Bess fiddles with her pullover. This she brought from California, though she originally purchased it here. A decade or so old, it bears the Sconset Casino insignia: two crossed racquets with a seagull above. SCA, EST. 1899. It’s one of Bess’s favorite pieces of clothing, because it reminds her of Cliff House, of Sconset, and of her family. Grandma Ruby had the same one. The girl at the reservation desk does, too. They haven’t changed the style since forever.
“I guess we can wait,” Bess says. “But I have a crapload to do back at the house.”
“Understood. But come on!” Palmer nudges her leg. “We’ve barely spent any time together. What are you doing when you’re not helping Cissy pack anyway?”
“Waiting for tennis courts to dry?”
Palmer rolls her eyes, an act as rare as a pink dolphin.
“No. Seriously,” she says. “You can’t be working all the time. I know Aunt Cissy’s not!”
“You’ve got that right. Well, I’ve been doing a lot at the house. Alone. Thanks for the assist, Mom. And…” Bess pauses, she waits, she turns it over in her head. “This is kind of random, but I’ve also been seeing…”
Been seeing? It sounds wrong, like an exaggeration of what’s really gone on. Of course, Bess has seen Evan, multiple times, when taking a very literal view of things.
“Seeing what?” Palmer asks, her interest now snagged.
“Er, I’ve hung out with Evan some,” Bess says. “You know, my high school boyfriend? Lived across the road?”
“Of course I remember Evan Mayhew. Hotter and sweeter than a peach cobbler straight out of the oven. Whew. Lucky girl. See? What did I say? You’ve already found someone else. And he’s quite the someone else. Hubba hubba.”
“Hubba hubba?”
“Nice work, cuz. Way to get after it.”
“Please!” Bess says, and whops her on the leg. “I’m not ‘getting after’ anything. We’re friends and I live in San Francisco, remember? Plus, I’m too smart to make the same mistake twice.”
Bess blushes, though Palmer has no idea she’s using Evan’s signature line.
“It’s been fun,” she adds. “Catching up. Getting advice from one of the few who truly understands my mom. And he’s helped me pack.”
“Helped you pack? Ooh-la-la. Sounds so very friendly.”
“Knock it off, P.”
“Whatever.” Palmer blows a long, straight, wispy strand of blond hair from her explosively blue eyes.
“It’s nothing,” Bess insists, though Palmer didn’t ask her to.
“Fine,” Palmer says. “If you don’t like hot guys, I really can’t help you. I’m sure he has a girlfriend anyway.”
Bess bristles at this borderline rude, entirely fair statement. She exhales.
“Probably,” Bess concedes, though her hackles are still up. “He hasn’t mentioned anyone specifically. But I saw him with some woman at the market.”
“Oh, well. You should probably ask where they’re registered,” Palmer jokes. “First stop Sconset Market, next stop the aisle. How do you know it was a girlfriend? Were they making out in front of overpriced cheese?”
“No. Nothing like that. They weren’t obvious about it.” Bess recalls how they looked between the slots in the bike rack. Her knees throb as if she’s still crouched. “She could be a friend. They weren’t holding hands or anything. Also she wasn’t that pretty.”
Palmer snorts.
“Someone’s jealous.”
“I’m not jealous! It’s just a fact.”
“I’m not sure I buy that one, sweetie,” Palmer says, and pops up onto her feet. “You still have a thing for him. Who wouldn’t?”
She moves toward the windows. The floor moans despite Palmer’s slight weight. At once Bess is filled with gratitude for this place, which most owners would’ve tried to update by now. It’s creaky and warped and vaguely musty, last renovated ninety years ago. Only the locker rooms have changed, and not by much. Truly, the place is approaching the last stop of charmingville, refurbishtown straight ahead. Dozens of weddings are held at the casino every year, but Bess thinks there must be twice as many couples who eliminate the venue because the main room is too dark. But all that wood looks gorgeous when decked out with white tables and chairs, twinkle lights strung overhead.
“Dang it,” Palmer says, peering through the glass. “More clouds are rolling in. Why don’t you ask him?”
