“What are your instincts telling you now?” Harper asked softly.
Carson rested her hands over her belly. “My instincts are telling me to stop obsessing over this decision and to just be. To live and let live. This baby is here.” She patted her belly softly. “I’ll just have to work out the details as they come along.”
There followed a moment’s stunned silence.
“You mean . . . you’re keeping the baby?” Dora asked.
Carson nodded.
Dora’s eyes widened as comprehension sank in. “We’re having a baby!” she hooted, clapping and practically bouncing in her chair.
Carson put up her hand to still the explosion. “Let’s not start all that again. I’m trying to get used to the idea. You know me. Just the thought of being tied down to anything, anyone, makes me panic.” She put her hand to her heart. “Oh, God, my heart’s pounding at the thought. I’m not sure I’m ready. If I’ll ever be ready. I worry if somehow I’ll lose myself. Become invisible.”
Dora grabbed her hand. “You won’t disappear. We won’t let you.”
“You’ll shine,” added Harper.
“Promise me you’ll keep reminding me of that,” Carson entreated.
Dora put her hands to her cheeks in wonderment. “We’re having a baby!”
“Slow down, sister mine,” Carson admonished. “Let’s take it one day at a time, like you said.”
Dora asked, “Does Blake know?”
Carson shook her head. “And you’re not going to tell him. Or Devlin.”
Dora opened her mouth to argue but, on second thought, snapped it shut.
Dora’s come a long way, Harper thought, pleased to see her eldest sister showing some restraint where, only a short time earlier, she would have plowed full steam ahead with her unwanted advice.
“Okay,” Harper said to Carson. “I guess I’ll pay you for the surfing lessons in advance.”
Carson laughed with resignation and relief. “Yeah, okay. And thanks.”
“If you really want to thank me, you can start vacuuming.” Harper pushed off from the counter. “Don’t think being pregnant gets you off easy. Dora, you’ve got garbage duty. FYI, it’s recycling day tomorrow. I’m going to start in the kitchen. Come on, girls.” Harper clapped her hands. “We’re wastin’ daylight.”
Dora looked at Carson, her arms spread out in a gesture of incredulousness. “Who is that girl?”
Hours later Mamaw walked into the kitchen to prepare lunch. She was arrested at the threshold by a vision of utter chaos. The entire contents of the cabinets—boxes of food, tins, spices, and all the dishes—had been emptied out and grouped into piles on the kitchen table and counters.
Mamaw put one hand on the doorframe and stared in mute shock at the pots and pans littering the floor. “What on earth . . . ?”
Harper was scrubbing the inside of a cabinet. Hearing her grandmother’s voice, she crawled out from deep inside and raised her head. The sponge in her hand dripped water to the floor.
“Hi, Mamaw,” she called in a cheery tone.
“Child, what in heaven’s name are you doing?”
“I’m cleaning the kitchen.”
Of course, Mamaw thought ruefully, it wasn’t enough for Harper to simply tidy the kitchen. She had to disassemble it, scour it, then reorganize it. Where did she get her energy? Mamaw wondered. She couldn’t ever remember having that kind of energy. It seemed as if all Harper’s domestic talents, dormant all these years, were bubbling out at Sea Breeze.
Mamaw stuck out her hands toward the table. “I came in to fix some lunch, but there’s no room to make a cup of tea, much less a meal. Everything is everywhere!”
“Is it lunchtime already?” Harper looked around at the mess. “I guess I lost track of time. I started cleaning the drawers and . . .” She made a face. “Oh, Mamaw, they were so dirty and dusty. That led to the cabinets. Do you even know how long it’s been since anyone scrubbed those out? And there’s no rhyme or reason to where things are put. Everything is helter-skelter. And”—Harper shivered in disgust—“I’m putting roach traps everywhere. It’s war.”
Mamaw felt a twinge of guilt that Lucille’s kitchen was being criticized, as if she should defend Lucille somehow. Yet, truth was, Lucille had been so ill before she’d passed on that she hadn’t even had the energy much of the time to leave her little cottage, let alone march into the house and whip things into shape. Even before that, she’d lost her zeal for cleaning and projects. Not that Mamaw could find fault in that. She felt the same way. Old age had a way of taking the starch out of one’s sails.
She pointed to a specific trash bag. “Why are the pots and pans in the trash?”
Harper had the grace to look sheepish. “Yeah, about that.” She sat back on her heels. “Honestly, Mamaw, some of these have to be tossed.”
“No! You can’t throw them away. Lucille used these for fifty years.”
“My point exactly. They’re no good any longer. Take this iron skillet, for example.” Harper dug it out from the trash bag and held up a rusted iron skillet with a long wooden handle, distaste skittering across her features.
Mamaw, her face reflecting her horror, rushed to grab the skillet from Harper’s hands. “This was my mother’s skillet! Her mother gave it to her when she was married, and she gave it to me. I was saving it to give to one of you girls. It’s an heirloom!”
“Oh.” Harper looked slightly ashamed. “But, I mean, who’d use it? It’s all rusty.”
“It simply needs to be reseasoned with oil,” Mamaw said with a hint of scold. “Any good southern housewife appreciates the sentiment of an iron skillet that’s been passed down. Knows how to maintain it. I tell you, this skillet is perfectly good. I’ll show you how to season it. You should know.”
Harper looked at the rusty skillet with an expression of doubt, but didn’t want to fight Mamaw on it. “Thank you,” Harper had the manners to reply. “Okay, the skillet is a treasure. But these aluminum pots,” she continued, not to be deterred, “they’re hopelessly battered, and frankly, they’re not safe to use anymore.”
“Lucille cooked some very good meals in those pots.”