Summer's Road (2 page)

“She wants to take the house from me!”

“Look, I was filing away some old documents and discovered the discrepancy. I contacted her lawyer to work it out.”

“You…How did you even know how to contact her? When Daddy died, you said you couldn’t reach her.”

Gesturing to a chair, he sat, expecting me to do the same. When it was clear I wasn’t going to follow suit, he sighed and shook his head. His thin, dark comb-over didn’t budge with the motion. He swiped at his sweaty brow with a handkerchief before stuffing it back in his breast pocket.

“I only have her lawyer’s info. I’ve had to contact her exactly twice in the past twenty years. Once to have her release all custody rights over to your dad, and the other to let her know he was sick.”

So, Sharon had known. While I had struggled with college and bills and doctors, and while my father was losing a painful battle with cancer, my mother had known and still hadn’t come. Sharon was as heartless as I’d hoped she wasn’t.

It had been an extremely difficult time in my life. I’d battled with depression on and off throughout childhood and adolescence, but those first years when Daddy had been sick were when it had become necessary for me to take an anti-depressant. Most college students went out drinking and dreaming of a future. I’d stayed home and hand-fed my father, thinking there was no future anymore.

“There’s a few things we can do,” Tim said, opening a folder in his pudgy hands. “We can ask Sharon to sign all rights to you as the will mandates. If she agrees, you may have to buy out her half, similar to a divorce agreement. If she disagrees, we’d have to go to court. Unfortunately, I don’t think we have a leg to stand on. Both of your parents bought that house thirty years ago. Tom never changed the deed.”

I sat in the chair next to him to keep from getting sick. “Why didn’t you tell me about this when you first found out?”

Looking genuinely upset, his gaze softened. “I had no way of knowing she’d come back to Wylie. I thought we could work it out and I’d tell you after the fact, or after I’d learned more. I’m sorry, Summer.”

Absently rubbing my arm, I stared off into space. “I can’t lose that house.”

“I put in a call to her lawyer.” He tried for a reassuring smile and failed. “I’ll call you or come by when I know more. Try not to worry.”

When I stepped outside into the hot Carolina sun, the humidity did little to chase the chill away. What was I supposed to do now? If that house was gone, there’d be nothing left of my father, my memories.

Needing to get my mind off the problem, as it was out of my hands for now, I weighed my options. I was too hyped up to work on a painting. Ian’s store was two blocks down on my left. He would be as rightfully angry as I was. As my best friend, he’d always been on my side, even when it was the wrong one.

But he’d worry about me. I couldn’t put him through that again. Ever since he’d found me after my father had died, I’d vowed not to concern my friends like that again. Before his death, I’d kept most of my problems to myself, but after, I’d told no one. I wanted Ian, but that just wasn’t wise until I was calmer.

Which left Matt. He lived two hours away in Greensboro. We had an open relationship, but we’d known each other as kids from summering at Seasmoke. Last year, we’d decided to make a go of it and started dating. In the beginning, it had felt more like a business arrangement than a relationship, but things had changed since then. We’d done everything but consummate.

Maybe a drive would do me some good. Perhaps a decent, hot round of sex would be better medicine. Except Matt’s ‘no sex before marriage’ rule would halt that. He was an extremely devout born-again Christian. It
would
be nice to just have someone hold me and say it’d be all right, which he’d do.

Decision made, I pulled my cell from my pocket while walking across the two lane street to my car. The traffic was lessoning after the lunch rush, but would soon pick up again as people got out of work. This was the main strip in our small community. Running south, it covered all of Wylie, South Carolina, and north, into Charlotte, was a fifteen minute drive.

I left a voicemail on the answering machine at Matt’s house, knowing he’d get the message right when he walked in the door. I checked my watch. He’d be out of work in a half hour. Grinning, I started the car and headed for 85.

Two hours later, I fidgeted under Matt’s gaze. Before I could even ring the bell, the front door to his cape cod had swung open and his eyebrows rose. Still wearing my jeans and T-shirt splattered in paint, I wasn’t exactly dressed for a date.

He must’ve just finished with a shower. His dark red hair was slick, making his fair skin seem lighter. His long, trim body leaned against the doorway, his height towering over me.

“Been working on a masterpiece?” he asked with a grin.

“Har, har. Let me in.”

Crouching to my eye level, he stole a kiss, quick and...nice, before backing up and allowing me inside.

Though we’d been dating about a year, I’d only been to his place a handful of times. Usually, he came to Wylie to see me. His living room, decorated in muted gray tones, made me want to go nuts with color someday when he wasn’t looking. Everything was clean lines and angles. I was going to ruin his furniture with my soiled clothes.

