Girls of Summer (Shelter Rock Cove - Book #2)

by Barbara Bretton

  He pushed the memory away. He had spent too many months sleeping with that memory, holding it up to the light, trying to memorize every inch of it before it slipped away forever.

  Every day he lost a little more of what they had shared. When you’re in the middle of it, you think it will last forever. The old ones tell you to pay attention, to savor every second because life is a mean motherfucker and one sunny September morning you’re going to wake up and discover they were right.

  * * *

  She said she couldn’t live like that any longer. She was suffocating in their little suburban house on their little suburban street in their little suburban neighborhood. She didn’t want the same things he wanted. Not anymore. Words like security and stability sounded like prison sentences to her, and she wanted to break free.

  It wasn’t that she didn’t love him. She loved him more today than she had the day they got married, but people changed. Why couldn’t he understand that? How could you spend your life running in place when the whole world was out there just waiting for you to start exploring? Every book she read, every movie she saw, every class she took or museum she visited changed her, filled her with new dreams and new ideas, and she wanted to explore every single one of them while there was still time.

  He tried hard to understand. They talked about it, hours and hours of talk that left her crying and him bereft, and still they got nowhere. She wanted them to see a family therapist and he agreed. They talked some more and she still wanted to leave him, still wanted to say goodbye to their house and their town and start again somewhere new.

  He wasn’t good at fighting with her. He never had been. He loved her too much to see her so unhappy, so he said she could take their son Colin and go to California to stay with her sister for a while. Maybe whatever she was looking for was hiding out there in the sunshine.

  That last morning as he drove the two of them to the airport, she had asked if he was really okay with it and he said he was and meant it. He had Colin in his arms at the time, trying to memorize his little-boy smell of peanut butter and crayons, and he was squirming and saying, “Daddy! Lemme go! Lemme go!” and giggling at the same time. Megan had looked up at him with a funny expression, then kissed him on the lips. “Gotta run,” she said, then took Colin from his arms and the two of them disappeared into the terminal.

  He wished he had thought something profound at that moment or called out one last “I love you,” but he didn’t. People never did except in movies. What he did was run back to his car before the cop had a chance to slap a ticket on his windshield and head back out to the suburbs, where he planned to put his auto body shop up for sale.

  He drove through that crystal blue morning with his mind popping with new ideas. Megan didn’t know what he was planning. He was going to sell the shop and the house and both cars, then move out to California, where they could start a new life. She was right. It was time for something new, something different. They could be anything they wanted to be in California, whatever would make her happy.

  He pulled up in front of the newspaper office a few minutes before nine. The morning was so beautiful that he stopped for a second to breathe in the crisp September air and admire the deep blue sky. Great flying weather. He smiled at the thought of his son sitting by the window, looking at the cotton-candy clouds drifting by while his wife clutched the armrest and tried to talk herself out of her fear of flying.

  He wished he was up there with them, but they’d be together soon enough.

  The second he pushed open the door to the newspaper office he knew something terrible had happened. Forty adults stood huddled around a small color television set on someone’s desk. They looked the way the people looked in the old newsreels of JFK’s assassination. Shell-shocked. Terrified. Brokenhearted.

  He approached the desk.

  “What happened?” he asked the woman nearest him.

  Her face was wet with tears as she tried to speak. “The World Trade Center,” she managed. “A plane crashed into it.”

  He peered at the screen. Both towers were still standing. Billows of black smoke poured from one of them. A private plane. It had to be. Some little two-engine job that got too close to the buildings and overcorrected. The only surprising thing was that it hadn’t happened a long time ago.

  “Raise the sound!” somebody called out, and the woman next to him leaned forward and pressed a button.

  “... latest information out of Logan Airport...”

  Jesus, he thought, no.

  “... American Airlines Flight 11 to Los Angeles...”

  He must have said or done something because everyone turned to look at him and he shook his head. It’s okay. It’s okay. They weren’t on American... they weren’t on American... something terrible’s happening out there, but they’re okay... whatever’s going on they’re okay... He kept repeating it to himself until the words lost all meaning. Hideous images of smoke and flames filled the television screen, obscene against that deep blue September sky.

  “Terrible,” the woman next to him murmured. “Such a terrible accident...”

  So random. So tragic.

  He was trying to wrap his mind around the senselessness of it when a tiny plane appeared at the right side of the screen.

  So small against the sky, against the backdrop of the Towers, that it looked like a toy. Nobody reacted. He assumed it was a police plane trying to get a closer look at the damage so they could direct firefighters. The idea was just forming itself into words when it happened.

  The world slowed to a crawl as the plane crossed the midpoint of the screen. He saw his son’s face in his heart’s eye, heard his wife’s laughter. The plane tilted slightly, then drove straight into the second Tower before he had a chance to say goodbye.

  * * *

  “Are you okay, son?”

  The elderly man placed his hand on Scott’s shoulder. His voice was deep with concern.

  Scott nodded his head. He couldn’t speak, not with the goddamn tears pouring down his face.

  “I’m here if you need anything,” the man said, then withdrew to his telescope.

