Firefly Summer

by Nan Rossiter

  Oh, what a gift God made when He created dogs. She had loved—and laid to rest—so many sweet dogs in her lifetime—each with its own personality; each with its own way of bringing comfort; each with solemn, loving eyes that were filled with all the wisdom in the world; and each leaving a gaping hole in her heart when they died and making her vow to never get another, never set herself up for so much sadness again. But she always did.

  Bailey stuffed her wet nose in Birdie’s ear and Birdie laughed and thought of Willow, the big yellow Lab her family had had when she was growing up. Willow had loved to stuff her nose into their ears, too. She was supposed to be the whole family’s dog, but they’d all known she loved Easton best, and when he didn’t come home that night, she looked all over for him. She cried and cried and wouldn’t settle down, but in the days that followed, it was Willow who nuzzled their ears and gave them solace.

  PAQRT II

  You will surely forget your trouble,

  recalling it only as waters gone by.

  Life will be brighter than noonday,

  and darkness will become like morning.

  —Job 11:16–17

  July 3, 1964

  “Black raspberry’s good,” Piper said with an approving nod.

  “It’s not as good as chocolate,” Sailor said dejectedly.

  Whitney put the ice cream in the freezer and noticed the frazzled look on his wife’s face. “Uh-oh! How come you guys are all inside? Are you driving Mom crazy?”

  “Nooo,” the younger three chorused innocently. Whitney looked at his wife for confirmation, but she just raised her eyebrows.

  “We were just looking for more jars,” Piper explained.

  “Actually, we were just going back outside,” Birdie corrected, motioning for her younger siblings to follow her.

  “But I still need a jar!” Piper cried.

  “I have one right here,” Easton reminded, taking the top off the jar in his arms. “Anyone want a pickle?” he asked, fishing out a sweet pickle and popping it in his mouth.

  “I’ll have one,” Piper and Sailor both said.

  “Use a fork,” Martha scolded, picturing all the invisible microorganisms that had just jumped off her son’s hand and were now swimming in the pickle juice.

  Hugging the jar to his chest, Easton pulled open the silverware drawer, but at the same moment, Piper and Sailor both reached for it, and without the support of his other hand, it slipped and fell to the floor, spilling sticky pickle juice everywhere.

  “That’s it!” Martha exclaimed. “Out!”

  “Out, guys,” Whitney repeated, ushering his children around the puddle and in the general direction of the door. Easton was the last in line, but as he reached the door, he picked up his mason jar and turned around. “I’m sorry, Mom,” he said, his eyes glistening. “I didn’t mean to ...”

  “I know you didn’t,” Martha said, trying to regain her composure. “It’s just that I have a lot to do....”

  “You don’t have to give me any presents.”

  Martha’s frown softened. “Well, that wouldn’t be much of a birthday, would it?”

  He shrugged. “C’mon, Willow,” and the yellow Lab took a few more quick swipes of the sweet puddle with her tongue, gulped down some pickles, and trotted after him, leaving a trail of muddy—and now sticky—paw prints.

  “I’ll get this,” Martha said with a sigh, setting the empty batter bowl in the sink and reaching for an old towel. “You can get the broken glass.”

  “I’ll get this,” Whitney countered, taking the towel from her, “and the broken glass.”

  “What I’d really like you to do is take them for a hike—they’ve been underfoot all afternoon and I still have the cake to frost and presents to wrap.”

  Whitney nodded. “I’ll get this, the broken glass, and I’ll take them for a hike.”

  “It’ll be dark soon....”

  “We have flashlights, and it won’t be the first time we’ve gone for a hike at night.”

  Martha sighed. “Okay, you can get this and the glass, but I’m doing the dishes.”

  “Okay,” Whitney said with a smile. “I’ll let you do the dishes.”

  Ten minutes later, the kitchen floor was cleaner than it had been all week, the broken glass was swept up, Willow’s paws were rinsed and dried, and the children were loaded in the station wagon—Easton in front, Sailor and Remy in back, and Piper and Birdie in the “way back,” looking out the back window.

