The Summer Without You

by Karen Swan

  ‘I’m good, thank you. It was entirely my own fault,’ Bobbi replied, clearly on her best behaviour, bending to slip her foot back into the shoe.

  ‘No, it wasn’t at all. You’re not the first person that’s happened to. Melodie’s always telling me to infill it. The“crack”, she calls it. She says it’s a safety hazard, even though neither she nor I – you’ll be relieved to hear – wear high-heel shoes. I suppose she does have a point.’ He scuffed the groove lightly with his shoe, an almost loving gesture. ‘Clearly I’d hate for anybody to come to any harm, but . . . it’s a Fukayama house. That doesn’t really mean anything to my wife, but—’

  ‘Oh, but it does to me!’ Bobbi gasped. ‘He’s my absolute hero. I studied him obsessively at college.’

  Brook looked surprised. ‘Really? No one ever usually knows what I’m talking about when I mention his name. It’s like I’m speaking in tongues.’

  ‘Oh, I do. I’m an architect, a VP with BES Associates.’

  ‘I know them well! Dick Eastman is one of my oldest friends. We were at Varsity together.’

  ‘He’s a great man, a true visionary. I’ve learned so much from him,’ Bobbi gushed, eyes sparkling at the news that her host was an old friend of her top boss. Ro could almost see the cogs in her mind working, wondering how to take best advantage of the situation.

  ‘You know, I always find myself jealous of architects. I share your love for the discipline but lack the requisite creative vision myself. Of course, I can appreciate it when I see it –’ he gestured to the award-winning house surrounding them ‘– but it’s not quite the same.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I don’t suppose you’d like a tour?’

  Ro thought Bobbi was going to swoon on the spot, and as Brook led her out of the room, Ro almost had to wonder whether Bobbi hadn’t sabotaged herself on purpose.

  ‘Well, I guess we should go out too,’ Ro smiled, looking over at Hump and Melodie, who were already standing by the pool.

  Greg looked back at her. ‘Sorry, what?’

  Ro hesitated. He was clearly straining to hear the conversation between Brook and Bobbi in the next room, as Bobbi’s laughter kept drifting through in coquettish fragments.

  ‘Shall we join the others?’ She jerked her thumb behind her and he nodded, following behind reluctantly.

  She carefully picked her way over the groove in the floor, and they walked towards the terrace, Ro trying to take in the immaculate garden. It was like a modern-day Versailles, with box balls and trees planted in rigid symmetry, and parterres criss-crossing the lawn in a saltire. It was certainly impressive and clearly very high maintenance, although not to her taste – she preferred Florence’s house, where beach balls lay strewn on the grass and pool towels were stretched messily across the old-school plastic loungers.

  They joined Melodie and Hump’s conversation – seemingly on ZZ Top, of all things – Ro trying to adjust to this new context in which she had to view her friend. They had met and bonded in a small, dark yoga studio where Melodie had brought Ro along for the ride on her hunt for spiritual riches; but seeing her here – in what had to be one of the most spectacular properties in the Hamptons – it was hard to reconcile that humility with such lavishness. What could the woman who lived in this possibly be searching for?

  A peal of laughter rippled over to them and they all looked up to see Brook and Bobbi in an upstairs bedroom, Bobbi folded over with amusement at something Brook had said, her hand resting on his arm. Ro glanced back at Melodie, who had looked over too, an inscrutable expression on her smiling face. And she thought, then, that perhaps she knew.

  ‘I can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to seeing your posters up,’ Melodie said as the waiter set down her lobster salad. Only a sliver of flame-red daylight was left in the inky night sky. They were seated now at a slim glass table beside the illuminated pool, which was flickering like candlelight, the dark garden dotted with discreet uplighters.

  ‘It’s funny, I’ve never done anything like that before. I wasn’t even sure if I could do it. It was really interesting having to find a single image that can communicate a specific message.’

  ‘Sorry, what’s this? Greg asked, putting his hand over his wine glass as the waiter came round with a bottle of Pouilly fumé.

  ‘Ro’s in cahoots with Florence Wiseman for her kooky seed-bombing campaign,’ Hump explained, a devilish look on his face.

