All Our Summers

by Holly Chamberlin

  Julie brought their meals to the table. They were still in their aluminum servers.

  Sophie wrinkled her nose. “Since when do we eat this stuff?”

  “Since now.” Scott walked into the room. “Thank your mother for making the effort.”

  Sophie said nothing but plopped into her usual seat. Julie knew that by scolding Sophie, Scott was trying to show his respect for his wife. She didn’t care.

  “Nicola told me her mother wants to buy Grandma out of her share of Ferndean,” Sophie announced, her fork poised dubiously over her food. “Nicola is so pissed.”

  “Don’t use that word,” Scott said.

  His daughter ignored him. “What’s the big deal if Carol wants to live there?”

  “It’s a long story,” Julie said wearily. “The short of it is that Grandma deserves the house.”

  Scott cleared his throat. “Maybe you shouldn’t get involved if Bonnie and Carol are going to start tussling,” he said. “You have enough to worry about. Not worry about,” he added hastily. “I just mean, you have—”

  “Don’t tell me what I should and should not do,” Julie said quietly. She poked her fork into the food on her plate but didn’t lift it to her mouth.

  “I wasn’t. I just thought that . . .”

  Julie kept her eyes glued to her plate. “Well, don’t. Don’t just think.”

  The sound of a utensil clanging against the table made Julie jump.

  “I’m done,” Sophie announced.

  “You’ve hardly touched your dinner,” Scott said.

  “I said, I’m done. I can’t eat with you two . . .” Sophie shook her head. “Never mind.”

  “It’s okay,” Julie said. “You can go.”

  Sophie got up and left the kitchen. The pounding of feet on the stairs made it clear that she was headed for her room.

  “We need to talk,” Scott said quietly.

  “Not now.” Julie pushed her chair back. It scraped against the floor. She picked up Sophie’s plate and took it over to the trash bin. She heard Scott get up from the table.

  Julie was alone.

  She had known when she met Scott that he had a reputation as a player, but she hadn’t minded at first; Scott was cute and funny and kindhearted. It was only after they had been dating for several months and Julie realized that she might be falling in love did she fear that Scott’s past behavior might interfere with their becoming a real couple. So, she had worked up the courage to confront him with her concerns. He swore he hadn’t cheated on her since they had been dating. He swore that he hadn’t even wanted to, not since he had realized he was in love with her. “Things are different with you,” he told her. “Better.”

  Julie believed him. Their relationship grew stronger. Everyone could see that they were devoted to each other. Yorktide began to think that Scott Miller was a reformed man.

  But he wasn’t. Not yet. He told Julie about his one-night stand before anyone else in Yorktide could. Maybe he wanted to spare Julie as much pain as he could by preparing her for any public scrutiny that was to come. He swore he would never again cheat on Julie. Julie, touched and impressed by his honesty, forgave him.

  Miraculously, no one ever found out about Scott’s indiscretion. If they had, they would have talked. Such is the nature of a small town.

  A few months later, Scott asked Julie to marry him. He couldn’t afford an engagement ring, but Julie didn’t care. She happily accepted his proposal. She forgot about his one slip. Almost.

  Scott cried at their wedding ceremony. The reception was a lot of fun. The band played on past the time they were scheduled to quit. Anyone who was still standing at five the following morning went to a popular local diner for breakfast. Yorktide talked about the party for weeks afterward.

  Julie had been very happy in her marriage. The reality of Scott’s infidelity hit her hard. Unhelpful people said: “You knew what Scott was like when you married him. How can you be so surprised now?” But Julie was surprised. And hurt. And angry. But not angry enough, at least, not with the person who deserved her anger.

  Julie blamed herself for Scott’s affair. At least, she considered herself a motivating factor in Scott’s decision to cheat.

  Still, she didn’t want a divorce. A divorce would be financially devastating; they would have to sell the house and she would have to move in again with her mother, either in the cottage in which Julie had grown up, or, if Carol could be made to disappear, at Ferndean House. Her mother probably wouldn’t mind, but Julie would. She would feel like even more of a failure than she did now.

