The Summer I Dared: A Novel

by Barbara Delinsky

Kim didn’t move, didn’t blink, didn’t speak. Nor did her eyes leave Julia’s.

  “I ought to hate you, but I can’t. There’s a bond, Kim. We shared something that night. It doesn’t matter where you were sitting or why you were there. You survived something horrific, just like I did. Don’t you ask yourself why?”

  Kim moved her head in a deliberate nod. At the same time, her hand went into the pocket of her sweater and pulled out something flat. She slid it across the table toward Julia. Her hand lingered in a last minute’s unsureness before giving it a tiny shove and withdrawing.

  It was a bankbook. Uneasy, Julia opened it. The account was in Kim’s name, the first deposits dated eight years before. Those deposits were in the kinds of small amounts that represented a teenager’s earnings from baby-sitting and such. Larger amounts, several thousand a pop, had been deposited more recently, most in the last eighteen months. The current balance was twenty-three thousand and change.

  Julia tried to find meaning in the amount. “You’ve always worked and always saved.”

  Kim nodded slowly.

  Baby-sitting was fine. Bartending was fine. The larger amounts, though, made Julia nervous. “Are these big ones from Artie?” she asked and, suddenly, even without a response from Kim, she wanted to push the bankbook away, forget she had seen it, pretend it didn’t exist. It was incriminating. She needed to tell the girl that. “Did you know he was under suspicion for smuggling illegal aliens?”

  Kim stared at her, eyes wide with a plea, and Julia did try to slide the bankbook back then. Kim’s hand shot out and stopped the slide.

  “If this is hush money,” Julia began, “I don’t want any part of it.” But something about the way Kim was looking at her suggested that it wasn’t hush money at all. She wasn’t giving the money to Julia. Rather, “You want me to hold this for you?”

  Kim gave a quick nod.

  “So no one else sees?” Another nod. “But that makes me an accessory to whatever you did for this money.”

  Kim eyed her steadily, still with an element of pleading, and it got to Julia. Adding everything Noah had told her to everything Zoe had told her to everything her own gut instinct told her, she couldn’t think of Kim as evil.

  “Did you love Artie?” she asked, because that made the most sense. “Did he give you this money as a gift?” Some men gave flowers, others jewelry. Julia couldn’t imagine Kim wanting either. Money, on the other hand, Kim might want, indeed. “Were you saving up for something? To buy your own boat? Or a house?”

  Kim looked out the window, but not toward her car and the road. Her eyes rose to the tops of the trees and grew distant, then glassy with tears—and suddenly Julia recalled the horror on the girl’s face the last time they had talked, when Julia had dreamed aloud of staying on Big Sawyer forever.

  “This is your escape,” she said, understanding. “Do you know where you want to go? What you want to do?”

  Eyes still brimming, Kim rose from the chair and headed for the door.

  Julia was up in an instant. “Don’t leave, Kim. Tell me these things. If you can’t say them, write them down. I can help.”

  But Kim didn’t stop.

  Long after the sound of the blue Honda’s motor was lost in the woods, Julia sat at the table staring at the bankbook Kim had left. She probably should have refused to hold it, should have followed Kim right out to the car and tossed it inside. Yes, it was incriminating, though whether it was representative of the payoff a married man made to his mistress, or the payoff a felon made to his accomplice, Julia didn’t know.

  Not knowing, and feeling a loyalty to Kim that made picking up the phone to call the police seem wrong, she rose from the table, went down to the bedroom, and tucked the bankbook into the mottled leather bag that held her most personal things. On impulse, she took the bag out to the porch and removed those things. They were still vaguely damp from their time in the ocean. She guessed that if the zipper hadn’t been closed, they would have been covered with seaweed.

  Actually, if the zipper hadn’t been closed, they would have dispersed. She was grateful they hadn’t. Among the things that she laid out to dry were two envelopes. One held charge receipts and credit card bills that she had so carefully, guiltily gathered. The other held the photographs that were far older, but that were every bit as important to her.

  Pulling the photos from their envelope, she was relieved to find that though their color was muted by moisture, the basic images were intact.