“I think I’m dry,” I said, gesturing, though uncertain.

“I don’t care.” His gaze raked over me with caution anyway. “I missed you. What brings you all the way to Greensboro?”

There was a loaded question. I wanted to get away for a bit from the norm. I wanted comfort from the terror I was feeling. I wanted the peace of mind only he offered, because Matt never pressed me for serious conversation or wanted to know why I did the things I did. He was just there. Actually, we didn’t have real conversations at all. If anything, he catered to me, cared for me, but we knew very little about each other.

Kinda sad.

Swallowing, I walked down a short hall and into the small but efficient kitchen. This room, too, needed life. The cabinets, countertops, and walls were white. Grabbing a glass from the cupboard, I filled it with water from the tap. I looked out the window over the sink to his yard as he came up behind me. He had a decent-sized in-ground swimming pool, about eight feet deep, and just long enough to swim laps. Around the pool, past the deck, were non-flowering bushes lining a cedar privacy fence. Even the yard needed color.

He kissed my neck. “What’s wrong?”

Setting the glass on the counter, I turned in his arms, resting my cheek on his chest and breathing in some exotic spice scent. “My mother came to the house today.”

Stepping back, he looked down at me with eyes rounded in surprise. Matt had grown up with me and my friends, at least in the summers, so he knew about my mother, though I’d rarely spoken about her. He didn’t know the torment Sharon’s absence had caused me growing up, or the way I’d stupidly let it shape my life. Even now, it should be something long past, but it was still a very real void. Something I just couldn’t let go.

“What did she want?”

Shrugging, I told him the short version and then what the lawyer had said. “I guess I just have to see what she does.”

“Do I need to get you a new attorney?”

I shook my head. He would bring the logical into the equation and leave out the emotional. I so needed that right now. Not someone to worry over me and know just how devastating this could turn out to be. “Daddy should have fixed this a long time ago, though Tim should’ve seen it sooner. It was just a...mistake.”

Pulling me close, he rested his chin on my head. “I ordered takeout. Thai. It should be here soon. We can eat by the pool, if you like.”

I hated Thai food, yet grinned up at him. “Okay. But I have to head back after that. I have a class to teach in the morning.”

His hazel eyes watched me for a long time before he swallowed. Reaching up, he lifted a piece of my hair, rubbing the long, blonde strands between his fingers. His jaw was narrow, his cheekbones high. Matt wasn’t the traditional kind of handsome, but he was good-looking in that ‘aw shucks’ southern way. Like the boy next door. Which was hilarious because Matt looked nothing like Ian, the
actual
guy next door.

“What were you working on today that required red paint?” He seemed amused by the splotches of color in my hair.

The landscape I’d been working on before the doorbell rang this morning came to mind. I’d been trying to capture Main Street in Wylie at sunset. The cars were still, the people from town captured mid-stride walking on the sidewalks, window shopping, or chatting. Geraniums and marigolds popped out of enlarged flower pots near the light posts.

“You’ll have to come over and see.” I smiled.

His return smile was easy, like his personality. “I was planning on visiting Wylie on Sunday, if you don’t mind. I wanted to talk to you about something that happened today.”

“Tell me now. I’m here.”

His smile faded. “You had a rough day and have enough to think about. We’ll talk later.”

His gaze darted out the window over the sink and then back to me. Something in the way he was staring at me had my pulse hammering and my breath short. Damn if I knew why. Intuition?

“I love you,” he said.

I stilled. Okay, first he wanted to talk, then he dropped ‘I love you’ for the first time. Was this the part of our relationship where we moved on from contentment to more? Did I love him? He was the husband and two kids kind of guy. Did I want that with him?

Well, I wanted four kids. Four happy, spirited kids running down to the creek like me and Ian had in our youth. Four kids with a mother and father who loved them more than life itself. I’d never really pictured who that guy with me would be, though.

And me and Matt had never talked about the future before. Everything had always been casual. Too casual. Something was going on with him, something big enough to ‘talk’ about. Could we actually pull off a real conversation?

Before I could contemplate an answer, the doorbell rang, and Matt grinned. “Worry not, Summer. You don’t need to say it back yet.” Leaning in, he kissed me and then went to answer the door.

CHAPTER TWO

Twenty-Two Years Ago—Age Six

“
D
iana at school said s-so,” I stammered through the sobs. “Sh-she said that it wasn’t normal. That I was bad and that’s why Mommy wasn’t here.”