“Ask him what? If he has a girlfriend?” Bess makes a face. “I can’t.”
“Why not? It’s an ordinary question. You get a pedicure and they bring it up fifty-seven times. You have boyfriend?”
“I don’t know,” Bess says. “I could’ve a few days ago but now it’d be weird. We’ve spent a lot of time together.”
Palmer jerks her head in Bess’s direction. Her ponytail flicks against the glass.
“Oh, realllly? How much time? Do tell.”
“Hours. Half a day. We’ve had a lot of … intense conversations. It’d be like screwing some dude and then asking for his name.”
“You guys did it?!”
Palmer turns all the way to face Bess, her skirt fanning out behind her. The court-brushing boys are straining themselves to eavesdrop, albeit not owing to any interest in Bess’s love life. They’ve likely never heard a grown woman refer to sex as “doing it.”
“Shhh!” Bess says, laughing. “No we didn’t do it. I was using a metaphor.”
“Heck of a metaphor. Does he know about Brandon?”
Bess nods.
“And the…”
Palmer rubs her fingers together. Is she making the sign for money? Bess is perplexed. Then again, the women were paid, so …
“If you’re referring to the hookers, then yes,” she says.
“And the…”
Palmer makes a hammering motion.
“Construction? Tools?”
“The abuse,” Palmer stage-whispers.
Bess reddens all the way to her hairline. The boys gawp and scuffle away.
“Okay, it really wasn’t.” Bess mimics the pounding. “I mean, not in the usual way.”
“Humph,” answers Palmer.
“And yes I told him Brandon was a jerk, more or less. He even knows about the—”
The words are partway up Bess’s throat but she swallows them back down. Evan knows about the pregnancy. But aside from Bess and Brandon, he’s the only one.
Though Palmer is her go-to confidant, Bess has to be careful what she tells her. Not because Palmer would spill a secret in a million years or for a million dollars. No, it’s something else, something not even Bess fully understands. Things seem to go awry when Palmer is in on a secret. To tell her is like writing it in a journal. It doesn’t become public but the mere act forces you to confront the truth. And sometimes the truth is ugly, uglier yet when compared to Palmer.
“He knows about everything,” Bess says, before Palmer can press for more. “At this point it’d be odd to spring the ‘do you have a girlfriend’ question. That’s like lame high-school-reunion banter.”
“I guess.” Palmer shrugs. “I’d still ask him though.”
“I’m sure you would.”
“Invite him tonight,” she says casually, as she digs around in her tennis bag for some lip balm.
“To Flick’s pre-wedding party?”
“Yeah, sure! Why not? If he has a girlfriend, he probably has plans. But what if he comes? Maybe…” Palmer wiggles her brows.
“Yeah, I don’t think so.”
Then she thinks, just as Palmer said, Maybe.
“Is she still having a party?” Bess says.
She can’t invite him, can she? It’d be strange.
“Even in the rain?”
“It’s supposed to clear,” Palmer says, forever optimistic. “Anyway, a little drizzle never killed anyone.”
Suddenly there’s a crack of thunder. A streak of lightning shoots across the sky.
“A little drizzle?”
“Oh poo,
” Palmer says, glowering at the courts, which are now getting a proper soak. “I really wanted to hit!”
“It’s for the best,” Bess says, and stands to join her. “I need to make progress at the house.”
“You need to make progress all right.”
Palmer latches on to Bess’s elbow and guides her toward the door.
“But it has nothing to do with that house,” she says. “Let’s scrap tennis. Cliff House, too. I’m taking you to town. We need new outfits for tonight. If you dress the right way, who knows, maybe you’ll get to do it after all.”
40
Friday Afternoon
Phone in hand, Bess taps out a few words.
She deletes them. Types a few more.
They aren’t right either. Delete, delete, delete. There is nothing Bess can say that doesn’t make her sound like a pathetic high school girl incapable of talking to boys. This, when she is thirty-four years old and with much bigger problems than what to do about the cute neighbor boy.
Bess shakes her head and instead writes what she really wants to say.
Hey. Party for Flick tonight. 8pm. Marina, Old S Wharf, near Slip 14. Come with? Boat parties. Like the old days.
