“We’d love to have you as a guest of honor at our charity luncheon.”
“Some of the girls are getting together for drinks at the country club. Care to join us?”
“You simply must come to the caviar clambake.” This last one was accompanied by an actual engraved invitation.
“What the hell is a caviar clambake?” Summer demanded as she and Ingrid hauled their reusable grocery bags out to the parking lot.
Ingrid glanced at the invitation. “Oh, it’s a rich-person thing. They wear, like, old Levi’s with Gucci and Louis Vuitton.”
Summer tossed a sack full of fresh corn into Scarlett’s backseat, then handed her car keys to Ingrid. “Jenna says it’s because of Dutch.”
“It probably is. Enjoy your caviar.”
“But I’m not a caviar kind of girl. I’m more of a pizza and beer kind of girl. Which reminds me, I’m starving. Want to stop for lunch on the way home?” She buckled herself into the passenger seat as Ingrid cranked up Vivaldi on the sound system. “The social scene here is surprisingly exhausting. I feel like I’m pledging a sorority.”
Ingrid backed up into a metal shopping cart, winced, and pulled forward again. “I’m surprised you’re surprised. Haven’t you always been popular?”
“With rock stars and rebels. Not with ladies who lunch.” Summer put on her sunglasses. “Is this how it is for you all the time? People trying to befriend you for the wrong reasons?”
“No, it’s the opposite with teenagers.” Ingrid missed sideswiping a yellow concrete post by mere millimeters. “No one invites me to anything because they think I’m a snitch.”
“Killjoy by association?”
“Exactly.”
“Dutch has been busy the last few days,” Summer said, careful to keep her tone light. “Have you seen much of him?”
“Nope. I think he comes home for a few hours to sleep every night, but I have no proof.” Ingrid shot a sidelong glance at Summer. “I thought he might be spending time with you.”
“Uh-uh.” Summer propped her feet up on the dashboard. “Haven’t heard from him.”
“Don’t take it personally,” Ingrid advised.
“Oh, I’m not. It’s fine. He’s not my . . . We’re not officially . . . I’m not his parole officer,” she finally finished. “He doesn’t have to check in every minute of every day.”
“Well. He could take two seconds out of his busy schedule to text.” Ingrid braked for a yield sign. “But he gets like this when he’s in crisis mode.” She tsk-tsked and changed the music to Bach. “Boys.”
“And we still don’t know why he’s in crisis mode?” Summer asked.
Ingrid shook her head as a stream of cars whizzed past them. “We can try to find out, though. Let’s stop by his office and bring him lunch.”
Summer put her feet back on the floor mat. “No.”
“Why not?”
“Ingrid, go, already!” Summer cried. “Yield, not surrender, remember?”
Ingrid waited another few seconds before turning right. “Don’t yell at me. I’m just trying to be cautious.”
So was Summer. In her previous life, she would have called up a distracted boyfriend or sexted him or shown up at his office door in a belted trench coat with a wisp of black lace underneath. She would have seen it as a challenge to regain his interest.
But right now, she was too filled with doubt to view love as a challenge. She refused to beg for Dutch’s attention. She was afraid that whatever she did, whatever he felt for her, it wouldn’t be enough.
She felt weak, and she hated herself for it.
So she did nothing, and steeled herself for Dutch to do the same.
—
Late that night, Summer curled up in bed with the lights off and her smartphone on, vowing she’d go to sleep as soon as she beat this level of Candy Crush, when she heard a sharp smack against the balcony doors.
She thought it might be a wayward bird or a tree branch tapping against the glass panes, but before she could get out of bed to investigate, she heard more scraping, thumping, and finally a knock.
She froze, torn between lunging for the lamp switch and going into cardiac arrest, when she heard a familiar voice.
“Summer?”
“Dutch!” She scurried across the rug, fumbled with the latch, and opened the doors. “What are you doing? How did you get up here?”
