Falling for Summer

by Bridget Essex

  “I inherited it. My family's always owned it. Don't you remember?” she asks me then, straightening fully. Her hands are back on her hips, and she's smiling again, but this time her expression is darker. Shadowed. A long moment of silence passes before Summer shrugs a little. “Tiffany used to come to my house on the campground to play,” she tells me, glancing away. “I thought you'd remember me.”

  I'm horrified that my very first reaction to her words is frustration, anger, pouring through me. “I've tried to forget everything,” I say, my voice a little sharper than I intended. I take a deep breath, realizing how high my shoulders are, practically up to my ears with anxiety. I gulp down air, shaking my head. “Look, I'm sorry... It was a long ride up from the city, and I'm...I'm pretty exhausted,” I tell her, which is only partially true, but I'm appalled at myself for snapping at her. “I'd like to check into my cabin, if that's all right?” I ask, biting my lip.

  “Sure,” Summer says, her smile deepening. “No hard feelings, right?”

  “Right,” I tell her, voice soft, though my heart is still pounding in my chest.

  “So, I'll race you back,” she tells me with a wink, and before I fully understand what she means, she's back in the lake, going under the water with a small, graceful dive, surfacing and making a beeline toward the distant cabins, her strong stroke pushing her through the water at top speed. She'll probably make it there before me. She's so fast.

  I bite my lip, watching her go, then pad quietly back through the woods toward my car, shoving my feet into my flats the minute I get there.

  My thoughts are dark as I make my way through the trees, and by the time I've reached my car, I know this was a mistake. This was a complete mistake. I only remember Summer a little, one of Tiffany's entourage of sweet, adorable kid friends. Now I've met her again—and within a minute I'm snapping at her for something she couldn't possibly have known would upset me? What right do I have to come back here? After all, I have terrible associations with Lake George, and most people love this place with a fierce passion, especially the ones who built their lives around this gorgeous lake. I don't have any right to come back with my cloud of sadness...

  But I open my car door, anyway, put the key into the ignition, and then I'm driving toward the campground. I made a decision to come here, and I'm nothing if not painfully stubborn. I'm going to stay for the week, and then I'm going to leave Lake George, and I'm never going to return. I know that.

  This trip was a last-ditch attempt to try to put everything that happened here behind me. I've got to try.

  I pull into the long gravel driveway marked by an old, rickety sign reading “Lazy Days Campground.” The sign for Lake George may have be lovingly maintained, but this sign looks as if it would make an excellent opening shot for a horror movie, the type of campground where ax murderers usually take up summer residence. But there's an air of nostalgia about the sign, too. We used to have family reunions here every year, and I remember playing tag with my cousins among the tall pine trees ringing the lake.

  I park the car in front of a boxy building marked “Main Office,” with a cheery, painted sign nailed to the wooden door. This sign looks as if it was recently painted, and the office building itself looks new.

  Summer is already here, sitting in the rocking chair on the porch with a towel wrapped around her lower half, another towel in her arms as she towels off her hair, her head tilted to one side. Her dark, wet hair hangs over her shoulder, dripping down onto the boards of the porch floor below.

  She glances up at me through her eyelashes, then tosses the towel to the floor, leaning back in her rocking chair. “Beat ya,” she tells me, with a little hint of triumph, as her smile deepens. “Welcome to Lazy Days,” Summer says then, turning to look at the two rows of cabins leading down the gravel driveway, heading toward the lake.

  Summer stands easily, wrapping the towel tighter around her middle as she hands me a pair of keys attached to a tiny hand-carved wooden paddle.

  “You're in cabin thirteen,” she tells me, jutting her chin down the row of cabins to the right. “It's the one closest to the lake.”

  And then she bites her lip a little as she glances back at me quickly. I know that look. There's sympathy in it, and immediately I'm on high alert. “Are you back,” says Summer softly, carefully, “because of...” She trails off, looking at me closely. “You know,” she finally says in a whisper, like a secret.

