All Our Summers

by Holly Chamberlin

  Nicola waited a moment before asking another, even more important question. “Are you sure this is what you really want, Mom? A life in Yorktide?’ ”

  “I want to be close to you and to my sister,” her mother said carefully.

  It was an answer, if a slightly evasive or opaque answer.

  Yes. Something had changed for Carol Ascher, or it was beginning to. Nicola wanted to know what it was.

  “All right,” she said.

  What she couldn’t quite bring herself to add was: And I want to be close to you.

  Soon, Nicola thought, glancing at her mother’s regal profile. Soon.

  Chapter 92

  It hadn’t been difficult to learn where Lacy Fox lived—she was listed in the local phone book—or to learn that Laci worked mostly evening shifts as a bartender at an Irish pub on Route 1 in Wells.

  What was difficult was gathering the nerve to show up at her house, uninvited and unexpected.

  Julie was not a confrontational person; she was by nature generally content to remain in the background, happy to let others take the spotlight. But there were rare moments when every instinct urged Julie to speak out. This was one of those moments.

  The idea had first come to her while driving home from Judith’s the other day. They had been talking about Julie’s applying for the Ackroyd scholarship, and Judith had pointed out that it was Julie’s choice to make. Julie had realized the power she possessed in that situation. Why not exercise the power of choice in another?

  Still, she was unsure of what she hoped to achieve by confronting the woman with whom Scott had had an affair. An apology? An explanation? Whatever her goal, Julie had no doubt that Scott would be mortified if he knew what she was planning to do. How her daughter would feel she could only guess; Sophie might be embarrassed or proud. As for what her mother, aunt, or cousins would think . . .

  For this momentous venture, Julie dismissed any concern regarding her clothing. She knew she was not looking her best. What was the point in donning what would essentially be a disguise? She was who she was.

  Scott had gone off to work and Sophie to camp when Julie left her house. She had lived all of her life in Yorktide and yet had never been to the part of the town in which Laci Fox made her home. It only went to show that neighbors could be strangers and that there were social dividing lines in even the most hospitable of small communities.

  After taking two wrong turns, Julie finally arrived at Pebble Way. There were only three houses on this stretch of road; the first house, on Julie’s right, was Number One. Julie continued on until she reached the one house on the left side of the road. Number Two. There was no curb or sidewalk.

  The house was very small and fairly run-down. The tiny bit of yard out front hadn’t been mowed in months and a broken road bike lay on its side in the tall grass. Given the state of general disrepair and the air of disregard, Julie was surprised to see a pair of bright yellow curtains in the windows of the front room and a flourishing green plant on the windowsill.

  With a steadying breath, Julie got out of her car and, clutching the strap of her bag, walked up the narrow, broken concrete path to the front door of the house. There didn’t seem to be a bell so after a moment’s hesitation, Julie knocked on the door. She waited for a response, heart pounding. There was no going back now.

  When at least thirty or forty seconds had gone by, Julie raised her fist to knock again, but the door suddenly opened and for the first time Julie was face-to-face with her nemesis.

  Laci Fox was not as young as Julie had assumed her to be, maybe in her mid-thirties rather than mid-twenties. She was wearing a Boston Red Sox T-shirt and jeans torn at the knee. Her hair, dark at the roots, dull blond thereafter, was scraped back into a messy ponytail. She wore no makeup; her skin was a bit rough. Her eyes, though, were bright and blue. Otherwise she was fairly average all around, Julie thought. Middling height, not thin nor fat. Just a woman. Just a person. What then had been her appeal for Scott?

  That she was not his wife.

  “Yes?” Laci Fox said. Her tone was neutral though not particularly friendly. Well, why should it be?

  Julie cleared her throat. “Laci Fox?” she asked, just to be sure.

  The woman frowned. “Who wants to know?”

  “I’m Julie Miller.”

  For a moment, the woman’s face registered nothing, not surprise or fear or recognition. Then, she abruptly folded her arms across her chest. “Oh,” she said.

  “Can I come in?” Julie asked.

  “No,” Laci said quickly. She unfolded her arms, stepped outside, and closed the door behind her.

