My Bittersweet Summer (2 page)

Angela grimaced. “Yeah, I know. I don’t really blame Nadine for getting out of there as soon as possible.” She took another sip of her latte. “Well, I’d offer my place, but…”

I held up a hand, stopping her. “Don’t even feel bad about that, Ang. Even if you offered, I’d say no. Your folks don’t need me in the way with your aunt sick. It’s okay. Really.”

The conversation lulled, the hum of the coffee shop’s A/C unit kicking in to stave off the unseasonably early heat wave. Resting my chin on the palm of my hand, I looked out the window, watching the haute couture wealthy and pre-season tourists saunter down the cobblestone streets of Newport, Rhode Island, their hair blasting around their heads in the seaside wind.

“So…” Angela said, her tone soft. “How are you doing with it, really? I know what that island was for you.”

Sitting back, I shrugged. “Honestly? I have no idea. I’m dreading it, but it seems stupid to wind myself up before I’m even there, you know? I mean, I know it won’t be the same as when I was a kid, and I know most of those people won’t be there anymore, and I know it’s only for three months, but I just can’t figure out how to make myself okay with it. I’ve hated that place my whole life. This is pretty much my worst nightmare come true, though that’s probably a little melodramatic.”

“Not at all,” Angela said. “You told me all about how long it took you to get a handle on yourself when you left. I’ve heard your stories about what you went through, and I can’t say I blame you at all. I’m actually surprised you aren’t fighting harder to keep from going.”

“What choice do I have? They didn’t give me enough time to so much as ask around about staying with a friend, and it’s not like I could afford rent here in summer on my own. I’d have to go to Providence or Boston to get a job, and maybe I could swing a ghetto apartment, but only if I had at least a week or two to work on it.” I rubbed my face, frustrated by the situation and exhausted from lack of sleep the night before. “Two days, though? No, Ang. They haven’t said as much, but I’m pretty sure my parents planned it this way.”

She scratched her cheek. “But I don’t get why. Your parents have always been awesome. Why would they pull this crap now?”

“Well,” I said, “it was a last-minute thing for them, too, to a certain extent, but I think they kept it from me so I couldn’t get out of it. Apparently the head chef Mr. Robinson hired has all sorts of accolades under his belt, like Michelin stars, so I might be able to get a rec letter out of him.”

“A rec letter? But don’t you already have acceptance to the American University, plus scholarships? What do you need a rec letter for?”

Sipping my smoothie, I tried to keep a level head about it. Tears and anger weren’t going to do me any good. “It’s for after my management degree. For Le Cordon Bleu. Scholarships and stuff. It’s not crucial, but it wouldn’t hurt.”

“Man,” she said with a chuckle, “you’re not messing around with this life-planning thing, are you?”

I shrugged. “I grew up in kitchens and restaurants. It’s what I know and what I love. I think I’m pretty lucky one of the biggest decisions a person can make was probably my easiest.”

Angela lifted an inquisitive eyebrow. “Even if that means you have to spend three more months on that island?”

I blew out a breath, my lips vibrating in resignation. “Everyone has to sacrifice to reach their goals. I guess this is the price I’m paying for it.”

“So what about NYC this summer? Think you can still swing it? You know I don’t want to go without you.”

That one stung. I’d been saving up for almost a year to pay for our last hurrah in New York City. Would I still be able to get away for it?

I looked at my best friend, sad hope clinging to her gaze. I decided in seconds that, no matter what, I’d find a way to make it happen.

I grinned at her. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world, Ang. Michelin stars be damned.”

Even before the bridge came into view, my palms were cold and clammy. Icy air blasted down on me from the vent in the ceiling of my parents’ minivan, but I was still a hot, sweaty mess. By the time our tires hit the Leland Harris Bridge, my heart was racing, and I couldn’t catch my breath.

I managed to choke down a sob when the first houses on came into view. Pristine, white columned homes with dense, black roofs dotted the breaks in the trees on the hills rising before us, tinged gold in the end of day sun. Carrinaw Island was almost entirely bereft of non-wealthy people, and what few there were lived in small houses on the properties of their employers.

