The Forever Summer

by Jamie Brenner

  She did not want to talk about her own situation, though she did explain that she was still married, at the very beginning of the divorce process.

  “It’s still very new. And complicated.” A part of her hoped that would give him pause, that he would pull back and then she wouldn’t have to deal with her own highly uncomfortable, ambivalent feelings about the evening. But he was understanding and sympathetic, and he deftly turned the conversation to more neutral territory: their former careers. In another life, he had been a CPA. She told him about her barely there ballet career.

  “A ballerina. I’m not surprised. You still carry yourself so gracefully.”

  Oh Lord, it was too much. He was so lovely, so utterly focused on her in a way that was flattering without being too obsequious. She tried to imagine an evening out with Kip without him looking at his phone every few minutes. It was unthinkable. So why was this dinner making her miss Kip even more?

  “It was a long time ago,” Blythe said.

  “You never went back to dancing, even as a hobby?”

  “No,” she said. “Once I had my daughter, I didn’t have time or interest.”

  And yet, that wasn’t exactly true.

  After two years of being home with Marin every day, of baby music classes, of teaching her her letters and cooking three toddler-approved meals a day, Blythe hired a part-time babysitter, a Nepalese woman named Pema. She was sweet and had a teenage daughter of her own, and Blythe was comfortable leaving Marin for a few hours while she drove to Center City to take ballet classes three mornings a week. Oh, how good it felt to get back in front of the barre, to have her muscle memory kick in and feel a reclaiming of her own body. For a few weeks, it was the happiest she’d been in a long time. Her life felt whole. She had her beautiful daughter, she was in a decent place with Kip, and after a few years of safe distance, she could return to ballet with all of the love and none of the pressure and sense of failure.

  But one Tuesday, she pulled into the driveway of the house and heard Marin’s bloodcurdling cries before her key was even in the back door.

  Blood rushing to her head so hard and fast it was deafening, she ran into the living room where Marin was standing next to the couch, howling. With Pema standing uselessly nearby.

  “What’s wrong with her?” Blythe asked, just as she noticed the welts on Marin’s neck and collarbone. Her first thought was that she was having an allergic reaction. But Pema started saying something about hot tea, and Blythe finally comprehended that her daughter was seriously burned. “Why the fuck didn’t you call me?” She’d left the number for the ballet academy. She always did.

  With shaking hands, she pulled Marin into her arms and dialed Kip. She should have called an ambulance first, but all she could think was that she needed Kip.

  His secretary pulled him out of a meeting. He told her to call an ambulance, that he would meet her at the hospital.

  In the ambulance, riding to Lankenau Hospital where Marin had been born, she felt calmer and more in control. Hearing Kip’s voice had snapped her out of her hysteria. And in Blythe’s arms, listening to her soothing words of comfort, Marin calmed down just a little bit too.

  For ten days, Blythe and Kip had to change the dressings on Marin’s bandaged burns. It was imperative that they keep it sterile and prevent an infection. Every time they touched her bandaging, Marin cried like she was experiencing the burns all over again. Blythe could barely endure it, but Kip was there with a sure and steady hand.

  The burn specialist told them if they kept the areas out of the sun, chances were it would heal so well, they’d never even know it had happened. Sure enough, the marks disappeared. But Blythe’s guilt over the whole incident didn’t fade one bit.

  She stopped going to the ballet classes. If she hadn’t been so selfish in the first place, if she’d just been home with her baby as she should have been, there wouldn’t have been an accident. Oh, how she blamed herself. Kip, to his credit, never did.

  It was so easy, in retrospect, to cast herself as the victim in her marriage, the selfless mother who did all the heavy lifting while her husband put his career first. Yes, in many ways, he did. But if Blythe had wanted to find her way back to a career, he would have been supportive. The simple fact was, after Marin was born, she wanted to be a full-time mother. Maybe it was her own insecurity about that choice that made her resent Kip’s ability to have it all—the family and the blockbuster career. And that was certainly why she had been so appalled by Marin’s broken engagement. It seemed she was making the opposite choice that Blythe had, that in a sense, she was rebuking Blythe. Of course, that hadn’t been it at all. Marin had simply been in the midst of making her own messy decisions.

