“Maybe I will stay in Mystic for a while,” I mumble. I look up at him to gauge his response.
But Evan is already onto something else. He sets his fork down and looks right at me. “I’ve been thinking.”
Those three words cause me to put my own fork down. “About?”
There are too many somethings he could be leading into. Erika would say, Getting engaged? Jane would say, Breaking up? Yet, as his girlfriend, I have to wonder at the fact that I have absolutely no idea what Evan is about to drop on me.
“You’ve been worrying about finding a new place after Erika moves out,” he says, finally.
I let out a breath. An apartment! “Well, technically, we’re paid through the month of August, but yes, I need to start looking.”
Evan smiles uncertainly. “I was wondering, what if we moved in together?”
The restaurant has gotten crowded, and the couple at the table next to us is commenting loudly on their spring rolls. I lean forward to make sure I’ve heard him correctly.
“You want to move in together? To your place?”
He shrugs. “We could. Or we could look for a slightly bigger place. Somewhere between both of our jobs.”
Finally. Something good!
It’s something that I’d been thinking quietly about all spring. But what if he thought it was too soon? What if he thought my wanting to move in together was just a knee-jerk reaction to my friends getting married and moving on? What if it was? And so I decided to wait a bit before bringing it up. And yet Evan has, happily, beaten me to it.
“I would love that!” I say, reaching quickly for his hand. Images of a classic brownstone flash in my head. I can just picture us strolling along Newbury Street together on a Sunday morning, grabbing brunch at one of the restaurants. Or cozying up in a bookstore with a cup of coffee before popping into a market to pick up some dinner things that we’ll cook together in our sun-filled two-bedroom with a balcony. I lean forward to kiss him.
But instead Evan drops my hand and pulls out his iPhone. “Good. Because I’m thinking that between our two jobs, the Beacon Hill area might make the most sense. I’ve looked at some listings and I think we could get a good deal—”
“Wait,” I interrupt. Evan looks up. “Before we talk leases, can we talk about us?”
Evan frowns. “Do you need more time to think about it?”
I shake my head. “No, no, it’s nothing like that. It’s just that this is exciting! It’s a big step for us. Let’s toast! Or something.”
“Oh, okay.” He lifts his glass and I lift mine. “To us. And our new apartment. Wherever that may be!” We clink glasses. “So, getting back to some of the listings . . .” Evan holds up his phone so that I can see the screen. “I’ve bookmarked a few for you.”
“But we still don’t know where I’ll be teaching next year, yet,” I remind him. “Maybe we should hold off on neighborhoods.”
“Most likely you’ll be at Darby. I’m sure they’ll work something out, right?”
I’m a little surprised by Evan’s take on this. In fact, I’m somewhat irritated, both by the efficiency with which he is handling our big decision and by his casual sentiment about my uncertain employment—something I’m not feeling at all casual about, myself. I know he means to be positive, but it comes off as dismissive.
“I haven’t heard a final decision from the board. But if they do cut my position, I could end up anywhere in Boston.”
Evan thinks about this. “But you do plan to stay in the metro area, right?”
He’s missing my point. “School just ended. Why don’t we spend tonight savoring our decision and worry about next steps after the weekend?”
Evan holds up both hands. “You’re right, I’m sorry.”
The server returns and clears our appetizer plates. I take a sip of wine, trying to push away the sense of disappointment that has crept in. Moving in together is good news. This is something to look forward to.
“So, what’s going on with the show?” I ask, switching the subject.
He looks relieved. “They’ve added more scenes for Jack,” he tells me. It still strikes me as funny to talk about his character as if he’s a real person.
“That’s great. So, is Jack becoming the lead male role?” I like to tease him about this.
“Nah, but the writers are thinking of ways for him to grow as a character,” he says, in his usual self-deprecating way. “I’ve been meaning to tell you, they’ve decided to make Angie’s character a love interest. You know, to add a little spice.”
