Cure for the Common Breakup

by Beth Kendrick

  She hung back for a moment, relishing the silence and the fleeting sense of balance.

  Finally, she pushed off the wall and started down the stone path past a white picnic table. “I like your outfit.”

  He looked up, then took in her short, ruffled dress with a smile. “I like yours, too.”

  “I’d ask what you’re doing, but I’m guessing you don’t want me anywhere near your roses.”

  He raised one gloved hand and beckoned her closer. “I’ll take my chances.”

  She stepped into the field, careful not to trample the rosebushes in various states of growth. Some were truncated outcroppings of brown sticks, some had just started sprouting green leaves, and some were in full bloom.

  Her sandals sank into the loamy ground, and she winced as pine needles and thorns pricked her bare toes. “I’m no expert, but aren’t you supposed to plant in spring?”

  “Not really. You want them to bloom pretty much continuously, except for the dormant season.” He waited for her, hand still outstretched. “And since I had to replant everything by the driveway, I decided to try out some new strains back here, too.”

  “Driveway?” She batted her eyelashes, the picture of innocence. “What happened to your driveway?”

  He grinned. “These new ones don’t have much of a scent, but they’re disease-resistant and salt-resistant. Bulletproof.”

  Summer glanced at the pocketknife in his hand and the clippers by his feet. “Don’t you need a shovel if you’re ripping things out of the ground?”

  “Nope. You don’t need to replant the whole bush. You can keep the rootstock intact and just graft new buds.”

  “I’m new to this,” Summer reminded him. “Talk slow and use small words.”

  “The roots can survive a lot of trauma, even if the branches are damaged. Just cut the stems down, below the broken part, and it’ll grow back healthy. You can transplant new buds onto the old growth.” He handed her the tiny, super-sharp knife. “Want to give it a try?”

  She peered down at the mounds of dirt. “Won’t that ruin my manicure?”

  “It’ll be worth it. Come on.” He wrapped his soft leather glove around her fingers and tugged her down next to him.

  “I take it Ingrid’s not here?” She knelt down next to the smallest seedling.

  “Nope.” He moved behind her, guiding her hands. Together, they selected a rose in full bloom, excised a slender branch, and cut off all the leaves, exposing three tiny green buds.

  “I feel like I just committed rose murder,” she said. “Again. This is just a stick now. Not even—it’s half a stick.”

  “Six weeks from now, you’ll be able to get a bouquet out of this stick.” He showed her how to slice the buds off and tuck them into little pockets of bark in another bush.

  “What color are these going to be?” she asked.

  “Red, mostly. I like to keep the color ratio even.”

  “Of course you do.” She nestled into the contours of his body. “But theoretically you could, like, make a pattern or write a message with different colors? ‘Dutch was here’?”

  She could feel the rumble of his laugh against her back. “If you were so inclined and had an infinite amount of patience, I guess you could.”

  “I can’t get over this garden,” she marveled. “And I can’t believe you work all day in your office and then come home and work in the yard.”

  “I like it.” He kept moving, readjusting her grip on the knife. “No debates, no arguments. Sometimes you just want to pull up weeds without taking it through eighteen committee meetings.”

  “I could see that.”

  “You put in the work, you see the results.”

  She lifted her head. “And you don’t have to listen to fights about beach chairs or a bunch of women drinking wine and cursing their exes?”

  He brushed his cheek against hers. “And I don’t have to wear a tie.”

  Summer could feel him smiling, and she smiled, too. “These roses are magic. They make me not care about anything.” She closed her eyes. She could still see the golden glow of the sun and feel the warmth on her cheeks. “I’m trying to give a damn, and I just can’t. I’m physically incapable.”

  “See? It’s the perfect antidote to a city council meeting.”

  He wrapped his arms around her waist and they tumbled onto the ground. Summer yelped as thorns and pine needles pricked her bare arms. “Ow. Ow! Ow.”

