Summer's Kiss (The Boys of Ocean Beach 1)

“Long ago, I went to a few military balls in Charleston,” she confesses.

“You did?” Add another piece of information about my mother I didn’t know.

“Yes, you know all the boys in the family attended, whether they wanted to or not. It was tradition. Over the summer their classmates would come to visit. We’d hang out in Myrtle or sometimes Charleston. Sugar and I were popular dates for our cousins’ classmates.”

“Mrs. Barnes—” My mother cuts him off.

“Julia.”

“Julia,” Nick begins again. “How did you get interested in writing? Especially true crime?”

We’re barreling down Highway 29 surrounded by tobacco and corn fields. My mother has answered this question a million times but I’m shocked to see hesitation flicker across her face. It’s gone as fast as it came. “Henry Gaskins haunted these roads when I was your age. I’d long been curious about his motivations. When I started writing, he wasn’t a big enough name—not sensational enough for my publisher to be interested, so I went for higher-profile cases. Now I have the clout to write what I want and…well…here we are.”

“Did you always know you wanted to be a writer?” he asks. I turn in my seat. Nick has soulful brown eyes—a contrast to the size and scope of his body. “I just feel like I’m going to have to put my photography aside for a while. Focus on football and my military obligations.”

Mom catches his eye in the rearview mirror. “I thought I wanted to be a wife and mother. I focused on those things for a long time. But eventually it wasn’t enough.” She glances at me. “Not that being a mother wasn’t enough for me, but when being a wife didn’t work out I had to find a job. I had to work. I fell back into what interested me the most.” She smiles at Nick. “Hold on to your dreams. You never know when you’ll be ready to start them again.”

“Summer, what do you plan on studying in college?” Nick asks. My mother listens.

I have nothing to offer. Nothing to say. I’d been so caught up in my relationship with Mason I’d lost part of myself along the way. When I can’t answer, my mom reaches for my hand and

squeezes, letting me know it’s okay.

I stare out the window, at the farms and hot, baked land and wonder if that’s true.

Will it be okay?

* * *

An hour later, we’re sixty miles away from Ocean Beach. My mother took the green and white floral armchair and Nick and I sit together on the lumpy love seat of Donald Gaskins’ long-lost niece.

“Would you like something to drink? I have Pepsi,” Darlene asks. We’re past the formalities of the weather, how nice her home is, and how long our drive was. Darlene stands near the kitchen door, obviously nervous about our visit.

My mother says, “No, thank you. I’m glad you called me, Darlene. I know this is a difficult subject to talk about. I can only imagine the effect it had on your family. Devastating.”

Darlene nods and her hands move to the tiny cross at her neck. “I spoke to my sister. We both agreed that talking to you about Donald isn’t a bad thing. Keeping this story buried in our family has hurt us more than it ever helped us. In fact, I think the secrets our family kept only allowed him to continue to hurt people. It’s time to talk about it.”

“I’m glad you feel that way. Please understand, I meant what I said on the phone, I never want you to feel like I’m exploiting the situation.” My mother sounds sincere. From the look on her face, I think she is.

Darlene sits across from us in an arm chair identical to the one my mother is perched on. “I’m happy to answer your questions, although I’m really not sure what I can tell you. I mean, I knew about him but he was in jail a lot, and the rest of the time we didn’t see him. By the time he was executed, our family had washed our hands of him.”

“I’m just going to ask some basic questions, to kind of get a feel for what it was like to be related to him, how the family felt about the situation. I’m writing this book about Donald and his crimes, but your family should have a voice, too.”

Darlene continues to shift nervously in her seat but she seems willing to talk. “My mother spent her life in fear of her half-brother. Obviously, he was unstable, but he proved more than once he was willing to kill family members.”

“Right,” my mother says, nodding sympathetically. “He killed your cousin, Janice.”

“And her friend.”

I tune Darlene out at this point, unwilling to hear any further. How my mother did this day in and day out is beyond me. I survey the room for something—anything interesting--and spot a framed photograph on a desk. The photo has a retro feel; two girls in their bikinis, standing on a boardwalk. There’s a Ferris wheel in the background.

“That was taken at Myrtle Beach,” Darlene says, following my gaze. “Me and my best friend.”

“You guys are cute,” I say.

My mother stands up and looks at the photo. “The Pavilion. We used to have so much fun there. We probably crossed paths.”

“Maybe so,” Darlene replies. “Once my mother realized what happened with Janice, she tried to stop us from driving back and forth down there so much. We thought we were invincible though—what could hurt us? She knew better.”