All Our Summers

by Holly Chamberlin

  “And there are lots of things about your life I don’t know. Is that normal? I mean, for a mother and daughter to be so—estranged?”

  “Do you really consider us estranged?” her mother asked.

  Nicola thought for a moment. “I suppose I do,” she said then. “It was bound to happen, with our living so far apart for the past ten years.”

  “Maybe if you had come home more often we—”

  “Yorktide is my home. It became my home when you sent me away.” Nicola did not say this angrily.

  Carol nodded. “Then I should have come to Yorktide more often. Frankly, I got the idea you didn’t particularly want me around, but maybe I should have forced the issue.”

  “Maybe you should have.” Nicola sighed. “Look, Mom, I don’t know. Can we just talk without getting all introspective about the past? What’s done is done.”

  Did she believe that? At the moment, yes.

  “Okay. But can I bring up one other memory? Nothing tragic, I promise.”

  Nicola sighed. “Sure.”

  “I was thinking the other day about the time we were at the Brooklyn Botanical Gardens to see the cherry blossoms and we came across that little lost boy.”

  “I haven’t thought about that in years,” Nicola admitted. “He was so distressed. I wanted to dash all around looking for his parents, but you wouldn’t let me.”

  “Because then there would have been two lost children. And who knew how far the little guy had already wandered before we found him?”

  “You knew just what to do,” Nicola said. “You sat right down on the grass with him and had him smiling in minutes.”

  “My heart was in my mouth the whole time,” Carol admitted. “I remember thinking that maybe the boy was on his own because his parents were irresponsible types who didn’t know how to keep an eye on their child in a public place. And if that were the case, what sort of people would I be returning him to?”

  “And I remember the parents running across the lawn the moment they spotted us. The mother was sobbing. The father looked as pale as a ghost. The little boy jumped right up into his mother’s arms. I remember being so . . .” Nicola swallowed hard. “I was so proud of you. They thanked us both like crazy even though I hadn’t done anything. But you had. You’d made sure he was safe and that he didn’t feel scared.”

  Carol shrugged. “It was instinct. Nothing more than that.”

  Nicola thought about that. A mother’s—a woman’s—instinct to protect the young and innocent. Carol Ascher was not immune to that. It was silly to pretend otherwise.

  “This tuna really is the best,” Nicola said. “Thanks.” Then she smiled. “No Devil Dogs for dessert?”

  Her mother grimaced. “I tried so hard to keep you away from those things. But somehow, there was always a box at the back of the cabinet.”

  “Never try to get between a kid and her favorite chocolate treat.”

  “Do you still like them?”

  Nicola shook her head. “Ugh, no. But the memories are good!”

  Not long after they had finished lunch, Nicola took her leave. As she drove away from Ferndean House, she found herself again puzzled by her mother’s attitude toward the old homestead. She seemed to have lost interest in her plan to buy out her sister, not entirely but to a noticeable degree. Could her mother actually be having second thoughts about occupying Ferndean? Or was Nicola once again indulging in wishful thinking?

  Only time would tell, she supposed. For the moment, Nicola had other things to worry about. Like the fact that she was suddenly craving a Devil Dog.

  Chapter 84

  The front door slammed. Heavy footsteps sounded through the house, growing closer and closer.

  Julie sighed. “What’s wrong?” she asked when her daughter appeared in the doorway of the office.

  “You noticed me?” Sophie snapped. “That’s an improvement.”

  Julie didn’t scold. Sophie was clearly distraught. “Tell me,” she said, pushing away the magazine she had been absent-mindedly flipping through.