  “ ’Bye, Mom!” they chorused as their father pulled away.

  Piper looked up and saw Willow peering through the screen door. “We forgot Willow!”

  “She’s not coming,” Birdie said.

  “Why not?” Piper asked, dismayed by the injustice.

  “Because Dad just cleaned her up,” Birdie explained.

  “But she loves the beach.”

  “Next time,” her sister assured.

  Whitney turned on the radio, and when the girls heard the song that was playing, they begged their father to turn it up and crooned along with Gerry and the Pacemakers as they sang their melancholy hit song “Don’t Let the Sun Catch You Crying.”

  When the song ended, Whitney turned it down and looked over at Easton. “I didn’t know you could sing,” he teased.

  Easton blushed and looked out the window. The cool breeze felt good on his hot cheeks. “How come there’re so many fireflies this year, Dad?”

  “Because we had such a wet spring,” Whitney surmised. “Insects love wet, mild weather.”

  “It’s neat to see so many—the woods are full of ’em!”

  “Lightning bugs are neat,” Whitney agreed, “but mosquitoes won’t be.”

  “Ugh! I hadn’t thought of that,” Easton said. “That definitely won’t be fun.”

  Whitney pulled into the Nauset Light parking lot, and they all piled out and stood around the back of the car, dividing up the pails and flashlights. “I want to take a picture of you guys in front of the lighthouse,” Whitney said.

  “Aww, do we have to?” Sailor moaned.

  “Yes, we have to,” Whitney said.

  As Easton waited for his sisters to sort through the pails, he watched the lighthouse scanning the darkening sky. Red . . . white . . . red . . . white. Rhythmically. Faithfully. Endlessly. It never stops, he thought. It just keeps turning . . . on and on . . . forever!

  “Ready, East?” Whitney said, interrupting his son’s thoughts.

  “Huh?” Easton turned, saw his dad holding out his pail, and realized his sisters were already walking across the parking lot. He nodded, took the pail, and trotted after them.

  They stood together, in age order, jostling for position.

  “Ready?” Whitney said, focusing the lens in the fading light.

  “Wait!” Easton said, dropping his pail and throwing his arms around his sisters’ shoulders. His sisters did the same, and as they laughingly pulled each other closer, Whitney snapped the shutter, capturing a sweet, carefree moment.

  “Okay, no funny stuff this time,” he said, eyeing Sailor—who’d made bunny ears behind Remy’s head.

  Sailor squinched her nose and stuck her tongue out at him.

  “You won’t like it when your face freezes that way, missy!” he teased.

  “You won’t like it when your face freezes that way, missy,” she mimicked, grinning at him.

  “Okay, are you ready this time?”

  They all nodded.

  “Nice smiles . . . on three. One . . . two . . .”

  They gave their dad their best smiles, and Whitney snapped the shutter again.

  “Thank you for your cooperation!”

  “You’re welcome,” they shouted, happy to be free and laughing as they raced toward the stairs.

  CHAPTER 21

  “Oh, my! She’s beautiful!” Piper said as they pulled alongside the huge loggerhead turtle swimming in the sparkling blue water of Cape Cod Bay.

  “She sure is,” Nat said, smiling as
they slowed down to get a closer look. “I bet she weighs three hundred pounds.”

  “How do you know it’s a she?” Elias asked.

  “Her tail,” Piper said, pointing to the turtle’s tail trailing along in the water. “The male’s is longer and more prominent.”

  Elias frowned. “It looks like she’s only using two of her flippers.” He leaned over the side, trying to see what was impeding her ability to swim. “I think she’s caught on something.”

  Nat leaned over the side, too, and saw a buoy bobbing under her belly, the line of which was wrapped around two of her flippers. “It looks like she may’ve been hit by a boat, too,” he said, pointing to a gash on her shell. He frowned. “I think we better bring her in.”

  Piper frowned. “Do you think you can lift her?”

  “If Elias takes one side,” he said, pulling a pair of gloves out from under the seat.