  “I'm back because of the anniversary of Tiffany's death,” I tell her then, my mouth dry as she holds my gaze unwaveringly. She has warm, dark brown eyes, the kind of brown that you could lose yourself in; it's so rich and deep. “It's been twenty years since it happened,” I tell her, choosing the words as carefully as I can, “and I came back this year to...remember her.” I clear my throat, gripping the keys and the paddle so tightly in my hands that an impression of the keys is probably pressed into my palm.

  Summer takes a deep breath; then she shakes her head a little, her jaw tightening. She lets the towel around her waist drop to the rocking chair, and she places her hands on her hips as she holds me in her sights. I'm not expecting what she says next.

  “It's been twenty years, Mandy,” she finally tells me, her eyes glinting. “Isn't that long enough?”

  Mandy. No one's called me Mandy since I lived here. No one's dared. Not that I'm so unapproachable, or that the name doesn't suit me... It's just a relic from another time. From another life, really, when life itself was easy and I could claim such a happy-sounding name as Mandy.

  But that was twenty years ago, that life. Twenty years ago since I've last heard that name.

  My throat starts to ache. I've been thrown for another loop by this surprising woman. First she rises out of the water like a mermaid, and now she's asking me a personal question, like she thinks she knows me? Well, she doesn't.

  “No,” I tell her curtly, the word bitter in my mouth. “It'll never be long enough.” I swallow, hefting the keys in my hand, suddenly aware of how cold the metal is, how sharp.

  “I'm sorry,” says Summer then, her eyes glittering with something I can't quite read. She takes a deep breath, considering what else to say.

  But there isn't anything else to say; there's only awkward silence between us, and I shake my head. “Thanks for this,” I tell her. Then I turn to go to my car.

  “I'll bring you some beers later,” she calls to my back. She's sitting on the rocking chair again when I crane my neck to look at her. Her legs are crossed, and her hands are clasped in her lap as she pushes the rocking chair back and forth, back and forth with the ball of her left foot. She cocks her head a little, smiling softly at me. “You look like you could use them,” is all she says, with a small shrug.

  I'm fuming as I get in my car, as I drive away from the main office and park in front of cabin thirteen. Who does she think she is? She might have been one of Tiffany's friends, but that was a long time ago. She was a kid, I was a teen, and I don't really remember her that well... And, anyway, even without the enormous span of time that has passed since I last saw her, I'm used to polite distance from people I've just met. In my own friendships, I'm not a super-close kind of person, and here is this near-stranger, telling me that I need a couple of beers, asking if it's been long enough since my sister's death to finally come back home.

  It'll never be long enough. That's not what I'm here for.

  I turn off my car, biting my lip as I think angry thoughts and grip the steering wheel again, my knuckles tightening. I open my door and climb out, and—still fuming—I haul my suitcase out of the backseat, slamming the car door shut.

  Hasn't it been long enough? What the hell kind of a question is that?

  Whatever. I feel as petulant as a child as I drag my suitcase up onto the front porch of the little cabin, the suitcase bumping on each step. I let go of my suitcase handle on the porch, and then I turn and sit down on my own rocking chair, a creaky, ancient, weather-beaten thing, and I look out to the lake, leaning f
orward so that the chair gives a mighty creak beneath me, squeaking as it rocks.

  I stare out at that lake, take a deep breath of the cool, humid air, and all of the fight and frustration leaves me just as quickly as it came. I think it's finally hitting me, as I sit here in this rocking chair, that I'm staying at this cabin for an entire week with...absolutely no other plan to occupy myself with than to go back to a few places my little sister loved, visit her grave and...then what? Mourn for her all over again?

  I sit for an hour, two, as the sun begins to descend toward the horizon. My hands are open on my thighs, palms up, and I rock slowly, occasionally, but mostly I just...sit. I'm overwhelmed with all of this time spreading before me. I'm the CEO of a company. I'm built for being overstimulated. I've been conditioned to have my fingers in every pie, and now here I am with a week yawning before me, vacant, empty...

  I'll probably go crazy, I think with a sigh as I cross my arms, rocking back in the chair.

