Firefly Summer (16 page)

C
HAPTER
33

R
emy emerged from the doctor's office into the bright sunshine and blinked back tears. Everything was fine! She was fine!

Even though she'd felt reassured when Birdie suggested walking as a possible reason for the blood in her urine, by the time she'd gotten home, she was worrying again. And over the weekend, no matter how many times she murmured, “All will be well . . . all will be well . . . all will be well,” she couldn't bring herself to believe it, and she felt guilty because her faith was so easily shaken. “I'm sorry I didn't trust You,” she whispered. “Thank You for making everything okay.”

With a much lighter heart, she walked to her car. She started it up and rolled down the windows—
it was hot!
—and for the millionth time, she wished that her air conditioner worked. Here it was, summer again, and she still hadn't taken it in to be fixed, and she dreaded the thought of going through another summer without it—especially since traffic on the Cape in the summer often slowed to a crawl, and you just sat there, sweltering. She sat in the parking lot, tapping her steering wheel and gazing at the odometer—the old car had 182,046 miles on it! How in the world had she racked up so many miles when she never went anywhere?

Finally, with beads of perspiration trickling down the sides of her face, she put it in gear and pulled out of the parking lot, but instead of turning left, toward home, she turned right, toward Hyannis, and forty-five minutes later, she pulled into the parking lot of BMW of Cape Cod. She parked her old Subaru, got out, and wandered over to a small group of MINI Coopers that were parked side by side at the end of the lot—they certainly were cute! In fact, that dark gray one on the end was really nice. She continued to look them over, wondering why some models had vents in their hoods while others didn't. Did Birdie's and Sailor's have vents? She couldn't remember. And why did the one with the 2008 sticker cost less than the one with the 2003 sticker? She didn't know a thing about cars—never mind buying one—and now, here she was, at a car dealership, wishing she'd brought someone with her. Birdie and Sailor would know what questions to ask, and they wouldn't let some sleazy salesman take advantage of them. What had she been thinking, coming all the way down here by herself? Why was she always so foolish?

She peered inside the one that looked like Birdie's, trying to remember what the model was called. Birdie's was light blue, but this one was orange.

“Good morning,” a voice said, startling her.

Remy turned around and saw a tall gentleman with white hair walking toward her. “I'm just looking,” she said, hoping he would walk on by.

“That's fine,” he said. “It's always fun to look.”

Remy smiled. The man's face—and voice—made her think of Jim. How funny, she thought, that God would send a car salesman out who looked—and sounded—like her husband.

He extended his hand. “James London.”

Remy stared at him as if he had two heads, and then, remembering her manners, reached out to shake his hand.

“What's the matter?” he said, smiling. “You look like you've just seen a ghost.”

“I . . . well . . . I feel like I am seeing a ghost! My late husband's name was Jim Landon . . . and if he hadn't died, he would've looked like you in his old age.”

James laughed. “Do I look old?”

“Oh no,” Remy said, flustered. “I didn't mean it that way! You
don't
look old . . . it's . . . it's just Jim died young . . . and it's hard for me to imagine how he would look now.”

James nodded. “I understand . . . and I'm sorry for your loss.”

“It's okay. It was a long time ago,” Remy said awkwardly. “But thank you.” She looked away, feeling herself slip into her social misfit mode—her natural state in almost every situation.

Remy had always felt she was a born social misfit—she was famous for starting to speak at the very same moment someone else started to . . . and when she did manage to contribute a thought to a conversation, she spent the rest of the evening—even the next day—ruminating and regretting what she'd said or how she'd worded it. Long ago, she'd decided it was better—and safer—to keep her mouth shut.

“Well, since you're only looking, I won't bother you, but if you have any questions, I'll be just inside that door—where it's air-conditioned,” he said, smiling as he wiped his brow.

Remy nodded. “Thank you.” She watched him walk away and then turned back to study the spec sheet of the 2013 Spice Orange MINI Cooper Clubman S.

She wondered what the
S
meant.

C
HAPTER
34

B
irdie listened to the fully fledged ruffed grouse banging its wings against the inside of the box. They were standing in the wooded area on the far side of Great Pond, well off Cahoon Hollow Road, the winding thoroughfare on which the injured juvenile had been found, and they'd just found evidence—pellet-shaped droppings—that other grouse were in the area. “She's going to reinjure her wing if she keeps banging around in there.”

