The Summer House

by Lauren K. Denton

  “She stayed with a friend so we could have our time, and we spent five glorious days covered in sand and salt and baby oil.”

  “I bet you ate good food too.”

  “Like you wouldn’t believe.” The door chimed as a group of diners came in, but Roberta didn’t even notice. “Saltfish, plantains, rice pudding. Things my tongue had never tasted. Made me want to be a chef.”

  “Really? That’s what did it?”

  Roberta nodded. “I told Bob, expecting him to laugh, but he told me to go for it. Said he knew I could do whatever I wanted.” She closed her eyes and inhaled, and Lily worried Roberta was about to slip away, as she had that morning. But she just smiled and opened her eyes again. “I haven’t thought about those early days with Bob in a long time. Those are good memories.”

  They ate their food in silence a moment before Lily spoke again. “Have you ever thought about making some of those foods here at the café? The Caribbean food?”

  Roberta laughed. “Folks around here don’t take to change very well. If I take the staples off the menu, I’ll be run out of here on a rail.”

  Lily shrugged. “It was just a thought. Maybe a change wouldn’t be so bad.” She took her last bite of crab claw. “Not that these aren’t delicious enough to eat every day of the week.”

  When she left the diner a bit later and made her way to her cottage across the street, she thought back over the stories she’d heard that day, real stories of joy, pain, and heartache. Decades lived fully and completely. It was easy to think folks in the village were enjoying a sort of Shangri-La, free from the cares happening in the “real world.” But now Lily had the dawning realization that these people had cares—happiness and grief, pain and pleasure—that rivaled, probably even surpassed, what she’d experienced in her brief decades of life.

  The empty bubble of Worth’s text flashed again in her mind and she realized she hadn’t thought of his limp non-message since that morning. Somehow the act of helping Roberta carry her load had made her own feel not so heavy. She decided then she’d do nothing about Worth’s text—not panic, not worry, and not respond.

  The Village Vine

  Your Source for Neighborhood News

  July 1, 2018

  Compiled by Shirley Ferrill

  Good day, Safe Harbor Village!

  This newsletter is brought to you by Beach Reads. This week all romance paperbacks are half off, and waterproof e-reader cases are 30% off.

  Marine Life

  Ruth Beckett says she heard what she swears was the alligator bellowing from the marina. I still haven’t found anything to back up her claim that gators can, in fact, bellow, but she implores us villagers to take care anytime we’re around the water.

  Recreation

  Anyone hungry for a Cheeseburger in Paradise? Looking for Fins in the marina? Thirsty for a Boat Drink? Well, Coach Beaumont may be just the man to give you what you want!

  My apologies. I’m getting ahead of myself. A couple of weeks ago I was taking my usual evening walk along the boardwalk—keeping a watchful eye out for the alligator, of course—when I heard faint strains of “Pencil Thin Mustache” floating from Coach’s sailboat docked in the marina. When I came back the other way, it was “Margaritaville.”

  I asked him if he had a hankering for Jimmy Buffett tunes, and he got what can only be described as a sneaky twinkle in his eye. He told me he was on a mission, though he couldn’t release any information just yet. Of course, when I put the heat on him—as any journalist worth her salt would do—he sang like a canary. He did make me promise to keep his secret mission out of The Vine until he gave me the go-ahead, and once I promised, he filled me in.

  It turns out Coach has been sending emails to Jimmy Buffett’s agent for quite some time now, telling him all about our fair Safe Harbor Village. He even went so far as to extend Mr. Buffett an invitation to our So Long, Summer party. Can you imagine?

  And stars above, the agent wrote him back! He said he was intrigued and that he would let Mr. Buffett know about our party, though of course he couldn’t in good faith promise that we would receive a response.

  I just about had to knit my lips together last week to avoid telling you all about it, but Coach has decided I can spill the beans, so here I am, spilling them in The Vine. If you’re the praying type, consider praying that the good Lord would lay it on Mr. Buffett’s heart to make a trip to Safe Harbor at the end of the summer.

