Summer at Sunset: (The Summer Series Book 2)

by Beth Labonte

  A class act, that one.

  I wait for Babette by her golf cart. If she hurries, we can get out of here before Francine and Janice manage to pick themselves up off the ground. Otherwise, we’re going to be here awhile. That’s the thing about Sunset Havens, you can’t just slip quietly in and out of a Zumba class. Everything here turns into a gossip hour.

  Ah, yes. Here they all come. Janice has a straw wrapper stuck in her hair and the waistband of Francine’s pants have done almost a complete three-sixty.

  “What are you two broads up to tonight?” asks Francine, adjusting her pants and lighting up a cigarette. She takes a long drag.

  “Summer’s parents are arriving today for the wedding!” says Babette in a singsong voice. She puts her arm around my shoulder and gives it a firm squeeze. “We’re going to take them out on the town tonight and give them a proper Havens welcome!”

  “Oh, that’s right. The wedding,” says Francine, as if this is the first she’s heard of it. She takes another puff and looks me slowly up and down. Unflinching, I look her up and down right back.

  “Will you be taking them to Rosa Lee’s?” asks Janice.

  “Where else?”

  I cringe. Rosa Lee’s is a resident-only saloon-style restaurant and dance club—the antithesis of where I would want to bring my parents on their first night here. Or, to be honest, on any night anywhere.

  “We’ll come by,” says Francine. “I can’t wait to see that son of yours again. He left us girls high and dry yesterday after karaoke. He had to rush off to meet someone.” Francine glances in my direction.

  So, here’s the other thing about Sunset Havens. Graham has always been very attractive to women that are ten to twenty years older than him. A cougar magnet, if you will. You may remember this phenomenon from such incidents as Lana the Former Hooter’s Waitress. Well, if middle-aged women think of Graham as a piece of meat, down here at The Havens, amongst the over sixty-five crowd, he’s the early bird special filet mignon. We can’t even take a walk down the street without women popping out from behind shrubs and mailboxes to squeeze his biceps.

  Graham’s been coming down here for visits long before we started dating. These women look forward to his visits. I’ll tell you one thing they were not looking forward to—me. Old people hate change. And what am I, if not a big, youthful heap of change that came prancing into town about to take their beloved Graham off the market?

  So, yes, I am the someone that Francine speaks so kindly of. I am the someone that she has been making digs at ever since I stepped off the plane. I know that she, and Janice, and probably every other woman in this place, would love nothing more than to see Graham and I break up. The trouble is that nobody will back me up on this. Everybody thinks I’m overreacting—Graham, Babette, the kid that scoops ice cream at Ben & Jerry’s (seriously, it’s hard to find anyone young to speak with around here). Graham finds all of these women delightful. He thinks that they’re sweet and innocent and that there’s no harm in letting them squeeze his muscles once in a while if it’s going to give them some enjoyment during the short time that they have left. Please. Some of these women have thirty more years.

  “Sorry,” I say. “Graham and I had a little date night planned. It was so romantic. We made out in our golf cart for, like, ever.”

  Babette shoots me a disgusted look, but I don’t care. The look on Francine’s face is priceless. For the record, Graham and I had an appointment at Mr. Tux, ate dinner at Taco Bell, and then drove directly home.

  Before she can reply, Janice nudges Francine with an elbow. An elderly man is shuffling by in a pair of cargo shorts, a blue polo shirt with the collar popped, and a floppy fishing hat.

  “Gil, you old bastard!” calls out Francine.

  I gasp, but Gil doesn’t seem surprised. He gives Francine a feeble little wave, and continues shuffling toward the entrance of Dunkin Donuts. A woman meets him outside and hands him a cup of coffee.

  “I see that Lorraine’s gotten her hooks into Gil,” says Francine, disapprovingly.

  “For now,” says Janice. “You know Gil. He’s already got his collar popped.”

  “Mmm hmmm,” agrees Babette.

  “What? What’s up with Gil?” I ask. “Why is his collar popped?”

  The three women exchange knowing glances.

