by Loree Lough
“So, Zach,” Harrison said, “you never answered my question.”
He glanced at his watch then met her father’s eyes.
“Is your interest in Summer purely business?”
Now Summer buried her face in her hands, and he heard her whisper, “I should have said no. Should have said no.”
He opened his mouth, fully intending to tell the truth. She was his student, and he would make sure she got her money’s worth from every lesson and then some, precisely what he’d given every student since opening Marshall Law.
But Summer beat him to it. She tossed her napkin onto the table. “You know, I’m not the least bit hungry. And ditz that I am, I think I left the iron turned on.” After rooting around in her purse, she placed a twenty dollar bill on the table. “That should cover the cost of a taxi to get you two back to the town house.” She met Zach’s eyes. “Sorry,” she said, then left in such a hurry that she forgot her jacket on the back of her chair.
He considered using it as an excuse to go after her. But that would only put her in the position of apologizing again, and if that self-conscious look on her face was any indicator, she already felt embarrassed enough.
Harrison leaned both elbows on the table. “This has been an eventful couple of days for her—first getting out of the house to attend your class, then lunch with us…and running into you.”
“My thoughts, exactly.” Diplomacy had never been his strongest trait, but Zach decided not to tell the man what else he’d been thinking.
“Ah, here’s our waiter,” Susannah said. “Can you bring us a doggie bag for our daughter’s meal? She had to leave, I’m afraid.”
“Of course. Can I get you anything else?”
“No,” Harrison said with a dismissive wave, “we’re fine.”
Fine? That isn’t the way Zach would describe them. He’d sensed that Summer didn’t need or want his pity, but she had it…for reasons that had nothing to do with the attack.
“Make that two doggie bags,” he said, and once the young man was out of earshot, he tapped his watch. “Just noticed the time. Crazy schedule. And it’s payday at the studio.” He shrugged and hoped they wouldn’t ask for details.
“We understand. And I wonder if we could ask you to do us a favor.” A favor. Involving Summer, no doubt.
“If I can…”
“Can we rely on you to let us know if Summer’s, ah, if her situation changes? I mean, she’s finally getting out of the house. Meeting new people. Doing things. And while that’s all well and good, I know my daughter. It’s entirely possible that she’ll slip back into old habits. Bad habits. So if you notice anything to indicate she’s backsliding, will you tell us?”
“I’m afraid not, Mr. Lane. Summer may well have a few unresolved issues, but she’s an adult. While I understand your concern, you need to know that if she ever decides to confide in me, I won’t violate her trust.”
A moment of uncomfortable silence passed before Harrison said, “Well, I appreciate your honesty.”
Zach rose slowly. “It was good talking with you again,” he said, shaking his hand, then his wife’s. He tucked a twenty dollar bill under the lip of his plate, invited them to bring home his meal and wished them a safe trip.
*
THAT EVENING, ZACH was still mulling over lunch with the Lanes when Libby let herself into his apartment.
“Rats,” she said, slamming the door. “I was hoping you’d be asleep, so I could pour cold water on your head.”
It had been the last prank he’d played on her the morning she left for college. “Sorry,” he said, ruffling her hair, “looks like you’ll have to get your revenge another time.”
She helped herself to a slice of cold pizza and flopped onto the couch. “I can’t believe you still don’t have any artwork on your walls. Honestly, Zach, how can you stand being surrounded by all this stark white?”
“Hey, I make my bed every day. What more do I need?”
Libby rolled her eyes. “How about some color, for starters. And a few personal touches.” She shook her head. “I’ll bet you brush your teeth with a clear toothbrush!”
“For your information, it’s green.” That made him grin because—like his comb and brush—it was see-through green.
“Wait. You make your bed? Every day? Why? You aren’t in the marines anymore. And besides, you’re just gonna get right back in and mess it up again!”
“Old routines are hard to change.” Zach faked a scowl. “Now eat your pizza, will you, and let me enjoy the movie.”