  Warren lifted his glass of wine. “To past lives,” he said.

  She touched her glass to his, trying to offer the man the genuine smile he deserved.

  When Rachel called Luke to cancel the dinner—blaming it on Marin’s making her feel bad about crowding Amelia and Kelly—he said, “If you still want to do it, bring everything over here. My dad and Bart will be into it. Just count Paul in because he’s here swimming and will probably stay for dinner.”

  Rachel, already emotionally invested in the dinner plan, agreed.

  The only wrinkle in the whole thing was Fran. What would Luke think of her mother? Oh, who cared? It was never going to happen between them. His opinion didn’t matter. She had to change the way she thought. She had to let it go.

  In the kitchen at Thomas and Bart’s house, Rachel squeezed one last burst of lemon juice onto the kale salad, then tossed it. She sprinkled pine nuts on top of that, then handed the bowl to her mother to carry to the table.

  “I love this kitchen!” Fran said, toying with Thomas and Bart’s mint-green vintage toaster.

  “Can you stop fondling the appliances and help me get food out to the table?” Rachel said.

  “But this toaster,” cooed Fran. “So smooth…so shiny.”

  Rachel looked at her. “Are you high?”

  Of course she was. She had disappeared for a while with Paul. Rachel sighed and carried the salad into the dining room herself. By the time she returned to the kitchen, Fran had drifted off to another room.

  Rachel twisted the cap off a bottle of Kim Crawford sauvignon blanc and poured herself a glass just as Paul walked in and deposited a bottle of Tito’s vodka and half a dozen limes on the counter.

  “I thought we’d do kamikazes tonight,” he said. He pulled one more bottle out of a brown paper bag. “The secret ingredient: Combier.”

  “Go for it. I’m sticking to wine.”

  He found a handheld juicer in one of the utensil drawers, then cut a lime in half and squeezed it into a shallow glass. “Let me ask you something. What the hell is going on with Kelly?”

  Rachel looked at him blankly. “I have no idea. What do you mean?”

  “Oh, cut the shit. I’ve known her a lot longer than you. I’m family too, you know.”

  “Paul, honestly, I don’t know what you’re talking about. She and Amelia have been away for a few days. They got back earlier but I haven’t really seen them. Why? What do you think is going on?”

  “Maybe her cancer is back. This is how she acted last year when she was diagnosed, going MIA.”

  This was all news to Rachel. She didn’t know anything about Kelly having cancer in the past and had no reason to think she was sick now. She decided that Paul was just paranoid from the pot.

  “I have to get dinner on the table.”

  The mood was festive. Everyone seemed genuinely thrilled to have Fran in the mix. Thomas was clearly having a good night, Bart was celebrating a big sale at the gallery, and Paul was happily infatuated with a guy he’d met at Lobsterfest. The wine flowed, Rachel’s cod was apparently superb—she had to take their word for it, since she wouldn’t eat it—and Fran was trotting out her most debaucherous LA stories, including her classic one-night stand with Anthony Kiedis.

  “Was that during the
One Hot Minute tour?” asked Bart.

  “Their worst album,” muttered Rachel. It was true, but she wasn’t sure why she felt the need to say it. Except she was suddenly angry at Fran. Furious.

  Fran was oh so fun, oh so amusing—unless she was your only parent.

  “Rachel, this cod is truly fantastic,” said Thomas. “I think it’s the paprika that really makes it pop.”

  “I can’t believe you can cook,” said Fran.

  “Yeah. Amelia’s a great teacher,” said Rachel.

  “Unlike me,” Fran said, laughing like it was a joke.

  “That’s right,” said Rachel. “Unlike you.”

  Fran, realizing this was not just banter, put down her fork. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Well, I mean—that’s a fact. You never taught me much of anything.”