  “Down here, a blue shirt with a popped collar means that a man has taken his Viagra,” says Babette.

  “Ew! Why would he need to announce that? Isn’t he with that woman over there?” I ask.

  “Gil never stays with one woman for very long,” explains Francine. “He was with me last week. Until he stopped returning my calls.” She throws her cigarette on the sidewalk, grinding it out with her turquoise tennis shoe.

  Smart move, Gil.

  “Lorraine is a fool,” says Babette. “He’ll probably have someone new by lunch.”

  “He’ll probably have someone new for lunch,” says Janice, and the three women roar with laughter.

  “If he asks you to go for a ride in his golf cart,” warns Babette, “you do not go.”

  “Are you serious?” I laugh. “That guy can barely walk.”

  “What that man can do in a golf cart does not require the use of his legs,” says Babette, and all three women burst into a new wave of raucous laughter.

  I raise my eyebrows at Babette. “And you know this how?”

  She bats her hand at me and laughs. “Oh, you know. Word of mouth.”

  “That’s right,” says Francine. “Orally.” She mutters the word out of the corner of her mouth and the three women break into laughter again.

  “I think I’m going to be sick,” I say, covering my eyes.

  I sneak a look at Babette through my fingers, trying to see if that same twinkle in her eye is there—the one I thought I saw when she talked about the Sunset Havens swingers—but I can’t tell. It has to be in my imagination. Graham’s parents can’t be swingers. Just because they live in a retirement paradise full of Viagra and alcohol and no consequences—

  I crinkle up my nose.

  I really ought to mention this to Graham.

  3

  It’s another beautiful day here at Sunset Havens.

  At least that’s what the DJ keeps telling me through the loudspeakers that are stationed all around Duke’s Landing. It’s another beautiful day here at Sunset Havens. Please enjoy these outdated songs that we shall play on a loop. Duke’s Landing is another of the three town commons, and was named for its founder, Fillmore W. Duke—a kooky old land speculator who settled the place back in nineteen twenty-six.

  Yeah, not really.

  Sunset Havens was actually founded in nineteen eighty-six by a regular, middle-aged businessman named Stuart Fogleman. But that’s what they do down here—they make up history and stick make believe historical plaques on all of the buildings. For example, the Starbucks that we are about to go in, used to be called Ezekiel’s Tavern and was a popular speak-easy during Prohibition.

  “But it was built in two thousand and nine!” I say, stopping in front of the door and throwing my arms in the air.

  “It’s just part of the fun,” says Graham, pulling the door open for me. “It’s like those old-timey photos you get at amusement parks. Obviously I was never in the Union army, but now I have photos that say otherwise.”

  “But we’re not at an amusement park,” I argue. “This is where these people live. Putting on a costume for a photo isn’t the same as making up history. I mean, what if they start pretending that the real history stuff never happened, just because it’s unpleasant to think about? What if they forget about Hitler and the Kennedy assassination and Osama bin Laden? Then what?”

  At the sound of the name Osama bin Laden, a few people turn their heads and give me looks of concern. See what I mean?

  Graham shrugs. “I think that might actually be one of the selling points of this place.”

  We order our coffee and take a seat at a table. My parents aren’t du
e in for a few more hours, so we’ve got some time to kill. Come to think of it, coffee probably wasn’t the best idea for the state of my nerves, but I’m exhausted from Zumba class. How is it that I’m more exhausted by this retirement community than I am from anything back home?

  “Hey,” I say, leaning in across the table. “I meant to ask you something about your parents.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Well, it’s just that your mom keeps saying things that seem a little odd. She always says she’s joking afterwards, or she claims that she only knows certain things from a friend. But I swear I saw a twinkle in her eye.”

  “What kinds of things are we talking about?”

  I clear my throat. “Like, you know, sexual stuff.”

  “My mom talks about sexual stuff with you?” says Graham, in the loudest voice ever. The Osama bin Laden people look over at us again.

  “Not just with me!” I whisper. “With her friends. I just always have the misfortune of being there. You don’t think your parents could be, you know...swingers, do you?”