  Julie looked over her shoulder, half expecting a crowd to have gathered.

  “No one comes by here,” Laci said. “If you’re afraid of someone seeing you.”

  Julie decided not to respond to the comment. “I want to talk to you.”

  Laci shrugged. “Go ahead then.”

  “I . . . You slept with my husband.”

  “Yeah.” Her reply was ready; her tone was flat. “It was just a bit of fun.”

  Julie, having half expected a denial, was overcome by surprise and confusion. She felt tears spring to her eyes. A bit of fun. A bit of fun was dancing on top of a table at the local watering hole on a Saturday night because your BFF dared you to. A bit of fun was not sleeping with a married man.

  “I swore I wouldn’t cry,” she blurted.

  Laci reached into the back pocket of her jeans and removed a folded tissue. “Here,” she said, offering it to Julie. “It’s clean.”

  Julie took the tissue and wiped at her eyes. “Thanks,” she murmured.

  “Look,” Laci said abruptly, “don’t let it get to you. All men are rats. The difference between you and me is that you still give men the benefit of the doubt while I don’t waste my time.”

  Julie hesitated to ask her next question, but she needed to know the answer. “Didn’t you think of me?” she said. “Didn’t you wonder what I would feel?”

  Laci shrugged. “Sorry. Not really. I mean, a guy who cheats on his wife, with no big persuasion on my part, I figure his wife knows what he’s like and puts up with it for whatever reason she’s got. For the money. Security. The sake of the kids. Some outdated religious belief. Whatever.”

  Julie thought about that. Putting up with infidelity. It wasn’t quite the same as putting up with messy eating habits or a nervous tic like the one her father had of drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair while watching television.

  “I don’t put up with infidelity,” she said stoutly. “I won’t.”

  “Good for you,” Laci Fox said. And then she looked slightly embarrassed. At least, Julie thought that she did. “I’m sorry you feel bad, really,” Laci went on. “I mean, you’re not the one who should. If anyone should be feeling miserable it should be Scott.”

  Julie nodded. “I know. He does.”

  “But it’s not enough for you.” It was a statement. “Will it ever be enough?”

  “I don’t know.” And then: “What makes you the way you are, cold and unfeeling?”

  Laci laughed. She didn’t seem offended. “Cold? Unfeeling? I’m not either. Just practical about certain things. I learned long ago that happiness has a lot to do with managing your expectations. Don’t expect much, don’t get disappointed much.”

  “I never want to be that way,” Julie said. “It sounds so sad.”

  Laci laughed again. “To each her own.”

  “I don’t know why I came here.”

  “You hoped for some answers. You hoped to find that I was an evil bitch who forced your husband into an affair against his will. Or something like that.” Laci turned and opened the door of her home. “I’m busy now,” she said.

  Julie nodded. “Goodbye.” She turned to walk away and then stopped and looked over her shoulder. “I’m sorry,” she said. She wasn’t sure why she had.

  “You don’t have to be sorry,” Laci replied.

  Julie got
back in her car. For a while she drove without a destination in mind; eventually, she found herself at Ogunquit Beach and pulled into the crowded parking lot. Even after all these years it still felt strange to live in a community that was virtually taken over by strangers for a few months every year.

  She wasn’t sure what exactly she had accomplished by confronting Laci, but she felt okay. Proud of herself for having remained—largely—in control of her emotions and for maintaining her dignity.

  Yes. Her dignity.

  And she had realized something. Distance made it easy to demonize a person, and she had demonized Laci Fox. But Laci was not a demon, nor was she a harridan, bitch, whore, or any of the other terms used to condemn a woman who flouted societal conventions. She was simply a person, flawed, disappointed, not happy but not necessarily unhappy, trying her best to make her way through life.

  Sitting there in that crowded parking lot, hearing the cries of seagulls, the conversation of adults, the happy squeals of children, Julie realized that she forgave Laci Fox for her part in the affair. She did not want to become Laci’s friend and confidant, but she also did not need to have her as an enemy.

  The question remained: Could she learn to forgive herself as easily as she had forgiven the Other Woman?