David knelt down, opened the box, and gently turned it on its side. The dappled, reddish-brown bird tumbled out, blinked at them, and flew away, its wings filling the silent woods with drumming. Birdie watched and prayed—as she always did—that the released bird would not only survive, but thrive.

“Want to go to the Beachcomber for steamers and drinks?” David asked as they walked back to his Volvo.

Birdie frowned. The Beachcomber was steeped in history . . .
and
it was one of David's favorite spots. The old building—currently the home of a popular restaurant and bar—had originally served as the Cahoon Hollow Lifesaving Station. Built in 1853, and rebuilt after a fire in 1897, it was the only lifesaving station, of nine—Monomoy Point, Chatham, Orleans, Nauset, Cahoon's Hollow, Pamet, Peaked Hill Bars, Highlands, and Race Point—that still stood on its original site.

Since well before the 1800s, the treacherous water along the Outer Cape had become the graveyard for over three thousand ships, and the men who'd manned the nine stations since the 1800s had saved over a hundred thousand lives. David had read every book on the subject, and when the Whydah Museum opened in Provincetown with a collection of artifacts and treasure from the famous
Whydah Galley
—a slave ship captured and captained in 1717 by the pirate Sam “Black” Bellamy, but shipwrecked two miles south of Wellfleet—they had been among the first to visit.

As much as David was drawn to the historic station, Birdie was repelled by it. Easton's body had washed ashore on Cahoon Hollow Beach—a fact David knew—so whenever they went to the Beachcomber—which wasn't often—it always brought back the vivid scene of her brother's body, covered by a sheet, being carried up the steep incline and placed in a waiting ambulance.

“If you want to,” she said, trying to shrug off the memory. Drinks and steamers sounded good—especially the drinks part.

They parked behind the old building, walked around to the entrance, went inside, and discovered there was already a line. David gave the hostess their name, took the beeper she handed him, and followed Birdie past the T-shirt stand out to the patio.

“What are you having?” he asked.

“My usual.”

David walked over to the bar—which was really a window in the side of the building—and ordered a merlot and a beer, and while Birdie waited for him to come back, she watched a little boy run across the sandy parking lot toward a woman who'd just come up from the beach. “Look, Mom!” he shouted. “I found a heart stone!” The woman knelt down and he held his hand out. “You can have it,” he said, his face beaming.

Birdie couldn't hear the woman's reply, but she could see the smile on her face as she pulled him into a hug.

“Hold him tightly,” she whispered, hot tears stinging her eyes. “Never let him go.”

“What'd you just say?” David asked, coming up behind her with their drinks.

Birdie blinked back tears. “Nothing,” she said. “Just talking to myself.”

“Again?” David teased, handing her a plastic cup, filled to the brim.

She nodded. “Yes. You know—because I'm the only one who understands.”

“Yes, I know,” he said with a wry smile. “Well, cheers!” he said, holding up his cup.

“Cheers,” she said with a nod.

By the time a table became available, Birdie had finished a second glass, and when they were seated, she ordered her third.

“An order of steamers, too,” David said, and then looked at Birdie. “Anything else?”

Birdie quickly scanned the menu. “Scallops?”

“Sure,” David said agreeably.

The waitress nodded. Moments later she came back with Birdie's wine and a mountain of steamers with bowls of both broth and melted butter.

David reached for a clamshell, pried it open, and pulled out the clam. Then he pulled off the black membrane, dipped it in the broth and warm butter, and dropped it in his mouth. “Mmm-mm,” he said with a grin as he wiped his lips with his napkin. “I can't remember the last time we had steamers.”

“Probably last summer,” Birdie mused, sipping her wine. She put down her glass and picked up a clam, but when she tried to open it, it slipped out of her hands and rocketed like a projectile over to the next table. Her face turned bright red. “I'm so sorry,” she said, getting up to retrieve it, but when she did, she accidently knocked over her drink. David quickly picked up the glass, but it was too late, the red wine had already streamed onto his white slacks.

“Damn it!” she muttered, plunking back down on her seat as the little girl from the next table brought the wayward clam back to its rightful owner. “Thank you, dear,” Birdie said kindly, but after the little girl had returned to her table, she muttered, “I'm such a damn fool!”

Seeing the commotion, a waitress quickly appeared with a cloth and wiped down the table. “Can I get you another?” she asked.