  The little bursts of pain made her realize how much she hadn’t been feeling. The all-consuming sorrow that had threatened to drown her those first few days in Black Dog Bay had subsided to . . . nothingness. She’d been distant and detached and blessedly numb.

  But not right now.

  Right now, surrounded by green leaves and sharp thorns and pops of red and yellow roses and blue sky, she couldn’t suppress a rush of emotion. Her brain understood that this was temporary, that the euphoria she was feeling right now was nothing more than an artificial high that would wear off and leave her even emptier than before. Her heart was still untouchable. But her body craved contact.

  Dutch got up and hauled her to her feet. “Sorry about that.”

  “Don’t be.” Summer dropped the knife. “I’m kind of having a hard time keeping my hands off you right now.”

  “I don’t remember asking you to restrain yourself.” He straightened up, smiled slow and sexy, and kissed her.

  She ran her hand along the inside of his arm, where his skin was hatch marked with raised, red lines. “These are from the rosebushes?”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “So all day long, while you’re chairing zoning committee hearings or whatever, you’re all scratched up under your suit?”

  “Yeah.”

  She threw both arms around his neck. “Take my clothes off.”

  He started to take off his work gloves, but she stopped him.

  His gray eyes darkened with intensity. “I’m going to get you all dirty.”

  “Yes, please.”

  He backed her up a few steps and lifted her to sit on the edge of the white picnic table.

  The old wood creaked as she shifted her weight. “I hope this thing can hold me.”

  “It will,” he assured her. “I built it.”

  Summer braced her hands behind her and looked up at him. “You put this together yourself? With, like, tools and sweat and the gloves you’re wearing right now?”

  He lowered his mouth to her ear and murmured, “Sawed the lumber myself.”

  She grabbed a fistful of his damp T-shirt. “Oh my God, I—yep, I just came again.”

  He shucked off his gloves and ran his bare hands along the undersides of her arms.

  “Mmm. You smell all woodsy and delectable.” She shivered at the feel of his calluses against her smooth skin. “I didn’t know men like you existed in real life.”

  He brushed a lock of hair back from her forehead. “I didn’t know women like you existed.”

  “Oh, I don’t.” She hooked one ankle around his waist. “I’m an optical illusion. A figment of your imagination. For a limited time only.”

  He rested his hands on her hips and nibbled her earlobe. “Then we better make every second count.”

  —

  Heartbreak happy hour was in full swing at the Whinery when Summer dropped by. The crowd at the bar was three deep and “Someone Like You” was playing in the background.

  When it was finally Summer’s turn to place her order, Jenna took in the dirt-smudged cheeks, tousled hair, and blade of grass stuck to the front of the sundress. “You look like you’ve had quite a day.” She pulled out vermouth and champagne and started mixing a Cure for the Common Breakup.

  Summer took a sip and closed her eyes as the sweet, sharp tastes swirled together on her tongue. “Hey, did you switch to a different
brand of champagne?”

  Jenna shook her head. “Nope.”

  “Different vermouth?”

  “Everything’s exactly the same as always. Why?”

  “Because this is, like, the best drink I’ve ever had in my entire life.” Summer took another sip, marveling at the harmony of flavors. “It’s just so . . . so fizzy and orangey and delicious!”

  Jenna furrowed her brow. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m better than okay. I am fan-fucking-tabulous.” Summer sighed in contentment. “Can we change the music? I love Adele, but this song’s a downer.”

  “Sure. What would you prefer?” Jenna handed over the iPod.

  Summer scrolled through the song options. “Katy Perry. ‘Teenage Dream.’”

  “Oh. My. God.” Jenna slammed down the bottle of vermouth and grabbed Summer’s arm. “You and Dutch are totally doing it.”

  Summer grinned. “Can’t a girl pick out a pop song without being harassed and accused?”

  “Not around here.” Jenna’s expression cycled between delight and disbelief. “You love him. You love him and he loves you and you’re going to settle down here and be the First Lady of Black Dog Bay forever.”

