Cure for the Common Breakup (9 page)

“W
hat's the most manly wine you have by the glass?” Summer asked Jenna over the bluesy opening riffs of Suzanne Rhatigan's “To Hell with Love.”

“Probably one of the Cabernets or a Meritage.” Jenna beckoned a striking, pale woman who looked oddly familiar. “Summer, this is Hollis. She owns the bookstore by the boardwalk.”

“Two blocks over from where you gave that insufferable Mimi Sinclair a taste of her own medicine.” Hollis slid into the seat next to Summer's.

Summer stared at Hollis, trying to place the fine-boned face and the melancholy green eyes. “Have we met before?”

Hollis glanced at Jenna, who explained, “Hollis used to be kind of famous.”

“But enough about me,” Hollis said. She pointed her straw at the Jake Sorensen fan club, which had reclaimed its president. “We saw you dancing.”

“And we want to know why you're still here instead of steaming up the windows of his fancy beach house,” Jenna said. “Explain yourself.”

Summer turned up one palm. “He's not my type.”

Hollis's jaw dropped. “Jake Sorensen is every woman's type. He's so charming.”

“And mind-blowing in bed.” Jenna fanned her cheeks. “I, uh, hear.”

“You should see his back muscles,” the woman on the other side of Summer chimed in. “Hi. I'm Chandra, and I have a thing for lats.”

Hollis rested her chin in her palm as they all stared over at the designated rebound guy. “He's handsome, he's rich, and he's very mysterious, since he spends every summer here but no one has any idea what he does for the rest of the year.”

Summer considered all this, then shrugged. “Yeah, no.”

“If you say you're not ready, so help me, I will kill you.” Jenna slapped her hand down on the bar. “It's Jake Sorensen!
Get
ready.”

“Leave her alone,” Hollis said. “If she's not ready, she's not ready.”

“I'm ready,” Summer lied. “But he's not the one I'm after.”

Hollis and Jenna both leaned in.

Summer fixed her gaze on Dutch and said, “I want you to pour two glasses of Cab, please. And send them both over to him.”

Jenna's eyes got huge. “To Dutch Jansen?”

“The mayor?” Chandra did a double take. “What is he even doing here on a Friday night?”

“Oh, his assistant forgot to drop off the renewed liquor license, so he offered to bring it by on his way home,” Jenna said.

“I'm asking him out,” Summer declared.

Hollis waved her off with both hands. “No, sweetie, you don't want to do that.”

“Why not?”

Jenna and Hollis exchanged a flurry of furtive glances.

“Here's the deal: Dutch is the most eligible bachelor in Black Dog Bay.” Jenna mixed up a trio of fizzy pink drinks while she talked. “His family goes all the way back to the Dutch settlers who first landed on the Delaware coast.”

“Hence, the name Dutch,” Hollis threw in.

“Right. I forget what his real first name is. ‘Mies' or something like that.” Jenna paused to rattle a metal cocktail shaker full of ice. “And I'm not going to lie—every single woman in town wants to date him.”

“So far, I'm not seeing the problem here,” Summer said.

“The problem is, he doesn't date.”

“At all?” Summer frowned. “Ever?”

“Not in Black Dog Bay.” Jenna poured and served the drinks. “Not that I've ever heard of.”

“It's very annoying,” Hollis said.

“Very,” Jenna agreed. “The man has no life. He goes to committee meetings; he grows his roses; he takes care of his sister. The end.”

“No way.” Summer narrowed her eyes and reassessed Dutch's starched white shirt and silk tie. “No one's that responsible. He probably has some secret, twisted double life. And I want in on it.”

“Save yourself the frustration and find another rebound guy,” Hollis advised. “Dutch is unlandable.”

Something about that word triggered a surge of anxiety in Summer, and she realized Kim had used the same term when describing Aaron. “Oh, I'm not looking to ‘land' anyone. I just want to have a little fun.”

“I don't think Dutch Jansen is capable of fun.” Jenna waved this away. “Trust me—it's a nonstarter. Women ask him out all the time, and he always says no.”