“Please,” Birdie said. Then she looked up and saw the look on David's face. “Oh, don't start,” she said coolly.

“I didn't say a thing.”

“You don't need to,” Birdie said with a sigh. “You have no idea how much I hate coming here,” she added bitterly.

David frowned. “You're right. I didn't know. If you'd said something, we wouldn't have come.”

“I shouldn't have to say anything,” Birdie said, her voice rising.

“We've been coming here for years.”

“Not willingly.”

“Honestly, Birdie, I didn't know it was a problem. I'm not a mind reader.”

“It doesn't take a mind reader to put two and two together. I only come here because you like it.”

David slumped back in his seat and stared at the clams and the basket of scallops. He'd suddenly lost his appetite.

Birdie shook her head. “How could you not know?”

“I don't know,” David said with a resigned sigh, shaking his head. “I guess I should have. Shall we go then?”

“No, eat your food.”

“I'm not hungry.”

Birdie took a sip of her wine and then reached for the same clam and tried to open it again. When she still couldn't get it open, she threw it back in the bowl, unrolled her napkin, pulled out her plastic fork, and stabbed a scallop.

As they drove home from Wellfleet in silence, Birdie felt as if the end had finally come. They didn't know each other as well as they thought, and if they didn't by now, they never would. She sighed. It had finally happened—she'd lost all patience with David. He had been the only person left—besides her sisters—whom she could tolerate for more than ten minutes, but she guessed their relationship had run its course. She decided she'd be better off living alone, with no one to bother her.

C
HAPTER
35

“H
as anyone heard from Sailor?” Remy asked as she sat down across from her sisters. It was Friday, and although it was Sailor's turn to host, her trip to Boston had resulted in a change of venue. The meeting with Frank and their lawyers was scheduled for two o'clock, but she had no idea how long it would take or how heavy traffic would be coming back. Sailor had suggested postponing but Remy had reminded her that she'd be in Vermont the following Friday—which would mean, if they postponed for her, as well, three weeks would go by. In the end, Remy offered to switch and Sailor happily agreed.

“I haven't,” Piper said, looking over at Birdie—who shook her head. Piper shrugged and turned back to Remy.

“I can't believe you bought a new car! Are you feeling okay?”

Remy laughed as she scooped some of the dip she'd made. “Well, the salesman was so nice and helpful, and he reminded me of Jim,” Remy said. “I know that makes me sound gullible, but with my trip to Vermont coming and no AC in my Subaru, I decided it was time.”

“That is so unlike you,” Birdie said, taking another sip of her wine.

“That's for sure!” Piper said. “I love the color. What did you call it?”

“Spice Orange.”

“I guess we can't call you
vanilla
anymore,” Piper teased.

Remy chuckled. “I guess you can't.”

“Has Sailor seen it ... or does she know about it?”

“Not yet. I was hoping she'd get home in time to see it tonight.”

“She's going to fall off her chair,” Piper said.

“Is Dr. Sanders still going to Vermont with you?” Birdie asked. It seemed utterly implausible to her that John Sanders, the doctor they'd been going to since they were young women, was suddenly going away for the weekend with Remy, of all people!

“He
is,
” Remy said. “I stopped by to show him the car—which he loved—and he said he was really looking forward to it.”

“When are you leaving?”

“Friday.”

Birdie nodded. “Are we skipping next week?”

Remy shook her head. “Sailor and I switched.”

“The week after that is the Fourth of July already!” Piper said. “I hope everyone's coming—it would be nice to get a head count.” She eyed Remy, who frowned as if she suddenly remembered what she'd forgotten to do.

“I hope so, too,” she said. “I'll have to ask the kids again and let you know.” In truth, she'd forgotten to ask Payton, Eliza, and Sam whether they were coming to the Cape for the family picnic at Piper's, but since they usually came—and should know to plan on it—she wasn't worried.

Piper refilled Birdie's glass. “What's got you so glum?” she asked, knowing to choose her words carefully. If she asked the same question in a slightly different way—
What's got you in such a mood?
—her sister could easily get annoyed. It didn't take much!

“Oh, the usual stuff. Same you-know-what, different day.”

Piper frowned and glanced at Remy. They waited for her to continue, but she just took another sip of her wine and sank more deeply into her chair.