I nod, willing my expression to stay neutral. Beyond the red curry we just ordered, I don’t recall Evan mentioning anything about spice.
“So, does that mean your two characters are an item?” A fictional match, I remind myself.
Evan shrugs. “Looks like it.” He looks at me apologetically. “But you know this is just part of the job, right?”
“Pure acting,” I say, to show that I agree. I get it. I’m cool with the fact that a model from last year’s Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue will be dating my boyfriend on television.
Evan looks relieved. “Exactly. It’s purely fictional.”
“So, when will that become part of the storyline?” I won’t call it a relationship. Because it’s not.
“Soon.” He looks down at his lap. “Uh, I just got the script today, and it looks like we have our first love scene next week.”
We have a love scene. As if this love scene belongs to Angie and him, not to those oh-so-fictional characters we were just talking about.
“Is that so,” I say, this time working extra hard to keep my expression as impartial as I hope my tone is. But I can tell he’s studying my reaction, and I know this is my chance to reassure him that I’m not going to let this become an issue. God, I would suck at acting.
“Well, I can’t say the thought of you making out with another woman is the best news I’ve had all day. But like you said, it’s just work. Right?”
Evan looks relieved. “Exactly. There are about twenty other people on the set, with lights and cameras zooming in on every angle. Believe me, it’s about as embarrassing as it gets.”
Every angle, I think. Which leads me to the next question blaring between my ears. “What exactly does this love scene entail?”
Evan looks pained, so much so, that I actually feel for him. “The first one is just some kissing. That sort of thing.”
“And the next?”
He folds his hands neatly on the table in front of him. “They have sex.”
Outside, the light has faded. The taillights of cars flash in the growing darkness of Mass Ave. Sort of like the cloud settling over our table. “But, it’s not like you guys will actually be . . . ?”
“Naked?”
I wince.
“No, no,” he laughs, sitting back in his seat like this is actually funny. “Nothing like it. There’s all kinds of coverage the cameras don’t show. There’re cover-ups. Oh, and tape.”
I take another gulp of wine.
Evan reaches across the table for my hand and squeezes it. “Can I just say how much I appreciate that you’re okay with all this?” He’s so grateful that I can’t possibly ask what I want to ask. Like, how much tape are we talking? And, what exactly is being taped? The combined image of tape and Angie Dune brings something far more bondage than coverage to mind. Instead I force a smile.
“What a relief,” Evan says.
The server arrives. Between the steam of our coconut Thai soup bowls something else rises in the air. Jealousy? Fear?
“Would you like another glass of Riesling?” the server asks me.
I glance self-consciously at Evan’s still-full glass. “Yes, please,” I say. What I really want to tell her is, “Make it a shot.”
Nine
It’s a girls’ weekend!” At least, that’s how Erika’s trying to sell it. Saturday morning finds the three of us heading down the Mass Pike, Erika and Peyton in Trent’s BMW and
me following. I’ve decided to go home for a couple weeks, after all. I can apply for jobs online anywhere. The only pressing thing for me to do in Boston is pack up the boxes in our apartment. The real estate agent called and said she has several showings of our apartment this week, and rather than dealing with cleanups and rushing out the door, I’d rather not be there at all.
So far only Peyton is genuinely excited about this trip. Erika is still worrying about the venue change. Which means that this is a working weekend, and my real “break” won’t begin until they head back to Boston on Sunday.
“What’s first on the agenda?” Peyton asks excitedly, when we stop off to grab iced coffees somewhere north of Providence.
“The yacht club,” Erika says. “We’ve got to meet with the club planner to talk food and setup. And all the colors have to be changed.”
“What happened to celadon and gold?” Peyton asks. “You love those.” Erika and I exchange a look. Those were Peyton’s wedding colors.
“I don’t know. Nautical seems more appropriate, now that we’re seaside. Don’t you think?” Erika asks.
