Cure for the Common Breakup (27 page)

“Am I hearing this right?” Summer asked Hattie. “You've been pining away over this fool for fifty years and you didn't even have sex with him?”

Hattie toyed with her slim gold wristwatch. “We were very much in love.”

“Well, I would hope so,” Summer marveled. “Dude better have been the hottest manslice in all of Christendom.”

“He was very handsome in his youth,” Hattie said. Then she turned to Pauline. “But he didn't age well.” With an air of great conciliation, she admitted to Summer, “His grandson has much better bone structure.”

“I went parking with the grandson,” Summer explained to Pauline, who did a little chair dance in solidarity. “It was fantastic.”

“Is the grandson a smooth talker, too?” Pauline asked.

“No, he's kind of blunt. Gets right to the point.” Summer focused her gaze on the dark blue line where the ocean blurred into the sky and thought about the sea of roses blooming in Dutch's garden. “But he's really . . . He's so . . .”

“You're very much in love,” Pauline finished for her.

“No, no.” Summer shook herself out of her reverie. “I mean, I was. Maybe. Before we came to Paris.”

Pauline shook her head at Hattie. “You ripped this poor girl away from her true love?”

Hattie's expression hardened. “It was for her own good.”

Pauline's eyes were the same shade of blue as Hattie's, but the color seemed so much softer. “You must miss him terribly.”

“I do.” Summer turned her face away. “I haven't heard from him since I left Black Dog Bay. No call, no e-mail, no text . . .”

“Texts.” Hattie snorted. “You young people today have no idea what you're missing. When I was your age, we sent proper love letters.”

“Have you tried to contact him?” Pauline persisted.

“I left him a message.” Summer gnawed on the inside of her cheek. “Haven't heard back.”

“Just one message?”

“Trust me, I was loud and clear.”

“Send him a love letter,” Hattie advised, before she could stop herself. “Sorry. That was the south of France talking.”

“Mies used to write me letters.” Pauline took on a dreamy, faraway expression. “Long, romantic letters. And he'd always sign them, ‘I love you more than you know.'”

Hattie nearly toppled off her bench. “Pardon?”

“‘I love you more than you know,'” her sister repeated.

“But that's how he used to sign his letters to me!”

“What? No. Surely not!”

Summer shot to her feet. “Let me go check on those drinks.” But the older women hunched closer together, blocking her way.

“I memorized every line he ever wrote to me,” Hattie assured Pauline. “And that's how he signed his letters.”

“Do you suppose . . .” Pauline's eyes widened. “You don't think that's how he signed his letters to Millie Palmer, too?”

“It's probably how he signed every letter to everyone.” Summer sat back down.

“How cheap. How dull and disappointing.” Hattie looked so stricken, Summer put an arm around her shoulders.

Pauline shrugged and wrinkled her nose. “Let's face it: Mies was nice to look at, but he wasn't a staggering genius.”

“Yeah.” Summer gave Hattie another little squeeze. “I'm sure plagiarizing himself was only one of his many faults.”

Hattie mulled this over for a minute, then finally said, “Sometimes, after he came back from the dock, he did smell like fish.”

Pauline brightened. “Remember his toenails? Ragged and unsightly.”

“That's true,” Hattie conceded. “And his mother was a terror.”

“And his cousins were worse.”

“And he was terribly vain.”

“Always checking his part and combing his hair.” Both sisters giggled. “Remember the boar bristle brush?”

“Who could forget?”

“We should look up Millie Palmer and see how she's doing.” Pauline appealed to Summer. “Can you do that with the Facebook, dear?”

“Wow, it's like I'm back at the Whinery.” Summer felt a stab of homesickness.

“What's the Whinery?” Pauline asked.

“Only the best bar ever,” Summer said. “You two would fit right in if you ever get back to Black Dog Bay. Jenna, the owner, will make you a Cure for the Common Breakup.”

“What's the cure for the common breakup?”

Summer motioned for them to clear a path to the glass table as the server arrived with three cocktails on a silver platter. “You're about to find out.”

Hattie and Pauline opted to shoot death glares at each other in lieu of toasting.

“Cheers!” Summer said for all of them.

And then the sisters sipped, and their long-held bitterness simply couldn't withstand the bubbly sweetness.

“Delicious!” Hattie murmured.

“Divine!” Pauline cried.