Just then, they heard a car pull into the driveway and Piper smiled. “Sailor,” she said, getting up. If anyone would be able to get the bee out of Birdie's bonnet it was their outspoken sister. A moment later, Sailor came up the steps, looking puzzled. “Whose MINI is that in the driveway?” she asked, looking to see whether one of her sisters had come with a friend.

“Mine,” Remy said.

“No way!” Sailor said incredulously.

“Way,” Remy said with a slow smile.

“You retired Ol' Bess?!”

“I did,” Remy said, feeling a pang of guilt. Ol' Bess had been good to her, but she was rusty and old and she had to give her up sometime. “Ol' Bess has seen better days and her air conditioner hasn't worked in years. It was time.”

Sailor nodded, still in shock. “I couldn't really see the color. Is it Spice Orange?”

Remy nodded.

“What year?”

“2013.”

“How many miles?”

“Forty-eight thousand.”

“Stick?”

“Of course.”

“Is it an
S
? I didn't notice in the dark.”

“If you mean supercharged, yes,” Remy said authoritatively, remembering how James had explained what the vent—or scoop—was for.

“Where'd you get it?”

“Hyannis.”

“By yourself?!”

“Yes,
by myself
—why does everyone think I'm not capable of doing things by myself?” she asked.

“Well, it's just . . .” Sailor said, trying to find the right words. “It's just . . .”

“It's just you never do,” Birdie said, finishing her sentence for her.

“I do so,” Remy countered, feeling stung. “I've lived all my life by myself and I've done
everything
on my own.”

Birdie, Sailor, and Piper were suddenly quiet. Remy was right. They'd always thought of her as a bit of a church mouse, but their quiet sister had raised three children, maintained a lovely home, paid all her bills, and lived independently for most of her adult life.

“You're right,” Sailor said. “You
have
done everything on your own. It was wrong of me to say that. I'm sorry.”

“It's okay,” Remy said, immediately forgiving her. “Now, tell us about your meeting.”

Sailor laughed. “Oh, well, I'll need a drink first!”

Piper poured another glass of the chardonnay she'd brought and handed it to her, and Sailor scooped a tortilla chip into the dip and smiled at Remy. “You made my dip!”

Remy nodded. “I knew I'd get the chance.”

Sailor took a sip from her glass and licked her lips. “Mmm, this is good,” she said, looking at the bottle. “So, I got there right on time, and of course, Frank—who
just couldn't get out of work
—was forty-five minutes late. Same old story,” she said, shaking her head and taking another sip. “Anyway, the house is going on the market and we had to agree on a price. We're asking a hundred thousand less than we paid for it, and the Realtor still thinks it's too much! She said, for the money we're asking, the kitchen and the bathrooms should be upgraded. She said people just aren't using granite anymore and the popular color for cabinets is white, not dark wood.”

“Ha,” Piper said. “I
knew
granite would go out of style. That's why I've kept our good old Formica.”

Birdie chuckled. “If any kitchen needs upgrading, it's the kitchen at Whit's End!”

“Hey,” Piper said defensively. “You should appreciate that I've kept everything original. That kitchen is full of memories—just think of all the family meals made on those counters. Not to mention the birthday cakes and science projects.”

“And love . . . it's really all the love that's been made on those counters,” Sailor teased with a grin.

“It was the table, not the counters,” Piper said, laughing. “Except for maybe that one time . . .”

“TMI!” Birdie said, holding up her hand. “We don't need to know!”

“Oh, by the way,” Sailor said, eyeing Birdie as she suddenly remembered how her morning had started. Birdie looked up. “This morning, before I got in the shower, I looked out the window and saw a little finch fluttering around under my bird feeder. At first, I couldn't tell if it was injured or a baby, but it definitely couldn't fly. Needless to say, because my sister, the well-known ornithologist, is always telling me that we shouldn't intervene in the lives of wildlife—I didn't. I just took my shower, figuring the little bird's parents were around. But when I got out of the shower and looked out the window again, the little finch was dead . . . and you'll never guess who murdered it.”

“A hawk,” Piper offered.

Sailor shook her head.

“A kestrel,” Birdie said.

She shook her head again.

“That orange cat you've had hanging around,” Remy said.

Sailor shook her head for the last time. “A chipmunk!”

Remy looked horrified. “A chipmunk?!”

“Yes.”

Piper frowned. “I thought chipmunks ate seeds.”

“Did
he
kill it?” Remy asked, finding this news implausible.

