Summer at Sunset: (The Summer Series Book 2)

by Beth Labonte

  “Graham!” shouts a woman from the other team. “Everybody, Graham’s here!” Several other people, both women and men, step over to high-five me and clap me on the back. “Are you joining us for beer pong night?” Another cheer goes around the room and I suddenly feel like Norm walking into Cheers.

  “Yeah!” I say. “I mean, maybe. Not tonight, though. I was just looking for...I’m here to...I’m just checking it out. For now.” I look around at all the smiling faces and somebody thrusts a can of Coors Light into my hand. How is it that I never came to beer pong before? What the heck have I been doing with all my Friday nights when I’m down here? I used to be a beer pong champion back in college. I could teach them so much. I wonder if they know about Flip Cup? Or Quarters? Or—

  It’s at that moment that I decide not to go through with it. I know, it didn’t take much.

  I’m going to pretend that I went through with it, of course. It’s too late to just leave, since Francine and Janice have already spotted me from across the room—my entrance wasn’t exactly subtle—and they know that I’m supposed to be at my rehearsal dinner right now. I’ll just tell them that I came by to give them one last kiss on the cheek as a single man. That’ll make their week. Then I’ll head back to the rehearsal dinner, tell Summer that everything’s been taken care of, and we can get on with this wedding.

  I’m a firm believer in mind over matter. A positive attitude and a sunny disposition have served me well in life, and I believe it can work for Summer too. It worked on the cruise, didn’t it? Once she stopped worrying and started seeing her parents from a different perspective, her life took a major step forward. Similarly, once she thinks I’ve laid down the law with Janice and Francine, her whole outlook will improve and things will naturally start to fall into place.

  It’s just the way the world works. Mind over matter.

  Trust me.

  34

  “I’m really looking forward to checking out that Hospice Thrift Shop,” says Summer’s Aunt Mary, taking a sip of wine and flipping her scarf over her shoulder. “I saw it on the way here. We have one back in Provincetown where Barry buys his shirts. You fill a trash bag and they charge you by the pound. It’s the only way to shop.”

  Joan eyes Barry’s shirt distastefully, and shudders. “But aren’t they—” She makes a motion with her hands, attempting to get the words contaminated by the germs of the dead across without actually speaking them. You have to appreciate her tact.

  “A loving tribute to those who have passed?” finishes Mary. “I couldn’t have said it better myself. They allow our living, breathing bodies to become walking celebrations of the deceased. Where do you think I got this scarf?” Mary shakes the end of her scarf out over the table, while Joan throws herself across the plates of appetizers like a human shield.

  Summer nudges me under the table and I snort back a laugh. I’ve been back in her good graces since returning from the rec center, and we’ve been enjoying our rehearsal dinner. It’s been basically an endless exhibition of conflicting lifestyles, morals, and political opinions. Eric’s sitting to my right, so I’ve been getting nudged from both sides pretty much non-stop.

  “Chuck, Jo-Ann,” says Dad. “What do you guys think about Sunset Havens so far? Not bad, huh?”

  Uncle Chuck leans back in his chair and tips the last of his beer into his mouth. “I could live here,” he says. “It’s her you need to convince.” He jerks his thumb toward Aunt Jo-Ann who’s wearing an And I thought my husband was gross back home sort of expression.

  “It’s very nice,” says Jo-Ann. “From what we’ve seen so far. Which hasn’t been much.” She grimaces as Uncle Chuck whistles for the waitress and orders another drink. “I have to say though, whoever they’ve got doing the housekeeping in the rental homes should be fired.”

  “Why’s that?” asks Dad.

  Jo-Ann leans forward and says, almost in a whisper, “When we were unpacking this morning, I found a pair of black lace panties in the living room, just sticking out from under the couch! Real trashy stuff.“ She bats her hand in disgust.

  And...Summer’s choking. I pat her gently on the back while Dad’s face turns beet red. Mom takes a long gulp of wine and gives me a wink.

  “Sorry,” says Summer, clearing her throat. “Choked on a...” She looks around the table before realizing she hadn’t actually been eating anything yet. “Ice cube.”