“Well, he's never been asked out by me.” Summer fluffed her hair and dredged through her purse until she came up with a tube of shiny red lip gloss. Although she hadn't packed any makeup for this trip, she tossed trial-size products in various handbags every time she went shopping and had amassed enough samples to stock a cosmetics counter. “I'm going to the ladies' room to get glamorous. And Jenna, while I'm in there, send Mr. Mayor two glasses of Cab.”

—

Summer cursed her practical beige bra as she emerged from the restroom. The old arrange-your-neckline-to-expose-your-lacy-bra-strap gambit lost most of its potency when the bra strap wasn't lacy. Maybe incinerating every piece of European lingerie she owned had been a wee bit hasty?

But no matter. She still had red lips and her feminine wiles. She had done a lot more with a lot less.

Jenna was handing two wineglasses to Dutch, who wore a charcoal gray suit and a confused expression. He caught her gaze and held it, and in that moment, she saw him as everyone else in Black Dog Bay did: strong and stern and quietly authoritative. Someone who took his responsibilities seriously. Someone who was not to be trifled with.

And it only increased her desire to trifle with him.

As good as he had looked in jeans and work boots, he looked even better in a tailored jacket. She wanted to start peeling off the layers of civility, starting with his cuff links, until she uncovered the rough-hewn guy with windburn on his cheeks and calluses on his palms.

She stole a quick glance at his fingernails, and though the sweat and grime had been washed away, she could still see the strength and capability in those hands. She could imagine how those hands would feel on her skin.

After a week of feeling numb and hopeless, she was suddenly looking forward to something.

“Perfect timing,” she practically purred as she sidled in next to him. “These are for us. It's the least I could do after that unfortunate incident with the turtle and Taylor Swift.”

Jenna mouthed, “Good luck,” and hustled back to the bar. Five seconds later, the music switched to the Pistol Annies' “I Feel a Sin Comin' On.”

Dutch stared down at Summer with those piercing gray eyes. “How long have you been in town?”

“Two days.”

“You've made quite an impression.”

“That's kind of my thing.” She tried to imagine she was wearing a sheer black bra as she worked her way through her repertoire of hair flips and coy smiles.

Dutch didn't smile back, but he didn't look away.

Summer grabbed her wineglass and took a sip. “Seriously, I feel awful about your roses. I don't know much about gardening—okay, I don't know
anything
about gardening—but if you ever need someone to come over and, you know,
mulch
 . . .”

His lips twitched. “Mulch.”

“Yeah, mulch. I understand that's some sort of gardening term?”

He doubled down on the staring, and she stared right back, until what had started as a come-hither gaze turned into a staring contest.

Clearly, he was a stubborn one.

But so was she.

She made a big production out of wetting her lips and taking another sip of wine that could nearly be classified as pornographic.

He blinked.

She swept her hair to the side, exposing her neck, and leaned in until she could smell the faint trace of Irish Spring on his skin. “Have a drink.”

He pushed away his wineglass. “I don't make a habit of drinking with my constituents.”

“I'm not a constituent. Hell, I've moved so many times I'm not even registered to vote anymore.” She eased even closer as his lips twitched again. “I'm a bad, bad girl.”

“Is there a point to this, Miss Benson?” He finally broke into a full smile. “Yes, I know who you are. I keep up on current events. Your employee photo has been in
Time
and
People
.”

She wanted to call a time-out and ask him what the magazine articles had said. But any discussion of the emergency landing would lead to a discussion of Aaron. So she turned up the sultry a few more notches and murmured, “The point is, I'm just another tourist passing through. I'll be here for a week, maybe two, and then we'll never see each other again.”

There was another long, loaded pause as they made eye contact.

But just when she thought she'd convinced him, he turned toward the door. “I better get going. Curfew.”

She straightened up. “What time's your curfew?”

“Eleven. And it's not my curfew; it's my sister's.”

She grabbed his wrist and examined his gold watch. “You have seventeen minutes. We better cut to the chase.”

He stilled, allowing her to keep her hand on his sleeve. “What is it you want from me?”

From the way he said this, Summer realized that he must deal with people wanting things from him all day. Favors. Exceptions. Validation.

“I'm kind of hoping you'll go out with me.” Heat flooded into her cheeks. Dear God, was she
blushing
?

He reclaimed his wrist and took a single sip of Cabernet. The wineglass looked even more delicate in his large, masculine hands. “You want to go out with me.”