“I didn't witness the actual crime,” Sailor said. “I don't have a security camera aimed at my bird feeder, but I think it was definitely him just by what he was doing to it.”

“Don't say any more,” Remy said, shaking her head. “That's awful.”

“Geez, I will never look at a chipmunk the same way again,” Piper added.

“I know!” Sailor said. “I wouldn't have believed it myself if I didn't see it with my own eyes, but I looked online to see if it was just one deranged chipmunk, but other people have seen it, too. So even if the parents
are
around”—Sailor eyed Birdie—“it doesn't mean the fledglings are safe.”

“It certainly doesn't,” Birdie said. “They're most vulnerable when they're young, but there's nothing that can be done about it.”

Sailor looked in her sister's eyes, wondering if she realized what she'd just said. “There's nothing that can be done about it,” she repeated, but Birdie just looked away and took another sip of her wine.

“So, other than putting the house on the market, what other decisions did you have to make?” Piper asked, anxious to change the subject.

Sailor shook her head. “It was pretty straightforward. He gets
his
car; I get mine; the contents of the house will be sold and the proceeds will be split evenly. It was a total waste of time. I could've easily made these decisions over the phone.”

“Did Frank say anything to you?” Remy asked.

“He tried to apologize, but I just didn't want to hear it.”

Birdie, Remy, and Piper heard the sadness in their sister's voice and raised their eyebrows.

“What?” Sailor said. “It's over. It's just over . . . and I need to
get
over it.” She felt tears sting her eyes, but there was no way in hell she was going to let Frank make her cry, especially in front of her sisters. She took a sip of her wine and looked at Birdie. “Enough about my boring divorce. You don't seem your usual chipper self, either.”

Birdie chuckled. “Chipper? I don't think that's a word
anyone
associates with me.”

“Maybe not
anyone,
” Sailor said, “but those who know you
best
do. We know your
chipper
scale barely registers in the sunny range, but tonight it's in the gloom-and-doom range. What's up? Trouble in paradise?”

“Ha,” Birdie said, her voice edged with sarcasm. “Paradise has dried up and blown away.”

Sailor frowned. “How come? Are you and David not getting along?” She found this hard to believe since David was so easygoing . . .
and
he was a saint for putting up with Birdie's moods.

“We're not,” Birdie said, “and while I steam like a pressure cooker, he avoids the steam.”

“Hmm,” Sailor said. “That doesn't sound good. He must've done
something
to make you upset.”

Birdie shook her head. “It's not any one thing. It's all the little things, added up . . . and me, losing my patience with everything he does. I honestly think I'd be happier living alone.”

“No, you wouldn't,” Remy countered. “David is a love and you're lucky to have him. Living alone is no fun at all. There's no one to snuggle up against when you get a chill at night. There's no one to have a cup of coffee with over the morning paper. There's no one to hold you when you're afraid and tell you everything's going to be okay. You don't know what it's like, Birdie, and for you to say such a thing is callous. If David could hear you, he'd be heartbroken.”

Birdie shrugged. “You speak from
your
experience, Remy, and I speak from mine. Being married isn't all it's cracked up to be.”

Remy stood up, overwhelmed by her emotions and blinking back tears. “Who wants rice pudding?”

Piper looked up in surprise. “You made
rice pudding?
”

Remy nodded.

“Where'd you get the recipe?”

“Mom's cookbook.”

“Her
Good Housekeeping
cookbook?”

Remy nodded.

“I've been looking all over for that cookbook.”

“I have it.”

“I can't believe you made rice pudding—that's why I was looking for it! Nat had a craving and . . .”

“That was weeks ago,” Sailor said. “You haven't made that poor boy rice pudding yet?”

“No,” Piper admitted sheepishly. “I wanted to make Mom's recipe.”

“I told you to ask Remy.”

“I know but I kept forgetting.”

Remy mustered a smile. “I know all about forgetting,” she said sympathetically.

Piper stood up. “I'll help you.”

She followed Remy inside, and as soon as the screen door closed behind them, Sailor turned to Birdie. “That was a little harsh.”

Birdie sighed. “I didn't mean to be harsh, but honestly, I don't need Remy—or anyone else—telling me how hard their life is.”

Sailor shook her head. “You know, Birdie, I think it's time you let go of the past. Whether you realize it or not, you've let Easton's death color all of your days, and in doing so, you're ruining your own life.”