Mystic Summer (22 page)

As I walk away, I wonder how long Cam will get to rest tonight before Emory is up for her next feeding. Or diaper change. So much has changed for him. And I go from feeling like some kind of hero for helping him out tonight to a meek teenage girl, tiptoeing home from Cam's basement once again.

T
he wedding looms, spiraling in its own countdown, and I feel like a trajectory thrown from its path. I spend my mornings running errands to the florist and the club with Erika, and my afternoons working on teaching applications in my parents' den. Nights, I'm exhausted. One evening, after my father has poured me a beer and invited me to come listen to the peepers in the yard with him, Evan calls.

“What are you doing tomorrow night?” he asks.

I let out a relaxed breath. “Probably the same thing I'm doing right now. Sitting on the deck and going to bed early with my book. Why?”

“What if I could book us a night at Ocean House?”

As much as I've been distracted and busy, it has been hard waiting for Evan to commit to a visit with his hectic schedule. Now the very thought of just the two of us in a world-class resort is overwhelming. “Tomorrow? You can get away for a night? Tell me you're not teasing!”

Evan laughs. “I can only get one night away,” he cautions, “but I promise I'll be all yours. No set talk, no wedding talk, no job or apartment talk, promise?”

“I promise!” I practically shout. We make plans for him to drive in tomorrow morning after his final scene is wrapped. That night I can barely sleep, I'm feeling like a child before Christmas morning. This is good; this is exactly what we need.

Erika swings by the next morning to pick me up to go shopping. I'd promised to go with her to the jeweler to get the groomsmen's gifts, a set of Tiffany silver flasks, engraved with the guy's names. “I'm sorry, but I can't go with you. Evan's coming! He reserved us a room at Ocean House.”

Erika squeals. “Well, well. Don't let me keep you from the festivities. What time does he come?”

I glance at the kitchen clock. “Around noon. He's picking me up after he wraps. Though it won't be easy getting out of here; Mom and Dad are going to want to talk his ear off.” Thankfully, my parents are out for their morning walk before the day gets hot. My mother has already peppered me with no shortage of Evan-related questions this morning, and I'm banking on the hope that a long walk will wear her out so that she doesn't do the same to Evan when he arrives.

Erika gives me a hug. “I'm glad he came through,” she tells me. “Don't worry about the groomsmen's gifts, you guys need this time.”

Though I do feel a bit bad; the gifts are something Trent really should be doing, and now Erika is doing it alone. “Wait! Don't forget the list.” I rummage through my purse for the list I made, having carefully rechecked for the correct spellings of the guys' names. My purse is a mess—sunglasses, water bottle, protein bars. At the bottom is something round and hard. I pull out a plastic green-and-blue ball with little rubber spikes.

“What is that?” Erika asks, plucking it out of my hands.

I recognize it immediately. “Oh, no. It's Emory's teething ball.”

Erika makes a face and hands it right back. “What's it doing in your purse?”

I shake my head, wondering the same thing. “I babysat for her the other night. It must've ended up in my bag somehow.”

Erika is looking at me with the same curiosity my mother regarded me with.

“What? He had a last-minute client and needed some help,” I say.

“Some help, or
your
help?” I know what she's implying.

I toss the teething ring back in my purse and hand her the list of groomsmen. “Have fun,” I say, ignoring the question.

“You have fun,” she says, walking out the door. “I expect details tomorrow!”

But there will be no details to share. By eleven thirty, I'm waiting downstairs with my bag. I've packed a sundress for dinner, two bathing suits, and a couple shorts and shirts. And this time, no book—I plan to be spending my evening sipping wine with Evan.

By noon, my mother is staring out the window with me. “Mom. Please,” I say.

“I'm sure it's just traffic,” she says, scurrying into the kitchen. “Why don't I make you a sandwich?”

By twelve thirty, the sandwich and I are both waiting at the kitchen counter. Evan hasn't replied to any of my texts. I'm starting to worry.

Then my phone rings. “Babe. I'm sorry I've kept you waiting.” Evan's voice sounds strained, and distant.

“It's okay. Where are you now?”

He pauses. “You're not going to like this.”

“No. No, tell me you are not in Boston.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Are you leaving now? Because if you don't hit the road in the next hour, we're going to miss cocktail hour on the porch. And that's something I really could use right now.”

“Honey, I'm not going to be leaving at all. Angie came in late today and our scene got pushed back. I have to stay.”

I cannot believe what I am hearing. I'm not sure if I'm more furious to learn that my Ocean House night has been canceled or to learn that Angela Dune is the reason for it. “What do you mean she came in late? How could she do that? Can't they just reschedule it? We have plans.” I know I'm almost shouting and I know it's not Evan's fault, but right now I could deck him.

“Listen, I know. I'm disappointed, too. I tried to get them to reschedule, but the crew is here and ready to go.”

“Angie was supposed to be there and ready to go!” I remind him angrily. “Why was she late anyway?”

Evan sighs. “Maggie. That makes no difference, you know that.”

And now I am mad at him, too. “Do not speak to me like I am a child, Evan. Do not. She's the reason you are still there—doesn't that bother you in the least?”