  If there was anything for which to forgive herself.

  There was still so much work to be done. But Julie felt she had taken the first step.

  Chapter 93

  How things had changed since that disastrous dinner party weeks ago, Bonnie thought, when every member of the family had been at each other’s throats or mired in personal misery.

  Here she was, once again at Ferndean House, having been invited for a meal by her sister. And this time, Bonnie was glad to be there. At least, she wasn’t bristling with anger and that was an improvement. And it made her feel good to see that Ferndean was being cared for. It looked as clean and tidy as it had been the day Carol had arrived at the start of the summer. The grounds, too, were in good shape. The grass was being mowed and the flower beds regularly watered. She herself had been keeping an eye on the vegetable and herb gardens.

  Still, Bonnie was curious to know why Carol hadn’t made any significant changes yet; Nicola and Judith had noticed this as well. And it had been some time since Carol had last brought up the subject of Ferndean’s future. Of the family’s future. Maybe that meant something. Maybe it meant nothing. Bonnie’s policy for the afternoon was to remain silent on the topic of Ferndean.

  “Do you find Nicola a bit reserved?” Carol asked her sister.

  The two women were in the kitchen. Carol was wearing a pair of floaty linen pants with a matching linen top. Bonnie was in cotton shorts and a T-shirt.

  “I suppose I do,” Bonnie said after a moment.

  “She wasn’t that way as a little girl,” her sister said, taking things out of the fridge for their lunch. “She was full of high spirits. One of her teachers suggested she be on an ADHD drug. I was appalled by the suggestion, but I took her to see a child psychiatrist anyway, and thankfully, she dismissed the idea as ridiculous. Nicola, she said, was simply an energetic, bright, and curious child. In short, normal.”

  “And she’s still normal. There’s nothing wrong with being reserved,” Bonnie pointed out. Briefly, she wondered if Carol blamed her for the change in Nicola’s behavior. But Carol’s tone had not been angry or accusatory. “I’d say it’s something that often comes with maturing.”

  “You’re right, as long as it’s a conscious choice and not the result of repressed emotions.” Carol waved her hand. “Ignore me. Yes, even Carol Ascher worries too much at times.”

  “You’re a mother,” Bonnie stated. “Worry is what mothers do. I lie awake nights thinking about Julie. And I scold myself for not being able to help her.”

  “I think that Julie’s journey home has begun,” her sister said. “Beginnings are always rocky, of course, one step forward, two steps back, but at least there’s motion.”

  “I’m not sure I’ve seen what you have,” Bonnie said with a sigh. “But I hope you’re right.”

  Carol put out the final component of their lunch. There was ham and cheese for sandwiches; a plate of sliced tomatoes, red onions, and shredded bits of Romaine lettuce; a bowl of bread and butter pickles; a selection of condiments; and a fruit salad drizzled with balsamic vinegar. Bonnie thought that strange.

  “Taste it,” Carol urged.

  Bonnie did. “This is delicious,” she said. “I never would have thought to add balsamic vinegar to fruit.”

  Carol smiled. “You know me, always a fan of new adventures.”

  “On the subject of new adventures,” Bonnie said after a moment’s hesitation, “you asked me not long ago if I was thinking about going back to work. Well, I have been. But I have to admit I find the idea very daunting. Acquiring new skills. Going on interviews. Competing with younger people, and probably even having to work for them. I don’t know where to begin.”

  “Let me help,” Carol said. “Sometimes two heads are better than one.”

  Like when they were small, Bonnie thought. Carol was always the leader and Bonnie the follower, but that didn’t mean they hadn’t been together in their adventures.

  “We could practice interviewing,” Carol went on. “I could help you craft a résumé. Or maybe none of that is necessary. You might be able to make good money selling your quilts. You could set up an online presence, maybe open a shop on Etsy or hire someone to build a website.”

  “I’m not sure about online,” Bonnie said quickly. She was not a big fan of the computer and wasn’t even on Facebook, unlike pretty much everyone else she knew. “But there is a wonderful quilt shop in town. I know the owners pretty well, actually, but I’ve never attempted to place anything on commission with them. The truth is, I never thought in terms of a career.”

