by Sarah Dessen
“What’s a door party?”
“Like bar golf, but with rooms, basically,” he replied. “Different drinks in each room. There’s a scorecard. Hit them all, get a prize.”
“What’s the prize?”
“Being wasted,” Blake said, finally joining in the conversation. “And bragging rights.”
“Yeah, I can’t see that happening,” I said as a man in madras shorts and a pink shirt passed by, talking into his phone in an irritated voice. “Drinking and parties is what got me grounded in the first place. I kind of have to lay low.”
“Oh, right,” Colin said. “Well, there’s also this great band at the Pavilion midday. Spinnerbait. Should be fun. You heard of them?”
I shook my head. “Nope. My stepmother mentioned it, though.”
“They play all the time at East U. You’ll like them.” He said this so confidently, like he knew me well, that I decided right then that I wouldn’t. “You know if Bailey’s coming?”
I just looked at him. So that explained the friendliness. “No.”
“Well, if she does, you guys should come by the docks,” he said. “Say hello.”
“Better hop,” Blake said to Colin, nodding at a motorboat that was approaching the docks. “We were supposed to be on two minutes ago.”
“Right,” he replied. To me he said, “Good seeing you, Saylor.”
“You, too.”
Blake didn’t say anything as they headed down the walkway, now at a faster clip, to meet the boat that had just arrived. Jerks, I thought, just as my phone rang. It was the toll-free number I’d come to recognize, and I smiled before I even answered it.
“Good morning, ma’am! My name is Chris and I’m calling to talk about your home’s defense against the coming storm season. Do you have a moment?”
“I do,” I said, settling into a beach chair I’d picked and stretching out my legs. “Go right ahead.”
“Perfect! Well, I’ll begin by telling you a little bit about . . . okay, sorry about that. We’re only open for a half day today for the holiday, but Juan still thinks someone sitting home feeling patriotic might bite.”
“Could happen,” I said, pulling some sunblock out of my bag. “So only half a day, huh? Are you off too, or just going to another job?”
“Driving the Yum truck around all the beaches until five,” he said. “Then I promised Silas I’d come by the Station for backup in case he needs it before the fireworks start. But then, I am free and clear.”
“Which will be when? Like, ten or so?”
“Probably,” he said, and I laughed. “But still, it’s something. Which is good because everyone knows the Fourth is my favorite holiday.”
“Just like your dad, huh?”
“You remembered,” he said. I remember everything, I wanted to say. “Yeah. My mom always talked about how much he loved the fireworks. The Fourth was one of the times we always remembered him, with the whole sparkler thing.”
“What sparkler thing?”
“You haven’t heard about that?” he asked. Then, before I could reply, he said, “Well, I guess you wouldn’t have. It’s kind of a lake thing.”
So many lake things. Even if I’d had a whole summer, I was pretty sure I wouldn’t learn them all.
“When my dad died, my grandparents planned the whole funeral,” Roo explained as I hoped against hope Juan was gone on a long errand this time. I wanted to hear this. “Church service, very formal and sad. But my mom felt like it didn’t capture him as he really was, you know. So that evening, she had a service of her own.”
“With sparklers?”
“Hundreds of them,” he said. “She, Silas, Celeste, and Waverly bought every box they could find in the entire county. When people arrived, they got a handful and some matches. Then, after everyone said what they wanted to, they lit them all at the same time.”
“Wow.”
“I know.” He was quiet a second: I could hear buzzing on the phone line between us. “The thing about sparklers? They’re cool but quick. You light them, they go like crazy, and then it’s all over. So it always seemed fitting to me, you know, that they did that for my dad. A big life lived, gone too soon. That sort of thing.”
I was quiet for a moment. Then I said, “Like my mom, too.”
“Well . . . yeah,” he said. “After she passed, they did it again. Same beach, same crowd. And every Fourth since, that I can remember anyway.”
“Sparklers.”