“God, Palmer,” Bess mutters, “you’d better be right about this.”
She is about to end the whole pathetic deal with a winky emoticon when her phone rings, startling her and causing her to hit Send before she can exercise her better judgment.
“Shit!” Bess yelps. “Shit!”
The text has gone to Evan. What was she thinking, inviting him to her cousin’s pre-wedding fête of bankers and blue bloods? She shouldn’t listen to Palmer. Palmer sees the world from a very rosy place.
“Shit,” Bess says a third time, for good measure, as her phone continues to ring. “Goddamn it.”
DAD, the phone screams at her. DAD.
“Um, hello?”
“Bessie, that you?” her dad bellows.
He is grumpy and short of breath. Bess imagines him pacing by the picture window in his office, glaring out over the Charles River.
“Yep!” she says. “Who else?”
“How are you?”
“I’m pretty go—”
“Glad to hear it. Listen, I need you to pick me up at the airport.”
“The airport?” Bess says, blinking. “What airport?”
“Nantucket! What’s wrong with you? Are you drunk?”
“What? No! It’s only noon! So, wait. You’re coming? Here?”
The phone buzzes in her hand. Has Evan texted her back?
“Yes of course I am!” Dudley says. “It’s my niece’s wedding. Seriously, what is wrong with you?”
“Oh … right. Sorry.”
It hadn’t occurred to Bess that her dad might come for the event, even though Aunt Polly is his sister, Flick his niece. She’s his very favorite niece, at that—his favorite in the whole family, no doubt. He likes her ambition, drive, and custom-made herringbone pantsuits. Bess should’ve guessed he’d show. Dudley Codman always comes through. Old Dudley-do-right-eventually.
“Um, okay,” Bess says. “When? Tonight?”
“Sunday. I’m taking the late flight. Six forty-five. Cape Air. I’ll be staying one night. At the Wauwinet.”
“I’m happy to get you,” Bess says. “But, Dad, wouldn’t you rather have Mom pick you up?”
“Your mother?” He snorts. “Elisabeth, that woman once showed up at the airport on a fucking bike.”
Bess laughs.
“Yeah,” she says. “Been there.”
“So you’ll do it, okay good, speaking of your mother,” Dudley says, spitting sentences like he’s checking them off a list, or shooting them from a gun. “You guys ’bout packed?”
Bess clears her throat.
“Sorta?” she says.
“‘Sorta’? Bess, you’ve been there a week. What the hell have you been doing if not packing? In case I haven’t mentioned you could die.”
“I know. It’s just, well, some things are packed.”
“Some things.”
“It’s been busy. Two town meetings in the past three days.”
“Christ, say no more.”
Bess can almost hear his eyes rolling.
“Your mother told me about the geotubes,” he says.
“She did?”
“So hooray. But you gotta get that woman packed, understand?”
“Yes, but it’s not that simple.”
“It never is,” he says. “Listen, thanks for going out there. I’m sure Cissy’s been a royal pain in the ass but it’s comforting to know that progress is being made thanks to you.”
Bess fights a groan. Progress. Right. What’s Dudley going to think when he sees Cliff House? And what will he do to Bess? With her father there are always “consequences.” He might cut her out of the family. Or send her to the Sudan with Lala.
“So, um, are you going to help pack?” Bess asks, her voice coming out in a squeak.
“Why would I do something like that? Gotta run Bessie, see you later, love you, bye.”
The phone goes dead.
Bess exhales. At least Dudley is staying at the Wauwinet and away from Cliff House. He won’t find out that Bess is a flat liar. Sorta packed. Just like Bess is sorta married. Technically. A little bit. But not in any meaningful way.
After checking for a response from Evan (nothing, nada, zilch), Bess tucks the phone into her back pocket. Jeans this time, for the love of all that’s not elastic, though the jeans are noticeably snug. Bess will have to figure out something. Soon. Sweatpants are comfy but they can’t solve all her problems.
“Hey, Cis,” she says, walking into the living room.
Her mother is hurricaning around the place, pulling and pushing and packing. Well, wonders never cease. There’s some movement yet.
