“Okay, well, tonight we’re going to go home and get you cleaned up, and tomorrow we’re going to go shopping and find you something to wear next time you’re on a man hunt.” Summer felt an unexpected burst of energy and purpose. “Something sexy that you’ll still feel comfortable in. We’ll also do a walking-in-heels tutorial.” She couldn’t stop staring at the dark rings around Ingrid’s sweet gray eyes. “And an eyeliner tutorial.”
“It won’t make any difference.” Ingrid sighed. “I’m hopeless. I can’t even do a shot right. I took one sip of a Swedish Fish shooter and almost threw up.”
“Well, I can’t even hear the words ‘Swedish Fish shooter’ without wanting to throw up, so don’t feel too bad about that.” As an afterthought, Summer added, “Oh, and, you know, underage drinking’s bad, mmm-kay?”
“Boys like Maxwell never want girls like me.” Ingrid swiped at her smeared eye makeup. “I’m too boring and quiet and brown-haired.”
That’s when Summer finally noticed the follicular fallout. She squinted, trying to assess the damage through the shadows. “Ingrid Jansen. What did you do?”
Ingrid started sobbing again. “The box said ash-blond.”
“The box?” Summer’s heart sank. “Oh, no. You tried to dye your own hair? Without any supervision? Whyyyyyy?”
“I followed the instructions exactly.” Ingrid hiccuped. “Well, I added a few minutes to the processing time. They said leave it on for twenty minutes, so I kept it on for thirty. For good measure.”
“Oh, honey.” Summer brushed her fingers against the formerly glossy chestnut locks that were now brittle, lank, and . . . gray.
“I followed the directions!” Ingrid repeated. “The box said ash-blond!”
“Yes, and your hair is now the color of ash. Literally.”
They stopped talking when Dutch opened the driver’s seat door. He started to get in but, upon seeing two sets of panicked female eyes peering back at him, backed away. “You two need a moment?”
Summer went into damage-control mode. “I need M&M’s right now. Big bag, please—it’s an emergency. And Ingrid needs . . . what do you need?”
“Cheetos,” Ingrid quavered.
“Cheetos. And we need to stop at a drugstore on the way home.” She held up a hand when Dutch opened his mouth. “Yes, it’s a girl thing, and no, you may not ask any questions.”
—
Two hours later, Summer padded down the staircase from the top floor of the Jansen home. “Well, she finally stopped crying. And her hair is . . . Well, it’ll have to do until the salon opens tomorrow.”
Dutch’s house had probably been built a hundred years ago, and the simple, rustic decor reflected this. The floor planks, window casings, and banister were old, hand-carved wood that had been refinished. The furniture looked sturdy and no-frills, but Summer had been in enough trust fund babies’ Nantucket summer homes to recognize heirloom-quality antiques when she saw them. There were photographs everywhere—the walls, the side tables, the edges of the built-in bookshelves. Black-and-white portraits and fading color snapshots of a huge extended family that had dwindled over the generations to these last two siblings.
Dutch sat on a dark blue sofa, his expression shell-shocked, a man who’d unwittingly stumbled into a minefield of neon and hormones. “What was all that about?”
“A boy.” Summer perched on the sofa arm. “Some strapping lacrosse player named Maxwell. Sound familiar?”
“No.” His brow creased.
“Well, apparently, she’s pining away for this guy, and he goes for blond cheerleader types.”
He covered his eyes. “I don’t want to hear this.”
“Have some M&M’s. It’ll help.” She poured a few candies into his palm.
He threw back his head and swallowed them like they were prescription painkillers. “I can’t handle this.”
“You’re handling it just fine,” she assured him. “You’re a great brother.”
“Exactly—I’m her brother. Not her dad, not her mom.” He unknotted his tie. She watched the light blue silk slide through his strong, tan fingers, let her inappropriate thoughts take over for a moment, and then remembered the distraught teenager who could descend upon them at any moment.