  ‘Hey! It is not kooky! There is sound reasoning behind her objectives,’ Ro said defensively. ‘And I hardly think we’re in cahoots. She was doing me a favour because I hadn’t got any work on and she had to commission someone anyway. It helped us both out.’

  ‘Is this the project to replant the dunes?’ Brook asked her, the first time he’d spoken to her since the introductions at the beginning of the evening. Ro was sitting to his left, Bobbi to his right, but Bobbi had monopolized his attention all night, barely pausing for breath, much less food.

  ‘It is.’

  ‘A noble idea,’ he replied, sipping his wine thoughtfully. A pause bloomed after the comment. Noble?

  ‘But?’ Greg prompted, picking up on the same scepticism as Ro.

  ‘Well, I admire the sentiment, I really do, but it’s going to take more than grass to protect this town when the next northeaster comes.’

  ‘What’s a northeaster?’ Ro whispered to Greg on her left.

  ‘The storms that hit us throughout the winter come from the northeast, the prevailing wind and tide direction,’ Melodie offered, overhearing.

  ‘So what do you think should be done?’ Greg asked, clearly interested as he leaned in on his elbows.

  ‘Well, something, for a start. For too long now, the town’s been paralysed into inactivity by the damned LWRP,’ Brook said.

  Ro looked to Melodie for help again. ‘The what?’ she mouthed.

  But before Melodie could help, Brook butted in. ‘It stands for the Local Waterfront Revitalization Program. A town citizens’ committee drafted it in the late 1990s and the town adopted its recommendations when the Department of State authorized it in 2007. Basically, they advocate an “elevate or retreat policy”: either lift or relocate vulnerable structures—’

  ‘Oh! Strategic retreat, right? I’ve heard of that!’ Ro said excitedly, remembering Bobbi’s comments their first afternoon together on the beach.

  ‘Exactly,’ Melodie nodded. ‘The problem is—’

  ‘The problem is, they wouldn’t know consistency if it hit them on the ass,’ Brook interrupted. ‘Policy states they’re outlawing rebuilding in certain areas and yet after every storm, there they are handing out emergency permits for owners to repair their properties. It’s too expensive. At some point, we’re going to be hit by a super-storm that’ll leave us with a clean-up cost that even Lloyds of London can’t cover.’

  ‘But what are you saying – that these people aren’t entitled to protect their homes? That the State doesn’t have an obligation to help them? They’re taxpayers; these are their homes, their businesses,’ Greg argued, eyes shining. ‘Are they just to be left to the elements without either support or recompense? When the LWRP was drafted, there were only half as many hurricanes as there have been since 1995, and the problem’s only going to get worse.’

  ‘How do you know that?’ Bobbi demanded, a sneer in her voice.

  Greg looked at her coolly, the first time he had looked at her all dinner, Ro thought, though she may have missed a glance as she fiddled with the claws. ‘I’m an environmental attorney, Bobbi. It’s my job to know.’

  ‘I agree with you, Greg,’ Brook nodded, pulling Greg’s gaze back to him. ‘I advise on the National Flood Insurance Program and we’re all in accord that new thinking is needed; new policy is needed. It’s already coming from the top. As you’re probably aware, a bill has just passed from the House of Representatives to the Senate with $50.7 billion in Hurricane Sandy aid and long-term hazard reduction. I know Senator McClusky is absolutely focused on making damn sure some o
f that money comes our way, but we’re on the frontline here, and Montauk more than anyone.’

  ‘They were worst affected by Sandy,’ Melodie said kindly, for Ro’s benefit again. ‘Their beaches and dunes were all but destroyed, only to be hit by another north-easter a week later.’

  ‘Oh no,’ Ro mumbled.

  ‘It’s an emergency over there, that’s for sure,’ Hump said, pulling apart a bread roll and scattering crumbs all over the table. ‘The surf’s great, but . . .’ he shrugged.

  ‘So you’re saying shelling out for repairs is too expensive – but what’s the alternative?’ Greg persisted. He lived for the cut and thrust of debate, it seemed.

  ‘Well, that’s where there may be progress. I’m on the Coastal Erosion Committee.’ This time Brook looked directly at Ro. ‘It’s an advisory council that was set up by East Hampton Town Board in December, after Sandy. I’m on it, some town officials, local business owners, environmental advocates, engineers, you name it . . . We report our recommendations directly to the board.’