As the two debate the pros of blue and white stripes with a splash of lobster red, my thoughts wander. The farther away from Boston we drive, the more my thoughts drift back home to Cam.
And in no time we’re sailing off Exit 89 and pulling into the village. As I trail them down Main Street, Peyton points to Mystic Pizza. I imagine she’s asking Erika if that’s the same one from the movie.
At the stop sign in front of the pizza place, Erika smiles back at me in the rearview mirror. I’m right. Every time we’ve brought out-of-town friends home, it was usually the first question we were asked. As teenagers we watched the movie nonstop, partly because we were suckers for all things Julia Roberts. But mostly because of the picture-perfect ending. The autumn leaves. The seashore. Small-town life. And despite all of it, Julia Roberts ended up with the ridiculously cute (if short) guy. These days Erika claims to have tired of the movie. But I still fall for it every time.
Always flawless, Erika’s mother is waiting for us at the club in a pastel suit, attired as if she’s presiding over the White House Easter egg hunt. Mrs. Crane twists her pearl choker as we approach. “Hello, hello, girls! Come. The planner is waiting!”
It’s been years since I was last at the Mystic Yacht Club, but stepping inside it may as well have been yesterday. Erika used to bring me to their summer clambake and the annual holiday party at Christmas. Nothing has changed. There’s a solidity to the building that brings you back in time with the town’s whaling history—even though the red pine floors tilt slightly toward the doorways, which are all just a little bit crooked. Yet there is modern grandeur, too, in the mahogany paneled walls, the crystal chandelier, and most prominently in the large picture windows overlooking the stately white porches. We pass the large bar, where I first sipped a Long Island Iced Tea when we were teenagers, and past the ominous oil paintings of long-dead whaling captains whose eyes seem to trail us.
Erika loops her arm in mine and squeezes it. “You were right. It’s the perfect spot.”
We’re introduced to Deirdre, the club event planner. “Ladies, if you’ll follow me into the ballroom, we can begin the tastings. We have a new chef from New York. I’m excited to share his menu ideas.”
Mrs. Crane does a double take. “What happened to Pierre?”
Deirdre smiles over her shoulder. “Pierre left us last month. But I’m sure that you’ll find Chef Ari to be a wonderful addition. He’s worked in some of Manhattan’s finest spots.”
Mrs. Crane purses her lip ever so slightly. “Of course.”
Chef Ari joins us to explain the dishes that are brought out. There’s grilled shrimp with pesto, Vietnamese summer rolls, and salmorejo in tall shot glasses, followed by Dover sole with mango chutney and filet mignon stuffed with crabmeat. All of it to die for.
Mrs. Crane is less certain. She sniffs a spiced speared shrimp suspiciously and sets it back down on her plate. “What about something more traditional? Perhaps a chicken dish.”
“Mom, I’m sure the seafood and beef are more than enough,” Erika protests.
But the chef is not fazed. “Of course, ma’am. We do a lovely Balinese ginger chicken. Or perhaps you’d prefer a makhani sauce?”
“Trent loves spicy dishes,” Erika says.
“That sounds so . . . exotic.” Despite her privileged lifestyle, Mrs. Crane’s palate, along with her social politics, are decidedly stuck back in the early 1980s.
“I went for a traditional menu at my wedding, myself,” Peyton whispers to her. But I notice Peyton spears one more shrimp with her toothpick before the chef can whisk it away.
From there we move on to the safer territory of wine tasting, which is by now much needed: Erika selects a champagne for the first toast and wine for the dinner course, plus a rich Muscat liqueur for dessert. It isn’t long until the ballroom floor is starting to feel sloped beyond its historic charm. At least it leaves Mrs. Crane in a bubblier mood. She’s finally let go of her pearl necklace.
At last we’re in the land of confections. Erika selects a three-tier Swiss dot vanilla cake, to which the chef nods his curt approval.
“Fondant?” her mother asks hopefully.
“Buttercream.” To me she whispers, “We’re going to eat it, not look at it.”