“Yep. All year we buy them up wherever we see them. It’s one of our few family traditions.”
Out by the pool, the sun was growing stronger, people arriving to the chairs around me with their beach bags and floats. “I was already sad I was missing the fireworks with you guys,” I said quietly. “Now I’d give anything to be there.”
“You will be, in spirit,” he said. “And if you’re watching from the Tides, you’ll probably see it. Hard to miss, especially if you know when to look.”
“Which is . . .”
“At the very end, when the last big blasts are over,” he finished for me.
I pulled my legs up to my chest. “I’ll be watching,” I told him. “And Roo?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks.”
“For what?” he asked.
“For the stories. And the album. And just calling.”
“Don’t thank me, it’s mutual,” he said. “I’d go nuts if this was seriously about windows all day long.”
I smiled. “I will listen anytime.”
“I appreciate that,” he said. We were both quiet a second. “So, look. When you’re free to come and go as you please—”
“If,” I corrected him.
“When,” he repeated, “do you think you might want to . . . well, I’m glad you asked! Once we run the credit check, we’ll go ahead and set you up for a visit by one of our knowledgeable, bonded technicians. They’ll take measurements, then discuss the best options for protection of your home, at which point . . .”
He kept talking, but I couldn’t think about windows. I couldn’t think about anything but those words he had been saying, leading to what I thought was a question, now unasked. Would I what? Want to buy storm protection? Light sparklers together? Or something else?
Just then, there was a burst of feedback from the Pavilion and Tracy appeared, now in her own swimsuit, to take the beach chair next to me. In between covering my ears and greeting her, I lost Roo. Sadly, with this job he could only call out. I’d have to wait. And I knew I would.
It was around six, as I walked across the lobby with Tracy and Dad, headed to the cookout on the beach, when the concierge called out to us. “Mr. Payne?”
My dad stopped, looking over at the desk. “Yes?”
“Something was left for you earlier,” he said, reaching under the counter to pull out a small brown bag. “Or, for Saylor?”
“Emma?” he said.
The concierge looked at the bag, then back at us. “Perhaps I misunderstood? This says Saylor Payne, but . . .”
“That’s me,” I told him, stepping forward.
He handed me the bag. “Have a wonderful evening.”
I thanked him, taking it, then carefully opened the flap. Inside was a box of sparklers and a pack of matches. I smiled.
“What is it?” Tracy asked. My dad, suspicious, was watching me, too.
“Nothing,” I told them, dropping it into my purse. “Let’s go.”
We did, out to our reserved spot on the sand, where three chairs, an ice bucket with beverages, and a full view of the lake awaited us. As we sat and ate, I tried to focus on my dad, happily devouring a burger and fries from the plate on his lap, and Tracy, who was telling a series of honeymoon sailing stories.
Finally, after the ice cream sandwiches were served and the anthem played, the fireworks began. Set off from a Tides boat anchored near the raft, they were gorgeous and loud, with color exploding across the dark sky and reflecting in the water. All around me, people
oohed and aahed, waiting for the next big burst. After the extended, no-holds-barred finale, everyone applauded.
But as my dad gathered up our trash, and people began dragging their tired, sugar-filled kids back to the hotel, I walked the other way, down the shoreline until I could see, distantly, Mimi’s dock and beach.
“Emma? You coming?” my dad called out.
“I’ll be there in a sec,” I replied, then pulled out my box and the matches, getting a sparkler ready. I was worried the wind would blow out the flame, or it wouldn’t catch at all. But as I saw the lights appear on that beach, shimmering and sudden, I dipped the tip of my own offering into the flame and watched it spark for all those big lives lived, gone too soon, and all the unanswered questions. I let it burn all the way down.
Twenty-Three
Finally, it was the day of the Club dinner. I was nervous and excited, but all anyone could talk about was the tropical storm that was supposed to hit the coast that evening before heading our way. While what it would do then was anyone’s guess, everyone had an opinion.
