All the Summers In Between, page 1
Praise for Brooke Lea Foster’s On Gin Lane
“Set on the tony East End of Long Island where the beautiful people play, On Gin Lane encapsulates the very best of historical fiction, delving into timeless questions about the traditional expectations of women versus the challenges and rewards of pursuing a creative career. An exciting, fast-paced, enchanting read.”
—Fiona Davis, New York Times bestselling author of The Magnolia Palace
“What a lovely summer novel! […] The exquisite care given to vintage detail in this novel was utterly captivating—I felt like I was eating tomato sandwiches, bumping into romantic rivals at the Maidstone Club, and dancing in the street in my espadrilles.”
—Elin Hilderbrand, #1 New York Times bestselling author of The Hotel Nantucket
“Brooke Lea Foster brilliantly captures a bygone era in this sparkling tale of self-discovery that has it all: mystery, romance, and life-changing friendship. On Gin Lane is the perfect summer escape.”
—Jamie Brenner, bestselling author of Blush
“On Gin Lane begins as a languid, sensual glimpse into the lives of women in the late 1950s until a shocking event—and the ensuing investigation—ratchets up the tension. The book is at once a page-turner that kept me reading into the night, and a reminder of the importance of carving out a place for ourselves, whether it is by creating art or finding where we belong.”
—Janet Skeslien Charles, New York Times bestselling author of The Paris Library
“If you’re looking to dive into historical fiction this summer, look no further than Brooke Lea Foster’s On Gin Lane.”
—Town & Country
“On Gin Lane first seduces with everything readers want in a sun-drenched tale: glamorous and colorful characters, evocative settings, and enough secrets to topple a town. But as our heroine battles a suspicious fire, fiancé, and social circle, author Foster slyly starts adding all the heady thrills of a modern-day Rebecca to the intoxicating mix. An un-put-downable, irresistible summer read.”
—Natalie Jenner, author of the international bestseller The Jane Austen Society and Bloomsbury Girls
“In this atmospheric new novel, Brooke Lea Foster explores the glittering and bohemian world of the Hamptons in the 1950s—and the dark underbelly that her protagonist never could have imagined. A page-turning mix of historical fiction and coming-of-age, readers will devour On Gin Lane, and its lessons of self-discovery and following one’s heart will remain long after the final page. An utterly enchanting tale.”
—Kristy Woodson Harvey, New York Times bestselling author of Under the Southern Sky
“The glitzy late ’50s Hamptons sparkles like a coupe of champagne in this tantalizing novel from the talented Brooke Lea Foster…. A delightfully complex tale of deceit, social maneuvering, and self-determination that will have you cheering for the gutsy main character as she fights for the right to control her own fate.”
—Kristin Harmel, New York Times bestselling author of The Forest of Vanishing Stars
“Brooke Lea Foster pivots from Martha’s Vineyard to the Hamptons for another perceptive beach drama. On Gin Lane expertly builds out the various characters, revealing the ugly truths hidden by their wealth and social status. This story of a young woman’s self-discovery captivates.”
—Publishers Weekly
“An engaging story that pairs a strong, female protagonist’s self-discovery with vivid descriptions of both setting and characters throughout.”
—Booklist
“Prepare to pack your beach bag this summer with the ultimate historical summer read from Brooke Lea Foster.”
—Women.com
“On Gin Lane takes readers to a beautiful location. We can smell the ocean, we are poolside for Bellinis and luncheons, and on the courts for daily tennis matches. But behind the aesthetically pleasing atmosphere, there are cracks and lies in the façade. […] What other lies, misleading untruths, and fraud are behind all the glamour? It’s a perfect summer read for the pool or beach.”
—Chick Lit Central
Praise for Brooke Lea Foster’s Summer Darlings
“I was immediately seduced by Summer Darlings. Foster cleverly conceals her characters’ deceits and betrayal beneath a stunning, sun-spangled surface, and Martha’s Vineyard is portrayed with glamorous period detail. This is one terrific summer read.”