He stepped into the moonlit room and took her in his arms. She couldn’t see him clearly, but as soon as he touched her, her whole body craved more. More pressure, more pleasure, more of his taste and his scent.
He threaded his fingers into her hair and kissed her, first hard and demanding, then sweet and soft, then hard again. Together, they stumbled back onto the bed.
He was all over her, his body taut and solid and hot, but he went still for a moment as he brushed his lips over the sensitive skin of her throat and murmured into her ear:
“I missed you.”
Before her mind could overrule her heart, she said it back: “I missed you, too.”
chapter 27
“I just consorted with a Jansen man in Hattie’s Huntington’s house. And it was the best consortium of my life.” Summer tried not to laugh too loudly as she rested her chin on Dutch’s chest in the middle of all the fluffy white bedding. “We are going to get in sooo much trouble if we get caught.”
Dutch draped one arm across her back. “Why do you work for her, again?”
“Extortion,” Summer replied cheerfully. “It’s a long story, but the short version is, I took one for Team Townie.”
He wrapped his other arm around her and squeezed. “You’re full of surprises.”
“Look who’s talking.” She gloried in the feel of her bare skin against his. “The Boy Scout of Black Dog Bay, breaking and entering in the dead of night.”
“You opened the door for me,” he pointed out.
“Shh, you’re ruining the mood.”
“Speaking of the mood . . . In all the breaking and entering excitement—”
“So to speak.”
“—I forgot to give you this.” He leaned off the bed and sifted through the pile of discarded clothes on the floor until he found what he was searching for.
He handed her a flower so fresh that the scent of damp soil still clung to the velvety petals. She didn’t have to turn on the light to know she was holding a rose.
“It feels good. It smells good.” She inhaled deeply. “But is it bulletproof?”
“Like an armored tank.”
It took her a few more seconds to realize what she wasn’t feeling on the cool, slender stem. “You even took the thorns off? Damn, you think of everything.”
“I’ve been told I’m thorough and responsible to a fault.” She could hear the smile in his voice.
“Oh, you’re definitely thorough.” Her nerve endings were still humming. “So what have you been doing for the last few days? And don’t say ‘nothing.’ Don’t say everything’s fine.”
“All right.” His voice sobered. “Everything is not fine.”
“Thank you.”
“Everything’s going to hell.”
Summer waited for him to elaborate, and when he didn’t, she nudged his leg with hers. “I’m going to need specifics.”
“Specifically, Hattie Huntington is sending everything to hell.” He scrubbed his face with his hand. “That’s all I can tell you for now.”
“No, no, no. You can’t leave me in suspense.” She sat up. “What’s that hissing old crone up to?”
He stroked her hair back from her temples. “Nothing’s definite yet.”
“If you tell me, I can help. Don’t forget, I live with her.”
“I can’t say any more.” Dutch’s tone indicated that further wheedling would be useless.
“But it’s really bad?” Summer asked.
His silence confirmed her suspicion.
“Why is she always so vindictive?” Summer remembered the grim lines in Hattie’s face when the old woman talked about holding grudges and exacting revenge. “Why can’t she use her powers for good, just once?”
“I wish she would.” His voice grated with frustration. “I’m calling in every favor, reaching out to everyone I can, but you don’t go up against Hattie Huntington and win.”
“Just tell me what she’s planning.” Summer tightened her grip on the rose in her hand.
“I know she hates my family, but I always figured she had some sense of responsibility to the rest of the town.” Dutch’s whole body tensed. “She’s owned half the town and ignored everyone for decades, and all of a sudden, she decides to twist the knife? Why now? I can’t figure it out.”
As Summer stared into the shadows, things clicked into place. She fell back against the soft down pillows. “I can.”
—
The next morning, for the first time ever, Summer made it to the breakfast table before Hattie. She threw back two shots of espresso, skimmed the Black Dog Bay Bulletin, and was spoiling for a fight by the time Hattie arrived downstairs.