  It seems like I'm one of the only people camping this week, which I suppose makes sense. It's early in the summer, two weeks after Memorial Day, and Lake George never really got hopping until around the Fourth of July. And I'm camping here during the week, rather than the weekend. I'm grateful for the isolation. I didn't really want a lot of company with my grief.

  But it seems that I'm going to have company whether I want it or not.

  As dusk descends, I hear booted feet on the gravel of the driveway, and I peer out from the porch and sigh again. It's Summer, and she's carrying two six-packs. She's not in her bikini anymore, instead wearing cutoff jean shorts and a dark blue tank top, her long black hair plaited into a shining braid over her shoulder. She gazes at me disarmingly, a charming smile turning her mouth up at the corners.

  “Hi,” she tells me, holding up the six-packs. “How are you settling in?”

  I shrug a little, flustered. “I came here this week for some solitude,” I tell her then, which is absolutely bitchy, but I just wanted some privacy for my grief.

  But Summer doesn't take the hint.

  “Well, you'll get plenty of that here,” she tells me with a wink, her mouth turning up even more now, forming itself into a sly grin. “I'm sure you remember that the lake doesn't really get busy until July. Care for a drink?” she asks, brandishing the six-packs again.

  Okay. I think she took the hint. She knows what I meant. But she's deliberately ignoring it.

  I could tell her to leave, but for some reason, as I gaze at her, the fight seems to drain out of me. Maybe it's because of how tenacious she is. How stubborn. That's something I can understand, if not enjoy. “Sure,” I tell her with a slight shrug, indicating the second rocking chair next to me. “It's your place, after all,” I tell her with a raw, rueful smile.

  Summer hops up onto the porch and leans against the railing, crossing her long, tan legs in front of her. I'm annoyed at myself for following the line of her legs upward, but then I've always been a leg woman. Not that that matters. Summer is forward and much too...well, too much of everything.

  But still, I'm a ways from home, and it's not a sin to appreciate in the view. And I do appreciate it. Even if I don't exactly appreciate Summer herself.

  I bite my lip, looking down at the porch floor for a long moment while Summer stares out at the lake. She doesn't offer any small talk, and I'm certainly not offering, either, so the silence descends between us, thick with my glowering.

  “Hey,” she finally says, curving her shoulders forward, “about earlier... We seem to have gotten off on the wrong foot or something. I'm sorry if anything I said hurt your feelings.”

  It's the type of apology you might make a preschooler give to another preschooler whose toys she stole. But it seems like her heart is in the right place, and—anyway—she didn't exactly have to apologize. I shrug a little, but I'm grateful for the effort, so I clear my throat.

  “Thanks,” I tell her gruffly.

  “So, what do you do now?” Summer asks me, cracking one of the cans out of the six-pack and opening it, handing it over to me as the beer dribbles down the side of the can. Our fingers touch, hers wet with beer, mine cold from the chill coming off of the lake, and I flick my gaze to her as I take the can from her—but she's not looking at me. She licks her fingers when I take the beer, and then she opens one for herself.

  “I'm the CEO of an online advertising company,” I tell her with a slight shrug. She glances at me with wide eyes, surprised, and I'm secretly (well, not so secretly) pleased by her reaction. I have to work with people all day long, every day, who know what I do and the weight it carries, but for some reason, I'm happy that Summer's impressed.

  But she isn't. Not...exactly.

  “Wow. Good for you,” she tells me, taking a sip of beer. She tosses her braid over her shoulders and gives a little shrug, a noncommittal sort of shrug. “It's not what I thought you'd end up doing, but that's pretty exciting. CEO. Wow. It must have taken a lot of work to get there.”

  Again, my hackles rise. How could she possibly think she knows me? “Really?” I ask her, my voice sharp. “What did you think I'd be doing?”

  Summer glances at me with a disarming smile, her teeth bright in the encroaching darkness. “I thought you were going to be a writer,” she tells me, with another shrug. She glances away from me, lifting the beer to her lips. Her neck curves gently in the darkness, and my eyes, unbidden, are drawn to it.

  My mouth is dry as I clear my throat. “How did you know I wrote?” I ask her then.