“Hiya Bess!” Cissy trills as tweenager music blares from a nearby stereo.
I’m wide awake …
“Wow, Mom, I didn’t take you for a Katy Perry fan.”
“She’s cute. I like her hair!” Cissy smiles. “It reminds me of yours.”
“Isn’t hers blue?”
“Not always.”
Cissy swipes a collection of picture frames from the fireplace mantel and plunks them into a box.
“Glad to see you’re getting things done,” Bess says, and perches on the arm of a floral couch at least twenty years out of style. “Packing wise, that is.”
“Well, they can’t move the house with everything in it! Oh, Bessie, I’m just so jazzed all of a sudden. What is it that you Californians say? I’m stoked!”
“I do not say that. Ever.”
“I’m stoked on the geotube plan. Cliff House lives!”
Cissy twirls and leaps across the room, like Palmer from her ballet days, if Palmer were over sixty and mildly arthritic. Bess feels a little dizzy from all the motion.
“‘I’m falling from cloud nine,’” Cissy sings, then sets about attacking an assembly of gardening and entertaining books from the eighties.
“So Dad just called,” Bess tells her.
She checks her phone. No texts. No missed calls.
“He’s coming for the wedding,” Bess adds.
Cissy hesitates and then scowls.
“Mom?”
Cissy turns toward Bess and holds up a book. 101 Ideas for Carpeting Your Bathroom.
“Is it awful to trash old books?” she asks.
“Not that one.”
Cissy flings it into a bin.
“So yeah,” Bess says, eyeing the trash. “Dad’s coming, but only for twenty-four hours.”
“Okeydoke,” Cissy answers, wholly unfazed by the news.
Bess remembers what Grandma Ruby said, back when Bess was a little girl complaining that her dad didn’t stay the entire summer.
“Oh, Bess, the men only come for the parties,” she’d said. “The events. They don’t have the time or stamina for the day-to-day.”
“Bottom li
ne,” Bess says, and squats to inspect the box beside her. “He’ll be here on Sunday.”
“Fantastic.”
Bess picks up a red scrapbook and tabs through some pages.
“This is from the dining room,” she says. “I was looking at it the other day.”
“You’re welcome to have it. Otherwise, it’s going in the trash.”
“You can’t throw this away. Grandma must’ve kept it for some reason.” Bess turns a few more pages. “Did you know someone named Harriet Rutter?”
“Sounds familiar. I think.”
Cissy checks the underside of a desk clock that hasn’t worked in years.
“She was some sort of writer, apparently,” Bess says. “Magazines, newspaper articles. Grandma Ruby kept everything the woman ever wrote, as far as I can tell.”
“Hmmm…” Cissy says, moving from desk clock to candlesticks to piano bench. “She might’ve been a friend of my mom’s from school or the club or something. Maybe she had a dalliance with Robert? I think there was a falling-out and I seem to remember the little brother was involved.”
“This Hattie person had quite the journalistic repertoire. Sports stories, makeup tips, opinion pieces about the war—Second World and Vietnam. Also, you’ll be pleased to know there are seventeen different types of dickies available for the adventurous dresser.”
“I really don’t know much about—”
Suddenly a slap of thunder shakes the house. Bess lets out a small cry and grips the sofa. Within seconds, rain begins battering the home.
“This weather!” Bess says.
Cissy casts a nervous glance toward the windows.
“It’s fine,” she says, unconvincingly.
Cissy yanks a strip of packing tape from its roll and bites it free. Ignoring the rain now assaulting the roof, Bess fishes the Book of Summer out from beneath Hattie Rutter’s bizarre amalgam of press clippings.
“Aw, hello book,” she says. “Not very summery today, are we?”
Bad news for Flick’s party, Bess thinks. That’s why Evan hasn’t texted back. Who goes on a boat in this weather?
“Bessie, are you helping over there?” Cissy asks. “Or are you snooping?”
“A bit of both. Cis, have you ever read this?” Bess asks, holding up the book. “In thirty years, I don’t think I’ve seen you open it once.”
The Book of Summer Page 22