  Five in all, she spread them in a line. One was of the harbor, one of the pier. A third captured a stack of lobster traps, and a fourth the men building the pile. But the fifth was the one she wanted to see. Far from a close-up—she wouldn’t have dared do that, at the age of fifteen—it showed six young men perched on and around the pier piling. They wore work boots and jeans, but were bare-chested. Each of the six had the tattoo around his biceps that marked him as part of the local lobster gang.

  Lifting the picture, she held it in her palm and brought it closer, and there she saw him, or thought she did—Noah Prine at seventeen, far less mature in looks and build than he was now, but handsome nonetheless.

  She was thinking of the fantasies that had been based on this particular picture over the years, when the phone rang. It was the land line. She debated letting it ring, until she realized that it might be Noah— and that she wanted to talk with him. Running inside, she picked up the phone by the bed.

  The voice she heard was less deep than his, and more crisp. “Mrs. Bechtel, it’s Alex Brier from the Island Gazette. Zoe said I’d find you there. I have a favor to ask. Those pictures you gave to the Chief? I want them for the paper. Think you could email them here?”

  Julia was startled. She wondered if giving them to the newspaper was permissible. But no one had said she shouldn’t. “Uh, sure,” she managed. “When do you need them?”

  “As soon as you can send them. Got a pen?”

  Opening the drawer of the nightstand by the bed, she found pens, along with half-completed crossword puzzles with Noah’s strong lettering in the squares. She jotted the editor’s email address in the margin of one. As soon as she hung up, she took her camera from its case in the living room, went up to the loft, and sent the pictures along.

  Then she called Noah on his cell phone. “Yeah,” he answered, sounding irritated.

  “It’s Julia. I’m sorry, is this a bad time?” She knew he was with Ian and wouldn’t have called if she hadn’t felt an urgency.

  His voice gentled. “No more so than another. We’re on the Leila Sue.” He told her about the vandalism to the buoys. “It looks like forty were painted. Someone was busy last night.”

  “The fruit guys?”

  “Probably.”

  “Did anyone see them?”

  “Nope. Hold on.” He must have put the phone in his shirt pocket, because though his voice was more distant, the words were distinct. “Gaff it, Ian. Grab it with the hook. That’s it. Bring it up now, right here over the winch. There. The hydraulic hauler’ll do the rest.” A motor started. He returned to Julia. “Can you hold another minute?”

  “Sure.”

  To Ian, he said, “We’re only in five fathoms, so it won’t take long. Keep a lookout. You’ll see a bright thing coming at you fast before it breaks the surface. The hauler’ll get it on the rail, but you need to get it in the boat. There. See it? Got it. Okay. Look for the next.” He returned to Julia. “My boy didn’t expect this when he woke up in D.C. this morning. It’s something of a trial by fire.”

  “Things are okay with you and him, then?”

  “Now.”

  “Ah.” Clearly, he couldn’t talk freely. “Forty buoys is how many traps?”

  “I do pairs, so that’s eighty, but I’m not hauling all of them.” To Ian, he said, “Start a stack in the stern. There, on the trap skids.” Back to Julia, he said, “I have extra buoys. Paint ’em, and they’re good for exchange. Problem is, it has to be done soon. Traps without colo
rs are fair game.” He called, “Next string, Ian.” Then, to Julia, “Everything okay there?”

  “I just had a visit from Kim.”

  “Did you?”

  “I need to ask your advice, but not on the phone. I know you’ll be busy with Ian—”

  “Come to the trap shed around nine tonight. You can help paint.”

  Julia smiled in relief. “I’d like that,” she said and hung up feeling as though she might be able to pay for her keep after all.

  Satisfied, she returned to the lounger, but she couldn’t relax as before. Something had changed. The woods were as peaceful, the scent as sweet, the view as soothing, but her thoughts were on the real world now, on painted buoys and Noah, on Kim and her stash, on Molly and Zoe and George and Janet, all the loose threads in her life.

  Call Monte, a little voice said, and she was instantly annoyed. She didn’t want the reminder of who she’d been, not when she was feeling independent and strong. There was a shine in her world right now. Monte would tarnish it.