  He had believed himself long past crying. At first he had been torn apart by physical grief. The racking sobs and sleepless nights. The endless loop of memories meant to destroy what was left of his heart. His son’s toys still scattered throughout the house. His wife’s clothes hanging expectantly in the closet, smelling faintly of perfume.

  Two months after 9/11 he sold the business and the house to a family from Barnstable. He fished out a few necessities, then sold what he didn’t need. Anything left over went into a Dumpster. He bought an old Jeep Cherokee, tossed his belongings in the back, then drove away for the very last time.

  Grief should be a private thing, but his was shared with millions of strangers. Everyone had a piece of his sorrow. He saw that plane slam through the Tower every night in his dreams. He saw it every day on CNN. Somebody sent a photo of his wife and son to a Boston television station to be used as part of a tribute to the victims, and that photo somehow made its way into the national press. His private tragedy was a public spectacle and the entire country was his audience. He didn’t need a lawyer to calculate the price of his loss. There wasn’t enough gold on earth to bring back his wife and son. He didn’t want to write a book about it or talk to journalists or grant television interviews so commentators could gaze into the cameras with sad-eyed concern designed to garner ratings.

  He rented a cabin in the woods near the Canadian border, where he grieved hard and long and privately for his family. There were nights he prayed he wouldn’t wake up the next morning, but death refused to make it easy for him.

  And then one night not long after the string of memorial services that marked the first anniversary, he looked up and saw the moon and stars. They had been there all along, but he hadn’t been able to see them through his sorrow. Beautiful and constant, they had waited patiently for him to open his eyes, if not his heart, to life. It wa
sn’t the same life he had known before he lost his family. It sure as hell wasn’t the life he had dreamed about. But it was his and tonight, to his surprise, he almost liked it.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Ellen noticed there was something different about Deirdre as soon as her sister walked into the kitchen. She seemed both excited and pensive, as if she were holding a secret close. Very unlike her spill-it-all sister.

  “I was worried about you,” she said, bending down to add some scraps to Stanley’s food dish.

  “Sorry.” Deirdre cadged a crispy noodle from the bowl on the center counter. “I took Stanley out for a quick run on the beach and bumped into the Mechanic.”

  “He drove you home from the beach?” The same beach that was fifty feet from the back door.

  “High tide,” Deirdre said with a grin. “It was that or swim.”

  “So where did you bump into Scott?”

  Deirdre peered into white cartons and let out a sigh of sheer delight. “Oh, God, you remembered! Kung Pao!” She grabbed another noodle. “He was up on the cliff near the lighthouse.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Would you believe looking at the moon?”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope. He’s a stargazer. He had a pair of high-powered binocs with him, and he let me take a look.” She feigned a knee-trembling swoon against the counter. “It was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

  Ellen pulled two plates from the box marked DISHES. “Really?”

  “Really. You should get a telescope and set it up on the deck.”

  “I’ll put that on my list,” she said. “Right before window shades and after a new kitchen table.”

  “Okay,” Deirdre said as she popped the lid off the container of hot-and-sour soup. “What’s wrong?”

  “Who said something’s wrong?”

  “You look pissed off.”

  She started to deny it, then caught herself. “You’re right. I am pissed off. I managed to get away early so we could spend a little time together, and I come home and find the house dark and the door unlocked.”

  “Oops,” said Deirdre. “Sorry ’bout that. I didn’t know you had a big crime problem here in Mayberry.”

  “You could have left a note.”

  “Why?” Deirdre asked. “You weren’t home and I wasn’t going to be gone long.”

  “Because things happen.”

  Deirdre started to laugh. “Do you hear yourself? You sound like Mary Pat.”

  Ellen winced and pulled two spoons from the cutlery drawer. Doing anything like Mary Pat had always been the ultimate insult. Right now, with the sound of her older sister’s distress still fresh in her mind, she felt protective.

  “Dive in,” she said, positioning the container of hot-and-sour soup between them. They couldn’t disagree if they both had their mouths full.

  “Dive in? Now, that doesn’t sound at all like Mary Pat.” They both spooned up some of the spicy broth.

  “She called while you were out.”

  Deirdre rolled her eyes. “I spoke to her earlier. She probably forgot to criticize me about something.”

  “She’ s worried about Billy.”

  Deirdre took another sip of soup. “She’s always worried about Billy. She was trying to make me feel guilty because she forgot to tell me about Shawna’s graduation.”

  “Shawna graduated?”

  “She didn’t tell you, either?”

  “Not a word.”

  “That makes me feel better,” Deirdre said.

  It didn’t do much for Ellen, but she had more serious concerns on her mind. “She described Billy’s symptoms to me, Dee, and I think he might be in trouble.”

  Deirdre dipped her spoon into the soup container again and didn’t meet her eyes. “What kind of trouble?”

  “I don’t want to speculate.”

  “Don’t pull the good-doctor routine now,” Deirdre snapped. “He’s our father. Tell me what you’re thinking.”

  Their eyes met. “I think he has cancer.”