  Sunrise Café Menu

  July 2–July 8

  Villagers, hold on to your sun hats—Roberta is bringing themed meals to the café! The first theme will be Foods of the Caribbean. If you’d like to make a suggestion for a future theme, please write it down and leave it with Elijah at the bar.

  Foods of the Caribbean

  Mains: ackee and saltfish, conch fritters, Jamaican jerk chicken

  Veggies: rice and peas, callaloo, plantains

  Desserts: coconut rice pudding, flan, Christmas cake

  Twenty-One

  Rose had been enjoying the shade of her front porch, having given up her task of pulling weeds in her flower beds in the morning’s heat, when she saw Shirley Ferrill creep slowly up the road in her golf cart, pausing every few feet to stick a Village Vine newsletter in a mailbox.

  Several years ago, when Shirley first started producing The Village Vine, she slapped a magnetic sign onto the back of her cart that read, I Brake For Good Gossip. Truer words had never been uttered, though Shirley loved to say her curiosity was not gossip for gossip’s sake but was always for the betterment of Village society.

  Shirley finally drew up to Rose’s mailbox. She grabbed a rolled-up newsletter and reached her arm out toward the mailbox.

  “It’s a big news day, Rose,” Shirley called. “You won’t want to wait before reading this one.”

  “Is that so?” Rose asked, rising slowly to meet Shirley at the street. “Were your gossip sources particularly forthcoming this week?”

  Shirley smiled, the apples of her cheeks rosy with her signature Lancôme blush. “Not sources plural. Just one. One Coach Beaumont, in fact.”

  Rose cocked an eyebrow. “Coach has news?”

  Shirley giggled and tapped the newsletter with one finger. “Read it and see.”

  Rose took the paper from Shirley’s outstretched hand and watched as Shirley turned around at the flagpole at the end of the road and sped back down the street, no doubt to take her favorite corner table at the café and wait for her readers to gather and delight in the latest development, whatever it was.

  Rose settled back into the rocking chair on the front porch and opened the newsletter. She skimmed the offensive section once, twice, then a third time. Finally she slapped the pages closed and dropped the whole thing down on the ground next to her feet.

  “Jimmy Buffett,” she muttered. “As if we need to give folks around here any more reason to act like kids on a sugar high.”

  She crossed her legs and pushed back and forth with her foot, then stopped still.

  I own this place, she thought. If anyone had a plan to invite a major celebrity to the village, they—he—should have checked with her first. At the very least, she should have been informed beforehand, not left to find out in the local gossip rag along with everyone else.

  She jumped to her feet and, without stopping to check her appearance or quiet her angry breathing, shot down the road to the rec house.

  The recreation house, a small one-story cottage built alongside the curve of the road, was Coach’s domain, as loath as Rose was to admit it. Once he arrived and more or less placed himself in charge of recreation for the village, it became a storage area for paddleboats, tennis rackets and cans of balls, volleyballs, and croquet sets. A coterie of fishing poles leaned against one wall, along with all manner of tackle boxes and spools of fishing line. A few two-seater bikes were suspended from the ceiling, and the tent poles and wooden planks for the summer parties were stacked up in one corner.

  Rose had once e
ntered the rec house in search of a folding card table for a particularly large gathering of Bubbas in the clubhouse. When she finally located the table and gave it a firm tug, a whole shelving unit of pool noodles and rubber kickboards cascaded to the floor at her feet. It took her over an hour to get the things all stacked back up again, and by the time she made it to the clubhouse with the table, the Bubbas were exiting the building.

  These days Rose avoided entering the rec house unless absolutely necessary, and today was one of those unavoidable occasions. She slowed when she reached the driveway, taking deep, steady breaths to ease her thumping heart.

  Get a grip, Rose, she thought, as if her heart betrayed her by beating wildly in the presence of a man as frivolous as Coach Beaumont.

  The door to the house sat open, the interior darkened with shade. As she approached, she heard various rustles and thumps coming from inside, along with Coach’s humming. If forced to describe it, she’d say it was deep and . . . well, rather pleasant. She sniffed and willed her feet to keep moving until she stood in the doorway.