Here, at home in Daddy’s arms in the living room, I was safe. He smelled like soap and wood where I pressed my face into his shirt. School wasn’t like that. I hated it. I was never going back.
Ever
. It smelled like paste and pee and Mrs. Schmidt’s perfume. The kids were mean. They laughed at me and called me stupid and told me I couldn’t play because I didn’t have a mommy.

“Shh. Come now,” Daddy cooed in a soft murmur. “That Diana doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”

My chest hurt. My tummy wanted to throw up. “But Mommy
isn’t
here,” I insisted.

Daddy started rocking, the motion matching his heartbeats. One. Two. Three. “Mommy isn’t here, no. But do you know why?” He paused. “She had to go climb mountains so high that the white snow never melts. Where she can see the whole world from the very top.” He sighed, rubbing my back with his calloused hands. “She had to go swimming in the deep, deep blue ocean with the fish and octopus. She had lots of important things to do and see.”

Why couldn’t I go, too? To climb mountains and swim in the ocean?

He kissed the tip of my nose. I loved it when he did that. It tickled, but it made everything better. “Mommy is gone, kiddo, but that’s not your fault. You’re not bad and normal is overrated. Who wants to be like everyone else anyway?”

I shrugged my shoulder against his chest, not wanting to disappoint him. I wanted to be normal. To be like everyone else. To fit in. I didn’t want to be the only kid in school without a mommy. I could still hear them laughing at me in my head, so I pinched my eyes closed really, really tight.

“Why don’t we call Ian and Rick over? We can catch fireflies and make wishes on their light?”

At school, Rick had come to my classes’ side of the playground and sat with me at recess. “They’re dumb,” he had said. Ian had shouted at the other kids to shut-up and refused to play kickball with them. At least I had them to talk to. They never made me feel different.

“Okay,” I agreed.

Present

M
oments like this, in the quiet ease of a day’s end with only my thoughts as a companion, was typically all I needed. It usually didn’t bother me that I was mostly alone. People unnerved me. I’d much rather not have commotion in my head. So, for just tonight, while I was striving for the contentment my day didn’t permit, I wouldn’t let the rest of it matter.

I sat on the wooden, faded porch steps outside of the home I grew up in and stared at the moon. The June humidity was heavy, as it forever was in the south, making my cotton shirt cling to my skin. I tried to not let that bother me either. Something magical occurred at sundown. The hum of the world quieted, hushing out the conundrums of everyday life. The fireflies would emerge soon, casting an uncanny glow throughout the yard. The crickets were already chirping their sing-songs, a tune only they could understand.

My mother wanted to take this all away.

I glanced at the curved gravel driveway and smiled, remembering leaping into my father’s arms as a child when he’d returned from work. If I closed my eyes, I could still feel that ripple of pleasure at hearing the tires crunch when he pulled in. The black-eyed Susans and coneflowers were pleasantly scattered near that bend by the road. I couldn’t see them just now, but knew they were there. Dandelions adorned the ankle high grass on the front lawn in front of me. I didn’t care to disturb them, even though they would come back every year with their happy color. I always found it amusing that, when they wilted, I could wish on them. They would scatter more seeds as they drifted away, only to be reborn the next year.

Wishes were funny things. It mattered not how many times I’d made one, they never came true. That rarely stopped me from peering at the stars or dropping a penny into the old well on Barker Road and whispering a secret desire. How many times as a child had I wished for my mother to return? Maybe the fates had just heard my plea now.

I pulled the crumpled note Sharon had left on the counter from my pocket and stared at it. The address she wrote down said “Houston.”

You don’t know everything, Summer,
my mother’s voice echoed.

I should talk to Ian about it, but pocketed the note again. What good would that do? It may temporarily make me feel better, but he would infuse me with that
I’m worried about you
look and then go on a verbal tirade about how I shouldn’t talk to the woman. 

I glanced next door to see if Ian had returned home yet. Considering there weren’t many acres between our houses, I never felt too far away from him. His bedroom light was on, indicating his date didn’t go so well. I smirked, trying to remember the last time Ian Memmer was home at nine on a Friday night. He was probably upstairs in his room, waiting for me to bring a movie by to watch.

Rising, I swirled the ice in my glass as I closed the screen door behind me. I didn’t bother locking it. The only houses tucked back on the inlet road were mine and Ian’s, and there wasn’t a need to lock doors in this town. The same people still lived here, as did their parents before them. The same shops on every corner. At times, the same small minds.