There was the Bly County News, which ran pictures of destruction and damage from other storms, including Richard, which had taken out Mimi’s dock two years earlier. The TV anchors had gone from occasionally breaking into programming to taking over the air entirely with footage and discussion of preparations, even though nothing had even happened yet. At the Tides, though, no one seemed concerned.
“There’s absolutely no need to worry,” I overhead the concierge saying to a woman in a brightly colored caftan and a straw hat that morning. “The Tides was built with more storm protection than any other structure on the lake. You could not be in a safer place.”
This was the party line, clearly, as I heard it repeated multiple times before breakfast, including from my dad, who had talked to the hotel’s general manager on his way back from his daily swim.
“Some tracking models have it not even coming this way,” he assured us. “The dinner should go on as scheduled, no problem.”
“Well, that’s good,” Nana replied, turning a page of her Times. “With all the planning for the menu and coordinating schedules, I’d hate for the weather to force us to cancel.”
“You won’t be able to keep Bailey away even if the Club is the only thing left standing,” I told her. “She won’t miss those forks for anything.”
“Good,” she replied, sipping her coffee. “Because I had them put oysters on our menu just for her.”
This I couldn’t wait to share. Did Bailey even like oysters? Did it really matter?
“Speaking of the dinner,” Nana continued as I perused the day’s obits, which consisted of one passing (Marlene Ficus, 55, after a brave fight against ovarian cancer) as well as an In Memoriam (John Davers, gone now five years, and missed greatly since he’s been up in heaven), “I’m confirming the numbers this morning at nine. Did you hear from your friend?”
That would be Roo, who she’d told me to invite after asking who I’d been chatting with on the phone so regularly. Nana had never been one to miss much, but I was really glad this time she’d been paying attention.
“He says he’ll be there,” I said.
“Who’s this?” my dad, chewing, asked.
I paused, hesitant. “Roo Price.”
“Wait, he’s coming to the dinner? After what happened at the party?”
“That was not his fault, remember?” I said.
“I thought this was a dinner for Mimi and her family.”
“To thank them for all they’ve done for Emma this summer, yes,” Nana said. “It sounded like this boy was part of that, so I said to include him. Is that a problem?”
Instead of answering her, my dad looked at me as if I was up to something. Which was so not fair, because I had followed his rules completely, not leaving the Tides except for short nearby outings, usually with him or Tracy. In fact, the only contact I’d had with the other side of the lake, other than my calls with Roo, hadn’t even really been contact at all.
It had been a couple of days earlier when, after a particularly slow shift at Defender, Roo and I finally made our way through the entire photo album. Even though we’d been through so many pictures and stories from the first page to the last, I’d gotten used to there being another one to turn, one more reason for us to keep talking. I wanted it to keep going, like that big album in the sky we’d discussed. The final picture was him at the Station by the pumps, grinning, in a Blackwood T-shirt. The end.
“And now you’re all caught up,” he said as I sat there with the album on the bed in front of me. Outside, I could hear kids in the pool, playing Marco Polo. “You know as much as I do.”
Which did not explain why I felt such a loss. I swallowed, then said, “I need to return it to you. Although I’m not sure how to get it over there.”
“Don’t even think about it,” he said. “The last thing I need is you in trouble again because of me. Just bring it to the dinner.”
The album meant so much to me, though: I could only imagine he felt the same way, even if he knew it by heart. Also, I didn’t want to have to explain it to my dad or anyone else. “How about this. I’ll leave it at the desk, like you did with the sparklers.”
“Saylor. You really don’t have to do that.”
“I want to,” I said. “I’ll take it down right now. And then when you pick it up—”
“I will grab it and run before I bump into your dad,” he finished for me.
“I was going to say I’d meet you in the lobby.”
“No way.” He was firm. “I’ll see you at the dinner, when it’s authorized. Until then, it’s just the—Yes, ma’am, we do offer a ten-year guarantee on any work we do as well as all windows!”