  Sophie stomped into the room and propped herself against the old filing cabinet, arms folded across her chest. “What’s wrong,” she said, “is that I was in the convenience store earlier getting a bag of chips and a soda and there were these two women, I’d never seen them before, and they were gossiping about you. They were, like, Julie Miller’s really let herself go since she caught her husband cheating on her with Laci Fox, and Scott Miller always was a horn dog, and if Julie Miller didn’t get her act together her husband would be at it again.” Sophie stopped to catch her breath. “Then one of them said she thought you should dump the bastard—that would be Dad, in case you didn’t know—and that’s when I couldn’t take it anymore and I went right up to them and told them I was your daughter and that I thought it was totally wrong and horrible that they were talking about someone they didn’t even know personally.” Sophie laughed harshly. “One of them looked like she was going to faint. She was so embarrassed! The other one told me that eavesdropping was wrong and I said, how could I help but overhear when someone talks so loud, and didn’t she ever hear about using her indoor voice?”

  “What did the women say then?” Julie asked. Her voice came out as a croak.

  “Nothing. They just left the store and I paid for my stuff. I looked around when I got out to the sidewalk, but I couldn’t see them anywhere.”

  And if Sophie had seen the women? What would she have done then? Gone after them?

  Sophie pushed herself away from the filing cabinet and began to pace. “Parents are supposed to put their kids first,” she said. “Well, Dad didn’t think of what it would do to me when he slept with Laci Fox, and you aren’t thinking of what you’re doing to me by falling apart so that everyone in town is laughing at you.”

  Julie put her hand to her forehead. Everyone in town probably was laughing at her; at least, some were laughing and others were pitying her, and still others must be taking a stance of moral superiority.

  Suddenly, Sophie was at her side, awkwardly patting her mother’s shoulder. “Sorry, Mom. I didn’t mean that. About everyone laughing. But I . . .”

  Julie took her hand from her forehead and looked up at her daughter. “What?” she asked gently.

  “I’m scared,” Sophie blurted. Her face suddenly looked ashen. “Look, I know about how depressed you got after I was born. You told me yourself. But then you got help. You did something about it. I know this is different but . . .”

  “I’m all right,” Julie said with an attempt at a reassuring smile.

  “No, Mom, you’re not. But I guess I can’t do anything about that.”

  Sophie moved away. When she had reached the door to the office, Julie spoke.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  Sophie turned back to her mother with a small, sad smile. “I know,” she said.

  When her daughter was gone, Julie slumped in her chair. At least Sophie had been honest about her feelings. That had to be a good thing. But to know that your child was frightened and to feel helpless to relieve her fear—that was not a good thing.

  There had to be something Julie could do to get back to a place from which she could help others. There had to be. Suddenly, she remembered something Carol had said to her when they had been at lunch the other day. That courage was most often found when a person was most afraid. Was that true? Why couldn’t it be?

  And Julie reminded herself that Sara Webb, a woman she admired both personally and professionally, had faith in her. Sara believed Julie would come through this time intact.

  Stronger? Wiser?

  Maybe.

  The most important thing, Julie realized, was to keep moving forward.

  Chapter 85

  Julie had shared a nice day out with Carol.

  Nicola had mentioned that she had gone to Ferndean House twice in the past week. She told Bonnie she felt that she and her mother had connected while talking about old times.

  If h
er daughter and her niece both reported pleasant experiences with Carol, with no discussion of Ferndean’s future, maybe there was still a chance for Bonnie to change Carol’s mind about the house.

  Judith had offered a bit of advice. “Keep making efforts at conversation,” she said. “Nothing gets accomplished by sitting around waiting for the other person to act.”

  So, Bonnie had invited her sister to the cottage for lunch, in spite of still being upset by memories of the last time Carol had been in her home. What a disaster that had been, and Carol had still not offered an apology for her bad behavior. Of course, when and if she did apologize, Bonnie would graciously accept and offer her forgiveness. It was what Ken would have wanted her to do.

  Carol arrived at exactly noon. She had always been punctual, even as a child.

  “I brought flowers,” Carol said, holding out a bouquet of summer blooms. “I passed a little farm stand on the way here.”

  Bonnie accepted the bouquet. She thought that Carol seemed a bit nervous. Guilty conscience? But maybe Bonnie was imagining things. “I’ll put them in water right away,” she said, leading the way through the living room.

