Summer After Summer, page 6
When I wake up, Colin Junior and Teddy are jumping on the couch. Jumping on me.
“Mommy and Daddy are home!” Colin Junior says.
“And we’re not in bed!” Teddy adds, wagging his finger at me like his grandmother.
I sit up, feeling panicked. I’m the worst aunt in the world. Anything could’ve happened to the kids while I was sleeping. But instead, they’re fine, good enough to mock me for dereliction of duty.
“Okay, let’s scatter. Come on!”
They giggle and I grab each of them by one hand, rushing them out of the living room and down a long hall to their wing of the house. They share a bedroom, done up in nautical blue and white, and they whip off their clothes and jump into their pajamas, leaving me to pick up after them. I shove their clothes into the hamper as they clamber into bed. I can hear the front door opening, the laughter of more than just Sophie and William. Guests. Great.
“We didn’t brush our teeth,” Teddy says. At six, he’s the responsible one, if a pack of wolves can have a responsible one.
“You’re right. Bathroom, quick.”
They jump up and make fast work of their teeth, then I shoo them back into bed and tuck each of them in quickly.
“You’re going to be in trou … ble,” Colin Junior says.
“Not if we don’t tell.”
“Secrets are bad. Mommy said.”
“Not this kind of secret. Don’t worry.”
Colin Junior nods, but Teddy doesn’t look so sure. “I’ll think about it,” he says, then pulls his duvet up to his chin.
“Okay, Teddy.” I kiss each of them on the forehead. “I love you.”
“Love you!” they say back, and my throat is tight. I do love these little monsters, and I should spend more time with them.
I close the door to their bedroom and stop. There are at least three voices in the living room. Sophie and Colin and, I assume, Lucy.
“Olivia?” Sophie says, her voice trailing down the hall. “Where are you?”
“I’m here,” I say stepping out of the shadow near the boys’ door. “Just checking on them.”
Sophie’s cheeks are pink from drinking. “How were they?”
“If I say angels, you’ll know I’m lying.”
“Were they very terrible?”
I hug her impulsively, maybe to distract her. “They were fine. Almost like they weren’t even here.”
“Oh, good.”
“How was the party?”
“It was fun. Everyone was there. And everyone wanted to know where you were.”
“Did they?”
“Ash did for sure.”
I’d forgotten she was going. “Ah.”
“You two ever make up after your fight?”
“Nope.”
“That’s too bad. You were always so close. I was jealous, honestly.”
“I remember you always wanted to play with us.”
“And you never let me.”
“Sorry about that.”
“Bygones, right?” Sophie tugs at my arm. “Come into the living room for a drink, and we’ll tell you all about it.”
“Just for a minute. I need to get home.” She turns and I follow her, realizing that I didn’t ask her who’s here.
But I should’ve known, because life doesn’t let you escape your fate by playing a trick on it like skipping a garden party.
Nope.
Because when I walk into the living room, Fred is standing by the window next to Lucy.
My eyes move slowly toward his as my heart slams in my chest. When our eyes meet, he starts in surprise, like I’m not who he was expecting, then buries it quickly.
“Olivia,” Sophie says. “You remember Fred Webb?”
He arches an eyebrow at me, part greeting and part challenge, and it’s all I can do to keep my voice calm as I say, “I do.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
July 2003
When I tell my father I’m bringing a date to the lobster dinner, he pauses and shakes the ice in his glass. Then he starts asking questions. He wants to know who the boy is, and when I tell him it’s the Webb’s nephew, he gets quiet, then shakes his head like he’s saying no, only he doesn’t say the word. I remind him that it’s my birthday, and he shakes his head again because maybe he didn’t remember, but it’s not the Fourth yet, so I can’t get mad at him.
Aunt Tracy arrives with a drink, and I follow her back to the kitchen and cry on her shoulder. She tells me that she’ll make sure there’s an extra ticket and not to worry about it—she’ll deal with my father.
I wipe my tears away and go to bed, and in the morning I’m sixteen.
It doesn’t feel any different. At breakfast, Aunt Tracy’s made my favorite waffles, and Charlotte and Sophie each give me a card that I’m sure she bought for them. Charlotte says she’ll take me to the DMV to get my learner’s permit and give me a lesson or two, and Sophie says she’s glad I’m bringing a date to dinner because Colin is going too, and it’s so cute, we can double.
Then I’m late to practice, and my coach, Matt, is mad at me and makes me hit an extra basket of cross-court winners until I hit every cone he’s placed on the court three times. I don’t tell him it’s my birthday; I just blink back my tears and hope he doesn’t notice because “there’s no crying in tennis.” And then, after training, he surprises me with Ash and a special birthday lunch in the club dining room. Ash gives me this beautiful tennis bracelet, with small diamonds set in silver, and tells me she’ll help me do my hair tonight, and then I cry for real, apologizing to them for being such a baby.
No one mentions my mother.
She had plans for each of us on our sixteenth birthday. It was something she liked to talk about often, how we’d get a special day with her. We’d crawl into her bed, crowding around her while she asked each of us what we wanted to do. It changed every year, except for me. I wanted to go to New York City and watch the US Open in the best seats possible, and it didn’t matter that the Open was at the end of the summer—it was my birthday dream. She used to laugh and kiss the top of my head and say she’d get to work on changing the date, but just in case would I mind deferring the celebration?
