The Summer I Dared: A Novel

by Barbara Delinsky

  “Are you okay with that?”

  “He’s a big boy, Julia. He can go where he wants.”

  “That wasn’t my question.”

  “No, but apparently what I’m okay with doesn’t matter anymore. I was not okay with your going up there. You went anyway, and now your father has followed. If you really want to know, I think he’s being as irresponsible with regard to me as you are being with regard to your husband. Neither of you has any business being there.”

  “To the contrary,” Julia said, because they were avoiding the issue. “We’re here because Zoe’s here.”

  There was the briefest pause, then a dry, “So she is. I have a meeting now, Julia. Have a good day.”

  Ian’s plane was late, which meant that Noah had an hour to sit at the airport with nothing to do but think of having his son for a whole three weeks and wonder what they would do, whether they would get along, what they would talk about, whether they could connect. Sandi was right: Noah had been an absentee father. He was going to have to deal with Ian’s resentment, along with a mutual unfamiliarity. In ten years, they hadn’t spent any significant amount of time together. For all practical purposes, they were strangers.

  Noah wanted to change that. He had three weeks in which to do it— three weeks, and precious little understanding of how to go about it. Lobstering he could do. When it came to fathering, though, he was in a thick ’o fog without a horn. Times had changed since he was seventeen. His father’s method of fathering wouldn’t work with Ian. The problem was, Noah didn’t know what method would.

  Feeling decidedly adrift, he rose and stood at the window until the jet finally landed and taxied toward the terminal. He moved back then, hit by a wave of apprehension. He had failed as a husband, had failed as a father. No matter that he had greater reason to succeed with Ian now. Who was to say he wouldn’t fail again?

  Beyond the window, the plane loomed at the jetport. By the time the jetway door opened, Noah’s heart was beating faster. Forget how Ian would act; he wasn’t even sure how Ian would appear. The last time they had been together was for an overnight in New York during the Easter weekend, little more than two months before. Ian had been presentable enough, wearing slacks, a shirt, and trendy shoes that would carry him through dinner at a decent restaurant, an evening of theater, and a stay at the Ritz on Central Park. Granted, his shirt had refused to stay tucked, the slacks were too long over the shoes, and his hair was way too long. He was good-looking enough to get away with it all, particularly when he smiled, which he did for waiters, cabbies, and hotel clerks, though never for Noah.

  While in Manhattan, Noah had planned a visit to the Museum of Natural History, thinking to share his love of nature with his son. Ian had been bored.

  The first few passengers emerged. Tall enough for a clear view, Noah kept his eyes on the door. More and more passengers came through, until he guessed that the majority of those who had been aboard had deplaned. The crowd thinned. Two more passengers came out, then a trio of teenaged girls. He began to worry, actually began to get angry, because if Ian had missed the flight and Sandi hadn’t called—Noah could have made far better use of his morning, most notably hauling traps.

  Then Ian appeared. He wore the latest in faded jeans and a logo T-shirt, and his hair was shorter, had blond streaks, and stood straight up on top, but those good looks remained. He added a cocky saunter when the trio of girls slowed and called back to him before moving on. Friends from Baltimore? It didn’t matter. Noah, who hadn’t thought Ian was old enough to grin the way he grinned at those girls, actually felt a moment of sheer male pride. His son was a man, or at least was getting there fast.

  When Ian spotted him, the grin died—and still Noah’s pride remained. Ian was a young man with a savvy way about him. When Noah had been seventeen, he hadn’t had that way about him. Kids nowadays grew up faster. Or maybe it was that kids on the mainland grew up faster.

  “Hey,” Noah called as he strode forward. He put out a hand to shake, but when Ian’s met it, Noah impulsively drew him into a hug. It wasn’t a smooth thing, and Ian’s stiffness didn’t help. He actually looked annoyed when Noah set him back.

  But Noah wasn’t sorry for the hug, not for a minute. He hadn’t planned it, didn’t even know he’d needed it. In lieu of words, though, it said something. Ian was his son, flesh of his flesh. That fact demanded acknowledgment. No, he wasn’t apologizing for the hug.

