Mystic Summer (20 page)

Erika lets out a long breath. “Okay. There's something I have to tell you. Do you remember that summer a few years ago when I took time off from work and came home?”

It had been a surprise to all of us. Erika never took days off from work—not for illness or vacation. Certainly not for personal matters, her wedding excepted. But that's exactly what she did three summers ago.

Erika had been pulling all-nighters at her firm, right through a case of walking pneumonia, to prove herself during a high-profile divorce case. At the end of the trial, the partners planned to pick an associate for promotion. When the case closed the firm won a landmark settlement for their client. It was a celebration all around, and word in the halls of the firm was that Erika was a shoo-in for the promotion. She tried to play it cool, but we all knew how much she wanted this. Her father, who rarely called except to confirm that we received his monthly rent contribution, was suddenly checking in daily to see if there was any news. Erika dashed out and bought an expensive new suit the night before the firm was set to make their announcement at their annual summer party. I remember watching her get ready that night: she asked me to apply her lipstick because her hands were too shaky.

Which is why the blow was particularly sharp when she was passed over for a younger associate, who not only scored low on the bar exam and came in late every day during that case, but also happened to be the nephew of a partner. Erika hit rock
bottom. For the first time, she turned in her vacation time and left Boston and the firm on “indefinite leave.”

“I'd never seen you like that,” I say, remembering how worried I was. I never told her at the time, afraid I'd only add to her sense of fragility.

“I know. I was so drained all I could do was lay around the house when I got here. But each afternoon my mom dragged me out to the club for some ‘fresh air.' While she played tennis, I'd sit on the porch with a book or just stare out at the water.

“One day, Chase Warner showed up with his family for lunch. Remember Chase?”

How could I forget? As good-looking as he was affable, Chase was a hard-to-ignore summer resident. He lived in Providence and attended prep school somewhere in Massachusetts, but each summer he and his family moved into their Connecticut shore house. I only crossed paths with Chase a few times when I tagged along to Erika's country club events. But he was an epic figure in Erika's summers growing up: her first kiss, her perpetual summer crush, and eventually her on-and-off-again boyfriend.

“You never told me you saw him during that summer,” I say, leaning forward. I get the sense there's more.

Erika smiles uncomfortably. “Yeah, well. There's a reason I'm only telling you now.” She takes a deep breath and shifts in her seat.

“I was miserable being back in Mystic. I was lonely and bored, and I didn't know if I wanted to go back to law. And there he was—fresh out of grad school, tan and fit and friendly, having just returned to celebrate his father's retirement.
I wanted to crawl under the porch when I laid eyes on him, but he sat down in the Adirondack chair right next to me. He talked me into having lunch with him that day. And the next.”

“And?” I press.

“And for the rest of those two weeks we were inseparable.” Erika flushes deeply.

I slump back in my chair, dumbstruck. She and Trent have been together for five years, and that summer was right in the middle of it. “Are you saying what I think you're saying?”

Erika lifts one tanned shoulder, almost sadly.

“My God.” A million questions flood my mind, but I'm too flummoxed to put words to any articulately. “But you never . . . why didn't you tell me?”

“I'm sorry, Mags. I tried to, but I always lost my nerve.”

“Well, you should've tried harder!”

I stare out at the water, imagining them. Having dinners in town, walking along the pier. Playing tennis at the club. Spending evenings . . . doing
everything.
Just like any other summer romance. Only Erika hadn't been single.

“Does Trent know?”

She shakes her head.

“What happened? Tell me everything.”

“It lasted less than two weeks. Eleven days, exactly.”

I resist the urge to point out that it's been three years since those eleven days, and surely she could've found a time to tell me.

“I know it reeks of indecency, but it wasn't like that. We had such a history, and I was in such a bad place.”

“What was it then?”

She smiles, in spite of herself. “It was lovely.”

“Lovely?” Even I don't know that I could use the word to describe what, let's be honest, was an affair.

“And I can't tell you how different and lovely it made me
feel
. We stayed up late talking about books and politics and old friends from the club who we hadn't seen in years. One weekend we took his parents' boat up to Watch Hill and stayed up late eating oysters and drinking wine on the deck, having sex under the stars. It was like we were kids again with the whole summer to ourselves.” Her eyes are bright at the memory, even still.

I can feel myself giving in to the images she describes; it does sound magical. Would I have been able to walk away from such temptation if I were going through what she had? Suddenly I'm not sure. “So it filled some kind of void,” I say. It's an offering of understanding; if not forgiveness.

She nods, her eyes filling with tears.

“I could never tell Trent. It was my mistake, my journey, however you want to look at it. But it would kill him, Mags. I never saw any reason to do that.”

While I can't imagine Erika keeping this from Trent, I also can't picture her telling him. Certainly not now. Trent's an old-fashioned guy, and it would be a hit to his very core. In some ways, perhaps keeping this from him is kinder. It ended. Trent is the one she went back to.

What I still can't get past is the fact she kept it from me. Her lifelong best friend. “You didn't think you could trust me with this? Not one word in all these years?”

Erika's expression clouds. “It wasn't about trust. Believe me, I wanted to tell you. It would've taken some of the burden off if I
had. But I was so ashamed, Maggie. I didn't want this to change the way you felt about me. Your moral compass is pointed due north.”

“Is not!” I disagree, thinking of my long talk with Cam at the lookout. The way our knees touched on the bench. More important, the way I felt when our knees touched.

“I wouldn't be telling you now, except I don't want you to get stuck like I did.”

