Second Chance Summer

by Allie Boniface

  Joe tapped his fingers on the table. “Of course.” He paused for a moment. “If you do decide to sell, there’s something you should know.”

  His cautious tone made her lower the phone to her lap. “What is it?”

  “There’s an old farmhouse on the back acre of the property that your father rented out. A family’s been living there for a couple of years now.”

  She glanced out the window to the mountains that framed the small town. “So if I sell it, farmhouse and all, I’m a schmuck who’s throwing someone out of their home.”

  “You could never be a schmuck. I just wanted you to know.”

  She pulled at her bottom lip. “Could I sell it with some kind of contingency? Let the renters stay on?”

  “I’m sure you could talk to the realtor about that. Might make it harder to find a buyer, though. I know you want to get this taken care of...” He cleared his throat again. “...as soon as possible.”

  Summer shifted in her chair. Ten years since the accident. Ten years of memories she couldn't put together, of friendships neglected, of loss she’d tried to forget. As soon as possible was preferable, yes.

  “Mac Herbert’s doing the repairs on the house,” Joe added. “You remember him? Went to high school around the same time as you.”

  She nodded.

  “He’s got a new guy in town helping him out. Well, not new, exactly. He’s been here for a couple of years. Damian Knight. He’s the one renting the farmhouse.”

  “They’re still working on it?”

  “Your father paid them through the end of the summer. He left a checking account to cover the costs.”

  Joe reached over and squeezed her hand. He still wore the thick gold ring she remembered as a child, encrusted with his initials and those of Yale Law School. “Sweetheart, you don’t have to rush. Take some time to think things through. To process everything.” He paused. “I’m worried about you, rushing in and out and...well, you need to mourn.”

  But she didn’t need time. She needed to move on, the same way she had years ago.

  Summer slipped her purse over her shoulder. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.” The manila envelope went into her briefcase. She adjusted the clip holding her dark blonde hair away from her face, then tucked the box of ashes under one arm.

  He tented his fingers together. “How long are you staying?”

  “A few days. I’ll go look at the house now and start the process of listing it tomorrow. I can’t stay any longer than a week, either way. I have a return plane ticket booked.” She had museum exhibits coming in. A fundraising meeting the following Tuesday, and an interview with the local paper the Thursday after that. The Bay City Museum had a full-time staff of four and a handful of volunteers that ran it in her absence. Summer couldn’t put the rest of her life on hold just because her father had died.

  “You’ll call me before you leave?”

  “I will.” She stopped with one hand on the door. “You know I’m too old for you to worry about, right?”

  The sixty-five year-old rose, all knees and elbows inside a navy suit that hung loose on his angular frame. “Never. Your father would want me to.”

  My father is dead. She squared her shoulders. And I don’t feel any sadder today than I did all those years ago when he sent me away from Whispering Pines. For a moment, an eighteen-year-old with flyaway hair, bright blue eyes and a stomach full of grief reared up in her memory.

  “I’ll call you later,” she said and waved goodbye.

  “Take care, then.”

  Summer paused just outside the law office. In the distance rose Sunrise Mountain, the highest peak of all those that surrounded the town. Once upon a time, she’d loved looking up at it. Now it seemed ominous, as if pressing down on the tiny town at its base. She sighed. She didn’t really want to walk down Whispering Pines’s Main Street to the corner lot where she’d parked her rental car. She didn’t want to see the silhouette of the high school, or trip on the cracked sidewalk by Evie’s Parlor where the tree roots always came up, or pass by the Corner Sweet Shoppe where she’d spent so many afternoons over hot fudge sundaes.

  But neither could she stay here, talking about a man she’d said goodbye to long before he actually left this earth. Outside, the sunlight might blind her enough to keep the ghosts from taking up residence inside her head again. She took a deep breath and lifted her chin. The McCready house sat only a few miles away. She might as well drive across town right now and see what she was dealing with. She squared her shoulders and put on her sunglasses.

  “Let’s go get this over with.”

