by Blake, Toni
Seth nodded.
“Can she?”
He took his time answering. Again no longer with the intention of choosing his words carefully, but because it just took some time to think through the truth of it. And he wasn’t proud of the answer he gave, but at least it was honest. “I want to be a good man. But I’m afraid my dad took a lot of that out of me. There are things I don’t think I can tell her.”
“Suppose you just...did. Tell her. Whatever it is you think you can’t. See how she takes it. That’s the only way to ever know.”
Seth nodded. He understood all that—but all this truthfulness business was so new to him. And it wasn’t easy to keep admitting he wasn’t as good a man as he wanted to be. He probably wasn’t even as good as most. And Meg deserved better.
“She’s the only woman I’ve ever really cared about,” he confided. “And I’m afraid of hurting her. I’m afraid that’s who I am—a guy who hurts people in the end. I know you’re supposed to put other people first sometimes, take care of them. But I never learned how to do that—not sure I know how.”
His grandpa peered over at him as the boat wobbled on the waves of the ferry that had passed in the distance a minute earlier. “I love you, son, and there’s nothing I wouldn’t forgive you for. But it’s true you were taught some bad lessons from your dad. And Meg’s a good woman.” He stopped, sighed. “I guess what I’m saying is...if you think you can do right by her, I’m in full support of that. But if you don’t, that’s another story.”
The silence hung heavy between them until his granddad looked to his fishing line and the bobber floating nearby to say, “Think I got a bite. With any luck we’ll have more than one measly fish on the grill tonight.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
IN THE DAYS that followed their night at the Pink Pelican, Meg went about enjoying the June days at the inn.
Seth and Mr. McNaughton had gone fishing one day and brought home a catch that they’d cooked up on the grill together, sharing the dinner with Meg on the patio. The day after, a young married couple, the Merritts, had checked in. There were towels to launder and bathrooms to tidy each day—and during her downtime, a cat to feed, bike rides to take, and time in the garden as the lilacs began to fade.
It still saddened her in a way, that fading, but Seth was right about not fully enjoying something if you’re worried about how long it will last or when it will end. There’d been a lot going on, and she’d soaked up the lilacs’ beauty and scent as best she could, and now was the time for that to pass. She would have their lilac water to remember it by until next year.
Today Seth and his grandpa were hiking the interior of the island. She’d given them a map and circled some points of interest: The stone remains of an old church, an early cemetery on the island, the lighthouses, and the same meadow she had taken Seth to before—which should be bursting with wildflowers of every color by now if her calculations were correct.
She was happy they were getting to spend these days together. And despite her kisses with Seth after the Pink Pelican excursion, she was glad—in a practical way—to only be interacting with him in a more distant fashion. It was almost as if he were a guest, coming and going with Mr. McNaughton, seeing her only for an hour here, twenty minutes there.
When he asked if there was any pressing work she needed him to do, she assured him again that it could wait. And when he stole a moment alone with her to ask how she was doing, she assured him she was fine, and she truly was. Her heart ached a little, in that confusing way that had become the norm lately, but inn life in June—quiet time in the garden and house, busier times with guests, and the hustle and bustle of bike traffic and walkers going past in both directions from morning until night—was enough to distract her from any big looming decisions.
She’d heard from Zack, too—intermittent texts, and a phone call she’d chosen not to answer, mainly because she’d been busy cleaning up the kitchen and making a fresh pitcher of pink lemonade.
But today, having finished her innkeeper’s chores, she’d just seated herself amid the remaining lilacs, their scent no less potent for their fading beauty, with a glass of iced tea and her grandmother’s diary. And when the phone rang and she glanced down to see his picture, she experienced that old feeling: A charge of hope and desire and a longing to hear his voice.
Is it just because you want a man? Any man? One isn’t around so the other will do?
But no. You simply want the right man.
With that in mind, she put the phone to her ear, saying, “Hey there.” With a smile in her voice. Easier when she was actually happy to hear from him.
“Hey there yourself, Maggie May.” He could hear the smile, too—she could tell. There was more comfort, relief, in his greeting than in other recent calls. “How are things?”
“Good. Guests are coming and going, the weather is beautiful, flowers are blooming—that sort of thing.”
“You sound...happy.”
Was that unusual? Maybe lately. With him anyway. Or maybe just in general—she wasn’t sure. But she was happy today. “Content,” she said. “Just...remembering I actually like it here, on the island, which I guess I sometimes forget.” She added a short laugh.
“It suits you, the island,” he mused—and she could feel that the idea was new to him. It was new to her, too. But perhaps true. “At least this time of year. When I’m not there, that’s how I picture you—surrounded by flowers and trees and your cat and your books. I picture the flowers blooming and the trees being green, even in winter. It’s how I see you. In summer all year long.”
For some reason, the words stole her breath. Zack was seldom that poetic. Or doting. “I...like that.”
“I like it, too.”
Who was this masked man?
“How’s the fishing?”
“Still good. Best early season catch I can remember in a while. Maybe the whitefish are finally making a comeback.”
“I hope so—that would be great.” Except...it keeps you away longer. An idea that tugged at her heart in an old, familiar way.