  The conversation returns to relatively safe topics—sports, the weather, golf—as our soups and salads are served.

  “I can’t wait to see that golf cart of yours,” says Uncle Chuck, stabbing his fork into a ranch dressing covered crouton. The rest of his salad has been pushed to the side of the plate, half of it spilling over onto the tablecloth. “Is it in the parking lot?”

  Dad cringes. “It’s, um, it’s actually in the shop right now.”

  “Is that the name of the lake?” asks Eric. I kick him under the table and glance over at Rich, who meets my eye with a slack-jawed look of horror. He must still feel terrible about what he did to Dad’s golf cart. Although, I’ve seen him with a similar expression after winning three hundred bucks on a scratch ticket, so maybe he hasn’t even been listening to our conversation. He is all the way down at the other end of the table.

  I’m about to dive back into my salad, when Richard suddenly stands up, Manhattan in hand, looking like he has something important to say. He clears his throat. Summer hits me hard in the leg. I look over at her and shrug. My father already gave the rehearsal dinner toast right after our drinks came out, and he made sure to ask if anybody else wanted to say anything. Richard didn’t speak up at the time. But, maybe he’s changed his mind.

  “I have a few things I’d like to say,” says Richard. “I know that John has already made a toast, but this...this is different.”

  Different than a toast? Suddenly my hands are feeling clammy. What if this is his speak-now-or-forever-hold-your-peace moment? He had all those life and death revelations the other day, maybe he’s decided to revoke the permission he gave me to marry his daughter. No, he wouldn’t do something like that in front of everybody.

  Would he?

  “Graham,” says Richard, looking right at me. I’ve never seen him so serious before. Now my back is starting to sweat.

  “Yes?”

  Now we’re just staring at each other. He looks like he’s about to speak at a funeral.

  “I don’t know how to say this,” he continues. “I...I’ve never had to do this before. But I just can’t allow—”

  “More bread for the table?” The waitress has chosen this moment to place six additional baskets of bread, one at a time, onto our table.

  “Thank you,” says Richard. “Could we also get some fresh butter? The ones on the table have been sitting out.”

  “They’re soft,” says Joan.

  The waitress leaves, and Richard takes a sip of his Manhattan. Then he puts it down, pulls out a bottle of hand sanitizer, and squirts it into his palms. He rubs his hands together, then selects a piece of bread. He takes a bite. He does all of this while standing at the head of the table.

  He wouldn’t recant his permission while chomping on a dinner roll, would he?

  “As I was saying,” he finally continues, between bites, “I simply can’t allow this wedding to go on.”

  The entire table gasps.

  “Your butter, sir,” says the waitress.

  “Thank you,” says Richard. He opens up a packet of butter and spreads it on his bread. “Oh, Joan. This bread is out of this world. Try some.”

  “Um, Rich?” I say, looking nervously around the table, trying not to sound rude. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, it’s sort of like a challah, but it has seeds on top, which I’ve never seen done before on a—”

  “Not about the bread,” I say. “About not allowing the wedding to go on?”

  “Oh, right,” he says. “I mean that I can’t allow this wedding to go on...without saying a few w
ords about this wonderful, young man, Graham Blenderman.”

  The entire table lets out a collective sigh of relief and Summer mumbles a few choice words under her breath.

  “I see that everybody here agrees,” says Richard.

  “We thought you were calling off the wedding!” says Summer.

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Maybe because you look like somebody died?” says Summer. “And because you already said you didn’t want to give a toast?”

  “That’s because this isn’t a toast,” says Richard. “It’s a poem.”

  “You wrote a poem?”

  Richard wrote me a poem?

  He fishes around in his pants pocket until he locates a folded scrap of paper. I thought the man was going to disown me, when in reality, he wrote me a poem. I lean back in my chair, taking a long sip of scotch, feeling kind of like Clark Griswold after he got his Christmas lights to work. Maybe I should actually listen to the poem first, before I start to celebrate. It could still say Roses are red, violets are blue, over our dead bodies will our daughter marry you.