  “You look great, Ian,” he said.

  Ian shrugged.

  “How was the flight?”

  “Okay,” Ian said in the deep voice that still surprised Noah.

  “Did they feed you?”

  “Peanuts,” came that deep voice laced with disdain.

  Noah had hoped they could have lunch in Rockland, but he figured Ian might need something sooner. “Did you check a bag?”

  “No,” the boy said with a slight, almost insolent rise at the end, and dipped an ear toward the duffle on his shoulder. “This is it. Like, your island isn’t New York.”

  As put-downs went, it was a potent one. Noah had always been sensitive to the fact that he hadn’t grown up with mainland sophistication. Sure, his time in New York was worth something, but there was still the matter of modest roots. Sandi had often used it to explain things she didn’t like.

  Noah knew he would be feeling defensive in a minute. Not wanting that, he tossed a thumb toward the exit. “Let’s go.”

  Driving north on the Maine Turnpike, Noah did his best to engage Ian in conversation. “So, how’s baseball?”

  “Done,” came the reply.

  “For the summer?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was it a good league?”

  Ian shrugged.

  “Is that a yes or a no?” Noah asked.

  “A yes.”

  “Are you still playing shortstop?”

  “Yes.”

  “But running cross-country in the fall. Do you like that?”

  There was another shrug, then a grudging, “It keeps me in shape.”

  “How are the Orioles doing?”

  “Lousy. Nothing’s been the same since Cal Ripkin retired.”

  “I thought there were some other good players.”

  “They sold them all off.”

  Noah sighed. “For what it’s worth, the Red Sox are still breaking our hearts.”

  Tracking the coast, Noah left the turnpike at Brunswick and took Route 1 into Wiscasset, where they stopped for lunch at Red’s Eats.

  “Here?” Ian asked with a dubious glance at the small red building, its take-out window, plastic tables and chairs.

  “See that line at the window? Red’s has the best lobster rolls in the state.”

  “I don’t eat lobster.”

  “Maybe that’s because you haven’t had a good lobster roll.”

  “I gag on lobster.”

  Noah sighed. “Do you eat fried clams?”

  “Yes.”

  “Order fried clams,” he said and got out of the truck.

  Ian ordered fried clams and ate them all. When Noah told him to pass a napkin, he passed it. When Noah told him to use the rest room before they hit the road again, he used the rest room. When Noah told him to buckle his seat belt, he buckled his seat belt.

  He could follow orders. That was something. Not fun or interesting or promising for an interactive relationship. But something.

  Noah waited until they were back on Route 1, halfway between Wiscasset and Damariscotta, before trying again. “How’s your mom?”

  “Fine.”

  “Giving you a hard time?”

  “No.”

  “She’s proud of you, entering your senior year. How does that feel?”

  “How does what feel?”

  “Being a senior.”

  “It sucks,” Ian said. “Everyone’s on your back about college. I’m not going.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know what I want to do. It’d be a total waste. Unless
I could play ball, which I can’t, because I’m not good enough.”

  “Who says?” Noah asked, glancing his way.

  Ian returned a defiant look. “My coach.”

  “What does he know?”

  “A lot.”

  “Open the glove box and pass me my sunglasses,” Noah said. When Ian complied, he asked, “What colleges are you going to see?”

  “I don’t know. Mom planned the trip.”

  “Ian. This is your future. Find some places you like.”

  Ian didn’t reply.

  Noah let it go until, on the outskirts of Rockland, they passed a cluster of girls. So he tried, “Did you know those girls who got off the plane in front of you?”

  “No.”

  “They were pretty.”

  “They were townies.”

  Meaning, Noah knew, that they went to public school, rather than private school like Ian. “Nothing wrong with that. Your mother and I both went to public school. What’re the girls at your school like?”

  Ian snorted. “Cooler than those, that’s for sure.”

  “Anyone special?”