“I'm all up in your personal space with my hair and my red lipstick, am I not?”

He put down the glass. “I don't date.”

She held up her hands and fanned out her fingers. “Listen, we don't have to label anything.”

“I don't get involved with anyone in Black Dog Bay.” He scanned the crowd and shook his head. “And I
definitely
don't pick up women at the Whinery.”

“You're not picking me up; I'm picking you up. You can tell because I bought your drink.”

“You're not picking me up.” He started for the door.

“One week,” she called after him. “One week you'll never forget, and then you'll never hear from me again.”

He faltered midstride, checked his watch, then muttered something under his breath. “Enjoy your stay in Black Dog Bay. If I can help you with anything non-date-related—”

“You can't!”

He took another step toward the exit. “Drive carefully. Watch out for turtles.”

She stopped batting her eyelashes and throwing her hair around and gave him a sweet, genuine smile. “It'll be fun,” she promised. “Really fun.”

He strode back to her side just long enough to tuck her bra strap under the neckline of her dress. The back of his thumb brushed against her collarbone, and he let his hand linger at the base of her neck for a moment. Then he ducked his head and murmured, so low that only she could hear:

“That's what I'm afraid of.”

O
ver the next few days, Summer explored the rest of the little town. She discovered the world's best M&M's brownies at the Eat Your Heart Out bakery. She sat on the beach and watched sandpipers race along the waterline. She fell asleep and woke up to the sound of the waves in the blue attic bedroom.

Physically, she was improving. Her back and head and ribs stopped aching. And last night, Marla had given back her cell phone.

“I think you're ready for this now,” the innkeeper had announced with the air of a dean handing over a diploma. The handful of guests in the sitting room had applauded. “Summer Benson, you are now free to communicate with the outside world. But remember, please text responsibly.”

Now that Summer could communicate with the outside world, she found she didn't want to. She couldn't very well hole up in Delaware forever, but she didn't have anywhere else she'd rather be.

On Sunday afternoon (was it Sunday? Who kept track?), she spotted the sign for Black Dog Books and headed in to say hi to Hollis.

“This is the best bookstore ever,” she said as she entered the cozy little shop, which smelled of freshly ground coffee.

“Thanks.” Hollis stood behind the counter with a latte and a surly-faced cat. “I try to keep it stocked with everything you might want during a breakup: self-help, romances, and of course murder mystery and suspense. There's nothing like a good serial killer story to soothe your shattered nerves.”

The cat took one look at Summer, bared his teeth, and hissed.

Hollis scratched the cat's ears and rolled her eyes. “Ignore little Snidely Whiplash. He pretends to hate everyone.”

“‘Pretends'? He's very convincing.”

“He's been with me since my Method acting days.” Hollis paused for a sip of her latte. “I lived in Los Angeles in my previous life. Been here for five years now, which I guess makes me an honorary local.”

“What did you do in L.A.?” Summer asked.

“I was your garden-variety model-actress-waitress.” Even in the harsh morning sunlight, Hollis looked like she belonged in a facial moisturizer commercial. “I grew up in a little town in Nevada, and I was always the prettiest girl in school. Sang solos in the choir. I was sure I'd be a star if I moved to Hollywood. So I did, and guess what?”

“Well, if you'd lived happily ever after, I'm guessing you wouldn't have moved here.”

Hollis nodded. “Turns out, Hollywood is full of waitresses who used to be the prettiest girl in their high schools. But I got lucky. After months of auditions, I actually landed a part in a movie.”

“I thought you looked familiar. What movie?” Summer pulled out her smartphone. “I'm going to look up your IMDb right now.”

“Oh, I used a stage name. And before you even ask, no, I wasn't doing porn or anything like that. Lots of actors change their names for various reasons.”

Summer's finger hovered above the phone screen. “Okay, well, what was your stage name?”

Hollis kept going as if Summer had never spoken. “Anyway, while I was filming, I fell in love with my costar. Total cliché. And pretty soon, there was more drama off set than on set.”

“Who was the guy?” Summer was dying for details. “What was the movie? Spill your guts, woman!”

“After everything blew up in my face, I had to leave L.A. I had nowhere else to go, so I came here.” Hollis gazed out the window, the faintest hint of crow's-feet now visible at the corners of her eyes. “He still e-mails me sometimes. Texts me, too.” She shook herself back to reality. “I have no idea how he got my cell number.”