As the others follow the pastry chef into the rear of the club kitchen to sample frostings, Erika turns and squeezes my hands in her own. “So, what do you think?” We take a moment to look around the ballroom, envisioning her big day. “I want to put the bride and groom table by the bay window. Of course, the dancing will take place along the wall of French doors, so we can open them onto the porch.” The faint scent of salt water floats in, and I can already imagine throwing those doors open midway through the evening.
“It’s perfect,” I tell her.
And I mean it. But as I follow her back into the kitchen, I can’t help but feel a little twinge of envy. Growing up, I tried not to compare my family to Erika’s, but sometimes it was hard not to. If life were a plane, we were comfortably seated in the economy section, and she was in first class. But despite the fact that Erika’s winter breaks took place out west in Vail, and mine just ten minutes west off Interstate 95 at Ski Southington, I’ve never felt like I missed out. Sure she flew to Grand Cayman each spring, while the only flying I experienced was watching the birds leave their nests outside my bedroom window. And while I didn’t dare mention these differences to my parents for fear of sounding ungrateful—or worse, jealous—I know my mother noticed my feelings. “Was your party okay?’ she asked, hesitantly, when I graduated from eighth grade. Erika’s parents had hosted an extravagant affair here at the club. The girls wore mostly white dresses and the boys showed up in jackets. I went, too. But it was after my own family celebration of grocery-store ice cream cake with my grandparents on our back porch.
I would never trade the loving childhood that my family gave me. But today, when the pastry chef places a spoonful of lemon buttercream frosting to Erika’s lips, I do feel a little scratch of the green-eyed-monster rising up in my throat. It’s not the yacht club we’re in. Or the expensive wedding she’s about to throw. It’s the chapter that Erika’s life is suddenly in. She’s found her partner, she’s got the job she studied hard for. And soon she’ll be moving into married life with kids on the horizon, just as surely as she’ll be moving out of our tiny apartment and across town to her first home. This summer everything I recognize seems to be changing.
Outside, the day is bright and clear. “What do you think of ending the day with a little shopping?” Mrs. Crane suggests in the club parking lot.
Peyton is already on it, stalking the nearby shop windows around the corner. “I need shoes,” she says. I could use a pair of sandals for summer. My teacher wardrobe is largely based on comfort and ease, and today I have the urge to buy a pair of shoes that are anything but.
“Come on, there’s a cute
shoe store this way,” I tell them. The day is still young, and maybe a little retail therapy will get me out of my funk.
We’re halfway up the sidewalk when I see it. A navy-blue Jeep with California plates, parked in front of the post office. The sticker across the back window confirms it: University of California. Cameron’s Jeep. I step off the curb toward it without thinking.
Erika grabs my hand. “Careful, you’re gonna get run over.” Then she follows my gaze to the Jeep. “What’s wrong?”
“That’s his car,” I say, glancing ahead at Peyton and Mrs. Crane, who have passed us. “Cameron’s.”
Erika lets out a breath. “Oh, boy. Does he know you’re in town again?”
“No.”
Erika points discreetly to the post office door. “Well now’s your chance.”
Sure enough, there’s Cameron coming out of the post office, wearing his old high school baseball hat and faded jeans. He’s carrying a car seat. I see a flash of pink blanket as he swivels in the direction of his car.
“Look. He’s got the baby.”
I freeze.
“Go on,” Erika says, elbowing me gently. “You might as well say hi.”
I nod. But I can’t bring myself to move. Cameron opens the Jeep door and tosses a package in the front seat.
“Quick, before he leaves,” Erika says. If I jog up the street right now I could probably catch him.
“Are you girls coming?” Now Mrs. Crane has circled back to see what the holdup is, and with the whole crew of us staring up Main Street, I suddenly feel like a voyeur. There’s no way I’m running after him now.
“Maggie is ogling her old boyfriend,” Erika says, teasingly.
Mystic Summer Page 9