  And what would a divorce do to Sophie? She was already suffering. Could her parents splitting up really be helpful? Would Sophie choose to live with her mother and grandmother, or with her father? Sophie was mad at her father, but she was still Daddy’s Little Girl, and there was no doubt that if she went to live with Scott he would spoil her rotten in an effort to make up for the chaos he had caused. That wouldn’t be good for Sophie in the end, but Sophie would only be focused on how fun life was at Dad’s, with a lenient curfew and him catering to her every whim.

  Julie put her hand to her head. What a mess. She still loved Scott. She did. She wanted to grow old by his side. She wanted them to be like her parents had been, an utterly devoted couple. There had to be a way through this . . .

  But Julie was afraid to go to couple’s counseling. There was no doubt in her mind that the counselor would see her fatal flaws immediately. “You had just cause to cheat,” the counselor would say to Scott. “Just look at her.”

  How Julie reconciled this belief with the fact that Scott Miller had a long history of being unfaithful in relationships, she didn’t bother to question.

  Maybe, Julie thought now, it was the decision not to have another baby that had precipitated the decline of the marriage. Originally, Scott and Julie had wanted two or three children. But after Sophie’s birth, Julie went through a terrible postpartum depression that manifested itself in an overwhelming loss of energy, a sense of hopelessness, and debilitating feelings of worthlessness and shame. Her doctor had put her on an antidepressant and had referred Julie to a therapist who specialized in women’s health issues. Eventually, Julie returned.

  It was Scott who brought up the idea of keeping their family the way it was. “One child is perfect,” he had said to his wife. “You’ve given us a beautiful daughter and we’re so very lucky.”

  Julie had been worried, fearful she was letting him down, but also relieved.

  Maybe he had been lying about being lucky.

  Julie picked up a knife to scrape what remained of her meal and of Scott’s into the trash. Instead, she used the knife as a fork to eat the leftovers, cold and unappetizing as they were. There was a box of donuts in the fridge. Julie ate them, too. Sophie would probably complain the next morning when she wanted one for breakfast.

  Julie couldn’t bring herself to care.

  Chapter 9

  Bonnie couldn’t seem to put down the sponge. Her mind was racing and while wiping away invisible spots of grease from the stovetop and nonexistent smudges from the handle of the fridge was serving to occupy her time, it was not blocking the memory of a family dinner that had taken place back in February. All but Sophie had been present.

  When they had gathered at Bonnie’s kitchen table around a meal of roast chicken, green beans, and mashed potatoes, she had announced her plan of selling the cottage and taking sole possession of the family homestead.

  “What do you mean by sole possession?” Judith had asked with a frown.

  “I mean that I want to live there on my own. No renters. And I don’t want any more help from Carol.”

  Julie had not been optimistic; she thought the plan economically foolish and said so plainly.

  Nicola was thoroughly supportive of her aunt’s desire, but certain that her mother would ruin Bonnie’s plans for a peaceful future at Ferndean. “She’ll never grant you sole residence,” she said darkly. “My mother only car
es about herself.”

  Judith agreed with Julie. “You’d be crazy to try to handle Ferndean on your own,” she said. “Things are tough enough for you as it is, now that Ken is gone.”

  “Maybe there’s a way,” Scott had ventured. “Maybe you could talk to Carol and—”

  Nicola had interrupted. “My mother didn’t even care enough about us to come back to Yorktide for Uncle Ken’s funeral. She doesn’t deserve Ferndean. End of story.”

  “I’m glad someone here is on my side!” Bonnie remembered saying, squeezing Nicola’s hand in gratitude.

  “It’s not a matter of taking sides,” her cousin had pointed out in her maddeningly reasonable manner. “It’s a matter of being realistic about the situation. And to be fair, Nicola, your mother was in India, not exactly a hop, skip, and a jump away.”

  To be fair.

  The conversation had continued.

  “It’s just that it’s about time I’m Mistress of Ferndean.”

  Judith had raised an eyebrow. “That’s a bit grandiose. Mistress of Ferndean? This isn’t a nineteenth-century novel. This is twenty-first century life. On a budget. Without a staff.”