  Richard clears his throat, and begins to read.

  “When Summer was a little girl, her very favorite things,

  Were stories about castles, and fairies with bright wings.

  And as she changed into a teen, her favorite things changed too,

  To wizards, Hobbits, orcs, and elves, and even Doctor Who.”

  Summer laughs and looks admiringly at her father.

  “At age fourteen she told us, she would never date Prince Charming,

  She found his lack of personality, more than a bit alarming.

  And then again at twenty-four, she rejected Edward Cullen,

  She found him too controlling, too boring, and too sullen.”

  “Still do,” says Summer, nodding along.

  “Her mom and I had our concerns, that she’d never find The One,

  And live down in our basement, until all our lives were done.”

  Everybody at the table laughs, and Summer’s jaw drops open. That was unexpected. And awesome.

  “And even though we always hoped, she’d find one worth a damn,

  We never thought we’d have the luck, for that one to be Graham.”

  Richard pauses for a moment and holds a hand out in my direction. Everybody at the table lets out a collective awww. Summer squeezes my hand, smiling up at her dad. I smile at him too. Richard P. Hartwell, Poet. Who knew? He continues.

  “Graham took us out on jet skis, and even for tattoos,

  He taught us how to take some risks, on that special Bermuda cruise.

  But life is full of ups and downs, it’s not a vacation every day,

  You need someone to be by your side, who makes everything okay.

  He looks lovingly down at Joan, and squeezes her shoulder. Then he folds up the piece of paper and puts it back into his pocket.

  “That’s all I wrote,” he says. “I’m not much of a poet. But Joan and I wanted to make sure, in our own way, that you know how happy we are that our daughter is marrying somebody like you. We know that you’ll make a wonderful husband, father—”

  Joan holds both hands up in the air with her fingers crossed, and everybody laughs.

  “—and son-in-law. Welcome to the family, Graham.”

  There is a brief moment of silence before the table breaks into applause. Aunt Mary whistles. I jump up, walk to Richard’s end of the table, and pull him into a hug.

  “You don’t know how much that means to me,” I say, patting him heartily on the back. “For a minute there I thought—”

  “Don’t mention it,” says Richard, sniffling a little, and hugging me back. “It was nothing. We’re just so happy to have you in the family. Take good care of her, that’s all I ask. Better care than you took of me this week, am I right?” Richard gives me a wink.

  I knew someday we’d be able to laugh about all of this.

  “I promise,” I say. “Your daughter will never end up at the bottom of a lake.”

  Okay, that may have come out wrong. Richard’s face may have turned briefly back into the slack-jawed look of horror, but only for a second. Then I’m being pulled into another hug by Joan, who’s joined us at the head of the table.

  “Welcome to the family,” she says, squeezing me tightly.

  “It’s an honor,” I say, squeezing her back and lifting her slightly off the ground.

  And I mean it.

  SUMMER

  35

  It can’t possibly be six o’clock already.

  I feel like I slid into bed mere minutes ago. It can’t have been more than a millisecond since my head sank into the pillow and I blissfully lost consciousness. I would give anything to be able to hit the snooze button right now. Anything. But I can’t.

  Would you like to know why?

  Because instead of a simple alarm going off—one that I could smash with the palm of my hand, and then roll over into a deep, glorious slumber—I have Graham’s mother pounding on my bedroom door. She’s pounding on it, and she’s singing.

  Good morning! Good morning! Good morning to you!

  The woman is completely insane. I mean, I love her and can’t wait to be a part of the family and all that. But let’s face it, she’s nuts.

  “Summer? Are you up?”

  Bang! Bang! Bang!

  “Yes, yeah...I’m up,” I mumble into my pillow.

  “Summer?”

  Bang! Bang! Bang!

  “Yes! Yes! I’m up!” I scream, before she has a chance to start banging again. Or worse yet, singing.

  Yes, I’m up. At least I don’t have to shower. Zumba class at Sunset Havens doesn’t exactly require one to look her best. That’s where Graham and I are right now—

  Wait a minute.

