What the hell’s wrong with me? I’ve really got to pull myself together.
An impartial observer could have answered her first question at a glance. The dark shadows under her eyes and sickly pallor of her skin showed just how little Summer had slept in the last month. Her journalism program at NYU was intense and required a lot of late-night cramming and long hours in the classroom or chained to her intern’s desk at the Post. But the true reason for her sleep deprivation lay closer to home.
Michael was acting strange. He had been for months. When it started, shortly after Christmas, Summer had put it down to the pressure of work. Kingsmere Events was still a new business, and Michael and Tommy both worked like galley slaves to get it turning a profit. Often that meant grueling foreign travel, with a party in Cape Town one night and another in London or Paris or New York the next. Understaffed and running on adrenaline and espresso, it was no wonder Michael had little time left for romance.
On top of all that, there was the long-distance thing. Summer had her own commitments in New York, her own dreams and ambitions. She couldn’t keep flying to England to play the little wife to Michael De Vere. And yet Michael’s hot-and-cold behavior was more than that. The awkward phone calls, the canceled trips, the uncharacteristic fits of temper when they were together, followed by wallowing bouts of guilt. Call it woman’s intuition, or a journalist’s nose for the truth. But Summer Meyer knew there was something going on, something Michael wasn’t telling her. And it didn’t take Einstein to figure out what that something might be.
Michael De Vere had always been a womanizer. Even as a teenage boy, he’d had a whole raft of girlfriends on permanent rotation. Summer knew that about him. She’d gone into this thing with her eyes wide open. But like a fool, she’d thought he could change. Worse, I thought I could change him. Talk about a cliché.
Yesterday, right before she left for the airport, he had telephoned.
“I’ve been thinking. Why don’t you stay with your folks at the Dorchester for the first couple of nights. I’m going to be snowed down here with last-minute preparations. You’d have much more fun flexing Arnie’s AmEx on Bond Street than hanging around my flat in Oxford while I work.”
Summer had agreed—what else could she do without making herself look desperate?—but inside, her heart sank. She and Michael hadn’t seen each other for months. But instead of counting the hours until they reunited, he was putting her off.
If he’s changed his mind about me, why doesn’t he just break up with me? Why drag out the torture?
She hated Michael for this, but she hated herself more for not having the guts to call him on it. Summer didn’t know when, or why, or how it had happened. But she had fallen so deeply in love with Michael De Vere, she was as helpless as a kitten blown into a lake, splashing and mewling to no avail as the waters rose around her.
“Next stop, London Victoria. The train will terminate here.”
Would Summer and Michael’s relationship terminate at the Kingsmere summer party? Or before?
She couldn’t bear to think about it.
Michael De Vere was in a foul mood.
“I don’t care, Ajay, okay? The frame was supposed to be here yesterday.” Shouting into a walkie-talkie, he paced the grounds of his family’s estate like a hungry tiger looking for lunch. “I’m sitting here with a hundred grand’s worth of flowers, enough to fit out a Royal Navy fleet, and a melting ice sculpture delivered two days early, and I have no motherfucking marquee. I’m not paying you a penny unless your guys are here within the hour.”
Kingsmere’s grounds looked glorious in June, a riot of apple blossoms and roses and scented buddleia bursting with life and color. At six o’clock, the house was bathed in a honey glow of late-afternoon light, as warm and inviting as it was architecturally magnificent. Teddy had bustled outside earlier, a proud Mr. Toad observing the party preparations at Toad Hall without actually understanding a bit of what was going on. What Teddy saw were gratifying numbers of lithe young people scurrying hither and thither with silverware, china, balloons, and the like. He’d been apprehensive about allowing Michael and Tommy to organize such a prestigious event, and one on which so much De Vere family honor rested. But the boys had been nothing if not diligent, showing up before dawn this morning to check on the delivery of the fancy Porta Potties and generally running what appeared to be a tight ship.