  Zoe was another matter. Within minutes, Julia was inside again and calling her. “Hi,” she said with bated breath, wondering if Zoe was furious at her.

  But Zoe’s voice held a smile. “Hi, yourself. I’m glad you called. I was worried.”

  “That makes two of us. Between the rabbits and Dad, I’ve abandoned you. How’s it going?”

  “Oh, it’s fine. I put George to work with the rabbits. It keeps him busy and gets the work done. He’s not a natural at it like you are—his heart isn’t in it—but he does what I say.”

  “He does what Mom says, too—usually, at least. Is it awkward, having him there?”

  “A little.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s not your doing, Julia. It’s mine and his, so we’ll deal. At least I had Molly here for breakfast and lunch. She’s at the Grill now. Tonight’s lobster night. She’s doing an appetizer of lobster crepes.”

  “Well, then, we have to go,” Julia said. It was a perfect idea. “Let me treat you and Dad.”

  Zoe cleared her throat. “Uh, excuse me? Who wanted space?”

  “Me. But I have it now. That means I can choose to be with people, and I choose to be with you and Dad.”

  “Your father and I are not a pair.”

  “I’m glad. I still want to take you to dinner.”

  “If you’re feeling guilty—”

  “Of course I’m feeling guilty,” Julia said. “Feeling guilty is too much a part of me to be gone in a day. But I also want to do this. Please let me?”

  Julia went to the Grill early, hoping to see Matthew Crane before the others arrived. Sure enough, he was in his usual corner, nursing his usual whiskey as he looked out over the harbor toward open ocean. He couldn’t possibly see much; fog had rolled in. Still, he looked.

  She slipped down on the bench, but he spoke before she could say a word. “Know why Monday night’s lobster night?” he asked.

  She shook her head.

  “With no hauling on Sundays, the catch is bigger on Mondays, so the price is lower. It’s all about money. It wasn’t always that way. Lobster used to be so plentiful it was thought of as charity fare.”

  “Charity fare?”

  “For widows and children and convicts and servants. Some of the servants got so tired of eating it, they had it written into their contracts that they couldn’t be served it more than three times a week.”

  Julia smiled. “You’re kidding me.”

  Matthew shook his head. He sipped his drink and sat it back on his thigh. “Native Americans used to pick lobster right out of the seaweed on the shore. They used them to fertilize their cornfields.”

  “Why are there so few now?”

  “Fewer lobster? I don’t know if there are fewer. Maine lobstermen hauled forty-six million pounds last year. The problem is demand. It used to be you had your lobster boiled live or steamed. Now you have it baked, stuffed, and grilled. You have lobster Savannah, lobster Newburg, and lobster thermidor. You have stew and chowder. You have lobster salad and lobster roll. You have lobster cakes, lobster pie, lobster puffs, lobster ravioli, even lobster ice cream. What’s he got on the menu tonight—lobster crepes? Where will it end?” Matthew looked up as the waitress approached. “Me, I’m a boiled-live man.”

  “Here you go, Cap’n Crane,” the girl said with a wink at Julia. “Our feistiest one-and-a-half pounder with drawn butter and a side of corn-bread.” She set the platter down on the bench in exchange for Matthew’s whiskey glass.

  “I thought you were a scrod man,” Julia teased as soon as the girl left.

  “Tuesday through Sunday it’s scrod. Monday it’s boiled live. My Amelia loved boiled live, too. ’Course, she could never quite get the hang of pulling the thing apart. She was too ladylike.” He grasped the body in one hand and the tail in the other. With a sharp twist, the two came apart. “I used to do it for her. I never minded.” Just as easily, he separated the knuckles from the body, then the claws from the knuckles.

  Julia was amazed. “How do you do that without a cracker?”

  Matthew guffawed. “It’s not as easy as it used to be. The arthritis and all.” He took the tail, bent it backward until it split, and neatly removed the piece of meat inside.

  “Mrs. Bechtel?”

  Julia looked up. A fair-haired man with serious eyes and an intense look hunkered down beside her. She didn’t recognize him, but the voice was familiar.

  “Alex Brier,” he said. “Thanks for emailing the pictures. I’m using them in this week’s paper, and my deadline was an hour ago. Want to take more?”