  “I knew that’s what this whole trip was about! I wasn’t a good enough mother, so you have to run off looking for something better.”

  “That’s not what this is about. Although, yeah, if you were more of a mother, I might not have felt like something was missing my whole life. But you know what? I guess in the end you did me a favor, because it pushed me to find the rest of my family.”

  “You have no idea what it’s like being a single mother!” Fran yelled.

  “That was your choice!”

  “Okay, Rachel?” Luke said. “Why don’t you and I take a walk, get some fresh air. Bart and Paul can clear the table? Right?”

  “Yes,” Bart said. “Absolutely.”

  Rachel threw down her napkin and followed Luke to the door.

  After dinner, Warren insisted on walking her home. Blythe couldn’t refuse without being exceptionally rude, but the truth was she was terrified that they’d run into someone. She practically held her breath passing Bart and Thomas’s house, and by the time they reached Amelia’s front porch, she knew she was acting like a skittish house cat.

  “Everything okay?” Warren asked.

  “Yes—of course. It’s just that I didn’t tell my daughter I was going out tonight and…I know it’s silly.”

  “No, not at all. I might feel the same way if my boys were here.”

  “I had a lovely evening. Thank you so much. A night out like this—it was the last thing I expected.”

  He smiled warmly and she smiled back, trying not to worry about whether or not he was going to kiss her. When he did lean toward her, it was clear he was only going in for the cheek.

  “I had a great time with you, Blythe. I think at this stage of life, it serves us well to be open to the unexpected.”

  Rachel took Luke’s outstretched hand and walked from rock to rock. They made their way slowly across the length of the jetty.

  “This is far enough,” she said when they were about a quarter mile from land. She was feeling the wine and assumed Luke was in a similar state. It was dark, the water choppy. She was nervous.

  “A little farther? We should make it to the end at least once this summer.”

  “No.” She wrapped her arms around herself. There had been a time when she would have followed Luke anywhere. Not now.

  He didn’t push.

  “So,” he said. “That’s your mom.”

  “Yep.”

  “Interesting woman.”

  “That’s one way of putting it,” Rachel said.

  “I’m sorry you’re upset.”

  “You know, the crazy thing is I didn’t realize how angry I was until she showed up here. I see Marin and her mother, their closeness, and I’m jealous. I feel how nurturing Amelia is, and I realize how much I’ve been missing that all my life. I really don’t know why my mother even had me.”

  “Well, the important thing is that she did have you. And considering the circumstances, it wasn’t an accident. She really wanted a kid. And she loves you even though maybe she’s not what you would have picked for a mother. But we don’t get to pick. Look, I love my dad. But there were times when I was really angry. He abandoned us. Eventually, I realized he did the best he could. It’s the same with your mom. And hey, she came out here to see you. She didn’t have to do that, right?”

  Rachel nodded. He had a point. “Thanks for stepping in before that got even uglier tonight.”

  “No problem.”

  She sighed. “You know, I’m glad I said those things. I said it, I got it out.”

  “Do you feel better?”

  “I do.”

  “The thing with parents is it’s a relationship, just like any other we have. It takes work. But it’s worth having. You don’t want to write her off.”

  “No. I don’t. I think I was starting to, on some level. And then she showed up here and I felt like she was intruding. It was easier to push her aside than to admit how angry I’ve been.” She turned around. Dry land seemed very far away. “We should get back.”

  He touched her arm, and she thought he was helping her keep her footing as she pivoted on the rocks. But when she looked up at him, he looped his arm around her waist, pulled her to him, and kissed her.

  What was happening? Her first instinct was to respond, her mouth opening to his. But then her mind kicked in and was like, Danger…danger! She’d finally accepted that he would never think of her that way and there he was…thinking of her that way. She pulled back and said—with a Marilyn Monroe breathlessness that sounded contrived but wasn’t—“I’m too young for you, remember?”

