Summer's Road (6 page)

Summer sat on the edge of his bed and brushed her fingertips across the boy’s forehead. “Hey, you. How are you feeling?”

He shrugged. “They said I’m going to heaven soon.”

Pain clawed my chest, tore my soul in half, left me goddamn bleeding.

Frank left the room without a sound.

Summer, as always, remained ever calm. “I heard that, too. Are you scared?”

Jon’s face wrinkled, as if thinking it over. He nodded, lip quivering.

“You know, once you get to heaven, you’ll get all your beautiful hair back. You can eat whatever you want and not get any cavities. You can stay up as late as you wish and there are always cartoons on TV. There aren’t any of these tubes or wires. And when you scrape your knee, it doesn’t even hurt. God has lots of windows there where you can look out to see how your mommy and daddy are doing.”

As if I needed another reason to fall in love with her, there was example five-hundred and three.

Jon looked as if he believed her. “Really?”

“Really. Cross my heart.”

Christ. I couldn’t take it. I slipped out.

I anxiously paced the hall, trying to think of anything but the deeper blue Summer’s eyes got when she’d been battling tears. I rubbed my damp palms on my jeans, chest aching and gut wrecked.

It may as well have been her father lying there instead of Jon. I had a sinking suspicion Tom knew I was in love with his daughter, even back then. I’d always taken the memory of that last talk with him to mean our friendship should always come first. To me, the groundwork for any relationship to stand a chance was friendship. It had been four years since that conversation and where was I?

Pining.

I’d been in love with Summer as long as I could remember. I’d do anything for her. But that didn’t mean she loved me back. Not like that. She broke my heart, over and over, day after day, but I loved her so much I couldn’t breathe.

And I’d never know how she’d react to my truth if I didn’t tell her.

Hell. There were reasons I’d never done it, so why was I contemplating a confession?

I took the elevator down to the lobby and went outside to get air. Slumping against a brick wall, I thought about how many times I’d come here with her and could not shake the sick feeling this place gave me. She had that same look in her eyes today as she had the moment her dad died. How she found the strength to come back here when one of these kids grew ill was beyond me. The woman had more strength than any ten people I knew. She was either a saint or an idiot. The jury was still out on that one.

More than anything, it left me irate. How much was she supposed to take? Would she let herself endure? It was as if she was punishing herself for not doing more. She held a fund raiser every year, the proceeds going to research and her blessed art program. An event where she smiled, shook hands, and pretended it didn’t kill her dead those kids were dying. She should be in some ridiculous daisy field somewhere, lost in la-la land, painting the world she saw as beautiful. Not here. Not reminded that life wasn’t a picturesque daydream.

It wasn’t as if I wanted to shield her from everything that could hurt her. That wasn’t it at all. What bothered me was she sought pain, time and time again, as if it would bring her dad back. Tom’s death hadn’t been her fault, yet she acted like she needed penance just the same. She never saw all the good she did, how much difference she made in the lives of those kids. She just worked harder, immersing herself.

After awhile, she found me outside. Learning Jon had only a few weeks at most, I listened to her relay the same story I’d heard a hundred times. The doctors didn’t give any grand illusions. A few days, a few months—they didn’t know. I watched her fight tears, attempting to blink them away. Knowing her, she’d cry until sleep took her tonight—while she was alone. I wished she trusted herself enough to let go in front of me.

“You ready?” She puffed her cheeks and expelled a breath.

I nodded as if I didn’t realize she was upset and followed her to the car. “You never cried,” I said at length, once we were on the road. I have no idea why I brought it up.

“I don’t cry easily.”

I shook my head, irritated again. I never once saw her shed tears. Not at her father’s funeral, not now. She’d always mastered holding them back. The only exception had been a couple days after Tom had died, when I’d found her...

Hell. I couldn’t go there or I’d package her in bubble wrap and put her in a closet.

When it came to certain feelings, she would shut herself down, putting on that cool, collected face. Hiding. I shook off my mood, knowing she didn’t need a fight. No matter how much I would love to lay into her just now.

“Let’s get dinner tonight.” I glanced at her and back to the road, not liking the distance in her eyes. Her depression was always hovering outside the lines of reality, scaring the ever-living shit out of me.

“Can’t. I have a date.”

“A what? With who?” Matt wasn’t coming into Charlotte until tomorrow and, despite their “open” relationship, she hadn’t dated anyone else.

“With a blank canvas.” She looked at me, her smile a punch to the gut.

“Since when is painting a date?”

“Since today. I just thought of a scene. I’ll give it to you when I’m done.”

“It’s not a naked portrait, is it?”
Please Christ, say yes
.

She laughed and, damn, the musical lilt sounded so good. “Nope.”

I nudged her shoulder. “Let’s get dinner anyway. You can work after. You need to get out.”

She chewed on her lip like I’d wanted to do more for than a decade. “Okay, but I’m out now.”

She would think that. “Teaching a class and going to the hospital isn’t going out. I’m taking you to Ed’s for pizza. You can paint later.” Then again, staying in had its advantages. “Why isn’t Matt here taking you on a date? It’s Saturday. There’s no meetings tomorrow, even in his world.”

Her voice was quiet. Too quiet. “Can we not fight about Matt, please?”

Heaven forbid. “Fine. But what does Matt think about you cheating on him with a paintbrush and your best friend?”