  “This is lovely,” Carol said.

  Bonnie turned to see her sister running a carefully manicured finger along one of the quilts draped across the back of the couch. “Whoever made this has a fantastic eye for color and design.”

  “I made it,” Bonnie said. “I made all of the quilts in the house, with the exception of a few that were given to me as gifts. Some of them are my own designs, like that one you’re holding now. Sometimes I follow traditional patterns.”

  “Really? Why didn’t you ever tell me you were so talented?” Carol asked. “I’ve had clients who would have paid a fortune for a quilt like this. People going for a cozy look at their beach houses or a retro feel at their ski lodges eat this stuff up.”

  “You would have shown your clients my work?” Bonnie asked dubiously.

  Carol nodded. “Absolutely. If I had known it existed and was this good. When did you learn to quilt?”

  The women continued on to the kitchen. Bonnie felt a frisson of pleasure and importance. Her sister’s compliments were so very rare. “Not long after you left Yorktide,” she said, reaching for a vase in which to put the bouquet. “Ken’s mother taught me. She invited me to join her quilting circle once it became clear that, well, that Ken and I were going to be married.”

  “I never knew Mrs. Elgort quilted,” Carol admitted. “Then again, I never made much of an effort to know her, or Mr. Elgort.”

  “They were lovely people.” Bonnie brought the flowers to the table. She had set two places using her best plates. She had sewed the napkins herself and debated telling this to Carol.

  “I’m sure they were,” Carol said, taking a seat. “Look, what else don’t I know about you?”

  Bonnie shrugged and began to bring the meal to the table. “There’s nothing much to tell,” she said.

  “Come on, Bonnie. There’s always something to tell, especially after all the years we’ve lived apart.”

  “Okay,” Bonnie said, taking her own seat and offering the salad tongs to her sister. “For a number of years, I served on the PTA of the grammar school. For ten years, I was a crossing guard during the school terms. I did the books for Ken’s business when his aunt who had been doing them for years got too old and ill to work.”

  “But you also had a job at the grocery store, didn’t you?” Carol asked.

  “Yes, but when Ken got sick and I needed to be home to care for him I quit my job at Hannaford’s and Ken’s nephew took over for me at the garage.”

  “You’ve certainly kept busy,” Carol noted.

  “What did you think I was doing,” Bonnie asked sharply. “Sitting here twiddling my thumbs? Life goes on in Yorktide as well as in New York City.”

  “Of course,” Carol said quickly. “I didn’t mean anything by my comment. Just that I never knew—”

  “You never asked.”

  “And you never offered to tell me about your personal life,” Carol pointed out.

  Bonnie realized she couldn’t argue that point. She took a deep breath and willed her sudden defensive posture to go away.

  “This pasta salad is delicious,” Carol said.

  “I got the recipe out of a magazine.”

  “I don’t cook much,” Carol admitted. “When Nicola was little I made dinner almost every night. It’s more fun when there’s someone else around to feed.”

  Bonnie nodded. “I know.”

  “I’m sorry,” her sister said. “With Ken gone . . . Everything must still feel so new, so raw.”

  “Nicola comes by for dinner one or two times a week,” Bonnie said.

  “That’s good.”

  “And Julie and her family. Well, not lately, but . . .”

  “I’m sure everything will work out there,” Carol said.

  Bonnie shook her head. “How can you be sure?” She got up to clear the plates. “I know you’re not much for dessert,” she said, “so I have fresh peaches. But if you do want something more, I made these cookies this morning.”

  “Your famous shortbread cookies!” Carol exclaimed. “Oh, I can’t say no to those.”

  “I didn’t know you were such a fan.”

  “You first made them back when we were kids.” Carol took a bite of a cookie, chewed, and swallowed. “Wow. Still delicious. Same recipe?”

  “Same recipe. Why mess with success?”

  “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. Not an idea I’ve always adhered to, as you know.”

  Bonnie wondered if her sister had ever adhered to the idea of leaving well enough alone. Did it matter?