Evan sighs again. “Listen, there's nothing I can do. The shoot is starting now.”

“So what time will you get here, then?”

“Maggie, it's going to go all day. I'm afraid we'll have to reschedule the Ocean House for another time.”

I know this is not his doing. And I know I'm not behaving like an adult. But I'm tired of always waiting for Evan. For scenes to wrap, for schedules to be posted, for him to get off set. It doesn't matter whose fault it is or isn't: the fact is, if I don't get off the phone, my disappointment will get the best of me, and I don't want to say something I'll regret. “We'll talk later, okay?”

I hang up the phone before he can answer. When I go out to the kitchen, my mother is pretending to read the paper. “Mom, this house is the size of a shoe box. I know you heard. He's not coming. End of story.”

My mom looks at me with a softness that makes me feel ten years old again. “I'm sorry, sweetie. I know you were excited to see him.” She doesn't add that she was, too, which is generous of her. The whole family's day is now derailed thanks to the whims of Angie Dune.

Mom pats my hand. “Why don't you go find Erika, and see if you can have some fun today, after all?”

My phone rings just as I'm pulling into a space on Main Street. I fumble in my bag to grab it. “I just got here,” I say. “Are you still in the jewelry store?”

Only, it's not Erika. It's Cam. Calling to invite me to see the Edwin Bate house. “It's done. I want you to come see it before the owners start moving things back in.”

I'm more relieved than I should be when he calls. And it has nothing to do with missing a night at the Ocean House, though it does have something to do with Evan. Since mentioning Evan to him the other night, I've felt like I almost closed some kind
of door between us. A door that I've realized I want to remain open. And now I stick my toe into the cracked doorway and nudge it just a little bit wider.

The sun is low in the sky when I finally pull in the gravel drive at the Bate house. I can't help but shake my head. “Cameron Wilder. What have you done?” I murmur.

Round boxwoods have been planted in a snug row against the gray stone foundation. Weeping cherry trees flank both corners of the front yard. The old scrolled steel fencing has been torn out and replaced with a white spindle fence. Bright copper caps, too new to be tarnished yet, glimmer atop freshly painted posts. I let myself in through the gate.

My phone dings in my pocket signaling a call from Erika. I turn it off, just as I hear his laugh. “Wow, you're actually on time,” Cam says, standing in the front door.

I'm surprised to see that he's freshly showered, hair still wet, in a crisp collared shirt. The crew is gone for the day. “Since when am I not?” I ask wryly.

He taps his chin. “I seem to recall a birthday dinner. And some purple candles.”

I stop in front of him on the step. He smells like pine and fresh soap. “What candles? What are you talking about?”

“Remember those handmade candles you used to like so much, from that gift shop in town?”

I nod, a vague memory of lavender and beeswax coming to mind.

“I bought you a set for your birthday. And then grilled you a fancy dinner on my parents' deck. Remember that night?”

That recollection—and Cam's sharp memory—both catch me by surprise. “And I was late!” I say, trying not to laugh.

“I wanted everything to be perfect, so I set the table and lit the candles right before you were supposed to show up. You were over an hour late.” He raises his eyebrows.

I wince as the details flood back. “You cooked filet mignon. By the time I got there they were cold.”

Cam nods. “Your lavender candles had melted down to a purple puddle on my mother's deck table. She never let me hear the end of that one.”

“But the steaks were still good!” I insist, still feeling a stab of guilt all these years later.

“Liar.”

I laugh, and Cam grabs my hand and tugs me inside. “Come on. This is even better than cold filet mignon.”

My eyes travel upward as we enter the foyer. All the old moldings have been restored. Painted a cool ivory, they pop against the historic blue-gray walls. Cam leads me across the marble floor and up the newly refinished stairs, still covered in construction paper. “I love the smell of fresh paint. There's something so promising about it,” I say.

Cam nods. “I think so, too.” The hallway at the top is long and dim, and we pass several closed bedrooms until we reach the room at the end, where daylight spills through the cracked door. Cam pushes it open and stands aside for me to enter first.

I step inside. Stately built-in bookshelves line the wall. An antique brick fireplace sits across the room. Flanking it are floor-to-ceiling windows.

I follow Cam into the sun-dappled center of the room. “Look at all the light.”

“That's not the best part,” Cam says, crossing the honey-hued floors. “Here.” He opens a set of French doors and I follow him
outside onto the balcony. It overlooks the street below, and just beyond it, the wide gray expanse of the Mystic River. Already, stars appear against the purple twilight sky.

“Oh, Cam. This is just . . .” I can't think of a word. The sky and the water are too much.

“I know. It's why I wanted you to come.” We stand a moment looking out.

“I don't remember seeing this in the plans.”

“Because it wasn't,” Cam says. “The owner had the architect add it in at the last minute. It's a surprise for his wife.”

I let out a breath. “She's a lucky woman.”

Cam leans out over the railing and looks back at me. “It wasn't easy to squeeze all this in by our deadline. I hope she appreciates it.”

“She will.” We stand awhile, taking in the view below. “Does it feel good now that it's finished? Or is it sort of sad?”

Cam smiles appreciatively. “Both. This was my biggest project so far. Which came with some big headaches. But I'll miss it.”