  “No.”

  “Not even the one you took to the junior prom?”

  “She’s a friend. And we went with other friends. It was no big deal.”

  Noah spotted an attractive girl as they approached the pier. “What do you think of that one?”

  “She’s okay,” Ian said.

  “If I were your age, I’d have called her a knockout.”

  Ian shot him a stare. “You’re not my age.”

  “And grateful for it,” Noah said, turning off the engine and returning the stare. “I don’t recall having a chip on my shoulder, but I’m sure I pushed my parents plenty. If there’s one thing they taught by example, it’s patience. Ten minutes until we board the ferry,” he added and faced forward.

  Patience was one thing, Noah decided, and progress quite another. Standing at the rail as the ferry made the crossing, he wondered if the first would get him the last. He wanted a relationship with his son. Question-and-answer sessions did not make a relationship.

  The good news was that, though the ferry offered places to hide, Ian didn’t stray far. He stood at the rail six feet from Noah, watching the islands as they slowly took color and shape. Of the four in the ferry’s path, Noah might have pointed out Little Sawyer from Big Sawyer from West Rock from Hull. He might have pointed out a passing lobster boat, the My Andrea, with Leslie Crane at her helm. He might have shown Ian the string of green-and-gold buoys Leslie was tending, how they were set north to south, how if you wanted to know where the catch would be good, you looked for those green-and-gold buoys, because Leslie was a highliner, consistently one of the most successful of the island’s lobstermen. He might have shown Ian where the Amelia Celeste had gone down and taken the life of his grandfather with it.

  But Noah didn’t say a thing. He didn’t trust that Ian wouldn’t make a disparaging remark, one that might provoke anger in him. That was something he needed to avoid. Better, he decided, to let things unfold slowly.

  But it wasn’t to be. The ferry had no sooner docked at Big Sawyer and Noah driven the truck off when he was waved down by Mike Kling, whose shaved head gleamed in the sun.

  “We got trouble, Noah,” he said. “Those buoys you set last week up north of Main Mast rock? They’re gray.”

  “Gray?”

  “Painted. Once you spot the things, you can see blue and orange underneath, but the problem’s spotting them. They blend right into the chop.”

  “Painted?” That was a new one. Lobstermen didn’t carry paint in their boats. Novices might, if they were peeved that their pot warp was tied up in knots. “As in vandalized?”

  “You got it.”

  “Just mine?”

  “Looks it.”

  “Haber and Welk?”

  “Most likely.”

  And so it went, Noah knew. You invade our turf, we knot your lines, you paint our buoys. Cutting warp was the next step. And he was game. Haber and Welk seemed to be picking on him. Why not pick back?

  He ran a hand around the back of his neck. Something of a highliner himself, he had been expecting good things from the traps near Main Mast rock. They sat on rocky bottom, the bottom of choice for lobsters during the late-June molt, when, after walking out of their old shells, they were waiting for their new ones to harden and, in the meanwhile, were vulnerable to predators. Rocky bottom offered places to hide that sandy bottom did not.

  He could still haul the traps; he had notations in his logbook of where each one was. But the buoys would have to be repainted. To do that, they had to be brought in, which meant hauling the traps and bringing those along, which meant either multiple trips or a mighty full boat, given the possible number of traps involved. It also meant the loss of a few days’ fishing.

  “Gotta be done,” he said, as much to himself as to Mike. He put the truck in gear, thinking to continue on to the house to get Ian settled in, but then had another thought. Backing up, he pulled into a parking spot. It was early yet; he still had another few hours of daylight. Before he could decide what to do, he had to know the extent of the damage.

  Chapter 14

  After trying to talk with her mother, Julia took a long shower. She spread Lily of the Valley body lotion over every inch of her skin, slipped on her wedding band, and got dressed. Then she had an English muffin and tea. But it was only after a walk in the woods that she finally mellowed out. Back at the house, she brought a book to the bedroom deck and read until her stomach growled. She made a sandwich with the deli meat and rye bread Noah had bought, and returned to the deck. All the while, she refused to think about anything but the novelty of doing her own thing in her own time and being answerable to no one at all.