Suddenly, Hattie put down her glass and pointed at the sand. “Oh my goodness! Look at that!” She wore an expression Summer had never seen before—amazed, excited, unguarded.

Young.

Hattie clutched her sister's shoulder. “Do you see it?”

Summer peered over the white metal railing, scanning the empty beach. “See what? What are we looking at?”

“Oh, he's darling!” Pauline clapped her hands in delight.

Summer still didn't see anything that warranted clapping and shoulder-clutching. The sand? The waves? A few fancy French seagulls?

Hattie and Pauline abandoned their champagne and clambered over the patio railing, narrowly escaping breaking a hip or two. Pauline grabbed a stick lying in the windswept patch of grass and hurled it across the sand. “Fetch! Go get it!”

And then Summer knew. Hattie and Pauline saw the black dog. He had somehow appeared, all the way across the ocean, to the woman who refused to believe in him.

After a moment, the sisters stopped pointing and calling and lapsed into silence, watching the antics of a dog unseen to everyone but themselves.

“Do you feel that?” Summer shivered as her arms broke out in goose bumps. “That's bonding.”

Finally, Hattie startled out of her trance and looked back at Summer. “My goodness. Give me a hand, won't you?”

“Whoopsies!” Pauline flashed her panties at the bar staff as a gust of wind blew up her long, flowy skirt.

Summer laughed. “Are you sure you're not
my
long-lost sister?”

Hattie kept glancing over at the empty stretch of sand. “Was that some sort of sheepdog?”

Pauline straightened her clothes. “A Newfoundland, perhaps?”

“Irish wolfhound.” Summer took Hattie's hand, and Hattie took Pauline's, and without another word, the three of them settled back into a circle, linked by heartache and hope.

“Y
ou're doing an excellent job,” Hattie announced the next morning when she joined Summer on a chaise lounge overlooking the azure waters.

Summer opened one eye just long enough to locate the straw in her sparkling water. “Thank you.”

“By far, the best companion I've ever employed.”

Summer adjusted her sunglasses and tilted her head back into the chair cushions. The warm sun and the damp breeze felt heavenly on her bare legs. “Except for the part where I told you to get laid, broke curfew, smuggled in a man you can't stand and had sheet-scorching sex with him, called you a vengeful drama queen . . .”

Hattie pursed her lips. “Yes. Except for that.”

“And the part where I arranged a sisterly ambush at the swankiest hotel in Provence.”

“Yes.”

“And the part where—”

“My
point
, Miss Benson, is that I have high expectations of you.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Summer inhaled deeply, bracing herself. “So what are you making me do now?”

Hattie perched on the white cushions and said nothing further. Before Summer could ask any questions, Pauline strode onto the scene, looking as imposing as a septuagenarian in a floral sundress and a beribboned hat could look. “Hattie Huntington. Spit it out.”

Summer put down her water glass, alarmed. “Oh, God. What?”

Hattie wrung her hands and gritted her teeth and clicked her tongue for several long moments before finally muttering, “You're fired.”

“Excuse me?” Summer cupped her hand to her ear. “Did you really say I'm fired?”

Hattie's voice was practically a snarl. “Yes.”

Summer clasped her hands over her heart. “Really? Truly?”

Hattie glowered up at her sister. “Yes. Effective immediately.”

“Thank you!” Summer lunged out of her chair, threw both arms around Pauline in a bear hug, then moved on to Hattie. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

“You're welcome.” Hattie folded her bony arms over her bony chest and sulked.

Summer started to twirl with joy, then froze as a thought occurred. “And you won't call the Poconoids and the senator and give them the go-ahead to turn Black Dog Bay into Cupid's Cove?”

“Poconoids?” Pauline asked. “What on earth?”

Summer summarized the real estate development scandal, complete with a highly dramatic description of the Channing Tatum cutouts and a daiquiri bar with “I Will Survive” on repeat and a vomit bucket by the door.

“Hattie,
really
.” Pauline shook her head. “You should be ashamed of yourself.”

“Perhaps I should be.” Hattie shrugged. “But I'm not.”

“Well, don't worry, Summer,” Pauline said. “I know the senator, too. In fact, he likes me better.”

Hattie helped herself to Summer's water and took a long, angry sip. “Everyone likes you better.”

“No one will be selling or developing the Huntington property as long as I'm alive,” Pauline promised.

Summer shot a wary glance at Hattie. “You better outlive her.”

“I fully intend to.”