Then she died on a cold and rainy January day, and birthdays became afterthoughts. If it weren’t for Aunt Tracy, they wouldn’t get celebrated at all.
After lunch with Ash and Matt, I skip the beach because I don’t want to jinx it. I just hope Fred shows up when he said he would.
When I get home, there’s a box on my bed with a note from my father that says: Your mother wanted you to have this.
I sit down slowly, my hands shaking as I open it. Inside is another envelope, this time with my mother’s handwriting on it. She must’ve written it over a year ago, when she knew she was dying.
I use my thumb to peel it open and pull out the card inside. It’s embossed with a lily, the flower my mom always said meant July. I hold it to my nose. It smells faintly of her perfume, a light flowery scent that always made me feel safe and loved.
Oh, Mom. I miss you so much. It still hurts every day.
She doesn’t answer me—she never does—so I open the note. Two pieces of cardboard fall out, but my eyes are drawn to her words.
I couldn’t get them to change the date. I hope it’s everything you ever wanted anyway. I love you. Mom
I pick up the paper that fell out. It’s a pair of tickets for the US Open, center court for the whole second week. And this must be because of William. I don’t know how he managed it or what he sold to afford it, but when I go to find him to thank him, tears of joy still on my cheeks, I notice that the small sketch of ballet dancers he had on his desk, which was my mother’s favorite thing, is missing.
So I fly into his arms, and I tell him, “Thank you, thank you!” and he pats me on the hand, and his eyes are misty, and he’s “so proud of the young woman I’ve become,” he says. “I know your mother thinks so too.”
I crawl into his lap the way I haven’t done since I was very small, and we sit there like that until our tears dry up.
* * *
Now it’s five thirty. Ash is here, finishing my hair, which is long and shiny, streaked with blond and strawberry highlights from the sun. I’m wearing a knee-length white tunic dress covered in light pink flowers and a pair of cream wedges because the party is on the sand, and I never learned to walk in heels anyway.
“He’s going to die,” Ash says, putting my tennis bracelet on my right wrist.
“I might die.”
“Don’t be silly. It’s just a date.”
“Plus a kiss,” I say. “What if he doesn’t want to kiss me?”
“Please.” Ash grabs my cheeks between her hands. “You’re so cute I want to kiss you.”
I rest my forehead against hers. “I wish you were coming tonight.”
“No, you don’t. Besides, I’ll meet you on the beach after.”
There’s a rap on my door. It’s Aunt Tracy. “A young man is here for you.”
My eyes fly to Ash’s—he’s early.
“See how excited he is?” she says. “He couldn’t wait.”
I hug her, then rush to the stairs. I stop at the top of them, not wanting to fall. I walk down slowly, turning on the landing and there he is, looking up at me, that wide smile getting wider by the minute. He’s wearing a powder-blue linen shirt with a white linen blazer and dark blue chinos, and he looks so amazing I can’t help but blurt it out. “You look great.”
I reach the bottom step, and he takes my hand. “That’s what I’m supposed to say.”
“Don’t feel like you have to.”
“Olivia, come on. You’re beautiful.”
“Thank you.”
“I got you this.” He picks up a clear box from the table by the door. There’s a pink rose corsage inside. “Too much?”
“No, it’s perfect.”
He takes it out and reaches toward my breast to pin it on. I suck in my breath.
“Wait,” Aunt Tracy says. “Stop.” She’s holding a camera. “I must get a picture.”
“Oh god,” I say to Fred. “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t worry, my mom is the same way.”
“This is Aunt Tracy,” I say. “Next best thing to a parent.”
“Olivia, don’t make me cry.”
“Take the shot.”
Fred pins the corsage on while Aunt Tracy clicks away. Then Colin arrives for Sophie, and we go through the same thing all over again, all of us lining up together.
“Again, so sorry about this.”
“No worries.” He leans his head toward me. He smells like soap and the beach, and I want to bury my face in his neck. He lowers his voice. “Just promise me one thing.”
“What?”
“You’ll write my name on the back when she gets it developed, so when you look at it a million years from now, you’ll remember who I am.”
“I’m always going to remember this,” I say, and he reaches for my hand, curling our fingers together and pressing tight.
But I don’t remember much after that. How we got out of the house or the walk to the club. I just remember the feel of his hand holding mine, soft on the inside, calloused on the edges. It feels strong and sure, and why haven’t we been doing this the whole time, exactly?
We walk around to the back porch, the one facing the beach. There are about a hundred people here already, mostly adults, but some kids in colorful dresses and short pants are running around, weaving in between them. There’s music playing—some big band number I’m sure my dad would approve of—and the air is full of the other guests’ chatter. He and Aunt Tracy are sitting at a different table with some of their friends.
We consult the seating chart, my hand in Fred’s, his index finger making a slow circle against my palm that feels so good it’s distracting. We’re sitting with a family I didn’t know very well, but I’m happy about that. Happy to stay in our little cocoon, even if that includes Colin and Sophie.