—Elin Hilderbrand, #1 New York Times bestselling author of The Hotel Nantucket
“A perfect summer book, packed with posh people, glamour, mystery, and one clever, brave, young nanny. This book just might be the most fun you’ll have all summer.”
—Nancy Thayer, New York Times bestselling author of Surfside Sisters
“Engrossing… Foster’s musings on money and class, along with her believable depictions of over-the-top behavior, elevate this tale above typical summer fare.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Innocent intrigue segues into a love triangle—and goes out with a blackmail-backstabbing bang.”
—People
“Beautifully written and richly detailed—it pulled me in from the very first page. Heddy is an unforgettable heroine, and I’ll be recommending this book to everyone I know.”
—Sarah Pekkanen, #1 New York Times bestselling author of You Are Not Alone
“Foster has written a coming-of-age story that exposes the sparkling glamour and dark underbelly of the haves and have-nots in the 1960s. Summer Darlings is utterly atmospheric and compelling.”
—Julia Kelly, author of The Last Garden in England and The Light Over London
“I was swept away by Summer Darlings and its fiercely unforgettable heroine, Heddy Winsome. This perfect summer read blends it all: intrigue, romance, a gilded atmosphere, and gorgeous writing.”
—Entertainment Weekly
“A fresh new voice in historical fiction! Filled with 1960s nostalgia and a host of deftly drawn characters, this is a novel that gives us an intimate look at the world of privilege, proving once again that money does not buy happiness.”
—Renée Rosen, bestselling author of Park Avenue Summer
“The enchanting beaches, dazzling parties, and elusive social circles of Brooke Lea Foster’s 1962 Martha’s Vineyard carry secrets and twists that keep us breathless. A delicious read filled with an acute sense of place and unexpected discoveries about class, status, and ambition.”
—Marjan Kamali, bestselling author of The Stationery Shop
“Summer Darlings has all the ingredients of a delightfully fizzy beach cocktail: A spunky, working-class Wellesley student determined to make her mark, the deceptively ‘perfect’ wealthy couple that employs her, two alluring suitors, and a bombshell movie star with a heart of gold. If you like your summer escapism with a nostalgic splash of Mad Men–era glamour, you’ll love this surprisingly twisty debut.”
—Karen Dukess, author of The Last Book Party
“A delicious romp through mid-century Martha’s Vineyard replete with movie stars, sun-drenched beaches, and fancy outings to the club. Summer Darlings is about the human desire to strive toward something more, and the strength a woman will find within herself when she listens to her inner voice.”
—Susie Orman Schnall, author of We Came Here to Shine and The Subway Girls
“The romantic entanglements and the scandalous exploits of the rich and entitled makes this suitable for a quick beach read.”
—Booklist
“This luminous novel feels like the summer you first fell in love. This unputdownable novel sparkles with wit and insight, captures the Vineyard’s beauty, and, most of all, reveals Heddy with truth and tenderness.”
—Luanne Rice, New York Times bestselling author of Last Day
“A taut portrait of money and social status, and of a young woman navigating her place in the world. Foster offers a glittering glimpse into the private lives of New England’s elite families, while exposing the dark underbelly of privilege. I couldn’t stop turning the pages until I had reached the breathless, satisfying conclusion.”
—Meredith Jaeger, author of Boardwalk Summer and The Dressmaker’s Dowry
“A solid beach read.”
—Library Journal
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To John, my best friend
“Think about me every now and then, old friend.”
—John Lennon’s last words to Paul McCartney, just before Lennon’s death.
Chapter One
June 1977
Thea set the vegetable platter she’d prepared on the covered picnic table, the din of cocktail party conversation humming around her. Her friend Midge had just arrived, forty-five-minutes late and without an apology. Thea pretended not to notice. Instead, she asked her: “Midge, do you ever feel like your life is a watercolor painting blurring at the edges?”
