shock and anger at Harper’s outburst. How dare she say those things to her? Harper didn’t like her? Well, she didn’t like Harper much, either, she thought, grabbing her
shorts and ramming her legs into them. As she fastened the button, she saw again how loose they were at the waist and hips. In a rush, she remembered the elation she’d felt at discovering she’d lost ten pounds, and how immediate and sincere Harper was with her congratulations.

And who was that girl? Dora wondered, stunned at Harper’s outburst. The mouse had roared! And Dora had to admit, she admired this side of Harper she’d never seen before. She had gumption, and that was something Dora could respect.

Dora’s anger was quickly replaced by remorse. She slumped onto the chair and stared at her reflection in the mirror. Her cheeks were pink from the sun but her hair was mousy and her Bermuda shorts and bra looked like something her mother would wear. How could she be upset with Harper when Harper was right? Dora hated the way she dressed.

Was Harper also right about those other things? Did Dora push people away? She thought of Cal. How many nights had she pushed him away, claiming fatigue and headaches? She knew plenty of women used any number of those excuses on the nights they weren’t in the mood, but it got old with Cal, and he got angry. “You’re never in the mood,” he’d complained. She couldn’t explain to him that not feeling pretty, sexy, desirable, or even feminine was often the real source of the problem. Pushing people away was easier than letting them get close.

Harper was right. Again. She had pushed her away. She’d been jealous. She’d always thought both Harper and Carson lived exciting lives. They’d traveled the world while Dora had never left the South. They were younger, slimmer, richer—or at least Harper was. Dora’s claim to fame was her marriage, her child, her stability. She’d held up the facade of her being the
perfect Southern woman. Until the facade crumbled, leaving her with nothing to feel good about.

Facades were easier to maintain over distance.

But it was about time that
all
their facades were cracking and crumbling. Since they’d all returned to Sea Breeze, the truths were slowly being unearthed. Carson had been brutally honest, sharing the sordid details of her childhood. Harper revealed the loneliness behind the wealth of the James family. Why had Dora been ashamed to tell her sisters about the divorce?

The voice in her head that told her divorce was an embarrassing scandal, something to avoid at all costs, was the same harsh critic that whispered she was fat, not pretty. Were her insecurities what made her act so inflexible and stuck in her ways? Was she too judgmental, always finding fault and pushing people—and any hope for happiness—away?

She brought her hands to her face. In the past week she’d caught a glimpse of how her life could change. She liked the way she was beginning to feel about herself. In her reflection she was catching a glimpse of the young girl she once was. The girl who had confidence and dreams. The girl who believed anything was possible.

How could she break the old patterns that had grown like kudzu vines around her heart? How could she quiet the negative voices and listen to the positive ones?

Dora dropped her hands and slowly raised her eyes to the dresses hanging on the wall hooks. Harper had told her she had looked pretty in the dresses. Devlin had told her she was beautiful. When was she going to start believing?

“Oh, give me that damn dress,” Dora said to herself as she rose to her feet and grabbed the first one within reach.

Harper sat at a small table in City Lights café, a pile of napkins covered in her handwriting on the table before her. Whenever she was hurt or angry, Harper found it therapeutic to write out in dialogue all the things she wished she’d had the courage to say. She’d scribbled in a heated fury a vitriolic scene of Dora and herself in the changing room, hurling insults, throwing clothes, a real catfight. Finished, she sat back in her chair, released the pen, and grabbed her latte.

She finished her drink, set down the empty mug, and looked around the coffee shop. Big stainless-steel espresso machines lined the wall, pastries were arranged on the counter. Women and men of all ages sat at the small tables, talking, reading, typing on laptops. She found the heady scents of freshly brewed coffee and sweet pastries comforting, and she needed that now.

In New York, she often went to coffee shops with her laptop and people-watched. She enjoyed describing what she saw—the people, the setting, what they ordered. She jotted down comments she found amusing or poignant. Sometimes she’d be so inspired by a conversation she’d overheard that she finished the snippet with a short story, letting her imagination run wild. She never showed anyone her writing. She’d learned long ago that she didn’t have any talent. But she still enjoyed writing. She either threw the pieces out or hid them away in boxes in her closet. She didn’t know why she wrote. It was just something she’d always done.

When Harper was little, she used to show people her stories. They were just silly ones about whatever caught her fancy.
But she’d been proud of them. Then one day, when she was eight, her mother had called her into her office.