  Deirdre’s expression never changed. “What kind?”

  “I suspect either a primary liver or secondary liver with undetermined primary.”

  “Which is—?”

  “Bad,” she said. “Very bad.”

  “Did you say that to Mary Pat?”

  “I didn’t have to. She knows something’s terribly wrong. That’s why she called.”

  Deirdre busied herself dividing Kung Pao shrimp and rice onto two plates. “They don’t skimp on the peanuts, do they?”

  It took her a moment to shift gears. “It’s a great restaurant.”

  “I don’t suppose we have any beer in the fridge.”

  “Dee, forget about the beer. It’s okay if you’re worried about Billy.”

  Deirdre shot her a look. “Is it okay if I’m not?”

  Bull’s-eye. The one truth Ellen would give anything to avoid having to deal with.

  “Listen, I’m not about to give anyone lessons in how to be a good daughter. All I’m saying is that this doesn’t look good. I think you should know that.”

  “Okay. You told me. Now let me tell you something: We’ve been through a thousand crises with Billy, and we’ll probably go through a thousand more before it’s over. He probably ran up some gambling debts in Ireland and decided to come home until things cooled off.”

  Ellen picked up her fork. “Anything’s possible.”

  But not that. She had the feeling that this time Billy’s luck was gone for good.

  Chapte r Eighteen

  “Good meeting, Hall.” Lucinda Davenport, head of the Chamber of Commerce, corralled him outside the boardroom. “I very much like your idea for the Gala Fund-raiser to coincide with the opening of Warren Bancroft’s museum.”

  “I can’t take credit,” he said, inching toward the exit. The meeting had extended two hours past its usual time and if Lucinda got started, he would be stuck another two hours. “It’s an old idea whose time has finally arrived.”

  “You’re too modest,” Lucinda said, inching toward the exit along with him. “We all know you’re the one who broached the idea two years ago.”

  The woman had an elephantine memory. He wondered what she would do if he broke into a run. The idea made him smile.

  Another woman might ask a few questions about the genesis of that smile, but not Lucinda.

  Lucinda, however, was still talking. He turned back just in time to field an invitation to stop by her condo for a cup of Kona and a little brainstorming.

  Was it possible to decline an invitation while it was still being tendered?

  “It’s been a long day,” he said with just enough regret to salve hurt feelings, “but thanks anyway, Lucy.”

  “You can’t work all the time.”

  He laughed. “Obviously you’re not an OB.”

  They walked out together to the parking lot and he waited a second while Lucinda slid behind the wheel of her Lexus, then he retreated to the welcome silence of his Rover. Four hours of debate on mainly inconsequential issues were three hours too many for him. His tolerance level for ego-driven battles had decreased in proportion to the increasing number of said battles erupting at township meetings.

  Lucinda’s headlights cut across his line of vision and he lifted his hand in salute. Lucinda was Shelter Rock Cove born-and-bred. They had played together as children, danced at each other’s many weddings, but somehow they had missed each other when it came to romance. Apparently Lucinda was looking to make up for lost opportunities.

  He knew how she felt. He had spent most of his adult life feeling the same way. She wanted someone who understood her shorthand, who shared her frame of reference, who was tired of being alone. Loneliness always got him into trouble. How many wrong decisions had he made because he had had his fill of going home to an empty house? It had taken him years to appreciate solitude, to understand the difference between being alone and being lonely. For a man with an Ivy Lea
gue education, he’d been one hell of a slow study.

  His cell had stayed remarkably quiet all evening, which meant his voice mail was probably overflowing with minor emergencies. He might as well check now in case anything required a swing by the hospital. He punched in the code. Seventeen messages. He punched in his access number, then pulled a notepad and pen from his pocket while he waited for the messages to start playing.

  Three were from his daughter Elizabeth, two were from his daughter Katharine. Same message: send money. Nothing new there. A handful of scheduling changes. His ex-wife Yvonne needed him to watch Willa and Mariah on Saturday while she attended another out-of-town event. He wondered if these out-of-town events had any connection to the businessman she’d met in Boston last Christmas, the one his daughters had raved about for three weeks after he took them skating.

  One call from the cable company, offering new services he didn’t need. A wrong number.

  Ellen.

  Next time one of his kids said that her heart skipped a beat when a guy called, he wouldn’t correct her. Your heart could skip a beat at the sound of someone’s voice. The right voice.

  “Sorry to call so late.... It’s me... Are you home yet? Okay, guess you’re not.... Hall, I need a referral to a GI specialist for my father.... My sister called.... He seems to be presenting symptoms consistent with liver disease... maybe cancer.... If you can, give me a call when you get in.”

  He could do better than that.

  * * *

  “I can’t eat another bite,” Deirdre said as she pushed her plate away. “The food is way too good in this town. I’d be the size of the Michelin Man if I lived here.”

  “Another two weeks and Fay’s Creamery opens for the season. Her Rocky Road puts Ben & Jerry’s to shame.”

  “Good thing I’m leaving tomorrow. I’ve been known to eat a pint of Chunky Monkey without stopping for breath.”