  Graham, who had been tilting his chair back, with one foot up on his knee, chokes on his latte and returns to an upright position.

  “I really hope you’re kidding. Any twinkle you may have seen in my mom’s eye is probably from all the booze.”

  “But that’s my point,” I say. “Maybe they’ve gone overboard with their new lifestyle. I mean, it’s fine if they did. They’ve worked hard and deserve to be able to do whatever weird things they want. But, what if they, like, try to get my parents into it?”

  Graham lays his head down on the table and doesn’t move until I shake him by the shoulders. He looks up at me and I see that same, Blenderman twinkle in his eye.

  “I should have known that’s where this was headed,” he says. “First of all, my parents are not swingers. Why would my dad want to swap wives? My mom’s hot.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “Okay, Oedipus, what’s your next point?”

  Graham laughs. “Second of all, if my parents were swingers and they took your parents to a swingers party, your parents wouldn’t even know what was going on. They’re too innocent.”

  “Oy, Richard!” I say, in my best Mom impersonation. “Why is everybody naked?”

  Graham laughs. “Oy, Richard! Why are everybody’s car keys in that filthy fish bowl?”

  Now we’re both cracking up and I realize how paranoid I’ve sounded since we walked into Starbucks. The stress of the wedding must finally be getting to me. I mean, not everybody is trying to erase Hitler, or corrupt my parents, or steal my fiancé. I really need to relax. I really need to—

  Oh, great. Here we go again.

  “We’ve got another one,” I say. “Three o’clock.”

  “Another what?”

  “Another one of your stalkers.”

  As I sat there trying to convince myself that all was right with the world, I noticed a woman in line staring at us. She’s wearing a blue and white nautical themed outfit with a visor, gold anchor earrings, and about three hundred gold bracelets.

  “I do not have stalkers,” says Graham, a little too smugly.

  “Of course you have stalkers,” I say, taking a sip of coffee and glancing at the woman. “You have no idea what a guy like you does to these women. You volunteer at their swim aerobics classes, and their book club meetings, and you think that you’re just being a good citizen. But do you know what you’re really doing?”

  Graham raises his eyebrows. “What’s that?”

  “You’re getting them all hot and bothered with your tan and your muscles and your hair.” I wave my hands around in the air to illustrate Graham’s hair. “They want you, Graham. They can’t get enough of you. And they want me out of the picture.” I make a knife-across-the-throat motion and lean back in my chair, nodding in agreement with myself.

  “Sounds like you have a little crush on me,” says Graham. “Maybe we should get married.”

  I stick my tongue out. “I was considering it.”

  Graham reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. “You realize that you’re taking all of this way too seriously, right? I mean, these women are like my grandmas.”

  “You may think that,” I say, “but you should have seen the way Francine was looking me up and down today. You told me yourself that you took her to something called the Senior Prom and bought her a corsage and everything. I guarantee you there was nothing grandmotherly on her mind that night.”

  “Did you forget the part where I also told you Francine had just lost her husband? And the part where I told you I was helping her to get out of the house for the first time in a long time? She was practically agoraphobic.”

  I frown. Sometimes I have a selective memory.

  “Okay, fine,” I say, shaking my head. “But how about that time you took Lorraine to her grandson’s piano recital, and she invited you back to her house for some May-December naughty time?”

  Graham laughs. “That is not what happened. She wanted me to come over to watch Downton Abbey. She said she had tea and scones.”

  “I bet she did. I also bet she would have had you stripped down to your scones before the opening credits.”

  Graham reaches across the table and squeezes my other hand. “Please tell me you’re not jealous of Lorraine?”

  “Of course not. I just don’t think you realize what a hot commodity you are. I don’t think you realize what these women are capable of.”

  “What exactly do you think they’re capable of?”

  I stare at him for a few seconds. I’ve had these ideas running through my head for weeks, but now that I’ve been asked to verbalize them, I can’t. They’re just too stupid.