We weave through the crowd, still hand in hand. Twelve tables are set out on the beach, with lights strung above them on poles. When it gets dark, they’ll light up the night. But for now, the sun is still out, the sky starting to pink.
We take our seats, and Colin goes to get us drinks from the bar. I kick off my shoes, letting my feet sink into the soft sand. The place setting is for lobster—a cracker, a small fork, wet wipes, and napkins; and as promised, there’s a white plastic bib folded on top of my plate.
Fred finally lets go of my hand, then picks his bib up and ties it around his neck. “What do you think?” It’s made of cheap plastic and has a bright red lobster on the front.
“It suits you.” I pick mine up, but he takes it from me.
“Let me.”
I turn my back to him, and he knots the plastic ties around my neck, letting his fingers trail along the bones in my neck. I shiver, though it’s not cold, and he leans forward, his breath tickling my skin. “Happy birthday, by the way.”
“Thank you.” My voice is high and squeaky, and I’m happy to see Colin coming back with four champagne glasses on a tray.
“How did you get those?” Sophie asks, giggling.
“I think they thought I was part of the waitstaff.”
“Oh god,” I say, “I’m so sorry.”
“I’m not.” He passes out the glasses.
I’ve had champagne before—my father’s not that particular about the drinking age. But even he’ll be upset if Sophie turns up drunk later tonight.
“One glass,” I say to her. “I mean it.”
“Okay, Mom.”
“Not funny.”
“Sorry.” She raises her glass, and we all clink as they toast me happy birthday. Fred makes a face when he tastes his.
“Not good?”
He puts it down. “Not my thing.”
“And all this?” I motion to the Buffys and Biffs, decked out in pastel, scarfing down champagne while their lobster bibs flutter at their necks.
“I’m very happy to be here.”
“Me too. I mean, I’m happy you’re here.”
“Good.” He pushes his glass toward me. “Some extra for the birthday girl.”
“I bet they’d give you a beer.”
“It’s fine.” He takes my hand under the table, those slow circles again. I curl my toes in the sand. “So, how does this work?”
“I don’t know. This is my first date.”
Fred laughs. “I meant the dinner. Is it buffet or …?” He runs his finger along my inner arm. His touch feels electric. “But I’m honored.”
“I’m screwing this up.”
“Not at all.”
“They bring the lobsters out. There will be corn too.”
“Great.”
“God, look at her,” Sophie says, pointing across the sand to Charlotte. She’s sitting at a table with a man I don’t know, her hand on his shoulder, leaning toward him intimately.
“Who is that?” I ask.
“Wes Taylor.”
“What?” Colin says, laughing. “Your sister’s dating your cousin?”
“Maybe?” Sophie says uncertainly.
“Gross,” I say. “And no. It’s a common last name.”
“Maybe he’s a third cousin once removed?”
“I haven’t checked the family tree, but I don’t think so.” I turn to Sophie. “What do you know?”
“I listened to her on the phone the other day. I think she met him in New York over spring break.”
“I’m not sure I could date someone who has the same last name as me,” Fred says. “Too weird.”
“Agreed.” I tip my glass to him, and he raises the water glass in front of him. I take a sip of the bubbles. They tickle my mouth and make me feel bold. “If I were your cousin, would you still be into me?”
“You think I’m into you?”
“Um …”
He grins. “I’m into you.”
“Phew.”
“The answer on the cousin front is … can I plead the fifth or something?”
“You can. But what are you doing Labor Day weekend?”
“Why?”
I tell him about the tickets.
“That sounds amazing.”
“It will be. Roddick is kind of killing it this year, but I’m hoping Andre gets one more title. I’m worried Serena and Venus will be out because of injuries, so maybe it’s Clijsters’s year—I don’t know.”
Fred is amused. “You’re cute.”
“I did warn you I was a tennis geek.”
“It’s fine. Those just are a lot of names I don’t know.”
“Which do you know?”
“Sampras?”
“Ooh,” Sophie says. “She hates Sampras.”
“Why?”
“Because of Agassi. Come on.”
Fred’s forehead creases. “I don’t follow.”
I pat him on the arm. “You have two months to become knowledgeable in the ways of tennis.”
“So you’re inviting me to the game?”
“Well, yeah.”
“I accept.”
“Good.”
A chorus of oohs dominos across the sand. The waiters have come out with trays full of lobster and corn. In a few minutes we get served giant lobsters that are two pounds each.
“Whoa,” Fred says, playing with a claw. “These are enormous.”
“Do you need help or …?”
“No.” He starts to expertly pull the small legs off, then dissects the body like a surgeon. He catches me watching him. “We summered in Cape Cod every year till my father died.”
“I love Cape Cod.”
“You were thinking I didn’t know how to lobster.”
“I’m an idiot.”
He grins. “You going to eat that, or what?”
I return the smile, then dig in. The meat is sweet, like summer and the ocean combined. The corn is sweet too, out of season but somehow still good. I feel so lucky and happy as we crack claws, drag them through butter, and toss the discards into the large bowls in the middle of the table. When we’re done, the waiters clear the plates and bring us more wet wipes to clean up the mess.
