All Our Summers

by Holly Chamberlin

  “What do you mean, people like you?” Nicola snapped. “People with no one to go home to?”

  Again, her mother just smiled.

  Nicola felt ashamed of her last comment. She, herself, didn’t go home to anyone at the end of the day. Not having someone to go home to wasn’t a sign of anything negative. It often was a sign of something very positive, like a strong sense of self-worth. “You didn’t answer my question about friends,” she said. “I know so little about you.” And maybe her mother had wanted it that way.

  The waitress delivered their lunch. When she had gone, Carol spoke.

  “Let’s focus on you,” she said. “Tell me about your friends.”

  “I don’t want to talk about my friends,” Nicola snapped. “I want to talk about Ana. I want to know why you lavished so much attention on her, way more than you ever did on me.”

  “I did not lavish anything on anyone,” Carol protested. “I told you, my relationship with Ana is professional and always has been. She’s not my daughter.”

  “And your daughter is different from other people?” Nicola challenged.

  Carol Ascher shook her head. “Of course.”

  Nicola picked up her spoon but realized she had no appetite. “Why didn’t you ever think of me as a potential successor to your company?”

  “Because I could see from early on you had little interest in design or decorating. You were always far more interested in, well, in people.”

  Nicola couldn’t deny that. As long as the sheets were clean, there was a chair in which to curl up in with a book, and a table on which to set her laptop, she was reasonably content. Still, she was not willing to let her mother off the hook.

  “You didn’t really come back to Yorktide for me, did you?” she said.

  “Didn’t I? Look,” Carol said with a sigh, “why did you ask me to have lunch with you today? To argue? Or maybe to talk like two women who happen to share the most intimate bond of all. A mother and her daughter.”

  “A daughter and her mother,” Nicola corrected.

  Her mother ignored the correction. “I saw Julie,” she said. “She came by Ferndean with Bonnie.”

  “I didn’t know,” Nicola said.

  “I think I was a bit rough on her. I didn’t understand just how damaged she is right now.”

  “I told you she was hurting.”

  “Yes,” Carol said. “You did.” She picked up her sandwich and then put it back on the plate. “You’re not eating.”

  Nicola shrugged. “Neither are you.”

  Suddenly, Nicola felt an icy wave of misery crash over her. This was awful. Painful. She felt sick. “I need to leave,” she announced, clambering out of the booth.

  “Nicola, wait,” her mother began, reaching out to grab her arm.

  But Nicola dodged her mother’s touch and ran.

  Chapter 32

  Julie shifted on the wooden bench by the side of Byron’s Pond, a fairly isolated spot she had been coming to since girlhood to be alone with her thoughts.

  There were ducks floating about in the still water. The tall grasses along the edge of the pond were swaying ever so slightly in the breeze. The sun was warm. Julie wished she could take off the large, loose shirt she was wearing over her T-shirt, but then everyone would see how heavy she had become.

  Julie almost smiled. Who was there to see? The ducks?

  Scott used to come out to Byron’s Pond when he was a kid. He liked to catch frogs, but he always released them so they could go back to their families.

  Family mattered to Scott.

  It mattered to Julie, too. At least, it used to.

  Scott brought his lunch to work, as did most of the men on the construction team. Since the affair had come to light, Julie had occasionally forgotten on purpose to make his lunch the night before. The other day, she had genuinely forgotten to buy the sandwich bread Scott preferred. That morning, when Julie came into the kitchen, Scott was staring forlornly at his open lunch box.

  “There’s no bread,” he said, looking up at his wife.

  She had not replied but gone to the coffee machine to pour herself a cup.

  “There are no cold cuts, either,” Scott went on. “There’s nothing for me to take for lunch.”

  Julie had turned from the coffee machine, cup in hand, and shrugged. “There are some yogurts, I think. And . . . No, Sophie ate the last of the bananas.”

  “Julie, I—” But Scott had not gone on. He simply turned and left the kitchen and then the house. His lunch box remained on the table.

  Fine, Julie had thought. Scott would buy lunch. They could ill afford overpriced sandwiches and soft drinks on a regular basis, but maybe this would teach him to take responsibility for his . . . His what? Wants? Needs?