  “I know that,” Bonnie said irritably.

  “Then what’s your deep-down reason for wanting to live at Ferndean on your own?” Judith had pressed.

  “Do you feel too sad in the cottage without Dad?” Julie asked.

  “No,” Bonnie had said truthfully. “Ken loved the cottage; everywhere I look I see examples of how he took such good care of our home.”

  Scott shook his head. “So, why do you want to sell it?”

  Bonnie didn’t want to say the words out loud.

  Because of the almost lifelong rivalry between the Ascher sisters.

  Because Bonnie felt she had been neglected and taken advantage of for too long.

  “Why should I have to ask Carol for permission to move into Ferndean House?” she finally blurted.

  “To keep things civil, for one,” Judith had pointed out. “That and the fact that she is legally co-owner of the house and property.”

  “It’s not like Aunt Bonnie would be doing anything underhanded,” Nicola had protested.

  “Exactly. I’m just going to move in and write to Carol to tell her what I’ve done.”

  “I don’t claim to know Carol better than you do,” Judith had said with a laugh, “but I do know her well enough to guess that she won’t be thrilled with the news of a fait accompli.”

  Bonnie put down the sponge and dried her hands on a dishtowel. How naïve she had been! She had felt so sure that she could accomplish her goal! But she should have remembered that Carol Ascher always got what she wanted.

  Case in point: the summer a traveling carnival had come to Yorktide. Thirteen-year-old Carol had been mad to attend but at the last minute, Mr. and Mrs. Ascher were called out to assist an elderly couple from their church. “We’ll go to the carnival tomorrow night,” Shirley Ascher promised.

  “We’ll go tonight,” Carol said when their parents had gone.

  Ten-year-old Bonnie had protested. She had seen a television show about a carnival and it had frightened her. There was loud, strange music at fairgrounds, and unsuspecting children wandered into those big peaked tents to see a six-legged donkey or a two-headed cat and they never came out again. Bonnie would only go to the carnival with her parents.

  “Oh, don’t be silly,” Carol said. “It’ll be so much fun.”

  Unable to say no to her sister, Bonnie found herself tagging along through a wilderness of powerful smells (popcorn and frying sausage) and troubling sights and sounds (women in beards and tinny music that hurt her ears). Malachi the Marvelous Mind Reader knew her every thought. The fortune-teller’s wizened monkey ran across her shoes.

  For months afterward, Bonnie had nightmares of disembodied clown faces and leering strong men and animals with too many heads. Had Carol gotten in trouble for disobeying their mother? It was unlikely.

  Bonnie sat heavily at the kitchen table. For a moment, she felt absolutely and utterly lost. For the first time in her life she was on her own, forced to consider only herself when planning meals, to consult only her own desires when choosing what movie to see at the local cinema, to make the sort of decisions she had always made with a partner. The change was enormous and exhausting.

  What would the rest of her life look like? What would Ken want her life to look like? Happy. Peaceful. Secure.

  She should probably go back to work.

  But maybe not just yet. Not until the matter of Ferndean House was settled. Until it was, her life was stalled.

  Bonnie drew back her shoulders. There was no other way. She had to confront her sister, not wait around for Carol to drop another bombshell. And this time, she would not run away from the confrontation, no matter how ugly it got.

  Bonnie went to her landline phone and dialed the familiar number, the one that had not changed in almost forty years.

  After five rings, Carol answered. “Hello?” she said.

  “It’s your sister,” Bonnie announced, her voice trembling. “We have to talk. About Ferndean.”

  Chapter 10

  If only it were her cousin Judith who was coming by to discuss the future of Ferndean. Judith was the only member of her family from whom Carol did not anticipate trouble; they had always gotten along just fine.

  Judith, now seventy years old, was five feet nine inches tall. Her hair was silver—Carol knew some women in New York who paid good money for that exact shade—and she wore it shoulder length. Her taste in clothing was similar to Carol’s. She favored clean, classic lines in a palette of neutrals, reserving color for accessories like scarves and bags.