  ‘By which you mean to Florence Wiseman,’ Melodie said quietly.

  Brook looked across at his wife. ‘As the town councillor, darling, yes.’

  ‘Well, you’re already on a hiding to nothing, then. She’s a lovely lady but hardly the steadiest boat in the harbour.’

  Ro frowned. What did that mean? But Greg wasn’t interested in personalities or reputations. He wanted theories, ideas. ‘So what’s your consensus, Brook?’

  Brook turned back to him, holding one hand up, index finger outstretched, to indicate for more wine to be poured. ‘Well, our interim proposal is that measures currently considered “hard structures” – such as sandbags – are redefined as “seasonal structures”. That would mean they could be put in before the winter storms hit and removed in the spring.’ He reached for his refilled glass.

  ‘And your long-term objective?’

  ‘We’re pushing for a programme of soft measures.’ Brook cleared his throat and took a sip of wine. ‘Beach nourishment, in other words.’

  ‘Rebuilding the beaches? But that’s just throwing money away,’ Bobbi scoffed, launching herself into the debate. ‘You’re dredging or importing sand – whatever – at these colossal costs only for it to be dragged out to sea during the next storm.’

  ‘No, no. Not at all,’ Brook countered. ‘Beach nourishment isn’t just a matter of relocating sand to beaches. When storm season hits, a nourished beach can absorb a storm’s energy.’

  ‘But how?’ Bobbi frowned. ‘I don’t get it. The sand just gets pulled out to sea again.’

  Brook put down his glass, a pleased smile on his face as he patted her hand. Ro saw Greg’s eyes watch the gesture. ‘You see, Bobbi, a nourished beach is all about the angle and the volume of the sand.’ He tried to show it for her with his hands. ‘As a storm hits land, yes, the waves will carry the sediment offshore, but where it shoals further out, the waves break, weakening their force before they hit the shoreline, protecting dunes and the properties behind them from wave attack and limiting how far ashore the storm surge will travel. Do you see?’

  His tone of voice was worryingly close to patronizing and Ro shot a nervous look at her volatile housemate, looking for danger signs. But Bobbi, to Ro’s astonishment, was nodding back at him, her mouth parted a little in studied interest. For Brook’s benefit, though, or Greg’s? She was putting on a fine show and seemed oblivious to the fact that both Melodie and Greg were staring daggers at her.

  ‘Are you really in insurance? You sound like a geography professor to me,’ Hump grinned, looking more like he wanted to start a food fight with the bread rolls than debate environmental policy.

  Brook threw his head back and laughed. ‘I only know all about it because of the savings it generates for my industry. Did you know that after Hurricane Isabel in 2003, an estimated one hundred and five million dollars in damage was prevented because it struck a nourished beach? The project was designed to stop a nine-foot storm surge – and it did! Over a hundred million dollars saved. Isn’t that incredible?’ He looked around the table in genuine amazement. ‘Don’t get me wrong. It’s not a permanent solution – nothing ever will be – but I do passionately believe it is a long-term vision that can protect our backshore assets and coastal communities for decades to come, and really help restore confidence in the real-estate values and property sectors there.’

  ‘And insurance industry,’ Greg added drily, well able to see that Brook’s interests weren’t purely philanthropic.

  ‘Exactly!’ Brook agreed. ‘Everyone agrees coastal ecology and economy are closely intertwined.’

  ‘Well, I’m not holding my breath,’ Melodie said, grasping her wine glass lightly. ‘It’ll all get tied up in the usual red tape. Look at the fiasco over the Montauk lighthouse. The rock face has been severely eroding right in front of everyone’s noses for years, and even though they’ve had the plans and money in place to build an abutment that will shore up the cliffs, some archaic law has prevented the State from transferring the funding to the lighthouse’s owner. The tip of that coast has come in from three hundred feet, when the lighthouse was built, to only fifty feet today. And all because it never occurred to anyone to actually transfer ownership to the town. I mean, it’s laughable,’ Melodie exclaimed with a high, brittle laugh, shaking her head.

  ‘I think what my wife’s trying to say is that a life in politics is not for her,’ Brook joked.

  ‘I just don’t have the patience for all that wrangling and procrastination. Either do it or don’t, but don’t spend ten years talking about it.’

  ‘Local politics are never that straightforward, darling.’