  Chapter Two

  Eight miles away, Damian Knight and Mac Herbert stood on the front porch of the McCready estate, holding ice-cold bottles of water and looking out across the lawn.

  Mac took a long drink of water and glanced at his phone. “Summer Thompson’s coming over to check out the place. Ron’s lawyer just texted me.”

  Damian leaned against the porch railing and took a long drink of his own. “Guess you owe me twenty bucks, then.”

  “Guess so. You called it right.”

  “I knew she would. No one would be able to sell a place without even lookin’ at it.” Damian stuck his hammer into his tool belt, slung low across his waist. “So what’s she like?” He’d met her father only a couple of times. Nice guy, but solemn and tight-lipped. He wondered if the daughter would be the same.

  “Summer?” Mac shrugged. “It’s been a long time.”

  “Not that long. And this town isn’t that big. C’mon. The two of you probably went to homecoming or prom together.”

  Mac grinned. “Nope, never. Summer was too good for me. She was a couple years behind me in school, anyway. We didn’t cross paths much.” He cocked his head. “But she was cute back then, from what I remember.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Kept to herself a lot, but yeah. One of those smart types who’s good-lookin’ but doesn’t know it. Great body, cute face... Hey, quit hogging the chips.” He grabbed an open bag from beside Damian and dumped the crumbs into his mouth.

  “Why’d she leave town? California’s a long way from here.”

  Mac busied himself with collecting empty soda cans from lunch and tossing them into a cardboard box. “You didn’t hear?”

  Damian shook his head.

  “Her little brother died in a car accident right after she graduated from high school. Summer’s boyfriend at the time was driving.” He shook his head. “Terrible thing. Her father sent her off to live with an aunt somewhere near Chicago. I think he figured she’d be better off away from it all, but some people thought he blamed her for what happened. She never came back after that. Don’t know how she ended up on the west coast. College, maybe.”

  Damian whistled. “That’s pretty rough. No mom around?”

  “I think she died when Summer was young.” Mac stood with a grunt, one hand on his lower back. “Be too bad if she decides to sell this place, huh? You know that house of yours is part of this property.”

  Damian dug one heel into the ground. Of course he knew. The farmhouse was a rental, because they didn’t have the money to buy a place outright. They never had. And his mother had just finished decorating it the way she liked.

  “Maybe she’ll divide the property and sell the farmhouse to you.”

  “Yeah. Sure.” And maybe pigs would get up on their hind legs and dance.

  “Sorry, man.” Mac clapped a hand onto Damian’s shoulder. “Not a done deal, though. Talk to her when she gets here, face to face. If it doesn’t work out, I got a cousin with a couple of rental places over in Silver Valley. You want his number, let me know.”

  Damian nodded without answering. He glanced over his shoulder at the mountains that rose just beyond the roofline of the McCready house. About fifty miles west of the New York-Massachusetts border, Whispering Pines sat at the base of the Adirondack Mountains. To most travelers, it was only an exit off the interstate, a stop halfway between Al
bany and Syracuse where you could get some gas or a burger before continuing on to more interesting destinations. It had a movie theater, a grocery store, a school, and a handful of bars. Slow pace, sure, but the people were nice enough. Actually, Damian thought, the people were more than nice. Whispering Pines got too much snow in the winter and not enough sun in the summer. It wouldn’t ever appear in a magazine spread of the country’s most glamorous vacation spots, though Sunrise Mountain was pretty amazing to look at, especially on mornings that gave the peak its name. And the five thousand residents who made their blue-collar lives here were steady and strong, cut from good cloth. They helped each other out, and they didn’t talk much behind each other’s backs.

  Damian’s hand tightened on his tool belt. This town had given his mother and sister a place to escape, a chance for a new life, and for that he was eternally grateful. Summer Thompson couldn’t sell the farmhouse. She couldn’t pull the ground out from under them, not after everything they’d been through. He would do everything in his power to make sure that didn’t happen.