Michael smiled at his father and gave a confident wave. Little did Teddy know it was the wave of the proverbial drowning man. With less than seventy-two hours to go until his mother’s A-list guests started arriving, Michael De Vere was standing in a garden full of workmen, food, and props, with no freaking tent. Meanwhile Alexia, who’d returned from her trip to Paris looking as white as a sheet, had gone completely AWOL, holing up in London and not returning Michael’s calls. Roxie was being more than usually needy as the prospect of an evening in the public eye drew nearer. And to top it all, Summer had landed in England today, and naturally expected to spend some quality time with him.
Michael thought, I’m being cowardly. I should be straight with her, not just keep putting her off with no explanation. But there was only so much stress he could take. It was an odd feeling, longing to see someone and dreading it at the same time. Work was a welcome distraction.
His cell phone buzzed. Michael read the text and grinned, checking his watch.
“In a hurry, are we?” Tommy Lyon, Michael’s partner and best friend, said archly. “I hope you’re not thinking of sloping off.”
“Give me a break. I spent half the night here last night,” Michael said reasonably.
“Working on the pagoda? Yes, I saw that. You seem to have spent the moonlit hours digging a big hole and filling it with concrete. Looks fabulous, by the way.”
“Ha ha.”
The “pagoda” Tommy was referring to was supposed to have been the centerpiece of Kingsmere’s three-hundred-year celebration. Teddy De Vere had ordered the construction of a Greek Revival pillared folly out near the lake, but the project had been beset by one problem after another, from poor drainage to sinking foundations. In the end, Michael had taken over. This late in the day he’d been forced to implement a policy of damage control, pouring concrete over the half-finished foundations. With luck, the concrete should be dry by tomorrow. Then Michael and Tommy’s landscape guys would cover it with huge potted olive trees, string up a few fairy lights, and voilà, an impromptu Florentine garden.
“I won’t be long,” Michael assured Tommy. “Forty minutes. An hour, tops.”
“Is that all you give them these days?” Tommy teased. “Poor girl. Whoever she is, she has my sympathy.”
Michael made a face.
“Just cover for me, would you?”
“All right. And if your girlfriend shows up, wondering where you’ve got to?”
“She won’t. She’s in London. Shopping.”
Tommy Lyon watched his friend hop onto his new Ducati motorcycle and speed off down the drive. One of these days, Michael’s wicked ways were going to catch up with him.
Tommy Lyon didn’t know how he did it.
Arnie Meyer had booked a table for three at Scalini. The spaghetti alle vongole was the best in London, you could order a bottle of Sangiovese and get a second for free, and it was close enough to Harrods for Lucy to roll out of Marc Jacobs evening wear without bothering to go back to the hotel in between. Knowing Summer would be tired and hungry after her flight, Arnie made the reservation early: seven-thirty.
What with all Lucy’s shopping and excursion plans, Arnie Meyer felt as if he’d barely spent five minutes with his wife since they got to London. He was looking forward to tonight’s dinner. Summer’s presence would be an added bonus.
“Your usual table, sir?”
“Yes, please, Giacomo.”
Arnie smiled. He hadn’t been to Scalini for over four years, but these people made an effort with the service. “And a gin and tonic while I wait for the ladies.”
Arnie Meyer loved England. He was glad he’d made this trip, glad Teddy De Vere had badgered him into coming. Once his two favorite girls arrived, the evening would be just about perfect.
Summer woke as the train rattled to a halt. Has an hour gone by already? Her chestnut hair was greasy and matted and stuck to her cheek, and there was a deeply unattractive wet patch on her shoulder from where she’d drooled onto her T-shirt.
She longed to shower and change, crawl between a pair of newly laundered sheets, and sleep for about a year. Instead she was supposed to be at a fancy Italian restaurant in less than fifteen minutes. With her suitcase lost over the Atlantic, she didn’t even have the option to change in the station bathrooms. At this point even a clean T-shirt and a spritz of perfume would have been a luxury.