I set my glass in the kitchen sink. The floorboards upstairs creaked and I grinned, grabbing a bottle of beer from the fridge for Ian since he was up there. I rarely drank, but kept it stocked for him. Sighing, I headed upstairs, the boards groaning in complaint. Entering my bedroom, I found Ian planted on my window seat, looking as if he had all night to wait. He must’ve seen me on the porch and went in the back door, knowing I hated being disturbed while lost in my head. So few people got that about me.

In the back of my memory, I recalled a little brown-haired boy running over, covered in mud, insisting we go down to the creek to catch bullfrogs. He wasn’t as broody and protective back then. Or perhaps that was the romantic artist in me altering memory.

He wore his favorite faded jeans, even in this heat. But, knowing him, his shirt had come off probably hours before. A thin scattering of dark hair dappled his chest, making a trail down to the waistband of his jeans where a V of muscle peeked over the denim. His stomach was rippled with a slight six pack, the muscles lining his shoulders and biceps bunched as he crossed his arms. It wasn’t the kind of body manufactured in a gym, but rather the result of hard, physical work and good genes.

Yeah, I could see why every woman in the county wanted a piece of him. Perhaps one day he’d allow more than sex with one of his conquests.

His head was tilted down, his short, cropped black hair mussed, like he’d run his fingers through it half a dozen times. Interesting. He did that when he was upset. I took in his grin with a curious eye.

Nope, not upset. He was up to something. Probably something wicked.

Ian Memmer

I
knew what was coming before Summer even opened her perfect, pouty mouth.

“Date didn’t go so well, huh?” She tossed me a beer.

From her window seat, I caught the bottle with one hand and struggled to maintain a deadpan expression. “Actually, Susie’s right where I left her—in her bed, counting her blessings.”

I chuckled as her eyebrows shot up, as they always did when she was annoyed with me. I made my way to the bed, setting the beer on the nightstand and sat down, paging through one of her female magazines with little interest.

She walked over to the corner of the room and pulled clothes out of her top dresser drawer for the morning, her movements stiff. Ah, my girl was irked by my response. If there was one thing in this world I appreciated most, it was to annoy her. Most of the time, it was the only way to get a rise out of her. She’d been raising those eyebrows at me since as far back as my memory allowed her there.

“
Counting her blessings
,” she repeated, turning away from the dresser, waving a satin red bra at me. I narrowed my eyes to mask the images that invoked. Summer Quinn, best friend of mine, had a body that could make a dead man breathe anew. “High opinion of your sexual expertise, eh?”

“I didn’t hear Susie complaining.” I grinned, gaze on the magazine, and stuck my tongue in my cheek, knowing without looking her lips were twisted in a wry pout. That damn mouth of hers needed to be kissed by someone who knew how.

“Pervert.”

“Prude.”

“I’m kicking you out in five minutes.” She stared at the ceiling, then me. “I have class in the morning.”

“Summer school is a travesty to this nation.” I rubbed my hand over the handmade quilt my mother had fondly stitched for her ten years ago.

“You know it’s my art therapy class.” She rubbed her forehead in frustration.

Tiny wisps of caramel-colored blonde hair at her nape and by her left ear had freed themselves from her ponytail. I looked away before I crossed the room to touch them. “I don’t understand how you get paid to play with paint and bratty kids all day. And it’s a waste of your talent.”

Except, I did understand, but her reason for teaching was absurd. Normally, I didn’t bother bringing up the class with her. A futile argument, one among many. I had been worried about her all damn day. And that class couldn’t be helping her mindset.

Being the giver she was, she rarely worried about herself. She’d gotten me a passing grade in more than one class in high school. If not for her, I’d be stuck behind a desk somewhere instead of building them, using my business degree instead of my hands. She was the first person to ask about my projects, encouraging and praising my work. She’d taken care of me when I’d been sick, every time, and cleaned my house when I’d been too engrossed in a project to bother.

It wasn’t just me, either. Rick and Dee’s elder neighbor had taken a fall down her basement stairs two years back. Summer had watered the woman’s plants and taken care of her cat while she’d been in rehab. Summer was allergic to cats. Had that stopped her? No. And her students? She’d visited every one of them in the hospital, held their tiny hands during treatments. She’d attended funerals when they hadn’t beaten the odds. She wore herself thin and then gave more.

I lay back on her pillows, upset with the fact she poured her heart every Saturday into a group of children that may not be there the next week. Because those “special kids,” as she referred to them, could die at any given moment. She didn’t care. No, I amended. She did care, too much. She just pretended not to. She forged on every week like the little trooper she was, brushing off the obvious.