  “Are you thinking of going back to work?” Carol asked.

  Bonnie hesitated. She still didn’t know the answer to that question. Ken was gone. She was getting bored and lonely. She could use the money; she might own the cottage and half of Ferndean but that didn’t mean she wasn’t cash poor. She had envisioned herself as the mistress of Ferndean House, but Judith was right. How would she afford the house all on her own? Now, with Carol in the way, that dream seemed shattered . . . But what if she could make it come true after all? Would it bankrupt her unless she had a good-paying job?

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Probably. One day.”

  “What will you do?”

  “There are always jobs if you’re willing to take them.” That much was true. But at sixty-two, there were several jobs Bonnie would not be willing to take, like the babysitting of energetic toddlers.

  Suddenly, Carol smiled. “I don’t know why this popped into my head,” she said. “But I just had a memory of you sitting under the white pine out behind Ferndean, reading a Nancy Drew hardcover mystery. I can almost see the cover illustration. A girl in a tunnel. She’s holding a flashlight.”

  “I was addicted to Nancy Drew stories,” Bonnie admitted. “The library couldn’t keep them coming fast enough. The Judy Bolton and Cherry Ames series, too.”

  “You spent a lot of time under that tree if I remember correctly.”

  “It was like my own private castle. I used to pretend that no one could see me through the heavy boughs. And I loved the scent of crushed pine needles. It was always cool, too, even on the hottest days of summer.” Bonnie patted her mouth with her napkin. She was surprised she had said as much as she had.

  “Every child needs a sanctuary,” her sister said quietly.

  “What was yours?” Bonnie asked.

  “My room,” Carol said promptly. “I was never really into the great outdoors like you were. I guess I was meant for city life all along.”

  “But you used to enjoy our family beach walks,” Bonnie pointed out. “I know you did. Those summer evenings when the four of us would pile in the car and head to Ogunquit Beach. We’d walk along the shore even at the highest tide. Dad would look for a shell to add to his collection, and Mom would look for a sand dollar. I don’t think she ever found one. Some
times we stayed until the sun was set. Then, on the way home, we’d stop for ice cream at that little place on Stella Lane. Mom and Dad and I always got exactly the same thing. A small vanilla cup for Mom, a chocolate cone for Dad, and a vanilla cone with chocolate sprinkles for me.” Bonnie smiled. “But you would always get something different. I remember being excited to see what flavor you would try next.”

  “I did enjoy those excursions,” Carol said musingly. “Thanks for reminding me. By the way, what happened to Dad’s shell collection?”

  “After he died Mom boxed it all up and asked Ken to haul it to the attic at Ferndean. I’m sure it’s still there. I haven’t been in the attic in years.” Bonnie smiled. “And no, I’m not still afraid of Emily the ghost.”

  Carol grimaced. “I’m really sorry about that. I shouldn’t have made up that silly story.”

  “It’s okay. Water under the bridge.”

  “What’s done is done.”

  Not long after this, Bonnie walked her sister to the front door.

  “Thanks for having me over,” Carol said.

  “It was my pleasure,” Bonnie replied. She had spoken the truth. Even if nothing had been settled about Ferndean.

  Bonnie stood at the window and watched as her sister got into her car. Only when she could no longer see the taillights did she look away.

  Chapter 86

  Carol Ascher was growing frustrated by the lack of news from Terry Brown. It wasn’t that Terry had been unduly long in his quest; she had only approached him days earlier. No, Carol’s impatience was oddly wrapped up in the idea that she might actually be hoping to restore the maze or whatever it was as a token of peace to her sister who was so invested in the family’s past.

  And what if she was? Carol had enjoyed the latest visit with her sister. She had felt more at ease with Bonnie than she had all summer. And while it was true Carol still hadn’t apologized for lying about the breakup with Ken, at least she had apologized for the long-ago ghost story that had caused her sister nightmares. Maybe there was hope after all that the two sisters could reestablish the close relationship they had shared as children.