“I saw the dog,” Summer announced before Hattie could even sit down. “Lavinia’s dog. The Irish wolfhound.”
Hattie adjusted the buttons of her navy and white cardigan and shot Summer a cool, assessing look. “Pshaw. You saw no such thing.”
“Did you just say ‘pshaw’?” Summer whipped out her phone. “Would you mind repeating that so I can record it for posterity?”
“Miss Benson, you just lost your phone for another day.” Hattie held out her palm. “And if you’re finished mocking my colloquialisms, I have a serious matter I’d like to discuss with you. It involves a gentleman caller in your room last night.” She paused. “Although I suppose the term ‘gentleman’ may be an overstatement.”
“Oh, sorry. Did we get a little too loud?” Summer used her linen napkin to dab imaginary sweat from her décolletage. “You know how those Jansen boys are. I just couldn’t contain myself.”
Hattie’s knife rattled against her plate as she started shaking with rage. “Enough! I have warned you repeatedly, and now you have gone too far.”
“Speaking of the Jansen boys,” Summer interrupted, “I heard you’re up to something extra diabolical.”
The old lady froze, knife in hand. “Did you?”
“Yes, I did.”
Judging by Hattie’s smug expression, she expected Summer to beg and plead and promise anything in exchange for backing down.
Instead, Summer regarded her with a mixture of reproach and pity.
Hattie glanced out at the ocean, then back at Summer. “Well? If you have something to say, let’s have it.”
Summer nodded. “You know how everyone around here is always saying, ‘Don’t be bitter—be better’?”
Hattie didn’t even dignify this with a response.
“Well, when I first got here, I thought that was bull. I wanted to be bitter. I aspired to it. Because I thought that would protect me. I’d never get my heart broken again, because I’d never be stupid enough to get close to anyone again.”
Hattie let out an exasperated sigh. “Is there a point to this little pseudo-psychology lecture?”
“Yes. Being bitter is a choice. And your choices are making you miserable. They’re also making me miserable. Apparently, they’re about to make the whole damn town miserable.”
“Including your Mayor Jansen,” Hattie hastened to point out.
“Right. The guy that you hate for no good reason.”
“Stop seeing him,” Hattie commanded.
“Stop being such a stubborn, vengeful drama queen and move on,” Summer shot back.
“You have overstepped your boundaries, Miss Benson. You sleep under my roof. I pay your salary.”
“Fire me! I’m begging you! Actually, you know what? Fuck this—I quit. You and your lawyers can do whatever you want, but if you’re going to go after Dutch, I’m done.” Summer pushed back her chair and threw down her napkin. “I’m packing up my Hefty bags right now, and I’m never coming back.”
Hattie looked panicked for a moment, but then her composure returned. “You know, all of this unpleasantness can be avoided if you’ll simply—”
“No! No more bargaining and blackmail. I give up. This is an amazing town, Hattie. I’ve been all over the world, and I can tell you for a fact that this place is one-in-a-million. You’re so lucky to live here, but you’ll never understand that. You’re willing—happy!—to ruin everything. As long as you can keep your fifty-year-old blood feud going strong.”
“This isn’t about my so-called blood feud.”
Summer “accidentally” knocked a crystal serving bowl to the floor as she rounded the corner of the table.
“This is about my future,” Hattie said.
“The future in which you make everyone else as miserable as you are?”
Hattie paused to sip her coffee, looking a little too confident. “You’re advising me to stop harboring old grudges, Miss Benson? Do something productive with my life? Go abroad and see the world while I still can?”
“I think I made that pretty clear, yeah.” Summer frowned as a dark sense of suspicion sank in. Somehow she’d just played right into her adversary’s hands.
Hattie tilted her head, considering. “Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps a change of scenery will change my perspective.”
“Wow, I . . .” Summer nibbled her lower lip. “Really?”
“Yes. Your travel tales have piqued my interest. I would like to see Paris before I die.”