  “Not forever,” Summer corrected. “Just until Labor Day. For a limited time only.”

  chapter 21

  “Tell me about Italy,” Hattie commanded the next morning after she finished torturing Summer on the tennis court. “Have you been to Florence? Capri?”

  Summer braced her hands on her knees, gasping for breath and dripping sweat. The only thing keeping her from collapsing was sheer stubbornness.

  She took her sweet time catching her breath and gulping from her water bottle. “Well, I’ve been to Florence, but I had such a good time, I don’t really remember much. If you have questions about limoncello, though, I’m your girl.”

  Hattie folded her spindly arms over her tennis whites, which still looked fresh and crisp. “I hear you’ve disregarded my advice and consorted with the Jansen boy again.”

  Summer wrung out her ponytail and looked longingly at the pool on the other side of the yard. “I’m surprised you got the gossip so fast. Who are you still speaking to around here?”

  Hattie just glared at her. “So you admit it?”

  “That we, um, consorted? I guess.” Summer turned away to hide a secret smile. “Although we were outside on a picnic table and covered with dirt, so ‘consorted’ seems a little fancy.” She tossed a tennis ball in the air and caught it. “How about if we just say I hit that?”

  “Why?” Hattie tossed her racket down on the clay. “Why must you delight in being so déclassé?”

  “I thought we were talking about Capri. Instead of asking me about some new city every day, why don’t you just go?”

  “Don’t be absurd. I’m too old.”

  “You just whipped my butt at tennis. You’re healthy, you’re wealthy, but you’re not going to live forever.”

  Hattie sniffed, but didn’t argue, so Summer persisted.

  “You’ve been badgering me all week. First Dublin, then Bath, and now you want me to describe Capri in lurid detail? I’m not your travel-porn purveyor! Just hop on a plane, already.”

  “It’s not that simple.”

  “Actually, it is. You can book tickets online. Give me an Internet connection and a credit card, and I’ll take care of everything.”

  Hattie hesitated so long that Summer thought the old lady might actually agree. But then Hattie bounced a tennis ball on the ground and asked, “While you were pickling your liver in Florence, did you happen to stagger through the Uffizi?”

  “Enough!” Summer kicked off her shoes and peeled off her shirt. “I’m melting!” She dived into the deep end of the pool clad in socks, her tennis skirt, and a sports bra.

  She took her time coming up for air, relishing the silence and the chill of the water against her flushed skin. When she splashed back to the surface, she waved to Hattie and yelled, “Come on in! I dare you!”

  Hattie glowered. “Put your clothes back on this instant, or I’ll . . . I’ll . . .”

  “You’ll what?” Summer filled her cheeks with water and spouted into the air like a Florentine fountain. “Fire me?”

  “Don’t you wish, Miss Benson.” Hattie looked around, at a loss. “Now get out of that pool immediately or I’ll confiscate your cell phone for the rest of the month.”

  “Coming, Mom.” Summer sloshed over to the side and hoisted herself up the ladder with the very least amount of grace she could muster. When Hattie handed her a towel, Summer debated hip-checking the old bat into the shallow end, but chickened out at the last second.

  Breakfast awaited them on the back porch, the table set with embroidered linens, sterling silver, and fresh flowers. Hattie perched on one of the hand-carved white chairs and lifted an eyebrow at Summer. “I’ll wait while you change into something dry and presentable.” She glanced pointedly at the array of warm foods cooling on the table. “Take your time.”

  Summer did, stopping to check Facebook, Twitter, e-mail, texts, and a trio of celebrity gossip blogs before she returned to the table in a faded T-shirt emblazoned with her airline’s corporate logo.

  Hattie helped herself to a tiny portion of fresh melon. “Don’t you get tired of traveling, Miss Benson? All those time zones, all those airports?”

  “Nope. I love it.” Summer snagged a croissant and took a bite before she’d even sat down. “I love seeing new things, meeting new people, trying every single cultural variation on chocolate. I’m really not cut out for long-term commitments.”