And that was that. Now that the storm was building, suddenly people were very interested in home window protection. The phones were ringing so constantly that Roo was kept on even after Kenyatta returned from Barbados. He’d been so busy, in fact, that we’d barely talked other than him letting me know he got the album and confirming the dinner that night. But all that mattered was that I would finally see him.
“Well, it should be a nice evening,” my dad said now as I got up, folding my paper. “Six, right?”
“That’s right,” Nana said. “We’ll have a lovely time.”
I hoped she was right. I had so much riding on this dinner, if only as a way to bring these two sides of the family, and the lake, together. Would drinks, appetizers, a salad, entrees, then dessert and coffee be enough to start to mend the tear of my mom’s problems, the divorce, and the past? Maybe with oysters, and special forks, the answer was yes.
“I don’t know,” Bailey said about an hour later, as I put on my bathing suit to go down to the pool with Tracy. “I have a bad feeling.”
“What?” Everyone on my end had been so positive, I was surprised. “Why?”
“This storm is a lot like Richard,” she replied. “Same path in the Atlantic, same general size, same place it’s supposed to come in. And it almost leveled us.”
“But here at the Tides, they’re saying it’s nothing.”
“They don’t know anything!” She sighed. “That place was still under construction two years ago, and most of the people there aren’t from the lake anyway. I’ve been watching my dad, and he’s worried. So I’m really worried.”
I got chill bumps suddenly, springing up along my arms. “Really?”
“Yep.” She was quiet for a moment. “Listen to me, okay? Don’t wait for them to tell you guys to take cover. Do it when the sky starts to darken. Get low and inside and away from doorways and windows.”
I looked outside again. It was sunny and bright, with a breeze that was ruffling the awnings of the restaurant downstairs. Motorboats dotted the water.
“If it comes, I’ll be careful,” I told Bailey. “Although it’s gorgeous now, so I’m pretty sure I’ll be seeing you and everyone else at six.”
“Hopefully,” she replied, sounding anything
but. “But for now, I’ve got to go help put plywood over the windows and drag in all the outside furniture.”
Now I sighed. “I wish I could help.”
“Don’t. Wish for the storm to miss us. And then wish it again.”
She sounded so serious. “Okay. I will. See you later?”
“Yeah.” A pause. “Be careful, Saylor.”
After hanging up, I sat there a second, then turned on the small TV in my room, flipping from an infomercial for a slow cooker to the local news. A guy in a windbreaker was reporting from Colby, a beach town about two hours to the southeast, where it was also still sunny, although the waves were starting to build behind him in the live shot. When a bullet list of Smart Storm Prep appeared, I turned it off.
As Tracy and I headed to the pool, there was little to no sign of any weather concerns other than a pile of sandbags that had appeared on the back patio. When I eyed them, a girl behind the outdoor bar in a Tides Golf shirt was quick to reassure us.
“Standard operating procedure,” she said. “The Tides is more prepared for this storm than any other place on the lake, if it even comes. For now, can I get you a cool beverage?”
I declined, taking my bag to two chairs over by the far corner of the pool. When Tracy joined me a moment later, she had a tall pink drink in a frosted glass, a little yellow umbrella poking out of it. “To the storm,” she said, holding it up. I did the same with my bottled water. “Let it stay far away.”
“Amen,” I said. We clinked, then drank.
About an hour later, my phone rang, the Defender Windows’ familiar toll-free number popping up on the screen. I answered, readying myself for whatever pitch I would get this time. But when Roo spoke, it wasn’t to some fake customer about credit checks. Just me.
“Saylor?”
“Hi,” I said. “How’s work? Still really busy with the—”
“Are they prepping over there? Do you have a place to go when the storm comes?”
I looked around again at the pool: a group of kids in goggles were wrestling in the shallow end, while the bar was already packed, even though it wasn’t noon yet. “No . . . I mean, it’s still gorgeous here.”