Dutch snapped her back to reality with, “Our parents both died when she was six. Boating accident.” Finished with his tie, he unbuttoned his shirt cuffs. “I was in college at the time, so I was named legal guardian.”
“How old were you?”
“Twenty.” He smiled at her surprise. “Yeah, Ingrid was kind of a midlife surprise for our parents. My mom used to call her the ‘bonus baby.’ Anyway, one day I was living in the basement of a frat house, and the next, I was making funeral arrangements, moving into my old bedroom, and learning how to iron a Brownie uniform.”
“Hang on—you look like that, and you garden, and you iron?” Summer said. “But you don’t date? That is a crime against all womankind.”
“I tried to do everything I was supposed to. All the parent-teacher conferences and piano lessons and soccer games, but obviously I missed a few things.”
Summer smiled at the mental image. “I bet you were the golden boy of every PTA meeting. All the cougar moms must’ve loooved you.”
“Oh, I never went to PTA meetings. But I did sell a lot of Girl Scout cookies.”
“I can imagine.”
“I don’t mean to brag, but Ingrid and I set the troop record.” He finally relaxed a bit. “Plus, it was good training for door-to-door campaigning.”
“So you always knew you wanted to be mayor?”
He shrugged. “It wasn’t really a choice—it’s family tradition. My dad would have wanted me to do it, so I did.”
“But you never really got to experience your twenties.”
“I don’t think I missed that much.” He settled back against the cushions. “I went to class with my friends, then came home and studied with Ingrid. We used to sit at the kitchen table together, doing our homework. She’d be working on spelling words and punctuation and I’d be trying to write a paper on the Bolsheviks.”
“That explains a lot. You’re so lucky I asked you out.” She shot him a knowing look. “You have a decade’s worth of wild oats to sow.”
He tensed up again. “Yeah. About that—”
“I know, I know.” She reached out and nudged him back into the cushions with her fingertips. “You don’t date. You don’t have fun. You don’t have scandalous flings with alluring out-of-towners you meet in a bar. Until now.”
He gave her his full, focused attention. “I’m listening.”
“I get it. You have a sister to support. You have a job and a reputation to think about.”
“My life has never sounded more scintillating.”
“It could be,” she promised. “For the next week or so. You don’t do relationships. I just came off a bad breakup. We’re perfect for each other!”
“Because we’re not perfect for each other.”
“Exactly. It doesn’t have to be a whole big thing. We can just have a grand old time and then go our separate ways. No drama, no expectations. Just fun.”
“Fun. I think I have a vague memory of that from college.”
“We’ll make a pact.” In the absence of a Bible, Summer put her hand on his coffee-table copy of The History of Black Dog Bay and prepared to make her oath. “Two weeks, then I’ll pack up and ship out.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You want to specify a cutoff date?”
“You seem to like rules and regulations.”
“Two weeks.” He put his palm next to hers on the book. “No drama, no expectations.”
Summer lifted her other palm. “So help us God.”
“And then we just walk away?”
“I walk away,” Summer clarified. “You can stay here.�
�
“Deal.” He tossed the book aside and started to close the distance between them. She parted her lips and waited.
Both of them startled as Ingrid called, “Summer? Summer, could you come here for one more second?”
Summer pulled back with a sigh. “Duty calls.”
Dutch trailed his fingers along her shoulder, arm, and hand as she rose to her feet. “Damn kid.”
“This is the most interesting first date I’ve ever had.” On an impulse, she leaned back down and planted a quick little kiss on his cheek.
His fingers wrapped around hers. “So we’re all squared away with the rules and regulations? We can move on to the fun part now?”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
“Okay, then. Have dinner with me on Saturday. It’s a country club dinner thing. Fund-raiser. Pick you up at six.”
“A country club fund-raiser? That’s not what we agreed on!” She tried to pull her hand away, but he held on. “We said fun!”
“It will be fun.”
“No, it won’t.”
“You strike me as the adventurous type.” His gray eyes flashed, challenging. “Give it a try.”
