“Lots of reasons. It’s been forever since I’ve visited Mamaw and time just opened up.” She bit into the Brie, not willing to divulge the details. The days of blurting secrets between them were over. “Plus, I don’t know,” she added, her tone changing as she spoke from the heart. “Dora, I was surprised to see how old Mamaw is.”
“She’s turning eighty, after all.”
“I know. That’s my point. She’s always been old to me. I mean, when I was ten, she was . . .” Carson paused to do the math. “Fifty-six, which isn’t old, really.”
Lucille huffed from the stove. “I should say not!”
Carson smiled as she continued. “But it seemed old to me. So did sixty, seventy. But she was always so alive, so vibrant, in my mind. Ageless.”
“She’s not Santa Claus,” Dora said.
Carson was taken aback by the derision. “No, of course not,” she replied, crossing her arms across her chest. “It’s just that Mamaw was always the same in my mind. Immortal. But when I came home and saw her, she not only looks older, more frail—but I swear she’s shrinking.” She swirled the wine in her glass. “I suppose for the first time it hit me that Mamaw isn’t always going to be here, waiting. I shouldn’t take for granted that she’ll always be here for us. Each year, each day, is a gift.”
“I don’t take her for granted,” Dora said. “I come out to see Mamaw every chance I get.”
“You’re lucky you live so close.”
“Not close, exactly,” Dora clarified. “With good traffic it’s still some forty-five minutes away. I still have to plan. I mean, she’s not across the street. But I make the effort.”
Carson was silenced by the implied criticism that she had not made the effort in several years. But she couldn’t defend herself.
Lucille turned and said, “You know, I can’t recall the last time you came out to see Miz Marietta.”
“Why, Lucille, you know we come every summer,” replied Dora.
“Uh-huh,” Lucille said, turning again to the pot. “When it’s nice enough to visit the beach.”
“You know Mamaw joins us every Christmas, Easter, and Thanksgiving. For every special occasion.”
There followed an awkward pause during which Dora’s cheeks flamed and Carson turned to help herself to another piece of cheese. She knew that Lucille wanted to level the playing field for her by eliminating false claims, and for this she was grateful.
“How’s Nate?” Carson asked, changing the subject.
“Oh, Nate! He’s fine,” Dora replied robustly. “You’ll see him shortly. I expect he’s getting settled in his room now.”
Carson paused before biting her cheese. “He’s here?”
“Of course he’s here. Where else would he be? I always bring Nate with me so he can visit his great-grandmother. And it’s about time he met his aunts, don’t you think?”
“Of course. I’m delighted. B-but . . .” Carson stammered. “I thought—”
“Thought what?” Dora asked, sensing a small challenge.
“I thought this was a girls-only weekend.”
“Mamaw would be brokenhearted if her only great-grandchild didn’t come.”
“Where will he sleep?”
“In the library, where he always sleeps.”
“Harper is going in the library. It’s always been Harper’s room.”
“Now it’s Nate’s room. She can sleep somewhere else.”
“There is nowhere else,” Carson replied, refraining from adding as you well know. Dora had always been bossy, even as a child, but she was never unreasonable. “Well, Nate can share your room. You have twin beds.”
Dora rubbed her hands together. “I’ll just check with Mamaw. She’ll know what to do.”
Carson put up her hands. “Don’t bother her with this. She’s napping. Look, Dora, I know for certain that Mamaw planned for Harper to sleep in the library because I have the task of freshening the rooms and adding flowers. If you don’t want Nate to sleep in your room, perhaps it would be best to bring him back home. At least for the party.”
Dora’s face flushed. “I can’t,” she replied in a voice laced with both resentment and distress. “There’s no one else to take care of him.”
Carson sighed and brought her fingers to the bridge of her nose. She had to remember that Dora was in the throes of a divorce. Lucille turned off the stove and set down the spoon with a clatter that interrupted any more talk. She faced them, lifting the hem of her white cotton apron, and began wiping her hands with agitation.
“I’ll go on over and help the boy move his things to your room,” she told Dora in a tone implying the matter was settled. “Carson, you best go get changed for dinner and wake up Mamaw. Dora,” she said kindly, “take a minute for yourself and freshen up after your travels. Gumbo’s ready!”
Dora bent over the bathroom sink and splashed water over her face. It felt so inviting that she wanted to strip the clothing from her body and jump into the shower. How lovely it would feel to dive into the ocean like Carson and wash away the dust and perspiration and memories of this horrible day.
But of course she didn’t have time for a shower, much less a swim. Nate would have a hissy fit about the move to this room and Lucille, bless her heart, would not be able to handle him once he got in a mood.
Dora grabbed a towel and began blotting her face. She paused, catching her reflection in the mirror, something she was loath to do. She barely recognized the puffy, pale face she saw in the reflection. Her blue eyes, once described by Cal as the brilliant blue of a gem, appeared lifeless. She should stop drinking so much . . . and cut out sweets, she told herself even as she knew she would not. She no longer had the energy to deny herself the small pleasure of a glass or two of wine or a bar of chocolate. She reached up to tug out the elastic already slipping from her head and then, turning her gaze away from the mirror, brushed her hair with quick, efficient strokes. Her mind was already shifting from herself to Nate and what she might prepare for his dinner. As if he would even consider touching the gumbo . . .
“Oh damn,” she muttered, leaning against the sink in dismay. She’d forgotten to stop at the grocery store on the way to pick up gluten-free bread. Now she’d have to go out and find a loaf somewhere or he’d not have anything for breakfast. Nate was so fussy about his food. She often thought that no matter how much foresight she’d applied to her day, for her—Eudora Muir Tupper—it was always in vain. She loved her son, wanted to be the best mother she could for him, but she was so exhausted at the end of each day, many nights she just cried herself to sleep. Sometimes she felt a prisoner in that crumbling castle of a house that she’d once been so eager to own.