  “Um, I don’t know,” I say, trying to pick out some of the less ridiculous sounding ones. “Kidnap me? Throw me off the Maid of the Havens into Lake Fillmore? Force me to overdose on Francine’s thyroid medication?”

  Okay, no. Those all sound pretty bad.

  Graham slowly shakes his head. “You know, my mom told me that One-Eyed Hank asked you to fly away with him to his private island in the Caribbean the other night. Maybe I should be the one who’s concerned.”

  “One-Eyed Hank doesn’t have a private island,” I say. “He has dementia. Is that the best you’ve got?”

  “Yeah, that’s it.”

  I roll my eyes and check the time. “We’d better get going. Eric and my parents should be arriving soon.”

  I’m gathering up my things to leave, when the woman that was staring at us in line appears next to our table, fumbling with her change purse. The next thing I know, there are coins rolling all over the floor.

  “I am so sorry,” she says. Then she gets on her hands and knees and crawls under our table.

  “Let me get that,” says Graham, starting to stand up. He stops mid-way. “I think you’ve got my leg, though.”

  “Don’t get up!” calls the woman. “I’m just fine.” A moment later, she emerges from Graham’s side of the table—coming up right between his legs—and coils herself into his lap like a boa constrictor. I clamp a hand over my mouth.

  “Gloria?” says Graham. “I didn’t even recognize you!”

  Oh my God, he actually knows her. Of course he knows her. He knows every woman down here.

  “I just had my hair frosted,” she says, patting the back of her head. “Do you like?”

  “You look like a movie star,” he says, giving me a wink. “Have you met my fiancée, Summer?”

  “No, I don’t think so,” says Gloria, giving me the familiar once-over.

  “Nice to meet you,” I say, sticking out my hand. She doesn’t take it as she’s too busy combing her fingers through Graham’s hair.

  “You should consider getting yours frosted too,” she says. “I think it’s such a good look on a man.”

  “Graham’s already blonde,” I say, choking on my Frappuccino. “So, too bad.”

  “He could dye it black, and then bleach the tips for the w
edding,” says Gloria. “He would look just like that handsome boy, Lance Bass!”

  I squeeze my cup so hard that the lid pops off. Gloria smiles at me.

  “I really must be going,” she says, sliding off of Graham’s lap. “Will we be seeing you at Dirty Uno tomorrow night?”

  Okay. I’ve crushed my cup. Frappuccino is leaking all over my hands.

  “Dirty Uno?” I ask.

  Graham clears his throat. “No, not this week, Glor. Lots of wedding stuff to get done.”

  “Shame,” she says, giving me a look. Then she gives Graham a wink and walks out of the store.

  “Dirty Uno?” I repeat. “Seriously?”

  “There’s actually nothing dirty about it,” shrugs Graham. “It’s just regular Uno, with a few rule changes. I was disappointed, to tell you the truth. Now Dirty Pinochle, that’s another story.”

  I stare at him in awe. I really need to get him away from this place. Besides the weird card games, Graham has been a participant in three flash mobs since we’ve been here. And a few days ago I saw a picture of him on the Sunset Havens Facebook page leading a Conga line through Sunshine Springs. He denies that it was him. I will admit that the picture was a bit blurry, and that down here in Florida Graham may not be the only person to own a watermelon print Hawaiian shirt. But, I have a gut feeling.

  4

  Eric gave me the warning call as we were driving back from Starbucks. He, his wife Tanya, and my parents, should be pulling up to the Blenderman house at any moment.

  To recap: Richard and Joan Hartwell will be arriving at Sunset Havens—the hedonistic retirement capital of the world—at any moment. Worlds are about to collide. Universes are on the verge of being blown apart. All of time and space shall momentarily cease to exist.

  So, tell me...how is he so calm right now?

  We’re sitting in the driveway on plastic lawn chairs, while Graham plays a game on his phone, calm as can be. Classic Graham. Two years ago he literally thought that going on a cruise with my parents was going to be fun. And yes, I will admit that if we hadn’t gone on that cruise we might not be engaged right now, but still. He somehow fails to see the impending disaster that is my parents and his parents living together under one roof.