It was mid-June in East Hampton, and Thea and her husband, Felix, had a lucky break in the weather for her thirtieth birthday party. All the guests mingled on the brick patio of their pretty yellow Victorian with its wide-open views of shimm
“Midge?”
Her friend had spun around to greet someone else while holding a tray of appetizers she’d brought. Thea pretended to be interested in the two women’s conversation about a rude housekeeper. It was probably better that Midge hadn’t heard Thea. She and Midge didn’t talk about the “malcontents,” as Thea had come to think of the thoughts that sometimes popped into her head lately; theirs was a friendship based on a shared love of racquetball, their kids, and the soaps. And how could Thea say something negative when all these nice people had come to celebrate her? She needed to smile. Even if she was having one of those moments when she felt like she was playing a part in someone else’s movie rather than the lead in her own.
Midge finished her conversation and turned to Thea.
“You told me deviled eggs were your favorite, but I sprinkled them with cumin rather than paprika,” Midge said, handing off the platter. She had straight auburn hair and freckled skin and was always dressed in some variation of a frilly top, big necklace, and Bermuda shorts, a cute look, thanks to her elfin nose and round pixie face. “Your mother used to make them for you, right?”
Had Thea talked to Midge about her mother? Perhaps one night after a few drinks.
“Yes, she did. Thank you!” Thea, standing there in her denim bell-bottoms and floral blouse, tucked her long, wavy blond hair behind her ear and reached for one of the eggs. The taste of the cumin transported Thea to an image of the Beatles emerging out of an Indian ashram back in 1968. Thea had so badly wanted to travel back then. She’d spent one year at junior college upstate, but she’d never gone anywhere other than New York.
“Oh, Midge. You’re such a good friend.” Thea smiled, hugging Midge just as someone turned up the record player: “Hooked on a Feeling” by B. J. Thomas. She and Midge had gone to high school together but hadn’t become friends until they were both chasing after their toddlers at the playground in Sag Harbor.
Midge’s husband, the financier George Bells, hadn’t been spending weekends at the beach as much lately, and when Thea asked her about it last week, Midge had snapped at her. Thea didn’t dare ask her where George was tonight. Midge nodded at the spread of food Thea had put out. “You should experiment with new recipes like I do. Obviously, these dishes look wonderful, but during the week…”
“I should,” Thea said. Midge was always lecturing her to try new things, like the pu pu platter at the new Chinese place in Southampton. But they both knew that she wouldn’t. Thea loved the long-held traditions of summer. Like everyone else who called these shores home, she held on fiercely to memories of July corn slathered in butter, lobster bakes in August, walks down the tidy streets of charming old towns, and annual events like July Fourth parades. Everyone here, except maybe Midge, wanted every single summer to feel as special (and as similar) as the last one. These would be a glowy three months filled with crisp white wine at sunset, sandy sandwiches, oceanfront barbecues, and juicy berries picked ripe from the vine. The promise of an East Hampton summer was why Thea endured the icy winds of January, the muddy tracks of April.
Thea’s husband, Felix, walked over to them. He was already tanned, thanks to his love of gardening, even though there had been only a handful of warm days in May. Felix had the tortoiseshell glasses and austere confidence of an intellectual, but a down-to-earth nature that made everyone want to befriend him. Thea thought he was the perfect mix of hard and soft: he had inherited the expansive mind of his artist mother, and the hearty masculinity of his Norwegian immigrant father. Leaning down, he popped a kiss on Thea’s smooth cheek. “Can you believe she’s thirty?”
“And I’ve got the puckering thighs to prove it,” Thea laughed, self-conscious that she’d put on a few pounds recently. She’d started jogging and promised herself she’d cut back on the ice cream, even if it was summer.
Felix playfully squeezed a fleshy part of her hip; he was still handsome, with that slender frame, those long, boyish eyelashes. “You look like you did when I first met you.”