“Do you ever want to write him back?” Summer asked. “Sorry—what was his name, again?”

“I used to be tempted, back when he e-mailed. Now that he texts, not so much.” Hollis smiled. “I can forgive a lot of things, but text-speak isn't one of them.”

“So breaking your heart is bad, but spelling it ‘u' instead of ‘y-o-u' is worse?”

“Infinitely worse.” Hollis shuddered.

Summer nodded. “Remind me never to text you.”

“We have grammar and syntax for a reason.” Hollis shook her fist. The cat dived for cover. “Whatever happened to punctuation? Whatever happened to nuance and subtlety?
Whatever happened to the shift key?
”

“Calm down,” Summer urged. “Deep breaths.”

Hollis took a moment to collect herself. “Anyway, I gave up on being the next Julia Roberts and came out here and now I get to spend every day with my books and Snidely Whiplash. Couldn't be happier.”

Summer looked around at the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, the earthenware cookie jar by the cash register, the fluffy white cat curled up in the window. “I bet there are lots of literary-minded men around here who would be delighted to use their shift key on you.”

Hollis laughed. “I'm not ruling anything out, but right now, I'm happy with the status quo.”

“But isn't that the whole point of Black Dog Bay? Getting over an old relationship and finding a new one?”

“Not at all. We got a lot of media coverage last year, and the extra tourist business is great, but the journalists got it wrong. Black Dog Bay has never been about finding love. It's not about getting revenge or making your ex sorry or hooking up with some good-looking guy who knows his way around a shift key.”

“Damn,” Summer muttered.

“It's about healing. It's about letting go of the past and reenvisioning the rest of your life. You can read all about it in
The History of Black Dog Bay
.” Hollis pointed out a stack of books by the cash register. “But while we're on the subject of good-looking guys, what's going on with you and Dutch?”

“Nothing yet,” Summer replied. “But don't worry. I'll wear him down.”

“I hope you do. That man is in dire need of a love affair. He's spent the last decade working and raising his little sister and being entirely too responsible. He needs a woman like you. I can see it now: the two of you strolling on the sand, making out while the waves crash . . . all very
From
Here to Eternity
.”

Summer laughed. “Weren't there a lot of beatings and deaths at the end of that movie?”

“Details, details. Here's a little something to get you in the right frame of mind.” Hollis selected a trio of steamy romance novels. “Come back when you're ready for more. And if you're interested, book club meets every Tuesday evening. We love new members.”

“Oh, I probably won't be here long enough to go to book club.”

“No? How much longer do you think you'll stay?”

“Well.” Summer's savings were dwindling and she couldn't afford to stay at the Better Off Bed-and-Breakfast indefinitely. But it wasn't like she could go back to flying the turbulent and terrifying skies. “I don't know.”

“You're not ready to leave yet.” Hollis ran Summer's credit card and put the books into a paper bag. “You haven't seen the black dog. Plus, you really should have a scandalous summer fling with Dutch. He—” Hollis
shh
ed both of them as a teenager entered the bookstore. Summer recognized her as the girl she'd met on the morning of Mimi Sinclair and fifty-two pickup.

“Hi, Ingrid.” Hollis stepped out from behind the counter. “How are you? Did you like
Mrs. Dalloway
?”

Ingrid considered this, her gray eyes solemn. Along with her coltish frame, she had the wardrobe of a ten-year-old tomboy and the demeanor of a senior citizen. “Yeah, but it was kind of bleak.”

“Have you read any Thackeray? Try
Vanity Fair
.” Hollis started back toward the literature section.

Summer blocked the aisle. “Virginia Woolf? Thackeray? What kind of summer reading is that?”

“The awesome kind,” Hollis replied. “Thackeray has a very sly wit.”

“Save that for AP English.” Summer plucked a few paperbacks from the romance shelves and handed them to Ingrid. “You know what you need? Jackie Collins, Danielle Steel, and Kresley Cole. You're welcome in advance.”

“This is Ingrid
Jansen
.” Hollis shot Summer a pointed look. “Dutch's sister?”

“Yes, we met during my little brawl with Mimi Sinclair.” Summer offered a handshake. “Summer Benson.”