  Peering inside, she squinted until her eyes adjusted to the shady depths. “Coach?” she called, her voice cool and measured. The humming stopped and he stood quickly from where he’d been stooped behind a table.

  “Rose,” he said with a smile. “What a nice surprise. Are you looking for anything specific?”

  “Yes, I suppose I am. I’m looking for an explanation for what I read this morning in The Vine.” She forced herself to hold his gaze, although those lively blue eyes made her want to look away.

  “Well, that depends. Which part?”

  “The part about you inviting Jimmy Buffett to our So Long, Summer party.”

  He grinned. “It’s fantastic, isn’t it? Just think—everyone in leis and flowered shirts, daiquiris, inflatable parrots . . . I have so many ideas.”

  Rose buttoned her lips together and breathed through her nose. “Daiquiris? Parrots?” She swallowed. “Leis?”

  Coach gave a small laugh and shook his head. “You’re not happy. How can the thought of Jimmy Buffett coming here make you anything but happy?”

  “You think he’s actually going to come? Why would a celebrity of his caliber come anywhere near here?” Her words came out sharper than she intended.

  “Well, I don’t know, Rose. Maybe because his sister has a restaurant down the road. Maybe he needs a getaway. Maybe he’d want to do a bunch of old folks a favor. And anyway, I’m just asking. It never hurts to ask for what you want.” His eyes were piercing.

  She shook her head. “It does if it’s something like this. You’re crazy for setting your mind—not to mention everyone else’s—on a ridiculous goal.”

  He looked at her with such sadness she wanted to reel her words back in and pour her whole heart out in their place. When he spoke again, his voice was calm. “The truth is, I know it won’t happen. Jimmy Buffett is not coming to Safe Harbor. You’re right—it’s a crazy idea. But you know what? People around here have been through a lot. Tiny’s sister—her very best friend—died two years ago. Roberta’s son almost died in a car accident four years ago, and that’s on top of having lost her husband. Peter’s so scared to lose Ida, he cries at the drop of a hat. And all those wild colors in Cricket Thompson’s hair? Did you realize that’s to distract her from the breast cancer she had five years ago that her doctors told her is likely to come back? She’s doing all she can now before she loses her hair again.”

  Rose froze in place, her breath shallow. If a hurricane had blown up onshore right then, she could quite possibly have ignored it, so shocked was she at the words coming out of Coach’s mouth. It wasn’t that she didn’t know these things about the residents. Of course she did—in a small village, word spread like wildfire. But she’d been so absorbed in her own decades-long griefs and battles, she’d heard about the others’ bits of news, swallowed them along with all her own hurts, and moved on. She was ashamed to say she hadn’t given her neighbors’ tragedies much thought, which was fairly easy to do, considering she didn’t spend much time with them.

  Coach stood watching her, perhaps perceptive to the volcanoes of realization that erupted inside her. Her cheeks burned under his scrutiny.

  “And you, Rose. You have your sore places too, not that you’d share them with me.”

  “What . . . what about you?” It was painful to speak over the lump in her throat. “I can’t see you having sore places. You’re too cheerful for that.”

  “Rose, I have sore spots you can’t imagine.” He began a slow trek toward her, winding around tabletops and bins of rubber flippers and life jackets. She took a step backward. “But you’re right—I try to spread cheer as I can. Help lift spirits.” He was standing right in front of her now. “If you’d let go of whatever anger you have buried down deep in there . . .” He reached out a hand and tapped her chest with two fingers—nothing scandalous, but just enough pressure to send sparks through her body, stem to stern. “You just might think differently of me. You may even smile once in a while.”

  She opened her mouth to speak, but when nothing came, she turned around and walked to the door. Even as she moved, she wished she were staying, wished he would say something to bring her back, but he was quiet.

  Then he called her name. She turned slowly, almost afraid of what he’d say.

  “Have dinner with me.”

  “What?”