Hattie's sour expression didn't quite reach her eyes. “If I were you, I'd get out of my sight while the getting's good, Miss Benson.”

“I thought you'd never ask.” Summer threw her sunglasses, sunblock, and book in her bag.

“Would you like me to arrange for your flight back to the States?” Pauline asked.

“No, I'll be okay.” When Pauline looked puzzled, she explained. “Up until a few months ago, I was a flight attendant. ‘Standby' is my middle name. I can work the system like nobody's business. Besides”—she turned back to Hattie—“I'm not accepting any other offers from you. Ever. No more deals with the devil.”

Hattie smiled and adjusted her wide-brimmed hat. “That's what you say now.”

“You were a flight attendant? How exciting!” Pauline exclaimed. “So you could hie off to Mexico, or Switzerland, or Japan?”

Summer ticked these off on her fingers. “Been there, been there, been there.”

“Fiji, Alaska, Johannesburg?”

“Check, check, and check.”

“What a life you must lead. It must be like a travel brochure all mixed up with a soap opera.”

Summer laughed. “You know, it kind of is.”

“So where will you go?” Pauline asked. “Now that you can go anywhere you like?”

Summer stopped laughing. “I'm not sure.”

The only place on earth she wanted to go might not welcome her back.

“S
ummer Benson.” The ticket agent looked up when she read the name on Summer's airline employee badge. “Wait a minute. I've heard of you. You were on that flight that—”

“Yep, that's me.” Summer deposited her overstuffed suitcase onto the luggage scale and tried to keep the conversation moving, but the ticket agent insisted on rehashing every detail of the emergency landing, then started calling her coworkers over to meet “the flight attendant who saved the six-year-old.”

“So which airport shall I book you through to?” the agent finally asked.

A year ago, Summer would have been paralyzed with possibility. She could run off and start fresh in the tropics, the tundra, the teeming cities of Europe or Asia.

But today, her choice was simple. The possibilities, which once seemed infinite, had now narrowed down to three.

“Try Baltimore, Philadelphia, or D.C.,” she said. “Sometimes, you just get as close as you can and hope for the best.”

—

Summer's plane landed after midnight and she went straight to the car rental counter.

“I'll take whatever you've got.” She shoved her driver's license and credit card at the agent. “As long as it goes fast and the radio cranks up to eleven.”

She drove through the night, and as she approached the shore, she opened the windows to let in the fresh air. The ocean smelled different now that autumn had arrived; the chill wind had a sharp tang to it.

By the time she arrived in Black Dog Bay, the sun had just started to rise over the Atlantic. She slowed the car to a near crawl. At this hour, the streets were deserted and fog rolled in from the ocean, imbuing the whole town with an air of magic and mysticism.

Scarlett was parked in front of the Jansen house, and Summer noticed that the little red car had acquired a few new scratches in the paint and dings in the bumper. She pulled the rental car alongside the convertible, turned off the engine, and adjusted the rearview mirror so she could brush her hair and apply lipstick and powder, though she knew that wouldn't disguise the dark undereye circles and fatigue etched on her face.

Then she stepped out of the car, scooped up a handful of white pebbles, and started pelting Dutch's window.

His curtains were drawn and her aim was terrible, so after she pinged the gutters a few times, she gave up and tried to hoist herself up to the porch roof.

Ten minutes, several lacerations, and one irreparably ripped pair of jeans later, Summer crawled across the cedar shingles and checked her reflection in the window. Her face glistened with sweat and her hair was windblown, but at least her lipstick hadn't smudged.

She rapped on the pane and did her best to look casual.

The heavy curtains parted and Dutch's face appeared on the other side of the window. She held her breath as his expression progressed from grumpy to confused to shocked.

She pressed her palm against the cool, smooth glass.

He opened the window, took her hand, and tugged her inside. The bedroom was warm and dark and smelled vaguely of Irish Spring. And she knew she was home. She had found the place and the people she would never walk away from again.

“Summer?” His voice was still thick with sleep. “What the hell?”

She gazed up at his face, ran her fingers along his unshaven cheeks. “I missed you.”

He pulled her into his arms. She relaxed into him and let him hold her. She could feel the rhythm of his heart, and pressed her lips against the soft cotton T-shirt that covered his chest.

“I missed you,” she whispered again.

He stepped back for a moment, holding her at arm's length. “I missed you, too.”

“Uh-oh.” She started to smile. “You're overenunciating again.”