  ‘But that’s precisely why Florence’s campaign is so exciting,’ Ro offered, keen to be able to contribute to the conversation. ‘She’s not just content to let things get caught up in bureaucratic tangles. She’s out there doing something about it right now.’

  ‘I agree her campaign is part of the solution – just not all of it,’ Brook said, managing to agree and yet disagree with her at the same time, something she noticed he’d managed with Greg and Bobbi too. He was indeed a skilled politician: slippery and hard to hook. ‘Sandy eroded some dunes that were thirty feet high to just two feet. The dunes can only do so much. Beach nourishment is the answer.’

  Oh. Ro fell quiet again, feeling out of her depth, and she concentrated on her food, deciding to wait for the conversation to change topics. No one discussed local politics with anything like the same passion back home – although why would they when the most pressing thing on their agenda was introducing kerbside recycling and e-bills for utilities?

  She wondered what Matt would think to see her sitting with these people who had all been unknown to her not so long ago, discussing important issues in such lavish surroundings. She tried to imagine him sitting here too – contributing with Blackadder quotes and factoids he picked up from reading the miscellanea book in the loo. She tried to imagine him drinking with Hump, debating with Greg, agreeing with Bobbi, but it was like trying to picture him with a shaved head. She just couldn’t see it.

  Chapter Seventeen

  10/01/2010

  07h27

  Closed door.

  ‘Anything?’ Ted calls.

  ‘Gimme a minute!’ Marina. Behind the door. Cross.

  Audible sigh. Camera shifts slightly. Glimpse of grey silk walls. Pans across room, past vast double bed, to crib. Zooms in. Ella sleeping. Thumb in. Pink pig in her other hand.

  Door opens. Camera switches back. Marina wearing a thin blue dressing gown. Holding a small white stick.

  ‘Well?’ Ted. Anxious. Impatient.

  Marina pale, hair unbrushed. Slowly places a hand to her belly.

  Audible gasp. ‘Does that . . . ? Are you saying . . . ?’ Ted. Voice thick.

  ‘It’s so soon, Ted . . . You are never coming near me again. Do you hear?’ Marina.

  Smiles.

  Camera angle changes. Ted. Stand
s up.

  ‘No, no, no!’ Squeals as camera gets closer. ‘You’ve done quite enough damage! Ted!’

  Whoop. Ted.

  Blackness.

  11/06/2010

  17h19

  ‘OK, let’s give it another go.’ Marina. Scene out of focus, deep blue. Camera pulls back. Focus sharpens. Pair of legs. Jeans. Tanned feet. Pedicure. Wooden floor. Coral sofa.

  Angle swings up to show Ella sitting on the floor, cross-legged and wobbly. Surrounded on all sides by pink cushions.

  ‘And there we have it!’ Triumphant. ‘Ella is officially sitting—Oh! Oh!’

  Scene out of focus. Coral. Muffled voices. Crying.

  Blackness.

  12/25/2010

  02h17

  ‘You are crazy.’ Marina.

  Camera on Ted, cross-legged on floor, screwdriver in mouth. Fronds of Christmas tree in background. Presents in red foil paper with snowmen. Leaning against coral sofa. Wearing boxers. Bare chest. Beer beside him on the floor.

  ‘It’ll just be so much better if she gets it pre-assembled.’

  ‘But you’ve been doing it for five hours now. She’ll be up soon.’

  ‘I’ve nearly got it.’

  Camera zooms in on elaborate wooden doll’s house.

  ‘I don’t think you have, Ted. Is that a window or a door? It looks like a window to me.’

  Frowns at the window in the doorway. ‘Nearly there.’

  ‘It’s not like she’ll remember if it’s not pre-assembled anyway.’

  Ted looks up to camera. ‘You go to bed, then. There’s nothing stopping you. You don’t have to stay up.’

  ‘What? And miss you taking a chomp out of Rudolph’s carrot? You have to be kidding.’

  ‘I told you. I don’t like carrots when they’re cooked. I’m certainly not eating one raw.’

  ‘But it’s for Ella. What will she think to come down and find Rudolph hasn’t eaten the carrot she left out?’

  Ted. Straight to camera. Eyebrows up. ‘Like you say, I doubt she’ll remember. Besides, you need the folic acid.’