Libby was quiet, and for a minute there, Zach thought the action on the TV screen had engaged her.
“What is it with you and cowboy flicks, anyway? Snorting horses and trail dust and toothless dudes spitting tobacco…” She grimaced. “A rational person would think you got enough guns and explosions in Afghanistan to last a lifetime.”
It hadn’t been easy, learning to divert his thoughts from those harrowing years overseas, and Zach didn’t appreciate the reminders. He cut Libby a quick glare and hoped it would be enough to put her on another track.
Thankfully, it was.
“Okay. Out with it. What’s wrong with you?” she asked.
If they were twins, that might explain her uncanny knack for reading his moods—even those he tried to mask. The seven-year age difference had never stopped her from bossing him around, as if she were the older sibling. Most of the time, Zach didn’t mind that a bit.
This was not one of those times. He hadn’t yet figured out how he felt about his conversation with Summer and her parents, so how was he supposed to explain it to Libby?
“Your meeting at the resort fell flat, huh?”
“No, I haven’t made a decision about that yet.”
“I don’t blame you for being apprehensive. Sounds like a lot of time and effort, with no guarantee that the classes will increase your income.” She paused to sip her soda. “Then again, you could look at it as free advertising.”
“Which I’d have to pay for in other ways. Might be worth it, if the folks who enrolled were local instead of tourists, but with out-of-towners, I wouldn’t be able to count on return business.”
“Still, word of mouth, right? When Mrs. Smith gets home from vacation, she tells her boss how much she learned from you, and when he visits Vail, he signs up then tells Mr. Green what a great teacher you are, and—” Libby bristled slightly under his impatient gaze. “You know, with a look like that, you could make pickles without so much as a flake of dill.” Frowning, she added, “It isn’t my fault that you’re falling for her.”
“Falling? What are you talking about?”
“Summer Lane.” She giggled. “Summer Lane. What a name! I’ll just bet her parents lived in a commune—on Summer Lane—when she was conceived.”
“You’re hilarious, but dead wrong. I’m not falling for her.”
“I could take that to mean you’ve already fallen.”
“Take it any way you like. She has way too many issues, and I don’t have the training or the patience to deal with them.”
If he’d learned anything from the Martha fiasco, it was that getting caught up in someone else’s problems could cost him. A lot.
“Uh-huh.”
She had that look in her eye. He wouldn’t put it past her to unscrew the shade from the overhead light and launch into a one-woman version of good-cop, bad-cop. To divert her, Zach told her about how her parents had thoroughly embarrassed her today—omitting the part about Summer leaving early. He told her that the last time he’d run into them, they told him that Summer’s attacker had held her captive for hours. “I can’t put it out of my mind.”
“What!” Libby put down her pizza and crossed the room. “How did she get away?” she asked, sitting on the arm of his recliner.
“Don’t know. Frankly, I wish her folks hadn’t told me.”
Libby got quiet, really quiet, no doubt reliving moments from her own nightmare. Then she sighed. “Loving som
eone like her won’t be easy, you know, especially for someone like you.”
“Someone like me?”
“With a rabid case of KISAS.”
“If this isn’t an example of the pot calling the kettle black, I don’t know what is.”
Libby must have known better than to pursue that line of thought. A good thing, because Zach had no desire to remind her that she’d left a trail of confused and disillusioned boyfriends in her wake in the past two years.
“What makes you think love has anything to do with it?” he asked instead.
Libby sang a few bars of “What’s Love Got to Do with It,” and when she saw that he wasn’t amused, she said, “Because you’re predictable. You might not be in love with her yet, but you’re on the verge. You’re behaving exactly the way you did with Nancy and Hillary and Gabby. And let’s not forget Martha—”
“Bah,” Zach cut in. “Ancient history.” He didn’t like being reminded that he had absolutely no talent for picking women. Women who were good for him, anyway. And since Libby had helped put him back together after each breakup, she knew that better than anyone. Still, was she trying to depress him?