If only she could ditch this damn dinner. But Summer knew what her father would say if she wimped out now. “Are you a Meyer or a mouse?” Thinking of Arnie’s silly expressions, imagining his voice in her head, she started to laugh, then cry.
I really do have to get a grip.
Lucy Meyer arrived at Scalini’s breathless, weighed down with bag after bag of expensive clothes.
“Sorry I’m late.” She kissed Arnie on the cheek.
“Really late.”
“I know, honey. I’m afraid I got a little carried away.” She smiled sheepishly.
Arnie bit back his irritation. He didn’t know how Teddy De Vere did it, constantly waiting around for his wife, playing second fiddle. The man must be a saint. Then again, at least Alexia had better excuses for her lateness than an extended shopping spree in Harrods.
“Where’s Summer?” Lucy asked, apparently oblivious to her husband’s bad mood.
“You tell me. I guess she inherited her mother’s sense of punctuality.”
“I’m sure she’ll be here in a minute. Why don’t we order some appetizers while we wait. All that shopping’s gone and worn me out.”
Yup. A saint.
Definitely a saint.
Summer was late.
The PA who’d given her directions to the restaurant was either confused, or deliberately messing with her because in no sense was the restaurant “a straight shot” left from the railway station. Nor had any of the people Summer stopped on the street heard of it, despite the PA’s insistence that it was “a landmark. Really famous.”
At last, at almost nine o’clock, she found herself standing outside. The place looked cozy rather than fancy, entirely lit by candles and with an inviting smell of garlic and truffle oil floating out to the street through the open windows. Inside, a low hum of laughter and conversation added to the warm, relaxed atmosphere.
If only I felt warm, or relaxed. But I’m here now. It has to be done.
Painting on a smile and holding her head high, Summer walked in. She saw the table immediately, walked over, and sat down.
“Summer! Oh my God, w-what are you doing here?”
The blood drained from Michael De Vere’s face like water out of a bath.
“I think we need to talk, Michael. Don’t you?”
Arnie Meyer hung up.
“Well, at least she’s safe. She’s in Oxford with Michael.”
Lucy’s eyes widened. “Oxford? That’s kind of last minute, isn’t it? I wonder why she didn’t call to let us know.”
“Because she’s twenty-three and about as considerate of the needs of others as a particularly vacuous fruit fly?”
Lucy laughed. “I guess that must be it. Did she say . . . I mean, do you think things are okay between them?”
Arnie rolled his eyes. “Who the heck knows? She said they were ‘talking things through,’ whatever that means. You want some tiramisu?”
Lucy shouldn’t, not if she was going to get into her dress on Saturday. Then again the dessert trolley did look good. And she had had an exhausting afternoon.
“Oh, go on, then.” She winked at her husband. “You only live once.”
Summer lay in Michael’s arms feeling foolish. When the clueless Kingsmere PA, Sarah, had told her Michael had reservations at Bepe in Oxford at eight—a table for two—Summer was convinced he was meeting another woman. On a whim she’d jumped on the first train from Paddington intending to confront him, only to arrive at the restaurant and find Michael alone.
“Where’s your date?” she asked sarcastically.
“In the loo.”
“I see. You won’t mind if I wait, then? I’m dying to meet her.”
“You are?”
Michael had seemed more confused than panicked. When his companion returned from the bathroom, Summer could see why. She found herself being introduced to a perfectly charming Indian gentleman. Ajay Singh was in his early fifties, smelled faintly of turpentine, and was one of Michael and Tommy’s key suppliers.
“I thought I told you I had to work tonight,” Michael said later as the two of them walked back to his flat along the backs. It was a dreamy night in Oxford, warm and cloudless, with a blanket of stars twinkling over the river like fireflies. Undergraduate couples punted past them in the darkness, and in the near distance the bells of Christchurch Cathedral chimed midnight, as they had done every night for the last eight hundred years.
“You did.” Summer took Michael’s hand. “But I really wanted to see you. Aren’t you happy I came?”