  “I see. Then you’re not planning to stay in Black Dog Bay permanently?”

  “‘Permanently’ isn’t part of my vocabulary.” Summer took a sip of freshly squeezed lemonade. “Wow, that’s delicious. Do you lace it with crack, or what?”

  “I believe the chef puts in a few sprigs of fresh lavender.”

  Summer could feel her expression change at the word “lavender,” and Hattie must have noticed, too, because she asked, “What, precisely, are you doing with Mayor Jansen?”

  “Um, defiling his picnic table?” Summer glanced from side to side. “Is this a trick question?”

  Hattie pushed her plate and silverware aside. “I can’t tell if you’re trying to deceive me or yourself.”

  “I’m not deceiving anybody. I was there, lady.” Summer turned sideways in her chair and hooked one arm over the back. “When I defile a picnic table, I do a thorough job.”

  “You love him.” It was a statement, not a question.

  Summer swallowed her bite of pastry the wrong way and started hacking and wheezing. Hattie didn’t lift a finger to assist or even summon Turner.

  After she finally managed to clear her airway by guzzling the rest of her lemonade, Summer glared at Hattie. “You know, when you were choking to death, I tried to help.”

  “Yes, and look how that worked out for you.”

  Summer rested one elbow on the table and made a point of chewing with her mouth open.

  Hattie responded by signaling Turner to clear Summer’s plate. “Now. Back to you and the object of your undying devotion.”

  Summer plucked a few strawberries straight out of the serving dish. “First of all, I don’t have undying devotion for him. I’m faithless and fickle—you can ask anyone. And P.S., he’s not an object, Miss Huntington. He is a human being.”

  “Of course.” A tiny smile played on the old woman’s crinkled lips. “How crass to imply otherwise.”

  “Us plebs are people, too.”

  “I’ll make every effort to remember that.” Miss Huntington repositioned her chair to remain shaded as the morning sun rose higher over the horizon. “Why do you love him?”

  Summer ignored the bait and countered with, “Why do you hate him? What’d he do to you?”<
br />
  “Nothing.”

  “Then what’s your problem?”

  Hattie stared out at the ocean. “The Jansen men are also faithless and fickle, Miss Benson. My advice to you is to guard your heart.”

  “Fine. What about my body, though? Can I at least check ‘have hot sex with an elected official’ off my life list before I stop speaking to him?”

  “Are you trying to shock me?”

  “Is it working?”

  “Hardly. I may look doddering and frail to you, but I lived through the sixties.”

  Summer pulled her knees up to her chest, nearly upending the table. “Finally, we get to the juicy stuff.”

  “The ‘juicy stuff,’ as you put it, never changes,” Hattie said. “Love, lying, loss. Every generation thinks they’ve invented scandal.”

  “Well. My generation did invent sexting.”

  Hattie took her sweet time finishing a bite of fruit. “And mine invented miniskirts and birth control pills.”

  “Touché.”

  “I know you don’t want to listen to an old woman. I wouldn’t have when I was your age. But I recognize myself in you.”

  Summer threw up both palms. “No, you don’t.”

  “Yes, I do.” Hattie leveled the tines of her fork at Summer. “And mark my words, Dutch Jansen is going to break your heart.”

  “Oh, you don’t have to worry about that.” Summer waved her hand dismissively. “My heart’s already broken. It’s shriveled up like a putrid black raisin.”

  “You’ll heal soon enough. That’s why you’re here.”

  “Wrong again. I’m here because I didn’t have to board a plane to get here. I’m here because eating boardwalk fries on the beach beats running up medical bills in the ICU. I’m here because . . .” Summer struggled to remember what had prompted her to head to the Delaware shore. “I got a sign from God by way of a boozehound musician. But enough about me! Who broke your heart? I’m guessing he’s connected to Dutch Jansen somehow.” She tapped her temple. “Psychic.”

  Hattie, who had just moments ago been radiating vigor and stamina, now looked exhausted and frail. “Dutch is named after his grandfather, Mies Jansen.”