“Is that your red convertible parked outside?” Ingrid asked.

Summer nodded.

“I like it.” The teenager laced her fingers together. “Is it old? Sorry, I mean vintage?”

“You were right the first time—it's old.” Summer laughed. “Her name's Scarlett.”

“Like Scarlett O'Hara?”

“Exactly. My stepsister, Emily, named her. I wanted to call her Belinda Carlisle, because, you know, ‘
Car
-lisle,' but I was outvoted.”

Ingrid furrowed her brow. “Who's Belinda Carlisle?”

“Okay, now
I'm
old.” Summer winced and changed the subject. “So? Did you end up going to Mimi's daughter's party on Saturday night?”

Ingrid stared down at the cover of the Jackie Collins novel. “Yeah.”

“Uh-oh. What happened?”

The teenager shrugged and slouched at the same time. “I didn't look right.”

“What do you mean?”

“I dressed up, but my clothes were all wrong.” She hunched deeper into her baggy T-shirt. “And I don't know how to do makeup and stuff.”

“That's because you're brilliant.” Hollis sniffed. “You have better things to do than obsess over boys and bronzer.”

Ingrid didn't respond at first. Finally, she muttered, “That's easy for you guys to say. You were probably born knowing how to deal with boys and bronzer.”

“Well, I'm sure Summer here will be happy to help you,” Hollis said.

Ingrid's huge eyes got even huger. “Really?”

Summer jerked her head up. “What, now?”

“Why don't you two head down to the drugstore and pick out some blush and some lipstick?” Hollis pulled two oatmeal cookies out of the jar on the counter and prepared to send them on their way.

“Could you give us one second?” Summer asked Ingrid. She pulled Hollis over toward the window, where Snidely Whiplash took a halfhearted swipe with one paw.

“What are you doing?” She returned the cat's surly stare.

“Come on, help her out,” Hollis whispered. “In the words of Cher from
Clueless
, the poor girl is screaming for a makeover.”

“Then you do it,” Summer whispered back. “She doesn't even know me.”

“Yes, but she's obviously very impressed with your car and your moxie.”

“Well.” Summer paused to preen for a moment. “I do have a lot of moxie.”

“Besides, Dutch is ridiculously overprotective of her. He's like Captain von Trapp in
The Sound of Music
.” Hollis appealed to Summer with an Oscar-worthy display of pathos. “She doesn't have a mother, poor thing.”

At this, Summer felt her resolve crumble. “What happened to her mother?”

“Her parents died in a boating accident. The whole thing was tragic.” Hollis touched her fingers to her lips. “No one ever taught her all the stuff a girl needs to know in high school. She needs a mentor.”

Summer threw up her hand. “Let's get one thing straight: I am nobody's mentor.”

They both peered back at Ingrid, who was scuffing the toe of her ancient sneaker into the carpet and tugging on the ends of her unruly russet hair.

And in those soulful eyes and restless fidgeting, Summer recognized a girl like herself—a girl who had been torn away from the people who mattered most. A girl who believed she was easy to leave and hard to love.

She heaved a mighty sigh and gave in. “Fine.”

“Yay!” Hollis gave a little golf clap.

“But this isn't gonna end well.”

“What do you care? You're leaving soon anyway, right?”

“Good point.” Summer slid on her sunglasses and beckoned Ingrid to follow her. “All right, let's go. And if your brother asks, we spent the whole afternoon reading Thackeray and drinking tea with our pinkie fingers crooked.”

Ingrid took the lead as they exited the bookstore to the sound of Snidely Whiplash's discontented yowls. “The drugstore's just around the corner and two blocks to the left. But I was hoping—”

“Hold that thought.” Summer grabbed Ingrid's hand and inspected the chapped skin and peeling cuticles. “What happened here?”

“I spent yesterday working in the garden and teaching swimming lessons at the country club. They put a ton of chlorine and chemicals in that pool.” Ingrid tucked her hands into her pockets. “Forgot moisturizer, I guess.”

“The makeup can wait—you need a manicure, stat.”

“Oh, I don't get manicures,” Ingrid said.

Summer stopped walking and lowered her sunglasses. “Never?”

“Never.”

“Why on earth not?”