He held her face in his hands and gave her a very slow but very thorough kiss. “I'm pretty worked up.”

She wrapped her hands around his wrists and kissed him back, then tilted her head toward the rose garden. “I see you got my message.”

“Yeah.” He tugged the hem of her blouse out of the waistband of her jeans.

She shivered, anticipating the feel of his callused hands on her. “I'd like to come back. I'd like to stay. I know it's not what we agreed on. . . .”

He backed her up toward the bed. “Works for me.”

—

“Impressive.” They stood at the bedroom window, gazing out at the message Summer had left for Dutch on the night before she flew to Paris. The small, simple symbol she'd formed out of lavender rose blossoms:

Summer assessed the lopsided loops with a critical eye. “Could you even tell what it was supposed to be? It came out kind of crooked.”

“I could tell. Eventually.” Dutch laughed. “It took a few weeks for everything to bloom, but I figured you were upset and GUI—gardening under the influence.”

Summer gasped. “How dare you! I was up for hours, working in the dark! Give me some points for creativity.”

“Must've taken you all night.”

“It did. I scratched the hell out of my arms.” She glanced down at her forearms, which were now smooth and unblemished. Her healing had been so gradual, she hadn't even noticed. “I thought about trying to plant them in the shape of lacy panties, but the logistics were tricky.”

“I thought you didn't believe in forever,” he said. “I thought googol was an Internet search engine.”

“I believe in now,” she said. “And I believe in you. Especially because you kept my roses alive, even though you would have been well within your rights to rip them out by the roots.”

“Yeah, well, I figured that planting roses instead of running them over was a step in the right direction for you. And you did it the right way,” he said. “See? I told you the broken part could grow back stronger.”

She gave him a squeeze. “You think I don't listen, but I do.”

There was a shuffling noise in the hallway.

“Dutch?” Ingrid called. “You okay?”

Dutch and Summer disentangled themselves, and Dutch cleared his throat. “Fine. Come on in.”

Ingrid opened the door and poked her head in.

“Surprise.” Summer lifted one hand in greeting.

“Oh my God. You're . . .” Ingrid's expression darkened as astonishment wore off and anger set in. “Well, look who came crawling back.”

“Ingrid,” Dutch warned.

“No, it's okay.” Summer squared her shoulders. “Let her say what she has to say.”

Ingrid folded her arms and looked at Summer, then at Dutch, then back at Summer.

“So you snuck back in the middle of the night.”

Summer nodded.

“And you.” Ingrid raised her eyebrow at Dutch. “You're just going to let her come home?”

Dutch nodded.

“Well.” Ingrid loaded the word with her full seventeen years' worth of disdain. But Summer detected a little glint of hope in those gray eyes. “I guess this means I have to give the car back, too.”

“Absolutely not,” Summer said. “Scarlett's all yours.”

Ingrid put her hands on her hips and tapped her index finger, considering this. “Fine.” She pivoted and headed back down the hall. “You can stay.”

“Good,” Summer called after her. “'Cause I'm moving in.”

“Whatever.”

“Want to go get a mani-pedi at Rebound later?”

“Whatever.” A door slammed, then creaked as Ingrid opened it back up. “Ten o'clock.”

Summer leaned into the hallway and yelled, “I'm glad to see you, too!”

The door slammed again.

“Don't be fooled by all the ‘whatever's,'” Dutch said. “She loves you.”

“You think I don't know that? Please. I'm her mentor.”

He pulled her back inside the bedroom and closed the door. “Are you really moving in?”

“It might be best.” Summer nodded at the window she'd climbed through. “I'm pretty sure we're going to break the drainpipes, the roof, and the gutter if I don't.”

“Good point.” He paused, then warned, “Once you move in, though, you're never moving out.”

“That's kind of the point.” Summer nodded down at the crooked infinity symbol in the garden. “If I move in, that means I can stop living out of a suitcase.” Her eyes widened as the realization sank in. “I could . . . I could actually unpack.”

Dutch smiled. “When's the last time you unpacked?”

“Never. And I have to warn you: I have a lot of stuff. I try to travel light, but as you know, I've accumulated a lot of baggage.” She winked. “It's like a metaphor.”

“I can handle it,” he assured her. “I have big closets. Metaphorically.”

When she closed her eyes to kiss him, Summer could smell the sea mixed with the faint perfume of fresh roses.