  SUMMER TURNED ONTO Main Street. Fifteen years ago, Whispering Pines had installed its first and only traffic light out by the school. Now she could see they’d added another, just past the center of town. Slowing for the red, she braked and looked around. A few changes, not many. The town had a few new stores, the roads were in better shape, and the city limits reached out a little farther, but not much else had changed. In the distance she caught a glimpse of a new housing development dotting what she remembered as farmland with paved roads and sprawling homes.

  The light changed, and a pickup truck behind her tooted twice. Raising her hand in acknowledgement, Summer squinted into the rearview mirror. Sure enough, she recognized the face at the wheel of the blue Dodge Ram. Back in high school, Billy Watkins had been the leader of a group of kids who skipped every class except gym and lunch and spent their days smoking out by the baseball fields. True to form, the Billy of today clenched a cigarette in his teeth and puffed with a vengeance as he turned the wheel and headed away from her.

  She readjusted clammy hands on the steering wheel and wondered who else she’d see. She hadn’t left any close friends behind except Rachael Hunter. Everything and everyone else had faded over the years. But as she headed down Main Street and neared Whispering Pines Central School, memories flashed inside her head. A wide, white smile. Broad shoulders that filled out a football jersey. A laugh that turned heads. With little effort, she could almost see Gabe Roberts again—eighteen and handsome enough to bring a lump to her throat. Bare skin against hers. Lips murmuring promises into her neck.

  And then.

  His voice, strained and panicked. His hand tugging at hers. Shrieking tires and metal thundering against metal. Moonlight and blood and then, finally, darkness. Gabe had been there the night everything changed.

  Summer’s jaw snapped shut and she bit the inside of her cheek. Stop thinking about it. It happened forever ago. She couldn’t get lost in those memories. Nothing good could come of it.

  She turned from Main Street onto Red Barn Road. Here the houses spread farther apart and the sidewalks vanished. Another mile, and a handful of enormous old homes lined the road. Some had been renovated. Most were falling down. At the turn of the last century, they’d belonged to wealthy families from New York City, vacation homes for those who couldn’t quite afford Newport or Nantucket. But they’d been empty for years.

  Why on earth did you buy one of them, Dad? Beyond that, why had he left it to her? He couldn’t have expected her to return. And from what she’d heard, his cancer had taken root firmly and progressed steadily, so he couldn’t have thought he had years left to live. She took a deep breath as a wall of thick green shrubbery rose up. Spires shot into the air above the trees, and a lump grew in her throat. She didn’t want to see it. She surely didn’t want to own it.

  But as if someone else were guiding her, she put the car into park and slipped off her sunglasses. There stood the McCready house: terrifying, monstrous, and all hers.

  Chapter Three

  The house was larger and more imposing than Summer remembered: three stories high, topped by cupolas and a widow’s walk. The two lower floors boasted crumbling balconies, and ivy obscured many of the windows along the ground floor. A worn, chipped walk led up to the porch, which extended the entire length of the house and wrapped around both sides. Overgrown oaks and elm trees surrounded it. According to the deed, the estate included five acres of property, with the two-story farmhouse out back as well.

  The rental farmhouse. Summer’s stomach tightened. Even after his death, Ronald Thompson hadn’t managed to make things easy on her. “Couldn’t just leave me a place I could put on the market right away, could you?” She closed her eyes and tried to summon strength. When she opened them again, she felt better. A little.

  She also felt rather sweaty, thanks to an unforgiving afternoon sun. She peeled off her suit jacket and left it in the car. Silly to think she needed to dress formally for her lawyer’s meeting. She was in Whispering Pines now. Unless things had changed, jeans and T-shirts would do just fine.

  As soon as she stepped through the hedgerow, she saw piles of lumber and building supplies. Well, the workers were definitely here and definitely in the middle of things. She glanced at her watch and walked toward the house. Part of her—most of her—wanted to catch an early flight back to California. Out there, she knew who to trust and who to avoid. She had an apartment, a career, and a routine to fill her days. High school lay tucked away in a neat row of photo albums on the top shelf of her closet.