Summer turned up her palm and addressed the heavens above. “Why is it always Paris? Why?”
“What’s wrong with Paris?” Hattie asked.
“Nothing. By all means, go to Paris! Bon voyage. In fact, if you back off and stop threatening Dutch with whatever you’re threatening him with, I’m happy to be your personal travel concierge. I’ll plan your Paris trip myself.”
Hattie’s smile turned positively diabolical. “I’m delighted to hear you say that.”
“Your wish is my command.” Summer took this opportunity to snatch back her phone. “Do you have an airline preference? I can make some recommendations, if you’d like.”
“Spare no expense.” Hattie spread her snowy linen napkin across her lap. “We’re not going to be backpacking through the Alps with a Eurorail pass. We only want the best of the best.”
Summer’s head snapped up. “‘We’?”
“You’ll come with me, naturally.”
“Where? To France?”
“Yes. And then Italy, Switzerland, Germany, Ireland.” Hattie spread jam across a piping hot scone. “Wherever we care to go.”
“Um. Okay.” Summer forced a laugh. “I can’t really fly right now. My last flight scarred me for life. Literally.”
Hattie dismissed this with an airy wave. “As you would say, it’s time to move on.”
Summer stood dumbstruck for a few moments, then asked, “And how long is this little European jaunt of yours going to last?”
“Not my jaunt—ours,” Hattie corrected. “I couldn’t possibly manage all the luggage and logistics by myself. You will accompany me and continue to act as my companion. And it will last as long as I care to be abroad. Perhaps a few years, provided my health holds out.”
“A few years?”
“I have a lot I want to see.”
Summer chose her words carefully. “But I live here now.”
“Temporarily, you said. Until Labor Day, you said.”
“That was before I saw the ghost dog!”
“For the last time, Miss Benson, there is no ghost dog.” Hattie looked as though it was takin
g every ounce of her self-control not to hurl her coffee cup at Summer’s head. “I’ve lived here longer than anyone. If there were a ghost dog, I would have seen it.”
“It’s real,” Summer swore. “Saw it with my own eyes.”
“Perhaps you saw a hallucination brought on by an overabundance of hormones and alcohol.”
“Oh, I’m not denying that hormones and alcohol were involved, but the dog was definitely real. Listen. I’m flattered that you want me to travel the world with you, but I’m staying put. I’ve already talked to Beryl about renting the apartment over her boutique, so—”
“You misunderstand. I’m not asking you to be my traveling companion. I’m telling you.”
Summer struggled to remain calm. “And if I don’t?”
“Then it will be very unfortunate for Mayor Jansen and all the other Black Dog Bay residents who have to suffer as a result of your obstinacy.”
“You’re the devil.”
Hattie arched one elegant tan eyebrow. “I’m taking you on an all-expenses-paid trip around the world.”
“Everyone was right about you,” Summer said. “They all warned me! They said you were mean and spiteful, but I defended you!” She paused. “Well, I did at first.”
“I’m touched by your loyalty.” Hattie’s smirk flattened into a grim line. “But the people who know me best told you who I was, and you should have listened.”
“But I . . . But you . . . I want you to be better than this.”
A hint of sadness crept into Hattie’s smile. “For a woman who’s so worldly, you’re very naive. People show you who they are, and you refuse to believe them. You insist on trying to change them through wishful thinking and sheer force of will.”
“Why would you even want a companion who has to be blackmailed into going with you? I like it here. I want to stay.” Summer crossed to the window and stared out at the endless blue horizon. “I want to walk on the beach in the first snowfall. I want to board up the windows and ride out a hurricane with a bottle of booze and a deck of cards. I want to see my salt-resistant roses bloom in the fall.”
“Roses.” Hattie sniffed with disdain.
“Yes! Roses! I grafted the buds or whatever you call it, and I want to see them bloom.” Summer turned back to her employer and begged, “Let me go. Let me stay.”
Cure for the Common Breakup Page 21