  “You don’t necessarily have to now,” Carol pointed out. “What I mean is, try not to separate life into job versus home, career versus family. In any case, it can’t hurt to talk to the owners of the shop. What’s it called?”

  “The Busy Bee. It’s owned by Adelaide Kane and Cindy Bauer. Now that I think about it, it’s only one of several of local businesses owned by women.”

  “Obviously, I’ve always been a fan of women owning their own businesses. I—” Carol’s next sentence was interrupted by a yawn. “Excuse me,” she said. “I shouldn’t be tired. I slept for eight hours last night and ten the night before that but somehow, I can’t seem to wake up.”

  “Maybe you’re just feeling relaxed for the first time in years,” Bonnie suggested. Ferndean House working its magic on Carol Ascher? Maybe.

  The doorbell rang before Carol could comment.

  “That must be Nicola,” she said, hurrying from the kitchen.

  A moment later, Carol returned with Nicola at her side.

  “I was passing that farm stand that sells the sour cherry pies you’re mad about, Aunt Bonnie,” she said, settling two cardboard boxes on the counter. “So, I bought you one to take home. And the other one is for you, Mom. Oh, good, lunch is ready. I’m starved!”

  Nicola began to put together a sandwich piled high with pickles, tomato, onion, and lettuce.

  “I didn’t know you liked Dijon mustard,” Bonnie noted as Nicola reached for the jar of Grey Poupon.

  “It’s what we had at home when I was growing up,” Nicola told her. She took a bite of her sandwich and rolled her eyes heavenward. “I forgot how much I liked it,” she said when she had swallowed.

  Bonnie smiled, but the truth was that she felt a bit left out. Nicola had never asked her aunt to buy Dijon mustard; she had used the yellow mustard the Elgorts preferred without complaint. The memory of Nicola’s giving Carol a hug after dinner at Judith’s house flashed across Bonnie’s mind and suddenly, for the first time in a very long time, Bonnie realized just how little she knew of Nicola’s early years with Carol. Her mother. The two must have been so close. Mother and daughter against the
world.

  “Are you okay, Aunt Bonnie?” Nicola asked. “You’ve hardly touched your sandwich.”

  Bonnie smiled. “Just wool-gathering,” she said. “It happens a lot at my age.”

  Chapter 94

  “I’m going to have another sandwich.”

  Carol smiled. A mother always liked to see her child eat. Now she could only pray that Nicola wouldn’t mention the fact of her mother having dated Ken once upon a time. It might create an awkward moment, especially given that Carol still hadn’t apologized for lying to her sister about the breakup. Some topics were better left to the Ascher sisters alone to hammer out.

  “Ah, to be young again,” Bonnie said, patting her stomach. “I remember eating an entire half gallon of ice cream at one sitting! These days, I’d have to fast for a month afterward.”

  “And I’d have to take an entire bottle of Lactaid beforehand,” Carol added. “Ice cream in limited quantities is definitely the way to go once you’re over the age of thirty.”

  “So, what were you guys talking about when I came in?” Nicola asked. “Not ice cream, I bet.”

  “I was telling your mother that I’ve been thinking about getting a job,” Bonnie said.

  “Really?” Nicola said, her hand hovering over the plate of sliced cheese. “I think that’s a great idea. You’ve a lot more to give than what you give to your family.”

  That, Carol realized, was probably very true.

  Bonnie laughed. “Me?”

  “Don’t be self-effacing,” Carol scolded. “Better to acknowledge your talents honestly. And by that I don’t mean bragging, just accepting that you have certain skills and strengths.”

  “What was your big career break, Mom?” Nicola asked. “Doesn’t every successful person have a big break moment?”

  “I don’t know about that,” Carol said honestly. “All I know is what happened in my case. Do you really want to hear this?”

  Both her sister and daughter said, “Yes.”

  “Okay. Well,” Carol began, “I’d been in New York close to two years, earning next to no money, working ridiculous jobs, and beginning to feel I’d made a colossal mistake in coming to New York.”