  “Ow! Damian, watch it—what the—”

  “Sorry, Mac.”

  Summer shaded her eyes. “Hello?” Despite the scaffolding propped against the front of the house and the tools scattered everywhere, the grounds seemed vacated. Didn’t I just hear them?

  “I thought I said—”

  “I know, but...”

  She looked up. Along the roofline stood two men. The head on the right bobbed up and down, and a thick arm jabbed skyward for emphasis. She smiled as she recognized the bushy-haired, no-necked running back from Whispering Pines High’s football team. Next to Mac, another head with lighter hair caught gold from the sun. She didn’t recognize it.

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  “Well...” Mac’s voice faded, and Summer couldn’t hear the rest of his reprimand.

  She cupped her hands around her mouth. “Hello?” For a moment, no one responded. Then both men leaned over the edge of the roof and stared down at her.

  “Summer?” Mac wiped his brow. “You got here fast. Hang on. We’ll be right down.”

  As Summer waited, she studied the house. The double front doors hung loose on their hinges, the glass inside them scarred and cracked. Ancient graffiti had scratched illegible names in the porch railing. The porch itself was scuffed and scarred, and dusty cobwebs decorated every corner. What a mess.

  She ran one finger along the splintered banister. Yet even run-down and raggedy, the house stood with a sort of grandeur. If she tried hard enough, she could almost picture a woman in hoop skirts sweeping her way down the wide stairs, while a man in a top hat and tails waited at the bottom. Maybe I could do some research on the place, find out its history. People might like buying a house with a story. She stepped closer.

  “Hey, you can’t go up there.” A strong hand grabbed her elbow.

  Summer turned with a start. “Why not?”

  “Not safe yet.” He motioned to the steps, and when she looked closer, she saw a missing riser and a deep ragged hole behind it.

  “Oh. Geez, thanks.” She smiled an apology at Mac’s assistant.

  He was tall, with light brown hair and deep blue eyes, and his broad, shirtless chest shone with sweat. Muscular biceps, no doubt made strong from summer labor, twitched as he reached for an itch between his shoulder blades. Summer swallowed and tried to chase away a crazy urge to scratch the spot for him.

  �
��I’m Summer Thompson” She reached out a hand in greeting. “The—ah—the new owner of this place.”

  “Hi. Damian Knight.”

  The one who’s renting the farmhouse. “Listen, I...” She meant to talk to him about that, but she couldn’t quite process the words as his blue eyes locked with hers. Her heart hammered. Her mouth grew dry. Damian hadn’t yet dropped her hand, which she didn’t mind in the least. It was awfully strong. Warm. Sending electricity straight through her. This might be a problem.

  “Summer!”

  Mac’s hand on her shoulder broke her out of her reverie. She turned and plastered on a smile she hoped looked normal. “Hi, hey, Mac, it’s great to see you,” she babbled.

  “Hey there, yourself. Welcome back. Can’t believe you’re here.” He shook his head and grinned, and she glimpsed the chipped front teeth she remembered from high school.

  “I wanted to see the house. I just...” She faltered. “I just found out about it.”

  “I know. Your father wanted it to be a surprise. Sorry about your loss, by the way.” He looked over his shoulder. “He did a great thing, buying this place. Wish he could have seen it finished.”

  She wasn’t sure it was a great thing at all, and still didn’t understand why her father had saddled her with it, but she kept her mouth shut. Someone else would appreciate it, she was sure. There were a few history buffs around here, and if she priced it low enough, they could get it for a song.

  “We’re working on the roof today,” Mac went on. “Got another day or so before it’s done. There’s some interior work to do after that. And don’t use these front steps, okay? We still gotta replace a few.”

  She nodded. “It looks...” Like nothing I would ever want to live in? Like the biggest mistake my father could have made? She wasn’t sure what to say. She slid a glance toward Damian, her cheeks still hot. She couldn’t think straight with him standing so close.