“But you . . . I can’t . . .” She took a deep breath. “I don’t have anything to wear to a fund-raising dinner.”
He glanced down at the red silk panties still tucked into his blazer pocket. “I’m sure you’ll think of something.”
chapter 14
. . . Upon information and belief, you or your employee did, with reckless disregard and utter contempt for the well-being, health, and safety of my client, leave a foreign object in the wine served to my client. . . .
“That vindictive old hag is suing me.” Jenna slapped down a piece of stationery emblazoned with a law office logo. “I’m going to lose the bar. I’m going to lose everything.”
“This is ridiculous.” Summer skimmed the letter again, her eyes widening with every line. “It was an accident.”
“An accident that’s going to cost me my business and my bank account.” Jenna blew her nose into a pink paper napkin. “I’m going to have to live in my car at the beach. Except I won’t have a car once she’s done with me. I’ll have to live under the dock.”
“Slow down. Don’t go all ‘Rock Lobster’ yet.” Summer squeezed her arm. “She can’t do this.”
“She already did.” Jenna grabbed a fresh napkin and dabbed at her eyes. “I told you, she lives for stuff like this. How am I going to fight this? She has an entire team of bloodthirsty lawyers on retainer.”
The door flew open as Hollis raced in, her body silhouetted in the blazing noon sun. “I just heard. Are you okay?”
“It was a tiny piece of cork.” Jenna gave up wiping her cheeks and let the tears flow.
“Do you think it would help if we apologized again?” Hollis nibbled her lower lip. “Maybe sent a fruit basket or something?”
“It won’t do any good.” Jenna shook her head. “Remember when she went after Jim Renard?”
“What happened to Jim Renard?” Summer asked.
“Nobody knows, because he left town in despair and never came back.” Jenna appealed to Hollis. “Can I come sleep at your bookstore when I’m homeless?”
“Of course.”
“No, no, no.” Summer planted her hands on her hips. “We are not conceding defeat.”
“Hattie Huntington’s got nothing but money and free time,” Jenna pointed out.
“And spite,” Hollis added. “An abundance of spite.”
Jenna nodded. “She can keep this up forever.”
Hollis read the attorney’s letter for herself. “It’s not about the money; it’s the principle. She always has to be right. She always has to win.”
“Well, this time she’s met her match.” Summer got to her feet and collected her purse. “You can’t have a breakup town without a bar. That’s madness. Wine is an integral part of the recovery process.”
Jenna looked dubious. “How are you going to stop her?”
With no M&M’s in sight, Summer grabbed a sugar packet from under the counter, ripped it open, and poured the contents into her mouth. “I’ll show her a thing or two about reckless disregard and utter contempt.”
—
The purple mansion was even uglier up close. Miss Huntington’s sprawling Georgian Revival estate was surrounded on three sides by brick patios and lush green lawns, behind which the surf pounded on the shore. This was the biggest house, on the best-situated lot, and was clearly the crown jewel of Black Dog Bay real estate.
Or at least, it would have been if it hadn’t been painted a mottled shade of violet. Summer remembered Jenna and Hollis saying that Hattie had chosen the color out of stubbornness and malice.
Evidently, Hattie did a lot of things out of stubbornness and malice.
And as the daughter of a poet who blamed all his bad behavior on an “artistic temperament,” Summer could work with that. Her father had locked himself in his office for days at a time, swilling scotch, dallying with a series of increasingly young and unsuitable girlfriends, alternating between rage and despair with no apparent trigger. She remembered coming home from her last day of first grade, curling up on the rug by his study, and pressing her ear against the closed door. She could hear the clacking of typewriter keys interspersed with the clinking of ice cubes in a glass. The shadowy hallway had felt cavernous, and all she could think was: Who’s going to take care of me all summer?
Her next thought: I’ll do whatever it takes to get his attention.
She’d been thrilled when he’d married Georgia, Emily’s vivacious mother. Together, Summer and Emily had planned an idyllic future for their blended family. There would be road trips, home-cooked meals, holiday traditions.