“Stuck?” Until now, I didn't think we'd kept any secrets from each other. Just as I didn't realize Erika thought me too much of a Pollyanna to share a secret as big as this with. “I'm not stuck,” I tell her now, emphatically. I will find a new place and a new job, and Evan and I will work through it together. As for Cameron, he's a friend. Someone I share history with, yes. But we haven't crossed any lines. Maybe if she'd had more meaningful relationships before Trent, and hadn't jumped from guy to guy, she'd understand that.

Instead of getting upset, Erika softens. “By stuck I mean that I got caught up in nostalgia. There I was, run-down from work and having been passed over for a promotion I'd deserved. I needed to escape. So, I let myself believe that being back here in Mystic was real. That Chase and I were back where we were meant to be.” She pauses, and swipes at a tear that tumbles down her cheek. “I let the past catch up with me.”

“That's not always a bad thing,” I say, sticking to my guns. “I think that our pasts are a big part of who we are today.”

“Well, in this case it was a bad thing. I didn't just lie to Trent and to you, Maggie. I lied to myself. It was easier to come home and lick my wounds where everything was sunny and familiar and safe. But it wasn't real life.”

A plume of defensiveness rises in my chest. Is she comparing what she did with Chase with my being home in Mystic this summer? Because our two stories are nothing alike. “I'm not licking any wounds,” I say.

“Maybe not,” she says, steering away from the question mark of my present situation. “But you are in a serious relationship with someone else back in Boston. Someone you can build a life with. Isn't that what you want?”

I don't have an answer. “Evan's great,” I say, finally. “I'm not trying to replace him, and I'm not running away from anything in Boston. I'm hardly
involved
with Cameron. It's nothing like what you did.”

Erika stiffens, and for a beat I feel bad. It's a low blow. But she's the one drawing a line in the sand. Our situations could not be more different, and I can't allow her to suggest otherwise.

“Then what is it like?” Erika asks, her tone cool.

We avoid looking at each other as the server arrives to clear the dessert plates. Even after she's gone, I stare into my lap. Erika plays with her bracelet distractedly.

“It's a friendship revisited, kind of like revisiting home. Yes, it's comfortable like old slippers, it's familiar. But it's innocent.” I look at her. “And if something were going on, I would've told you.”

Finally she offers the nearest thing to an apology. “I'm sorry I kept that secret from you. And I'm not trying to tell you what to do with your summer, or your life, for that matter. But I'm worried about you, Mags.”

“You don't need to be.”

“Listen, you're a sentimentalist and you've got a huge heart.
Which is what I love most about you. I just don't want you to fall back into the past, and risk losing what you've invested for your future.”

I can feel my ire soften. Even if I disagree with her take on things, and even if it still stings that she kept something so big from me all this time.

I sit up and meet her gaze. “So, what happened with Chase in the end?”

Erika shrugs. “I forced myself to face reality. Mystic wasn't my life any more than Chase was the guy for me. You know the rest. I packed my bags and went home. To Boston.”

“I still love my life in Boston,” I feel the need to remind her. “And Evan and I have made commitments to each other that I intend to keep. But being back home and hanging out with Cam has been good for me. Just give me some wiggle room on this, okay?”

Erika looks at me sympathetically. “Okay. Just remember one thing.”

“What's that?”

“Maggie, home isn't a place. It's not where your old boyfriend is, or your parents still live. It's more than these neighborhoods and beaches that stir up old feelings. You've built a career and friends and a relationship away from here. Wherever you end up, home is inside
you
.”

Erika has struck a chord. It's the theme song of our generation, the motto I've read in countless magazine articles and social media posts.
Love yourself before you can love others. Be at home in your own skin.

But when I think of home, I don't think you can exclude
time, place, and loved ones: the things that have made me who I truly am. I know Erika has a point: home and self should be one and the same
.
But I still can't help but wonder if she's missing a finer point. What if home is where you feel most like your
real
self?

T
he next afternoon, I make a point to try to catch Evan during lunch. I'm happy when he picks up and I can imagine Erika sighing with relief somewhere across town. Evan is animated as he tells me about work, but behind his pep I can hear his fatigue. “You're exhausted, aren't you?”

“Yeah,” he admits. “And I miss you.”

I soften. “Me, too. Erika's here and it's all wedding, wedding, wedding.”

“It's less than two weeks away. I can't wait for the break,” he says. Which makes me wonder: Is it me or the long weekend that he can't wait for?

We talk until he has to get back to work. He pauses before hanging up. “Mags, I'm sorry I've been so tied up lately. I promise I'll make some time for us when I get down there. Maybe we can slip away for a night, to Rhode Island or something?”

I smile. “That'd be great. What do you have in mind?”

But when he doesn't answer me, I realize I've lost the call. A moment later my phone rings again.

“So which sounds better, a romantic stay at the Ocean House or a night out in Newport?” I ask.

There's a pause. “I'm thinking Ocean House. But Emory's not quite big enough to ride the Watch Hill carousel yet.”

I almost drop my phone. “Cam?”

He chuckles. “Yeah. Sorry—obviously you were expecting someone else.”

“No. I mean . . . What's up?”

“Well, I hate to bother you like this, but I've got a last-minute client meeting tonight. And I'm sort of in a bind.”

“What's the matter?”

“This developer from New Haven just bought a spot along the river and it looks like he's leaning toward my bid. We were supposed to meet this afternoon, but he got stuck in traffic. He wants me to drive over there now.”

“Let me guess, you need help with someone little?”

Cam lets out a sigh. “Do I ever. My parents went to Block Island for a couple of days.”

“When is your meeting?”

He pauses. “In ten minutes. The guy is on his way now.”

“So am I.”