  The resemblance between Judith and Bonnie was almost nonexistent, but Judith’s resemblance to Carol was fairly pronounced. They both had what used to be called an aristocratic nose, long and narrow. They both had rather almond-shaped eyes of a peculiarly steely gray, and both had long, delicate fingers. All in all, Carol and Judith could easily be mistaken for sisters rather than cousins.

  But they weren’t sisters.

  The doorbell rang. Carol noted that Bonnie did not use her key.

  Her sister stood rigidly on the front porch. Her expression was grim.

  “Come in,” Carol said, gesturing with a sweep of her arm.

  Bonnie marched into the house and came to an abrupt halt in the foyer.

  “Beautiful weather,” Carol commented. “Why don’t we sit in the living room?”

  Bonnie took a seat in the armchair that had been their mother’s favorite. Carol perched on the arm of the couch directly across from her sister.

  “Can I get you something to drink?” she asked. “Tea? Coffee?”

  Bonnie shook her head. “You should probably know that Nicola is thinking of joining the Peace Corps.”

  Carol was caught off guard. Bonnie had delivered that bit of information with a certain smugness, almost as if she was happy to be wounding her sister with the news that Nicola was leaving Yorktide just when Carol had returned.

  “Is she,” Carol said flatly.

  “She’s hoping for a posting in Ukraine,” Bonnie went on. “She’s interested in all things Eastern European. I have no idea why.”

  “It’s funny how things happen,” Carol said.

  Or not so funny. Because Nicola’s father was not an anonymous sperm donor. His name was Alex Peters. His grandparents had come to the United States from Ukraine, changing their last name from Petrenko. Alex had been baptized Olexsandr, after his maternal grandfather, but in college he had changed it to Alexander. Was Nicola’s interest in Ukraine a tell-tale sign of her father’s heritage coming to light? It was said that blood will out. As would secrets, Carol thought. No matter how hard you tried to keep them hidden.

  “You can’t ask her to stay,” Bonnie said. “It wouldn’t be fair.”

  Carol bristled. “I have no intention of asking Nicola to abandon her plans.”

  “Good. Y
ou can’t stop her from doing what she wants to do. Nobody stopped you from leaving Yorktide all those years ago.”

  “I’d have found a way to get out no matter the obstacles. As will Nicola, if she’s my daughter.”

  Bonnie frowned and said nothing.

  “About Ferndean,” Carol went on. “After all, that’s what you came here today to talk about. As I mentioned the other day before you hurried off, I want to buy you out. I’ve decided to give up my life in New York and retire here, where I belong.”

  “You haven’t lived in Yorktide since you were nineteen,” Bonnie cried, her face growing red. “How can you possibly know you’d be happy here? You weren’t happy here as a child. If you had been, you would never have left. Or, you’d have gone away for a while, sowed your wild oats, and come back to us. But you didn’t.”

  “I’m here now,” Carol pointed out. “Better late than never.”

  “I don’t believe that’s always true. Anyway, what makes you think you can just show up and be welcomed with open arms? Are you so used to getting your way that you assumed you could remake our world—mine and Nicola’s—here in Yorktide, at Ferndean, to your specifications?”

  Carol let that remark go. It was indeed close to what she had assumed, but there was no need to admit that aloud. “Why are you so bothered by my coming home?” she asked.

  Bonnie suddenly leaned forward. “Because . . . Because I want to live at Ferndean House. I believe I have a right to it. After all those years of . . .” Bonnie hesitated; there were tears shining in her eyes. “Of devotion,” she went on. “It should rightfully be mine.”

  So that was it, Carol thought. Never in a million years had she imagined Bonnie wanting sole possession of Ferndean House. Why hadn’t she?

  “I wholeheartedly agree that you worked long and hard for the sake of the family home, as well as for Mom and Dad,” Carol said carefully. “And for me. But it doesn’t necessarily follow that you should be gifted Ferndean.”

  “Why didn’t you come to Ken’s funeral?” Bonnie demanded, her hands gripping the arms of the chair.

  Carol knew this was a question Bonnie had been burning to ask.