“I’ve never even met the girl,” she said, “but I know her type.”
Sometimes, she could be such a know-it-all. But Zach was determined not to let her know she was right. “Remember when I was in that garage band in high school?”
“Yeah, I do.” She smiled dreamily. “I had the biggest crush on your drummer. Barry. No, Bobby. Or was it—”
“Yeah. It’s easy to see that you really had it bad for Billy,” he teased. “But okay, remember when we performed at an assembly, and the principal made him paint over that sign on his bass drum?”
“You guys graduated years ahead of me, so I remember the after, but none of the before. What did his drum say, originally?”
“‘Nobody likes a smart—’”
She held up a hand. “Message sent and received. But I’ll bet you dinner and dessert at the Left Bank that I can describe this Summer person almost to a T.”
“There’s no way I’m risking fifty bucks per entrée just to prove a point.”
“Oh, no. You’re not getting off that easily.” Libby stared at the ceiling and started her list. “She’s smart—probably a nurse or a teacher before the, ah, event. Blond. Blue-eyed. Five-six or five-seven, with a figure like a model. She doesn’t talk much, but she used to until, the…thing.” Libby shrugged. “She used to love jewelry, too, only now she doesn’t wear much, because she hates calling attention to herself.” She met his eyes, and looking very pleased with herself, said, “Well? How’d I do?”
Summer was intelligent, and she didn’t waste much time on idle chitchat. And except for small gold hoop earrings and a wide silver band on each ring finger, she wore no jewelry. It wasn’t likely Libby and Summer would ever meet—if he had anything to say about it—so Zach saw no point in refuting her evaluation. But if they did cross paths, it might be fun to watch his smart aleck sister eat a big wedge of humble pie when she realized how wrong she’d been about everything else.
Libby sat quietly for a moment then slid an arm across his shoulders. “She’s kind of the reason I stopped by.”
“Who?”
She looked at him as if he’d grown a big hairy mole on his forehead.
“Oh. Right.” He grinned. “Her.”
“You’re impossible,” she said. “So anyway, I have this idea…”
Zach groaned. “Uh-oh.”
“From what I’ve gathered, she isn’t the type who’ll see me on a professional basis. So…what if the mountain went to Mohammad, so to speak?”
He snorted.
“No, really. I could find some reason to show up at Marshall Law, maybe—”
“She’s a beginner, and you have nearly two years under your belt.”
“Not to take classes, you big goof. Maybe I can get her to open up, unofficially.”
“How do you know she isn’t already seeing a shrink?”
She groaned. “If I told you once, I told you a hundred times. People in my line of work find the term shrink insulting. Will you ever get that through your thick marine head?”
It was his turn to shrug. “Probably not, because it makes sense to me. People come to you with big problems, and you shrink ’em. What’s insulting about that?”
Either she was too busy stuffing her face with pizza to hear him, or she chose to ignore his analogy.
“Seems to me your Summer needs a friend. Someone she can trust. Someone to confide in. And to be honest, I could use a friend, too.”
“She isn’t my Summer.”
“Yet.” She smirked. “But you wish she was. I can tell.”
“Stop acting like my sister and start behaving like a professional. What you’re proposing is worse than dumb, it’s unethical.”
Libby finished her soda and put on her coat. “Thanks for supper,” she said, and jogged down the stairs.
When the door slammed behind her, Zach knew he’d struck a nerve. She’d been mad at him before, and he’d been mad at her, too. In a day or two, she’d cool off, and things would go back to normal.
In the meantime, he’d enjoy the nag-free peace and quiet.
And he wouldn’t have to worry that she’d go prying into Summer’s past.
CHAPTER TEN
OF ALL THE photos and artwork decorating her walls, Summer liked the plaque from Justin best. He’d given it to her on the day her surgeon and orthopedist released her from the rehab center. Until very recently, the meaning of Emerson’s quote, floating on a watercolor painting of the unending sea, had escaped her. “Do the thing you fear,” the calligraphy read, “and the death of fear is certain.”