  He found a second pair, handed them to him, and they both leaned over the side and grabbed onto her shell. It was slippery and covered with barnacles, and the old turtle, unhappy about being pulled into a boat, began working her flippers extra hard, trying to get free. Then, out of the blue, she stopped struggling, and they were able to pull her up into the boat—dragging the entangled buoy and line with her.

  Nat surveyed the mess and shook his head. “Poor girl,” he murmured.

  “How old do you think she is?” Elias asked.

  “I bet she’s at least thirty, maybe older,” Nat said, “and she’s been hit more than once,” he added, lightly tracing the scars on her shell. He finished examining her and cut off as much of the line as he could, and then Piper soaked a beach towel in the water and laid the dripping towel over her shell and head. Elias poured a bucket of cool seawater over her, too, and Nat turned the launch around and headed back to the sanctuary while Piper radioed ahead to let them know they were bringing her in.

  Twenty minutes later, the sanctuary was in full emergency mode as they loaded the big loggerhead onto a special cart and wheeled her into their small hospital. They immediately set to work freeing her from the rest of the line that was cutting into her skin and began administering fluids and nourishment. At the same time, Piper smoothed a gentle, healing balm onto her wounds. The old turtle didn’t struggle but her solemn eyes watched their every move—it was as if she knew they were trying to help her.

  Later that afternoon, Piper suddenly remembered it was Friday, which meant they were supposed to be at Remy’s that evening to celebrate Birdie’s birthday. She looked around for Nat and saw him on the phone, and when she walked over, heard him making arrangements to bring the turtle to the Boston Aquarium for rehab—their facility was better equipped for big sea turtles in this much distress.

  He hung up the phone and looked up. “What’s up?” he asked quizzically.

  “You’re taking her tonight, aren’t you?”

  He nodded. “I don’t think we should wait. Why? Do we have something going on?”

  “It’s fine,” Piper said, looking down at the turtle. “I think you should take her . . . but I can’t go.”

  “That’s okay. I’ll take Elias. Why can’t you go?”

  “We’re supposed to go to Remy’s for Birdie’s birthday.”

  “Oh, that’s right! I forgot!” he said apologetically.

  Piper sighed. “It’s okay. I’m sure she’ll understand,” though she knew her sister would be disappointed.

  “Do you want me to get someone else to take her?”

  Piper shook her head. “No, you take her.”

  “Dad,” Elias said, coming into the room. “I filled up the truck. Are you ready?”

  “Yeah, just a sec.” He looked back at Piper. “I’m sorry to mess things up.”

  “Don’t be sorry,” Piper said with a half smile. “This old lady needs you more than Birdie does. Take good care of her.” She knelt down next to the holding tank, looked into the turtle’s solemn eyes, and stroked her smooth head. “We’ll see you back here in a couple of weeks!”

  CHAPTER 22

  Sailor ran her hand lightly over the cover of her Upper Room, admiring the illustration. She pictured her mom reading the little devotional every morning, a habit she’d passed on to her daughters simply by her example . . . and because she’d given them each a gift subscription every Christmas. She tucked the little magazine into her Bible and set it on the table next to her chair. She’d fallen a week behind because she’d inadvertently packed her Bible and the little magazine in the bottom of the box of linens and just found them this morning. She always felt as if she raced through the readings, instead of savoring them, when she was trying to catch up. She sipped her coffee, looked up at the puffy, white clouds floating in the summer blue sky, and smiled. “I know I’m usually full of complaints, Lord,” she said, “but I can’t thank You enough for bringing me to this place.”

  She looked around at the gardens. She’d spent all of yesterday weeding, pruning, adding topsoil—a luxury for plants on sandy Cape Cod—and mulching. While she’d been up close and personal with all the greenery, she’d discovered a wide variety of old-fashioned perennials: echinacea, bee balm, black-eyed Susans, peonies, irises, lilacs, several varieties of lilies, and of course, an abundance of hydrangeas! Near the back steps she’d also discovered a small garden with a cluster of chives coming up, and around it, small wooden signs telling her that there would be thyme, oregano, cilantro, tarragon, rosemary, and lemon balm, too. But she knew if she wanted basil and cilantro, too—both annuals—she’d have to buy new plants.