“You haven’t come, yet.” Pulling her to him, he kissed her roughly on the mouth. It was a passion she hadn’t felt from him in months, that she’d feared was gone forever. “But you will.”
Michael was as good as his word. In bed later, their lovemaking was intense, wild and wonderful, the way it was last summer when they first got together back on Martha’s Vineyard. As soon as Michael touched her, Summer felt her tiredness lift and her misery of only a few hours ago evaporate like raindrops in the sun.
It was all in my head. There’s nothing wrong. He’s been working too hard and we’ve been living oceans apart. Everything will be fine now that we’re back together.
Stretching out a lazy arm, she stroked Michael’s bare back.
“Are you nervous about Saturday night?”
“Nervous? I’m terrified. Tommy came up with a great expression yesterday. He said he was ‘shitting porcupines.’ I’m about the same.”
Summer laughed, because it was funny, and because it was such a relief to be Summer and Michael again, and not the suspicious strangers they’d become.
“I’ll have to remember that one. Work it into a political piece at the Post: ‘Senator Brownlow “Shitting Porcupines” over Upcoming Iowa Primary.’ Yeah, I like it. I think it’s gonna catch on. How about your parents. Are they calm?”
“Mother is. Mother’s always calm.”
Was it Summer’s imagination, or had a slight edge crept into Michael’s voice?
“And Teddy?”
“In Dad’s mind, this party is all about family honor. Three hundred years of the De Veres at Kingsmere. That’s all he cares about. I don’t think it’s registered how much more than that it’s become, how much it means for Mummy’s career. I mean, it’s Mummy they’re all coming to see. No one gives a rat’s arse about the De Vere family tree.”
Without thinking, Summer blurted out, “I thought you were with someone else tonight. Another woman. I thought I’d catch you out.”
“Oh.” Michael frowned. “Is that why you came?”
Summer nodded, biting her lower lip and willing the tears not to flow. “I’m sorry. It’s just things have been so . . . so off between us lately. I’ve felt so distant from you.”
Michael put a finger to her lips. “Shhh. Don’t let’s talk about it. I’m sorry too. I love you.”
They kissed again. Summer felt overwhelmed with relief, as if she’d been holding her breath for the last six months and had finally been allowed to exhale. When at last they pulled apart she said, “I don’t want us to have secrets from each other. I want us to know each other completely.”
Summer raised an eyebrow. “You don’t think honesty is possible?”
“To a point it is,” said Michael. “But everyone has secrets, don’t they?”
“Do they?” Summer was starting to feel uneasy.
“I think so. But that doesn’t have to be a bad thing. Secrets can be a burden. I mean, once you know something, that’s it. You can never un-know it. You can never take that knowledge back. The innocence you had before, it’s gone. You shouldn’t inflict that on someone unless you really have to. Especially not someone you love.”
Summer sat up. “Okay, now you’re scaring me. Is there something you want to tell me, Michael?”
“No! That’s the whole point. There isn’t.”
“All right, is there something you don’t want to tell me? Something specific?”
“I should never have got into this, should I?” He tried to laugh it off, but the ease of a few moments ago had gone. “Look, really, you’re getting worked up over nothing. This isn’t about us. Okay?”
“Okay,” Summer said warily.
“I’m talking purely hypothetically. Let’s say you knew a secret. Something bad that someone has done.”
“All right.”
“I mean something really bad. And let’s say you loved the person who’s done it.”
“But we’re not talking about us, right?”
“We’re not talking about us. Would you tell the person that you knew? Would you confront them?”
Summer thought about it. “It depends on the person. And the secret.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“Well, yours wasn’t a question! It was a riddle. Okay, I’ll give you an answer. The answer is, you follow your conscience. You do what feels right in your gut.”
Michael turned and looked at her. The shadows under her eyes were darker and heavier than usual. She looked tired—is that because of me?—but still so beautiful. He’d forgotten just how beautiful she was.
Sidney Sheldon's the Tides of Memory Page 20