All those months, it had hung amid similar Emerson writings, some from her parents, others she’d purchased for herself. “He who is not every day conquering some fear has not learned the secret of life.”
“When it is darkest, men see the stars.”
“Always do what you are afraid to do.” And, all those months, she’d walked past them, barely giving the words a cursory glance, even when dusting their ebony frames. Susannah stepped up behind her. “Honey, I don’t believe I’ve seen you look this happy in months, and I have to admit, it’s a sight for sore eyes.”
Summer continued facing the wall and shrugged. It was sad, really, that her own mother couldn’t tell when she was faking. Every moment away from the house—two Marshall Law classes, lunch with her folks, dessert delivery next door to the Petersons—had been terrifying, and with each return, she vowed never to go out again. It hadn’t been easy, but she’d tamped down the fear, telling herself it would get easier with time. It had not. As a kid, she’d hated brushing and flossing, but her do-the-right-thing gene compelled her to get it done, push through the fear. Maybe in time, going out would become a habit, too.
Her grandfather loved to say things like “It is what it is” and “A leopard can’t change his spots.” Without realizing it, he’d prepared her for moments like these, when disappointment hurt so bad she just wanted to cry.
“I have all the fixings for made-from-scratch cocoa,” Summer said, forcing cheer into her voice. “How about I fix a mug for each you and dad and me?”
“I’d love some, but your dad just left to go skiing with our agent.”
“He did? For a guy his size, Dad moves like a cat, doesn’t he? We’ll have to put a bell around his neck,” Summer said, walking beside her mom into the kitchen. She began assembling the ingredients. “I’m guessing Marty has another audition set up for you guys?”
“Just for Dad this time, but not until after the film festival. Soon as it’s over, we’ll drive back to the Baltimore airport and head straight for LA.” She squealed quietly and gave Summer a sideways hug. “This could be his big chance, honey. It’s not just some bit part, like we usually settle for. If he gets it, your father will have second billing. And who knows where he could go from there.”
A
cting had provided her parents with a respectable income, and Summer had never wanted for anything. But they hadn’t reached the notoriety or salaries they dreamed of. She hoped her dad would get the part, and that it really would lead to bigger, better roles. She wondered which other actors would audition, but asking about the competition was sure to deflate her mother’s buoyant mood. Instead, Summer listened while Susannah talked. Eventually, they fell into a familiar pattern of conversation, sipping marshmallow-topped cocoa, discussing their favorite movies and songs, giggling like teenagers about Hollywood’s most handsome actors.
“I’ve really missed this, Mom.”
“Me, too, honey.”
“You’re still the coolest mom ever.” She spooned another dollop of marshmallow cream onto her cocoa. “I was the envy of every girl at Kennedy High, you know.”
Susannah chuckled. “Only because they loved my taste in sweaters and shoes.”
Suddenly, Susannah wasn’t laughing anymore.
“Honey, Dad and I have been talking…”
Summer tensed and topped off Susannah’s mug with a generous portion of marshmallow. “Drink up, Mom. This stuff is guaranteed to sweeten even the sourest mood.”
But her mom didn’t even crack a smile. “We were very disappointed when Dr. Wolff told us you’d stopped seeing him. And so was he.”
She didn’t know which infuriated her more, that her mother had the audacity to feel disappointment in her, or that Wolff had breached their doctor-patient confidentiality agreement. It hadn’t taken long to realize the guy was a quack, in it only for the $250 an hour she paid him twice a week. Based solely on a few vague symptoms—rapid heartbeat, trembling hands, trouble breathing at the thought of leaving the house—he had diagnosed her as agoraphobic. But rather than suggest that a trusted friend accompany her outside for extended periods of time, he wanted her to take antidepressants. When she refused Paxil and Prozac, citing the fact that she was afraid, not depressed, he wrote a prescription for Xanax. Summer never dropped it off at the pharmacy because she believed time, not a drug, was all she needed.