  By midafternoon, sun no longer hit the bedroom deck, so she shifted to an Adirondack chair on the front porch and returned to her book. She was there when the second car of the day came out of the woods and parked. If she had been pleased when Molly came, she was delighted now. This car was a small blue Honda with Kim at the wheel.

  Closing her book, Julia came forward in the deep chair. When Kim didn’t get out but simply sat watching her from the car, Julia rose. She went to the edge of the porch. When that didn’t scare Kim off, she approached the car. Walking leisurely, she went to the driver’s side. Kim bowed her head and looked at her lap, but the window was open, like an ear ready to listen.

  “How’d you know I was here?” Julia asked and answered herself. “Ah, don’t tell me. My father went to the island store for the Wall Street Journal, got into a conversation with Daryl, the owner, and let it slip that I was staying here. Daryl told June, who told Nancy, who told you.”

  The corner of Kim’s mouth twitched. In the absence of words, that was progress. Even more so, the fact that she had come at all. From what Julia had heard, Kim had been nowhere in two weeks except her own house and the bluff. Noah’s house certainly offered more privacy than either of those.

  “Want to come in?” she asked. “I was about to put on fresh coffee, maybe even have a snack.” She gestured the girl along. When Kim didn’t move, she went into the house, leaving the door open, and set up the coffeemaker. By the time the first hisses and gurgles were coming from the machine, Kim stood at the edge of the room.

  She was several inches shorter than Julia’s five-seven, and built as nicely as her mother and grandmother—namely, fuller in the bust than anywhere else. Julia could see how men would be drawn. Her clothes were clean—a blouse, jeans, and a zippered sweater. Appearing freshly washed, her hair looked longer, thicker, and redder than ever.

  Julia gestured her into a seat, but the girl didn’t budge. So, opening the refrigerator, she took out what remained of the French bread and Brie from the evening before. In no time, she had the Brie on the bread, on a tray under the broiler. When the top began to bubble, she put half of the snack on each of two small white dishes. Again, she gestured for Kim to sit, and
took a seat of her own this time.

  Kim approached the table. She lowered herself to the chair’s edge as though she had doubts and was poised to run.

  Julia helped herself to a piece of toast, then got up and poured two cups of coffee. She set them on the table and sat down again. It was a full minute before Kim finally put out an unsteady hand and took a piece of toast.

  “Well, that’s a relief,” Julia said. “I was worried I’d done this for nothing.”

  Brow furrowed, Kim kept her eyes on the food. With her pale skin and straight features complementing her hair, she was a striking young woman. Her eyes were chestnut, a warmer brown than those of her mother and grandmother. Her earlobes were pierced but earringless. Her mouth was wider than Julia had thought it to be, and looked all the larger in such a small face.

  She ate in silence. When she had finished two slices of toast, she put her hand in her lap.

  Quietly, Julia said, “If the grapevine told you I was here, it must be keeping you up to date on the investigation of the accident.”

  Kim swallowed. Julia took that for a yes.

  “For what it’s worth, no one has asked either Noah or me about you. Everyone seems to know, though, that you and Artie had a thing.”

  Kim studied her hands.

  “If that’s true,” Julia went on more softly, “it’s only a matter of time before someone will wonder which boat you were on.”

  Kim’s eyes met hers in alarm.

  “They’ll wonder,” Julia added, “but there’s no way they’ll ever know for sure. I can’t swear that you weren’t on the Amelia Celeste, and neither can Noah. Did anyone see you with Artie on the day of the accident?”

  Kim didn’t reply, simply stared at her with large chestnut eyes.

  “Did you shoot him?”

  No reply.

  “Do you know who did?”

  Still no reply.

  Julia sat back. “I want to help you, though Lord knows why. Do you know how wrong it is to have an affair with a married man? Do you know how hurtful it is for the wife? And for the kids?”