Houses exactly like the one I grew up in.

“Margie,” my mom said as she turned in the front passenger seat and took my hand. “Deep breaths, sweetie. You can do this, just slow yourself down a little, okay?”

It wasn’t okay. Not even a tiny bit okay, but I closed my eyes and tried to do as she said. In through my nose, releasing for twice as long as I’d taken to inhale.

Two in, four out.

Three in, six out.

As I got to six in, twelve out, I felt the car slow to a stop and heard my dad kill the engine.

“Here, we are,” he said. He turned to me with an easy grin. “See? You’ll be fine, Margie.”

I swiveled my head to look out the window. Internally, I braced, expecting to see a towering monstrosity heaving and reaching for me, scrambling to suck me into its gaping maw— the way it always had in my old nightmares.

Instead, I found a plain, cream-colored guesthouse, single story, with three bedrooms, two and a half bathrooms, a kitchen, and a living room. I frowned at the cement step in front of the doorway, wondering if it still had the bloodstain on the left corner. In trying to get away from my unrelenting tormentors when I was twelve, I’d tripped mere feet before the door, my head bashing against the concrete edge. I didn’t remember what happened after that, but it was the beginning of the end of my life on Carrinaw Island. The biggest part I could recall with any clarity was seeing the quiet but heated conversation between my parents and the Robinsons through my hospital room window in the door.

I still had a faint scar on the upper right of my forehead where I hit the corner of the step. Another half inch to the side, and I might not have made it.

Lost in thought, I jumped when my dad opened my car door. I hadn’t heard him or my mom get out, but they were both standing there, my mom holding out her hand to me. Shaking a little, I unbuckled my seatbelt and slipped my fingers into hers. It’d been ages since I’d done that, and it brought a nostalgic comfort. I paused at the step when we got there, waiting for my dad to unlock the door, and I glanced down at that corner, just to see. Slightly disappointed, I couldn’t make out if it was still stained or not, but the orange glow of sunset might have disguised it.

The screen door opened, and the colonial blue wooden door swung inwards, my father hurrying to enter the security code before the alarm went off.

My mother rested a hand on my back, gently rubbing away a few of my worries. “It’s only a house, Margie. The past doesn’t live here anymore.”

I nodded, but didn’t mean it. The past might not have lived there for six years, but it came back the moment I did.

That place would never feel like home.

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“You’re still in bed?” my mom said, towering over the air mattress.

I switched off my tablet and looked up at her. “Not still. Again. I’m reading. I showered, dressed, and ate. Did I miss a memo about other things I needed to do?”

“How about leave the house, take a walk, go into town…” she offered.

I went back to reading. “I’d rather not, if it’s all the same to you.”

“It’s not all the same to me,” she said, frowning. “I’m not going to let you hole up here for the entire summer.”

“Don’t plan to,” I said. “As soon as you give me a job, I’ll go to the restaurant, too. And I may bus it to the train station in Galloway to see my friends a few times. And there’s New York City at the middle of August. I hardly think any of that qualifies as holing up.”

“The heat wave finally broke today.” She snatched the device out of my hands. “You should go enjoy the sunshine while you can.”

I sat up, sighing. “Look, I get what you’re trying to do, but you gotta understand. I’m barely keeping it together, Mom. I had to close the kitchen curtains to eat my lunch because I started having a panic attack when I looked out back. Do you remember the mice, Mom? They used to throw them at me any time they could catch one. And then, because they got tired of going to so much trouble, one of them bought an entire pallet of mouse cat toys. Those things were everywhere for months: in my backpack, my lunch bag, my locker, waiting for me on desks… Once, they sat up in that tree out back and waited for me to come by so they could dump a bucketful of them on my head. Did you not know about all of that, or did you just forget?” A slight stab of pain behind my eyeball made me wince, and I massaged my brow to stave off the stress headache. Even the memories of things that happened years ago could still trigger them.
 

My flight to Paris couldn’t leave soon enough.

Without prompting, my mom left the room, returning a minute or two later with a glass of iced tea and a migraine pill. Annoyed that it was necessary, rather than being mad at her, I swallowed the medicine, washing it down with a long drink.