Exasperated, she shrugged. “He won’t care.”

Christ. She wasn’t that clueless. Neither was Matt. “Yes, he will.”

Glancing at me briefly, she returned her gaze to the road. She had deflection down to a science. “What makes you think he’ll care?”

Because he’s the only man on the planet who’s in love with you even half as much as I am
.

“Call it a gut feeling.”

“Well, he’s coming to visit tomorrow. I’ll be sure to tell him I cheated on him with you, a paintbrush, and some pizza. He’ll be devastated.”

Great. Why did I even bother? And why couldn’t Matt stay in Greensboro where he wasn’t a threat to my unbalanced obsession? “What
is
he coming in for?”

“Can’t he drive down just to see me?” When I raised my eyebrows, because Matt had rarely done just that, she sighed. “He said he wanted to share some good news and
talk
.”

It was almost laughable how she switched from broken-hearted to angry to nervous in the course of ten minutes. “Don’t freak out, Summer. Talking isn’t always a bad thing.” But one could hope. I could hope until my balls turned blue that Matt would break things off with her.

Evergreens whizzed by in a blur along the rolling Carolina countryside as silence stretched between us. Summer had a tree house in her backyard when we were kids. She had wanted it in an evergreen because she thought fairies lived in them, not the tall oak it wound up in. I smiled. Her dad had been so unwilling to build the thing, but finally gave in to Summer’s whining. Tom had taught me so much about carpentry, starting with Summer’s tree house.

I looked back at her, a smile still playing at my lips. Her caramel hair flew around her face due to the open windows, threatening to come free from the rubber band as she played with the radio dials. I just might have a heart attack if she ever let me use the air conditioner.

My mind drifted back to Matt. He wanted to have a talk with her. That could only mean one of two things: he was going to step up the relationship or he was ending it. I knew Matt sure as hell wasn’t breaking up with her.

I wondered if that was what she truly wanted. Matt. Summer had rarely ever gotten what she’d wanted in her short lifetime. I’d call it bad luck, but it went beyond that. Her mother had bailed—simply never returned one day, nor had she appeared to ever give Summer a second thought. Her father had been taken in the most grueling, painful way. She never asked for much, was typically the kind of woman who was happy with what she had, but somehow life always came up short. Our families all considered her their own, but that was hardly the same as having blood kin.

She almost gave up once, almost let the depression win. If I hadn’t found her, she might not be here now. Four years and I still couldn’t erase the image from my head, the panic from my chest.

Christ. If anyone deserved a break, deserved to be happy, it was Summer. Maybe Matt could do that for her. Even though the thought ate away at me, ultimately, that’s all that mattered to me...that she was happy. And still breathing.

Summer

“
I
emailed you the seating arrangements.” Eric Holcomb’s deep, penetrating voice boomed over the phone.

I leaned back in the computer chair upstairs in my studio-slash-office, pulling up the attachment. Eric was the director at Charlotte’s downtown art museum and we were going over the last of the preliminaries for my benefit. This was my fifth year working with him. Eric was a handsome man in his early forties and as hospitable as he was gay. His life mate, Edward, was an accountant at the same firm as my friend Rick.

“I got it.” I skimmed the attachment. “Looks good, except you seated the mayor next to the school board director. I’d rather not have any arrests at the event.”

He laughed. “I’ll fix that.” I listened as he shuffled papers. “The caterer wants to know if you want the same options as last year.”

I mulled that over. “No. The beef wellington wasn’t too popular. The chicken kiev with asparagus spears and roasted potatoes are fine, as we discussed, but add a fish option and email me for approval. Maybe salmon. Dessert? What’s she got planned?”

“Tiramisu and raspberry sorbet torte.”

“Tell her to add another option. Something with chocolate.”

“Okey dokey. Moving on, how much wall space do you need? I reserved the vault to take down the paintings in the west entry hall.”

“That worked well last year. It was nice to have that divider between the dinner and the art auction. People can walk through and bid before being seated.”

Eric cleared his throat. “Now, missy, I need the last of your pieces if you want them matted and ready to go.”

The Charlotte Art Museum ate the cost of framing my paintings, the donated paintings by local artists, and my students’ pictures, as my auction was good PR for them. Each dinner ticket paid for the caterer, and anything over that amount the museum kept. We had set the difference for each plate at twenty a head over this year, and with one-hundred and fifty in attendance, the museum would be left with a nice chunk of change for their trouble. All proceeds from the auction went to me for my programs and the pediatric cancer research network. There were also a lot of donations mailed in through the press kits we send out.

“I have two more of my paintings for you.” I mentally went through what I had available. “I’ll drop them off tomorrow. I’m hoping to have the last three in two weeks.”

He uttered an unbelieving, “Uh huh.”

“I promise, oh Great Lord Eric,” I teased. “How many donations from local artists are there?”

“Twelve.”

“That’s it?” Leaning forward, I started to panic. That wasn’t anywhere near the thirty we had last year.

“Don’t worry your perfect, caramel latte-colored head over it. The Observer isn’t doing the article until Sunday. You’ll get more donations and drop-offs then.”

“All right. Okay. I hope I don’t have to make up the difference. That’s not a lot of time to get decent work done.” Scrolling through the rest of his attachment, I leaned back in my chair. “That seems to be it for now. Anything else?”