But as much as the daughters craved stability, their parents craved drama. Jules and Georgia’s marriage lasted less than one year. Their divorce lasted more than two.
Summer knew her father had once been capable of great love. He’d spent her entire childhood penning beautiful, agonized, award-winning poems inspired by her mother. The wife he’d lost without warning. The woman who had loved him, but not enough.
The absence that had only felt bigger and emptier as Summer grew up.
She parked her red convertible under the purple portico, climbed the white marble steps, rang the doorbell, and waited.
And waited.
And waited.
Finally, a ruddy-cheeked man with a close-clipped gray mustache, a seersucker jacket, and an actual bow tie opened the door.
“Hey,” Summer said before Mr. Seersucker had time to utter a word. “I need to speak with the lady of the house.”
Seersucker gave her a look of disdain that should have been accompanied by a monocle and a top hat. “I’m afraid Miss Huntington is not at home.”
“Bullshit.” Summer cupped her hands around her mouth and yelled into the entry hall, “Hey, Hattie! Our Lady of Litigation! I’d like a word!”
Seersucker tried to close the door, but Summer wrapped her hand around the doorjamb.
“If you mash my fingers, I’ll sue!” she cried. “I’ll take you to court for pain and suffering.”
Seersucker’s bushy gray brows snapped together. “See here, young lady—”
“Step aside, Turner. I’ll handle this.” Hattie’s voice echoed off the polished marble floor. “Kindly leave us for a moment.”
The butler retreated down the hallway as Miss Huntington took his place in the doorway. As always, she was impeccably turned out in a crisp white shirt and white pants with orange loafers and a narrow orange belt. Despite the stifling humidity outside, the house’s interior was cool . . . and much more tastefully decorated than the exterior. Summer could glimpse fresh flowers, bright fabrics, and huge barrel-vaulted hallways beyond the expanses of white marble in the e
ntryway.
She leaned against the doorjamb with great nonchalance and wished she had a piece of gum to snap. “Nice digs.”
Miss Huntington’s expression didn’t even flicker. “Are you threatening to sue my butler for injuries you purposefully sustained?”
“Why not?” Summer asked. “Turnabout is fair play.”
A faint smile played on the old lady’s lips. “You’ll never make it to court. My attorneys will bury you in paperwork.”
“I save your life and this is the thanks I get.” Summer drummed her fingers on the doorframe. “If I had known you were going to sue Jenna, I would have let you die.”
“You’ve got quite a mouth on you, Miss Benson. Oh yes, I know your name. I’ve had my staff look into your, shall we say, colorful history.”
Summer refused to get sidetracked. “Jenna got distracted for two seconds and made a mistake. Could’ve happened to anyone.”
“But it happened to me.”
“So what? You’re more valuable than anyone else because you have boatloads of money?”
Hattie inclined her head. “Yes.”
“Seriously? You didn’t even earn your fortune!”
“I beg your pardon.”
“Guess what? I did a little research into your colorful history. You got lucky. You happened to be born to rich parents, and instead of being grateful for all this”—Summer threw out her arms to encompass the mansion, the beach rights, the inlaid marble and fresh flowers and priceless antiques—“you waste it on frivolous lawsuits and petty grudges. You should be ashamed of yourself.”
Hattie’s frail, knobby fingers curled into fists. “No one speaks to me that way.”
“Let me tell you something. I grew up with the trust fund crowd. I went to boarding school—well, I went to five, actually. They kept asking me to leave. But I know how this game works. I’m not afraid of you.” She locked gazes with Hattie. “I see you.”
Hattie surprised her by looking away first. The tiny tyrant in white linen relaxed her posture, looking almost amused. “My. You’re quite the spitfire.”
“You have no idea.”
Hattie made Summer wait another few seconds, then relented. “Very well; I’ll drop the lawsuit.”
Cure for the Common Breakup Page 11