  Julie remembered sinking into a chair at the kitchen table as a terrifying thought struck. Had she been ignoring Scott all the years of their marriage, somehow unaware that he was suffering?

  It was possible. She could be stupid. It was probable.

  Battered by feelings of self-doubt and worthlessness, Julie had fled the house for the peace of Byron’s Pond.

  Not that her troubled thoughts hadn’t followed her there.

  Julie sighed. When Carol had first arrived in Yorktide, Julie had felt almost relieved that there was a different crisis on which she could focus—the battle between her mother and evil Aunt Carol, come to steal away the beloved Ferndean. But now, Carol had joined the bandwagon loaded with people trying to force Julie to resolve the situation with Scott.

  The problem was, Julie didn’t want to engage with Scott in fights or in negotiation. Scott couldn’t make her talk to him. No one could. So why didn’t they stop trying?

  Julie shifted again on the hard, wooden bench. She wished her father was alive. He of all people was the one who might have done something to make it all better. Julie had always been very close to her father. She had so many wonderful memories. The sixth-grade father-daughter dance. His patience while teaching her how to ride a bike. Sitting curled up next to him on the couch, gazing into the crackling fire on cold winter evenings. His walking her down the aisle at her wedding. His joy at the birth of his granddaughter. If Julie’s relationship with her father was idyllic in memory it hadn’t been far from idyllic in reality.

  And one thing Julie did know for sure. Ken Elgort would not have encouraged his daughter in self-pity. He would have agreed with her aunt Carol in this. People got bored with self-pity. They got bored with people who were always depressed. And that meant that one day, maybe sooner rather than later, for all his desire to reconcile, Scott might decide that he was sick and tired of his wife’s misery and silence, that he no longer cared about repairing the marriage, that he wanted to leave.

  And then what? Would she care? Julie wondered. Was that what she really wanted, to leave the decision-making to Scott, to force him to act so that she didn’t have to? How much of her stance toward her husband was based on passive aggression; how many of her feelings and how many of her actions was she really in control of at this point?

  Julie was so very tired. She was so very sad.

  Her phone chirped. She took it from her pocket. Aggie had sent her a text. It said: I’m not giving up on our friendship. I can’t. I miss you.

  There was a sad face emoji and a pink heart.

  Julie did not reply to her friend’s text. But she did get in her car and drive to the grocery store. Her family needed bread and cold cuts and bananas.

  Chapter 33

  Bonnie parked on the street outside her daughter’s home. The things Carol had said about self-pity and about Yorktide growing bored with Julie Miller’s story kept nagging at her. Carol might have badly underestimated the good nature of most Yorktide residents, but there was no denying that Julie was suffering.

  Ordinarily, Bonnie didn’t like to stop by without first calling to see if her visit was convenient, but now was not a time for niceties.

  Bonnie got out of her car and walked up
the drive to the front door. She rang the bell. After a full minute, she rang it again. Still, no one came to the door. As Bonnie was contemplating ringing the bell for a third time, Julie suddenly appeared. Her hair was uncombed. She was wearing sweatpants and a stained T-shirt.

  “Oh,” she said to her mother. “I was taking a nap.”

  “May I come in?” Bonnie asked, forcing a smile.

  Julie didn’t reply but turned and began to walk toward the kitchen. Bonnie followed, after closing the door behind her.

  When she reached the threshold of the kitchen, Bonnie came to a halt. Julie had always been a good housekeeper. Maybe not as good as Bonnie herself but better than most. But since Scott’s affair had come to light, she seemed to have lost interest in keeping a clean and tidy home. A month earlier, Bonnie had been mildly concerned. Now, she was alarmed.

  A quick glance showed Bonnie that there were congealed spills on the stovetop. The floor hadn’t been swept that morning or maybe even for days; Bonnie identified stray coffee beans, bits of crushed cucumber, and bread crumbs. An open can of Boston baked beans sat on top of the toaster oven; a spoon jutted from the can. There were unwashed dishes on the counter. How much energy did it require to load the dishwasher? Sophie had to be bothered by the state of her home. But not bothered enough to help out with the chores being left undone. Or maybe she was refusing to help her mother with the domestic chores as a gesture of defiance and anger.