Thea wasn’t sure how she felt about turning thirty. Some days she felt like her youth was slipping away from her. If her twenties had been defined by becoming a mother, what would her thirties be? She’d always wanted to go back to school and earn her degree, but it was too late for anything like that now. Imagine the embarrassment wandering around campus with kids the age of her babysitter?
“Your birthday is next,” Midge said to Felix. His milestone was at the end of the summer.
“Shall we have another party for you, honey?” Thea sipped her chardonnay, squeezing his hand. “Maybe a vacation somewhere?” Maybe that is what she had actually wanted, she thought. A hotel room and a bubble bath. A nice dinner out.
Felix scratched the part of his temple where his hair still curled even though it was cut short. “My perfect thirty would be Thea and Penny gifting me time to start that novel I have bouncing around. Thea would have a steak waiting for me and one of those ice cream cakes from Carvel, and Penny would beg to eat ice cream for dinner, and I’d say ‘Yes!’ ”
It was sweet, but they both knew what he really wanted for his birthday was a second baby.
“A weekend I can give you,” Thea laughed, popping another deviled egg, dabbing her lips with a napkin. Since she’d met Felix ten years ago, she’d supported him emotionally and financially through graduate school, then through his rise as an editor at a local publishing house. Some days he’d get home, loosen his tie, and put on a record by the Rolling Stones, while complaining that he could write a better book than some of the novelists trying to sell their work. Someday I’m going to do it, he’d say, and Thea would encourage him, while wondering if it would ever be her turn to go after something she wanted.
Besides another baby, of course.
The phone was ringing, and Felix excused himself to answer it, letting the screen door slam behind him. In that moment, Thea noticed a sailboat gliding into the harbor. It wasn’t uncommon for exploring sailors to push into the small, shimmering inlet of Gardiners Bay that faced Thea and Felix’s house, but few ever stopped to moor for more than a few hours for swimming. She wondered what the boat was doing in the harbor at this hour, the white sails flapping in the breeze.
It was getting late, and she needed to serve dinner. Teetering in her wedge heels, Thea went into the kitchen to get the lasagna. From upstairs, she could hear Felix in a discussion with an author. All day she’d busied herself with her to-do list for the party, trying not to think about those that wouldn’t be there to celebrate. Her mother, whose grave she’d visited yesterday. Her sister, Cara, who couldn’t afford the ticket from California. Her old summer friend, Margot, who she still missed, even after all that had transpired between them. All three had known Thea when she was nineteen or twenty; it saddened her that only her sister would know her at thirty.
Thea removed the foil off the salad, pretty rows of cucumbers and tomatoes arranged in concentric circles, and while admiring her handiwork, she smelled smoke. “No! No! No!” Thea yelled, rushing about to get a hand towel to fan the gray plumes coming from the oven. Using an oven mitt, she pulled out the lasagna, the noodles charred.
“Dammit!” she said. She opened the window higher and called through to Midge. “Can you help me a second?”
Midge’s cheeks were flushed with punch when she came inside. Quickly assessing the scene, Midge said: “No one really cares about sitting down to dinner anyway.”
Thea pressed her hand against her face, trying to pretend she didn’t have a burnt lasagna with twenty-five hungry people outside. Had her tears smudged her mascara? She probably had black circles around her eyes like the guy in The Rocky Horror Picture Show. “Midge, I told everyone there would be food.”
“It’s fine. Come outside and have fun,” Midge said, pushing open the squeaky screen door and stepping out. Dismissed. That’s how it was with Midge.
When Felix had asked her a month before what she’d wanted for her birthday, Thea had said a big party. She hadn’t had one since she was eighteen, when her mother brought her and a few friends roller skating up island, and thirty seemed like a year worth marking. But what Thea hadn’t considered was that having a party meant she would do all the work. Thea wished that Felix had reached out to Midge early on, that Midge had taken over the details. It was something Thea would have done for her friend. She would have insisted that Midge relax on the night of her birthday. She would have hosted the party at her house. Felix hadn’t done anything other than buy beer and toss it in ice in a cooler.