But maybe I should stop caring.
Those big decisions—they did loom.
When he asked after Dahlia, Meg had to admit she hadn’t seen her in a few days—but sometimes that happened when the busyness of summer came, so it wasn’t unusual. She was surprised and even a little touched when he then even asked about Suzanne, because he knew her friend wasn’t his biggest fan and was nice enough to inquire anyway.
The silence that followed the natural end of typical conversation lingered only a moment before he said, “I do miss you, Meg.” And she could hear the heart in his voice, same as he’d heard the smile in hers. This wasn’t said to convince her—it was said because...he actually missed her. She wasn’t sure why, she wasn’t sure when this missing had started, but she knew it was real.
“I miss you, too.” And in that moment anyway, she did. She missed the ease of their togetherness. She missed his face, his grin. She missed the broadness of his shoulders, the strength in his embrace. She missed the times between them that were about nothing but him wanting to be there.
“I’ll be home to you soon, Maggie May—promise.”
Her heart caught in her throat. Promise. Would he keep it? Was it too late? To start keeping promises?
She answered softly. “’K.”
“See you then.”
After hanging up, she set down the phone and opened the pages of her grandmother’s diary. It was tempting to linger over the call—the sincerity she’d felt and the emotions it had drawn from her—but maybe she didn’t want to examine it too thoroughly. She’d spent so much time analyzing her relationship with Zack. And right now she felt all too warmly toward him—but perhaps she was afraid to trust that. It was easier to just dip back into her grandma’s world in 1957—let that drama again take her away from her o
wn.
July 15, 1957
Dear Diary,
It’s been a strange summer. Warmer than usual—downright hot, in fact. The windows are open all the time, but it never gets cool enough, even at night.
And that’s not the only strange thing. Over and over again, Ace has come to my window.
At first, it was worrisome—I was so afraid Mother and Father would hear. But they never seem to and that’s made it...too easy. I shouldn’t enjoy talking with him, but—God forgive me—I do. I used to send him away after only a few minutes, but the time grew longer and longer. He talks to me about so many things. Trouble at home, but he loves his mother and sister. They don’t understand him, and I’ve pointed out it’s because he acts like a hoodlum, and he just smiles and says, “It’s just who I am, Peggy Sue.”
Despite myself, diary, I think about him too often during the day, and I hope for him to show up at my window at night. Now, when I hear him tapping there, my heart beats so fast I worry it’ll jump out of my chest. He always kisses me before he leaves, and I try not to like it. But I do.
That doesn’t change how I feel for J.T., though. I still love him so much, diary!
His mother cooked the best dinner at their house after his graduation ceremony last month. I wore the yellow dress again. I feel pretty in it, and J.T. likes it on me.
It’s not long before he’ll start his classes at Michigan State. I’m so proud of him! No one I know has ever gone to college. I’m going to travel with him and his parents to help him move into his dormitory in Lansing next month, and we’re planning visits during his first year until after I graduate next June. Then we’ll get married next summer and I’ll move to Lansing, too! We haven’t told our parents that part yet, though.
Of course, I know how terrible this sounds. My heart is beating double time for Ace in one breath, and I’m ready to walk down the aisle with J.T. in the next.
It’s crazy that I even talk to Ace, let alone let him kiss me. J.T. is perfect for me, and I can’t wait to visit him at school, and then move away. It’s what we’ve both always wanted, what we’ve waited for. Ace keeps saying what a cool place the island is, even without hot rods, but I think he’s just trying to talk me out of leaving.
At the end of summer Ace will go back to the mainland, though, and none of this will even matter. Part of me can’t bear to think about that, but I know it’ll be for the best. For all of us. I’ll be a better girlfriend then, I promise. This is just...a flirtation. It will go away and I’ll become J.T.’s loving wife, the way it’s meant to be.
If love is grand, why am I so miserable about it?
Yours, dreading summer’s end because I’ll miss them both like crazy,
Peggy
* * *
MEG HAD A love/hate relationship with fish. Silly as it seemed, she almost resented them. Fish were what took Zack away from her, after all.
And yet, when Seth and Mr. McNaughton had shown up with some a few nights ago, she’d enjoyed the trout dinner they’d prepared. And they’d shown up with even more for tonight’s cookout for the inn’s guests, which now shared her large gas grill with burgers and boneless chicken breasts.
“I’ll grab the plates from inside,” Seth told her as he passed by. The colorful outdoor set of twenty, purchased for just such occasions, and which Seth had seen during the kitchen renovation.
“Thanks,” she said, thinking that he somehow seemed...less mysterious since his reunion with his grandpa.
Mr. McNaughton was leaving tomorrow, so for Seth, tonight was a going away party. She still thought it would make sense for Seth to leave with him—and it was tempting to ask more about that decision, but it wouldn’t serve the purpose of keeping things between the two of them a little distant. She wasn’t sure how that would go once his grandpa was gone, either. Nor did she know when the “soon” was that Zack would arrive home and how things would be then. She kept waiting for things to get clearer, but she doubted the bottom of Lake Michigan could be any murkier than her love life at the moment.