  “Yeah. About that: I’ve been an idiot,” he said. And he kissed her again.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Marin woke up to pouring rain. She felt almost as depressed as she had the first morning at the house. She stared at the Portuguese good-luck rooster on her nightstand for a long while before forcing herself out of bed.

  The Miller family showed up in the kitchen just a little after eight for their last breakfast at the inn, and Marin made coffee since Rachel was MIA. She pulled corn bread, hard-boiled eggs, raspberries, and orange juice out of the fridge and set it out on the round kitchen table, whose white paint was chipped just enough to be charming.

  While Mr. Miller loaded up the car, and the kids looked around for outlets to give their devices a last-minute charge, Mrs. Miller told Marin how sorry she was that she’d barely gotten to see Amelia and Kelly.

  “Please tell them we look forward to seeing them next summer. I’ll be e-mailing as soon as I get home to make my reservation.”

  Molly jumped up, tail wagging with a thump against the table at the sound of someone coming down the back stairs. “Maybe that’s Amelia and you can tell her yourself,” she said.

  But it wasn’t Amelia. It was Nadine, dressed in a black sundress and carrying a laptop. Molly barked and Nadine shushed her.

  “You’re back,” Marin said.

  “I am. And…who are you? Another long-lost relative?” she said to Mrs. Miller.

  “What? No…we’re guests. We stay here every August.”

  “I thought the inn was closed this summer,” Nadine said to Marin. Mrs. Miller looked at her in confusion.

  “No. Obviously not,” Marin said quickly. “We’re up and running.”

  “Closed? Don’t even say such a thing!” Mrs. Miller said with a small laugh. “I was just telling Marin, I’m already reserving our rooms for next summer.”

  “Well, that might be a bit premature,” Nadine said.

  Mr. Miller appeared in the doorway and announced that the car was packed and the kids were just doing one last bathroom run.

  “I’ll see you out,” Marin said, glancing over her shoulder and shooting Nadine a look that she hoped read, loud and clear, Just keep your mouth shut.

  After a quick good-bye on the porch, waving as the Millers drove away, she hurried back to the kitchen. Nadine was busy eating the last of the orange muffins.

  “What was that about?” Marin said. Nadine poured herself coffee and shrugged.

  “You tell me. My mother said she closed this place to guests this summer.”

  �
��It’s a long story. You didn’t have to be so rude.”

  “That wasn’t rude. That was honesty. This place won’t be taking guests next summer so that woman might as well hear it here first.”

  “How do you know what Amelia will or won’t be doing next summer?”

  Nadine glared at her. “You should just go back to New York. Pack it up like those other guests. I don’t know how long you think you can sponge off my mother, but I’ll tell you one thing, it’s going to be coming to an end fast. She’s selling this house.”

  Rachel awoke to the sound of rain pattering against the window. It took her a few seconds to remember she was in Luke’s bed. She smiled contentedly, turning to look at his sleeping face. She couldn’t believe it; after all that time fantasizing about having sex with Luke Duncan, it had actually happened. Just thinking about the way he’d touched her made her stomach do a little flip.

  And then she realized that her alarm had never gone off.

  “Shit!” She sat up and searched the nightstand for her phone. It was almost eleven.

  “What’s wrong?” Luke said groggily, reaching for her.

  “I overslept,” she said. “I meant to get back to the house for breakfast. It’s the Millers’ last morning.”

  “Don’t worry. Amelia’s back. I’m sure she has it covered.”

  She sank back into her pillow, pressing against him. He kissed the top of her head.

  “This is crazy,” she whispered.

  His arms tightened around her. She wondered if she should get dressed. He probably wanted to get some work done on the book.

  “I should go,” she said.

  He sat up, looking across the room at the rain-splattered window. “Not a beach day,” he commented.

  “No,” she said.

  “We could see a movie.”

  “Luke, it’s okay. You don’t have to, you know, entertain me.”

  He shook his head. “Silly. I know that. I wasted this whole summer pushing you away. Now I want to make up for lost time.”

  She smiled. “Really?”