  “It’s like I told you—it never hurts to ask for what you want. So I’m asking you—will you have dinner with me?”

  “I . . . I . . .” She took a couple slow steps backward, then turned and put one foot in front of the other, over and over, until she reached her cottage.

  * * *

  That night after a long, screaming hot bath, Rose reached over the bathroom counter to wipe a clear spot on the steamy mirror. She set her shoulders in place and lifted her chin, turning her head from one side to the other. Then she took a deep breath and began to slowly unwind her hair from its accustomed spot at the back of her head.

  Sometime in the years after Terry left, Rose grew tired of the time and energy required to corral her frizz-prone waves into any semblance of submission. One day, in a fit of frustration, she yanked it back into a docile bun and, content with the result, proceeded to leave it like that for the next thirty years, give or take a year or two. She took it down to wash, of course, but it always went right back up, pinned and smoothed into place.

  Her bun had become her armor. When her hair was down, she felt exposed, which was the opposite of how it should have felt. Hair was there to cover, to protect, to add another layer between a woman and the world. Yet for Rose, the softness of her hair falling over her shoulders felt almost too sensual, as if her femininity, all her appeal, had disappeared when Terry left, and it was easier to pull reminders of her womanhood back, away from her face, so she couldn’t see them, thereby erasing memories along with the need for an array of hair products.

  Tonight, as her hair tumbled over the skin at the back of her neck and the tops of her arms, she inhaled deeply and let it rest there. Her eyes scanned her reflection—her hair now much more gray than the auburn it used to be, her eyes both weary and wary, her cheeks gently sagging instead of taut and smooth.

  It was the look of solitude—of total isolation—that did it. Without warning, a sob broke in her chest and she leaned forward, bracing herself with her hands against the counter. She was sixty-eight years old and utterly alone. And though Terry took the blame for a small part of it, so much of it was on her own shoulders. She’d made the decisions, she’d walked her own path, she’d closed the door.

  Rose straightened and glared at herself in the mirror, unflinching. Her grip against the cool tile surface tightened. Both freedom and fear bubbled up from deep inside her, like something that had remained below the surface for far too long. Maybe it was time to open that door.

  * * *

  The next morning Rose hopped on her bicycle at six and pedaled down the qu
iet streets of the village, the air warm and light on her face. Oak and crepe myrtle limbs curved in gentle arcs over the road, and a line of pelicans soared silently above in single file. Sherbet pastels streaked the sky overhead, all set against a backdrop of the palest blue.

  Cottages on either side of the road breezed past her as bursts of color awoke in the sky. Back when the village first opened, Joan Temple made the mistake of telling residents they could paint their cottages any color they wanted. Things went haywire quickly in the form of Atomic Blue, Tangerine Tango, and Pink Peony, but Rose reeled them back in after Joan and Terry left together, hands clasped over Terry’s silver gearshift.

  Under Rose’s jurisdiction, the rule stated that residents could paint the inside of their homes as wild as they wanted—and a few took that to the extreme—but outside color choices had to be approved by the HOA. As such, all the cottages now were painted either white or a pale pastel, though Rose did allow shutters and doors to be painted in bolder colors—from a preapproved list, of course—hence the navy shutters on Kitty’s cottage and Janelle’s carnation-pink front door.

  Rose slowed as she approached one particular cottage. Lemon yellow with a sky-blue porch and shutters and an orange surfboard propped up next to the front door. Always a rule breaker, Rose thought, though in the day’s new light, it all looked different. Instead of feeling irked by Coach’s blatant disregard for the approved paint colors, she saw his home as cheerful and welcoming. Happy. And the cottages adjacent to his seemed, well, lackluster in comparison. In her mind she saw her own cottage—creamy white with the palest hint of green on the shutters. Curtains closed against curious eyes. And those aggravating roses lining her front beds.

  After another moment she sat back on her padded seat and headed to the gate at the entrance to the village. At the road she turned left and guided her bike to the path that ran alongside the street. One could veer off that path into the nature preserve along the north side of the island, but Rose kept to the path as it wound through the trees and around the island.