Even as she socialized with her guests on the patio—the Merritts were from Chicago, which provided a common point of interest—her mind stayed on her grandma and that last diary entry. She kept expecting clarity there, too—with each new entry, each turn of the old, yellowed pages—but young Peggy seemed as conflicted as Meg right now.
“It’ll always be the Sears Tower to me,” Mr. Eastman was saying—he’d just joined the conversation. But seemed the Merritts were young enough that the name change wasn’t a point of contention for them.
“My mom still misses Marshall Fields, though,” the youthful Mrs. Merritt added. “Says since it became Macy’s it just isn’t the same.”
Meg made an appropriate reply, about having loved Marshall Fields when she lived there, too—but it forced her to realize how little meaning such things held for her now. If she moved back to Chicago, or to any city, would where she shopped or the name of a building or the latest craft beer matter to her the way such things seemed to matter to other people? Maybe her life had become more like her grandmother’s than she’d even realized—for better or worse.
It was unsettling in a way to know her grandma had technically cheated on Grandpa John while they were engaged. Talking wasn’t cheating, but kissing was. And even without the kissing, her grandma’s teenage words dripped with animal attraction to her James Dean wannabe. Though she certainly sympathized, understanding the powerful spell passion could cast over you when you least expected it. Funny—every generation seemed to think only they experienced true passion and temptation, that older people never had. And maybe it left her feeling even more connected to her grandmother to know they’d suffered the same confusion over love, which indeed was only grand some of the time.
When Seth returned with the plates, she excused herself from the Chicago discussion to resume assisting with food. Mr. McNaughton manned the grill well, though, making her work light—and Seth helped her organize a buffet table with bread, condiments, plates, utensils, and side dishes without her asking.
“Are you sad?” she heard herself inquire. “About him going?”
He nodded. “Little bit. But it’s okay. I know where he is now, and likewise. And we’ll keep in touch.”
Again she wondered why he wasn’t leaving with his grandpa, despite what he’d told her that night in her bedroom. He’d been missing this man for most of his life—and what he shared with her was brand new. But maybe it was a scary question. Because maybe he really was wild about her, ready to have something concrete with her. Or maybe not. And either answer seemed distressing.
“Just think,” she said, “if he hadn’t found that bottle of lilac water.”
He cast her a sideways glance from where he stood removing the twist tie from a bag of hamburger buns. It came with half a grin. “You trying to say I told you so, darlin’?”
She smiled. “Something like that, I guess. Since I was right, after all.”
He laughed at her smugness. “Guess you were, guess you were.”
“And just so you know...”
“Yeah?”
She wasn’t sure why she was telling him this, but... “I don’t think I could have kept the secret the whole time he was here. Because I knew it was in your best interest. And his, too. I hope that doesn’t make you mad at me, but sometimes we just have to do what we think is right. Not sure I could have lived with myself otherwise.”
Seth gave the woman in front of him a long look. She was especially pretty tonight—wearing a long summer dress with a little sweater over it, open in front to show just a hint of cleavage, her hair pulled back into a ponytail tied with a pink scarf. “You’re pretty when you wear feminine stuff like this.” Then he caught himself. “I mean—trust me, darlin’, you’re pretty all the time. But just especially like this.”
She gave her head a sizing-up tilt. �
�Is that your way of saying you’re not mad at me?”
“Of course I’m not mad at you. The part about you being pretty was just...what I was noticing right now, that’s all.”
Their gazes met and held, and for a minute it felt like they were the only two people on the patio. He wished it were that way. Oh, he loved having his granddad here, and the rest of these people were nice enough—but he missed how things had been between the two of them there for a few short, sweet, hot days when it had been just him and her in this great big house. And he wished like hell he could get that back.
“Gonna let the burgers go a few minutes longer,” Granddad was suddenly next to them saying, with a full platter between his hands, “but the fish and chicken are done and ready for eating!”
It was a good night of plentiful food and music that played from a speaker Meg had brought outside. After dinner, the adults threw horseshoes in pits at the rear of the property along the trickling stream while the Eastman kids played badminton without a net in the wide space between the lilac grove and rose garden. Meg said she counted it as a win that not once did a birdie end up stuck in a tree. Later she served up old-fashioned Neapolitan ice cream in small chilled silver cups, announcing the cups had belonged to her grandmother and that it had been tradition to serve the triple-flavored ice cream at such events from the time the Summerbrook Inn had opened.
After dark, fireflies began sprinkling the grounds with blips of light and crickets chirped in the trees. The children drank pink lemonade, and the adults wine, Meg trilling her pretty laugh to announce, “And this, by the way, is my tradition, not my grandma’s.”
Everyone joined the laughter and Mrs. Eastman lifted her wineglass to say, “I’ll drink to that tradition!”
A few minutes later, Seth watched his grandpa twirling Isabel Merritt around the patio to “Mustang Sally.” It started a trend—Meg dancing with Mr. Eastman, and others joining in. Seth found himself pulling the Eastmans’ daughter out into the fray by both hands without much thought, because it was easy to be part of this, and because the wine was potent.