“Thank you,” I said.

She eased down onto the floor beside me. “I didn’t forget the mice, Margie. I know this is hard for you, and I’m sorry if we’re pushing you too hard. Your father and I only want to see you past this. You’re a strong, smart, young woman, and we know how amazing you are. I guess the last few years just made me think you might be totally over this now.”

I gave her the best smile I could muster, though it wasn’t much. “I know you think you’re helping, but you have to let me ease into it, okay?”

She nodded once, then tilted her head to the side, thoughtful. “I’ll make you a deal. You come into town with me for a few hours, maybe do some shopping, and I’ll give you a pass on dinner with the Robinsons tonight, okay?”

“Shopping? For the restaurant?”

“That, but I thought maybe you’d help me pick out something new to wear tonight. Since you’re not going, I have to be stylish enough for the both of us.”

Snorting a laugh, I relented. “You have a deal then. Can you give me about half an hour to make sure my meds kick in?”

“Sure,” she stood with a smile and waved my tablet at me. “But I’m taking this to the kitchen. Reading small print only makes the headaches worse.”

I flopped back on my pillow and draped an arm over my eyes. “Fine. You are such a cruel mistress.”

“Ha ha. We’re leaving at two, so be ready.”

“Yes, Mother,” I grumbled.

The door closed behind her and I sighed. At least I’d been given a reprieve from spending an evening wishing for death. I was definitely not ready to see our rich “benefactors,” even after six years away. The mere thought that Zachary Robinson might be present gave me heart palpitations.

I supposed it was possible he and his wretched friends had changed. After all, I had. Still, I wasn’t in any rush to find out. As it was, I hadn’t been able to step outside the house yet. I spent a few minutes trying to imagine how I’d react if, or when, I saw him again, but any time I tried, a flash of subtle pain pushed the thoughts away. Maybe in a decade I’d be better equipped or more removed from everything where I could deal with it all, but I was pretty sure if I ran into any of them immediately, I’d either throw up or throw a punch.

As neither would be good for my situation, I decided to simply avoid them for as long as I could.

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When my mom stepped out of the dressing room, I couldn’t help grinning.

“So, how do I look?” she asked, doing a half turn in either direction.

The cut of the sleeveless black dress, appropriately hemmed slightly above her knees, was a definite reminder to me that my mom still had it. Even pushing fifty, she was a knockout. I really hoped I got that half of her genetics, though I took up jogging and yoga two years before to make up for my cookie-baking habit, just in case.

“You look amazing,” I said, then paused. “Are you sure you don’t want to go up to Galloway, though? These boutique prices are enough to choke a horse.”

She shook her head at me. “First off, we don’t have the time today, and second, if I’m running the most expensive restaurant in town, I should probably look the part, don’t you think?”

I frowned and looked back to the main floor of the dress shop. At five hundred bucks for the cheapest thing in there, I definitely had to wonder about the splurge. Were my parents really making that much more money?

“I guess,” I murmured.

My mom thumbed through a rack holding a few discarded items from previous customers, stopping when she came to a strapless light blue number. “What size were you again? Still an eight?”

“Uh, yeah, I think. Why? You don’t actually expect me to try something on here, do you?”

She pulled the dress off the wooden rack and held it out to me. “Yep.”

The price tag fluttered into view and I gaped at it. “What? No way. Mom, this thing is over a grand!”

“No arguments,” she said. “Now.”

“My prom dress didn’t cost half that much. You can’t be serious.”

“Now, Margaret.” It was her “I’m not in the mood for attitude” tone, and I knew better than to press my luck.

Sighing, I took it and headed into the stall. Tucking the hanger under my chin, I smoothed the dress out over my chest. The shade was perfect for the early-summer pale of my olive skin. It would probably even look good on me when I did tan up, which always happened quickly. The shimmery satin slipped over my body like melted butter, hugging my curves in ways I wasn’t entirely comfortable with, but I’d been assured my figure was “pretty bangin’” by cat callers and high school hallway harassment. Holding up the front with one hand, I held my wavy brown hair with the other before stepping out of the curtained stall to ask my mom to zip me up.