  She glances at me sidelong in the twilight, setting the can down on the floor of the porch beside her feet. “It's all your sister talked about,” says Summer, her mouth lifted into a sweet curve of a smile.

  Her words feel like a punch to the gut. As if someone used all of their strength and curled their fist into my belly. I hiss out a breath, and then I lift the can with a shaking hand to my mouth, swallowing the cold beer as quickly as I can. I drink down the entire contents of the can as Summer breaks another can off of the six pack, opening it and handing it to me without another word.

  Finally, one beer in me, another started, I manage to croak, “What did my sister say about it?”

  Summer takes a meditative sip of her beer and uncrosses her legs, stretching overhead. “Tiffany was really in awe of you, you know,” she tells me with a sidelong glance. “She was obsessed with the story you wrote for her, told me all about it. We made our Barbies play out a few scenes from it, even.”

  I'm mesmerized, as much as talking about all of this makes my heart ache profusely. I straighten a little. I have to ask, so I do: “Which story?” I murmur.

  Summer laughs a little, shaking her head. “The one about the unicorn,” she tells me.

  I laugh then, too, because I have to. God, it's been such a long time since I thought about that story...

  I wrote Tiffany the ridiculously titled “The Unicorn Princess” (it was a product of the eighties as much as I was) for her tenth birthday and gave it to her about six months before she drowned. I'd written the “book” on a word processor and printed it out, sewing the punched holes in the pages together with string. I presented it to my sister rolled up and tied with ribbon in a shoe box I'd covered in glue and glitter.

  Tiffany had opened the shoe box with glowing, happy eyes and then spent an hour or so carefully reading the printed words until she was done. Then she demanded more of the story, because—like most of the stories that I'd written for Tiffany—I'd ended this one on a cliffhanger, when the unicorn princess had just realized that one of her unicorn friends was also in line for the unicorn throne. Why unicorn politics was so exciting to a ten-year-old girl, I'll never know. It was probably because, again, it was the eighties, and love of unicorns was one of the most important things that came out of that decade, besides the music and the big hair.

  “Wow,” I tell Summer then, clearing my throat, which is suddenly too tight with emotion. I hide my discomfort by taking another very long sip of my beer, til
ting my head back so that my gaze moves upward, to the surrounding trees and the first star of the night that's peeking out from between the branches far above. “I haven't thought about that story in a very long time,” I finally say, tilting my gaze back to earth. Back to Summer.

  It's getting very dark, and I can just make out Summer's outline, the curve of her thighs and hips, the swell of her breasts under her tank top, the lovely flow of her shoulders and neck. The first few fireflies of the season are beginning to wink on and off in the campground behind her, giving her form a strange, soft sort of glow. Summer lifts her own can of beer to her mouth, tilting her head back, and I follow the curve of her neck again with my eyes, that graceful curve that leads down to her collarbone and to her toned arms—and then I stiffen in my chair.

  She's wearing a ring on her left hand.

  “So,” I say, breathing out, anxious to change the topic, stop talking about the story, about my sister. Anxious to take the conversation to safe, mundane ground. “You and your husband run this place? It must be so nice to own a campground.” I'm resorting to the sort of chitchat that I use in board meetings with people I have nothing to say to, with whom I share nothing in common.

  But I seem to have more in common with Summer than I thought...

  “No,” she says with a sad sort of smile. Summer has turned to look out at the lake, at the last bit of light from the setting sun. The sky is a riot of dark purples, with a golden glow along the line of the horizon. “I actually just broke up with my girlfriend a few weeks ago.” She glances down at her hand and then back at me. She saw me looking at the ring. “This is my great-grandmother's ring,” she says then, a bit formally, her voice catching as she touches the ring with her thumb, like you might smooth a finger over a worry stone.

  “I'm sorry,” I say, which covers the breaking up with the girlfriend and the great-grandmother, who is presumably no longer alive, but my heart is somersaulting inside of my chest, my blood starting to beat much more quickly through my veins. Summer is gay? Bisexual? Woman-interested?