  At least, Bonnie thought, the lawn had recently been mowed. From the outside her daughter’s home looked presentable. Not that any of the neighbors were ignorant of what had happened in the Miller marriage.

  “Why did you stop by?” Julie asked, leaning against the sink.

  Was there a note of suspicion in her voice? “I was just in the neighborhood and I . . . No reason.”

  “Do you want some tea or something?”

  The offer wasn’t really an offer and Bonnie declined. But as long as she was here, maybe it was best to say what she had been wanting to say for some time now. Bonnie cleared her throat.

  “Julie, honey, you seem to have put on a lot of weight these past months. I’ve heard good things about that diet Bella from my old book group went on last year. She lost fifteen pounds just like that. Well, not just like that but—”

  “I thought you always said that appearances don’t matter,” Julie snapped. “That it’s what’s on the inside that counts.”

  “Well, yes, of course,” Bonnie said hurriedly, “but . . . I’m just concerned about your health, that’s all.”

  “You think I look bad,” Julie stated flatly.

  “You don’t look your best.” Bonnie paused. “And I know you don’t feel your best, either.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Julie—”

  “Mom! I said I’m fine.”

  “How is Scott?” Bonnie asked.

  “What do you mean, how is he?” Julie said with a laugh.

  “I mean, is he well? Is work going all right?”

  “I don’t know. We’re not really talking.”

  “Don’t you think that maybe you should—”

  Julie laughed harshly. “Should what?” she demanded. “What do you know of infidelity? You have no idea of how I feel, of what I’m going through!”

  “I’m sorry,” Bonnie said. She felt very stupid.

  Julie rubbed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Look, Mom,” she said. “I know you’re concerned. But right now, I’m busy so . . .”

  Bonnie nodded. “I’ll be on my way.” She was about to add, “I’m sorry I came,” but she didn’t.

  She got into her car and fastened her seat belt. The fact was that she wasn’t sorry she had popped in on Julie, though she was sorry for the tactless way in which she might have spoken.

  And for the first time since learning of Scott’s affair with that dreadful Laci Fox, Bonnie felt sorry for him. Living with Julie when she was in this state could not be easy. In a way, he could be blamed for his wife’s decline, but that didn’t make it any easier on him.

  “Oh, Ken,” Bonnie murmured as she pulled away from the curb. “I need you. We all do.”

  Chapter 34

  Carol sat in Ferndean’s gloomy den. She hadn’t bothered to turn on a light, making the room even darker and more glum than usual. The atmosphere suited her mood.

  Nicola simply couldn’t believe that her mother had come back to Yorktide for her family. And all those questions about Carol’s relationship with Ana. Had Nicola really felt jealous of Ana? Why hadn’t Carol noticed?

  Maybe she should have considered Nicola as a successor to the business, at least asked her if she was interested in learning the ins and outs of her mother’s profession. Instead, she had just assumed that she knew her daughter’s mind.

  And Nicola’s running out of the diner . . . Carol had sat alone in the booth, numb, embarrassed, devastated, until the waitress had come by and with exaggerated delicacy, asked if Carol wanted the check.

  At that moment, alone at Ferndean House, Carol doubted the wisdom of every major decision she had made in her personal life. The strange deal with Alex Peters. Shutting Nicola out of the business. Sending Nicola to Maine.

  That day. That dreadful day. The day she had sent Nicola away.

  Scott and Julie had come to drive Nicola to Maine; Carol hadn’t trusted Nicola to travel on her own. Nicola refused to say farewell to her mother. She got into the back seat of her cousin’s old white Subaru, crossed her arms over her chest, closed her eyes, and leaned her head against the back of the seat. Carol assumed she remained in the position for the entire journey to Maine.

  Carol had returned to the apartment. She felt as if she might crumple to the ground. She couldn’t bear to look in Nicola’s room, not because of what she would find, but of what she wouldn’t find. Her daughter.