  I roll over and look at my phone. As the fog slowly clears from my brain, I stare up at the ceiling. A smile slowly spreads across my face as reality sinks in. Babette’s not waking me up early for Zumba class. Those days are finally over. Babette’s waking me up early because—

  “Summer? Are you in there? It’s your wedding daaaay!”

  Because it’s my wedding day.

  “I’m up! Thank you!” I shout, making sure she hears me. I sit up in bed and shake Graham. “Hey, wake up! It’s the big day!”

  “You think I slept through that?” he asks, rolling over and smiling up at me. “Come here, Mrs. Blenderman.” He pulls me down for a kiss.

  “Right now, the only Mrs. Blenderman in this house is out in that hallway,” I say. “Let’s not jinx anything.”

  “There’s nothing left to go wrong, Sum,” he says. “We’re getting married in, like, ten hours.”

  “You’re right,” I say, rubbing my hands over my face. “And if I didn’t already say it, I’m so glad that you talked to Janice and Francine last night. I really do feel so much better about everything. So, thank you.” I give him another kiss.

  “It was nothing,” says Graham. “Oh, hey...I almost forgot. I made you something.” He grabs his phone off the nightstand and flips it around so I can see the screen.

  Wedding Countdown – 9 hours 55 minutes 16 seconds

  We smile giddily across the bed at each other.

  Bang! Bang! Bang!

  “We’re making everybody breakfast!” shouts Babette. “Come on out when you’re done!”

  Done? Ew. I quickly jump off the bed and throw open the door to prove that nothing sinful was happening on the morning of our wedding. Days and months before the wedding, sure. Just not the morning of.

  Graham follows me into the kitchen where Mom and Dad are already seated at the table, sipping coffee. Babette and John are both buzzing around, scrambling eggs and cooking bacon. Thankfully, there is no kale to be seen. Just a normal, old-fashioned, pre-wedding breakfast with our loving parents. Maybe it’s me, but there’s a general sense of happiness and well-being in the air today.

  Also in the air, the approaching sound of sirens.

&nb
sp; “Those sound close,” says Babette, over her shoulder.

  “Sure do,” says John, dumping a pile of bacon onto a plate and bringing it to the table.

  I pick up a slice and start nibbling on it. Despite the incoming food, I feel a small pit starting to form in the bottom of my stomach. Wedding day jitters, I suppose.

  “Should we be concerned?” I ask anyway. Just to be safe.

  Babette looks over her shoulder at me. “Don’t worry. Ambulance sirens are nothing new around here.”

  That’s when several fire trucks drive by, laying on their horns.

  “Somebody probably burnt the toast over at Marmaduke’s,” says John.

  He and Babette laugh as the small pit in my stomach increases to more of a medium-sized pit. I stand up and walk over to the window. I’m not expecting to see much, since the Blendermans live on a residential side street, so I’m surprised to see a large column of thick black smoke rising in the not so distant distance.

  “Oh!” I say, stepping away from the window. “Something is on fire! Something close!”

  “Is it a wildfire?” asks Mom. “Should we evacuate?”

  “I’ll pack the underwear!” says Dad, heading down the hallway faster than I’ve ever seen him move in his life. “Joan, grab the canned goods! I’ll get The Duffle!”

  Mom’s breakfast plate clangs to the floor as she jumps up to join Dad. I don’t even bother trying to stop them. I’m too distracted by the medium-sized pit in my stomach turning into something straight-up gnawing at my guts.

  “Canned corn? Will that work?” shouts Mom. She’s in total panic mode, ransacking the Blenderman kitchen, while everyone else has joined me by the window to watch the smoke.

  “Beans! Get beans!” shouts back Dad.

  Mom pulls down a can of string beans, and then sweeps a bunch of forks into a plastic bag.

  “That does look like it’s coming from Duke’s Landing,” says Babette, a slight waver to her voice.

  “Like I said,” says John, “it’s probably Marmaduke’s. Or maybe Starbucks. No big loss. There are still seven thousand nine hundred and forty-six of those left!”