  “Of the traps?”

  “Of Noah’s buoys and anything else that happens. More will. You can bet on that. I’ve been doing all the pictures myself, only my wife’s expecting a baby in two months, and the doctor is making her stay in bed, so I’m running back and forth, trying to do the newspaper and take care of our two other kids. I could find you a ride out, if you’re willing to do it.”

  “What fun,” Julia said, grinning. “I’m willing.”

  “Great. Thanks. I’ll pay you for this—”

  “I don’t need pay. There are no expenses on my end.” Totally aside from that, she couldn’t imagine being paid. She had no expertise to be paid for. She was simply a visitor to the island who happened to have had her camera with her in the right place at the right time.

  Alex stood. “Thanks, then. I’ll arrange a ride and give you a call.”

  “I’ll take her,” Matthew said. He held the last of the tail piece, dripping butter onto the plate. “My nephew’s been offering me his Cobalt. Pretty fancy boat for a lobsterman, but not for a lady from New York.”

  For the first time, Alex smiled. “All my problems should be settled this easily. Thanks, guys,” he said and left.

  Julia wished her own problems were settled as easily. Those problems hit her within thirty minutes of sitting down with Zoe and George, which was as long as it took to order wine, devour Molly’s crepes, and discuss Noah’s sabotaged buoys, which were the talk of the place. By the time dinner salads arrived, George had grown quiet, and by the time lobster arrived—boiled live for Zoe, stew for Julia, and hash for George—he was looking despondent.

  Naturally, Julia asked whether he had talked with Janet. When he said he had not, she suggested he call. When he argued that he wasn’t ready to talk with her, he then turned the tables and asked if Julia had talked with Monte. She changed the subject.

  Julia didn’t regret having suggested dinner. She would do it again in a minute. George was her father, and he was distressed. Janet was her mother, and she was alone. Monte was her husband, and, as such, was still a part of her life. It all needed discussing.

  But not now. Not yet.

  After paying the bill, she was pleased to take her leave and head for Noah’s trap shed. The same fog that had obstructed the sunset now produced a dusk that was thick and moist. She wore a sweater, and buttoned it up as she drove.


  The shed was at the end of Spruce Street, where houses had given way to wild grasses and trees. She might have missed the small wood hut, had it not been for a glow in the window. She had barely parked when Lucas appeared from nowhere, ran back and forth in a moment’s frenzy, then butted his muzzle against her hand. Delighted, Julia was patting his head when Noah appeared at the door, and suddenly it hit her—the way he was now with his hair messed and his sweatshirt and jeans spattered with paint, the way he had looked as a teenager with his buddies and all of them with that ropy tattoo, the way his voice had gentled earlier when she had called on the phone.

  Her insides melted. The best she could do was manage a smile.

  With a hand high on the door frame, he smiled back. “Hey. Mmm, you look nice. Just come from dinner?”

  She nodded. Leaving a hand on Lucas’s head, she raised her brows and looked around Noah into the shed. With the door open, the smell of fresh paint was quickly supplanting that of the salt mist.

  He stepped aside to let her in. Lucas went first. “I sent Ian home. He was exhausted. I’d say ‘poor kid,’ if he hadn’t been out until two this morning with friends.”

  The oil lamp threw enough light to show dozens of buoys newly painted a bright blue. “Oh my,” Julia said, finding her voice. “Have you done all this tonight?”

  “I had no choice. I don’t want those traps lost. I’m about to start on the stripes.”

  “Give me a brush.”

  “Not dressed like you are.”

  Julia spotted a sweatshirt on a hook. “That’ll do, won’t it?” she asked as she unbuttoned her sweater. In no time, she replaced it with the sweatshirt. It was large, but large served the purpose. She homed in on an open can of orange paint. Several brushes lay nearby. She picked one up. “Show me how you want it done.”

  He showed her, and for a time they worked quietly, with Lucas sleeping nearby. They were done with nearly half before Noah said, “Tell me about Kim.”

  Sitting back on her heels, Julia told him about the visit. By the time she reached the part about the bankbook, he had stopped painting too.