  That evening she received a call from Bonnie. She was too nervous to answer, so she let the call go to voice mail and later listened to her sister’s message. She couldn’t read her sister’s tone of voice. Was it smug? Cautious?

  Nicola is here safe and sound. She doesn’t want to talk to anyone right now. I’ll try to get her to call you tomorrow or the next day. (PAUSE) I hope you know what you’re doing, Carol.

  Carol had hoped so, too.

  It wasn’t until Nicola had been in Yorktide for almost a month that Carol told Alex what she had done. She did not mention her opioid use. Alex was not thrilled with the fact that Carol hadn’t even hinted at the major decision she was considering on Nicola’s behalf. He said as much. But Carol knew he wouldn’t make waves; she knew she could trust him not to interfere. Because Alex Peters loved her.

  Night was falling. The den was even darker now; Carol could barely see her hands lying flat on her lap. The dark felt comforting. It hadn’t always felt that way. Certainly not during the years of her opioid use. She had remained highly functional and managed to keep her life running smoothly. Work was completed on time and more often than not, acclaimed. Bills were paid. She traveled to Morocco, to France, to Australia. She sat on the board of several arts organizations. When she visited her family in Maine she appeared the usual glamorous, trouble-free Carol Ascher everyone had always admired.

  Only when Carol was alone in the dead of night did she feel like a fraud, worthless and ashamed. She knew she was not alone in these feelings, but the very last thing she would ever do was reveal her secret to her family. No, she would continue to suffer as she deserved to suffer, alone, overwhelmed by waves of self-hatred, despairing of ever being free of her demon, of ever being fully forgiven by her child.

  Suddenly, Carol had had enough of the dark. Briskly, she got up and turned on every light in the den. On one of the higher shelves along the far wall sat the collected works of Charles Dickens in old, hardbound leather volumes. She remembered her mother buying the set for a dollar at a yard sale. Her family would laugh if they knew that Carol turned to Charles Dickens and his memorably odd characters when she neede
d a boost of spirits. They knew so little about the real Carol Ascher. Maybe they liked it that way.

  And Carol knew so little about her family.

  She didn’t like it that way.

  Chapter 35

  Nicola sat heavily on her battered old couch. She felt slightly nauseous. Why was she thinking of that day now? It was almost as if someone or something had put the memory into her field of mental vision and compelled her to examine it afresh.

  The day she had left New York and come to Yorktide, Maine.

  A turning point in her young life. A momentous occasion, at least in retrospect. At the time—a nightmare.

  The first few hours of the journey north, sitting in the back seat of Scott and Julie’s car, was largely a blank now; Nicola had been in such a heightened state of emotion she had been almost paralyzed. Had she been playing her music? Probably. Maybe not.

  It was only when they had reached Massachusetts and pulled in at a large rest stop that Nicola became alive again. She considered fleeing. The parking area was crowded; she could easily give her cousin the slip, but she had very little cash on her and no credit or debit card. Her mother had seen to that. Supposedly Aunt Bonnie was to control Nicola’s finances for the foreseeable future.

  The three of them got out of the car. Julie and Scott stretched. Neither seemed concerned that their charge would bolt. Maybe they trusted her. Maybe they just didn’t care. But standing there in that busy parking lot, streams of people passing to and from the building that housed the bathrooms, fast-food vendors, and tourist shops, the sun beating down harshly, Nicola realized she felt too weary and defeated to attempt an escape. She would wait until she got to Yorktide, saved up some money, made a plan, and then she would . . .

  They began to walk toward the building. Scott asked Nicola what she wanted to eat. Nicola said she wasn’t hungry. Julie suggested Nicola have at least a snack. Something about the sympathy in her cousin’s eyes, the warmth in her voice penetrated Nicola’s emotional armor. She nodded; she couldn’t trust herself to speak. Scott went off to the men’s room. Nicola followed Julie into the building and onto the line at one of the food vendors. The smell of French fries tempted her. She realized she was famished. She hadn’t eaten much of anything for days. When they reached the counter, Julie ordered a burger and fries; Nicola did as well. And a chocolate shake.