  She leaned back in her chair and watched the birds flutter back and forth to the new feeder. It hadn’t taken them long to find it and they seemed to love their new little sanctuary. She watched a pair of grosbeaks land and sit there peacefully, having breakfast and enjoying each other’s company . . . and suddenly, she felt a twinge of envy. How crazy, she thought, jealous of a pair of birds! But she realized that although she loved her newly found solitude, she missed the easy companionship of someone she loved. It had been so long since she’d had that kind of relationship with Frank—their lives were so hectic and conflicted that she hadn’t even noticed what was missing. But now, out here, away from all the madness, and with room to breathe, she decided it would be really nice to wake up next to someone and laze around together, sipping an early morning cup of coffee and reading the paper.

  She took a sip of her coffee now and wondered if Josiah might be that person. After she’d met him for coffee the other day—he hadn’t been the least put off by her disheveled appearance—he’d invited her to dinner, and the following Wednesday, they’d gone to the Ocean House in Dennis Port. They’d sat at the beach bar, eaten lobster rolls, and drunk Whale’s Tail . . . and it was just so amazing and . . . easy. And since he’d been on his way back from Boston, she’d met him there, but afterward, he’d walked her to her car, and like a true gentleman, kissed her . . . on her hand! Couldn’t he tell that she was ready for a long, full kiss on the lips? Or was he respecting the fact that they were both still married? She wouldn’t be certain that Josiah had true potential until she kissed him on the lips. So far, he had everything else going for him—he was handsome, well dressed, and almost divorced, but his kiss would definitely be a determining factor. Oh well, he’d get another chance this weekend because they were going to Provincetown.

  She finished her coffee, carried her Bible inside, and set it on the table. She refilled her mug, grabbed her laptop, and went back outside. The phone company had finally hooked up her Internet and she had a lot of catching up to do. She’d been “off the grid” for over a week, and if she hadn’t been so busy working in the gardens and getting settled, she would’ve probably gone through withdrawal! She sat down, opened her laptop, and checked her mail—she had three hundred thirty-two new messages! Yikes! She quickly scanned the list—nothing urgent; checked the news—always a mistake; and then clicked on her Facebook page and realized she had two friends whose birthdays were that day—one was
an old classmate from RISD . . . and the other was Birdie (Quinn) Snow! Oh my goodness, she’d almost forgotten Birdie’s birthday! Good thing they were both on FB or there would’ve been hell to pay! She sent her friend and Birdie quick birthday wishes and told Birdie she’d see her at Remy’s later. Then she closed her laptop and hurried inside to take a shower.

  CHAPTER 23

  Remy sifted through a cardboard box full of recipes, looking for her mom’s recipe for chocolate glaze. Martha had always kept her recipes in an old L.L.Bean shoe box. She’d also kept recipes that had been cut from magazines, as well as recipes that had been given to her over the phone and jotted on scraps of paper—like the one Remy was looking for now. In her mind’s eye, she could see it written on a scrap of blue-lined notebook paper—but Remy had already been through the box once, and now, she was nearing the bottom again. She knew it couldn’t be that far down because she’d just made the glaze when she’d made cream puffs for Easter.

  She started at the top again and slowly looked through each piece of paper. “Someday,” she murmured, “I’m going to get rid of all these recipes that I’ve never made and put the rest on cards in a recipe box!” It was a project she’d been planning to do for years. Every time she had trouble finding a recipe, she’d renew her resolution but she still hadn’t found the time.

  She sighed, and then along the front edge of the box she suddenly spied the familiar blue-lined paper. “Here it is!” she said, relieved. She pulled it out, closed the box, and promptly forgot her resolution. She glanced at the recipe, then measured the cocoa, water, oil, and corn syrup into a small saucepan, turned the flame low, and stirred all the ingredients until it was a smooth mixture.