A Summer to Remember

by Victoria Cooke

  ‘I want this to work,’ I say, and I mean it.

  I kiss his chest, and for the first time in a long time, I’m happy. I’m not scared of being with Ethan anymore. ‘I know.’

  He kisses my forehead, and I can’t think of anywhere I’d rather be.

  Epilogue

  Summer

  ‘Mum, Dad!’ I scream as they emerge, bewildered, from the arrival’s hall at Boston Logan.

  ‘Hello, love,’ my dad says, giving me a squeeze.

  ‘Look at you, all tanned and beachy looking.’ My mum gives me a kiss on the cheek. ‘Who is this then?

  ‘I’m Ethan.’ He holds out his hand to shake but my mum pulls him into a cuddle.

  ‘Good grief, feel the muscles on this one, Bill. You could learn a thing or two.’ She winks.

  There’s a cough. ‘Ahem,’ Lexi says patiently holding out her hand. My mum and dad turn to her and when she has their attention, she introduces herself.

  ‘Oh, look how adorable she is, Bill,’ my mum says.

  ‘You’re a little love alright, aren’t you?’ My dad smiles at her and shakes her hand.

  ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you,’ Lexi says. I’m still in awe of her confidence.

  ‘Shall we get to our house then?’

  Ethan takes my parents’ cases as we shuffle through the airport to where we’ve parked our car. We’ve rented a Suburban for the week while my parents are here and have both taken time off work to show them the sights.

  ‘Please excuse the mess,’ I say once we’re on our way to our house in Quincy, which is on the outskirts of Boston. ‘We’ve been working flat-out since we moved in and haven’t unpacked yet.’

  ‘That’s fine, love. We’d have been happy in a hotel.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Ethan says. ‘You are family.’

  I get a warm twinge inside at the word ‘family’. It’s taken me a long time to get one, but now I have it. Ethan, Lexi, my parents and not to mention Ethan’s parents who’ve been great. When Ethan decided to go back into marine biology, it made sense for him to move to Boston and although it was quite soon, it made more sense to live together for childcare and financial reasons. Lexi loves our new home and settled in well at her new Elementary school. Ethan’s mum comes and stays a few nights a week and we spend most weekends in Provincetown, which means Lexi gets to see her old friends too. Now it’s warm again, Barney likes to gather people each weekend for a cookout and Ethan’s mum cooks on a Sunday. Having my parents here completes the picture and the swelling in my chest feels like my broken pieces have been stuck back together.

  ‘Here we are,’ I say, as Ethan swings round onto the driveway.

  ‘Wow,’ my mum says, taking in the view of Boston Harbor from the front of our house.

  ‘You should come up to the veranda,’ I say, taking her by the hand and pulling her inside. We go upstairs to the first floor where the lounge and kitchen are and I pull back the folding doors to expose the large decked balcony.

  ‘This is wonderful,’ my dad says coming in behind us. The vast harbour is golden under the warm sun. We live on a narrow road and just across from the house is a stairway down into the water. When the tide is out, Lexi and I go and collect pebbles but right now, it’s in and perfect for swimming.

  ‘Take a seat and I’ll make some drinks,’

  As I place ice cubes in tumblers, Ethan snakes his arms around my waist and kisses my neck. ‘Your parents seem very sweet.’

  My chest pangs. ‘They really are.’ I spin round to face him. ‘I have you to thank for having them back in my life, you know.’

  He kisses me on the forehead. ‘You reached out and admitted you were wrong. That’s all you, baby.’

  ‘Baby?’ I smirk. ‘That’s a new one.’

  ‘I’m just feeling the love today. What can I tell you? I’m happy!’

  The doorbell rings. ‘I’ll get it!’ Lexi screams.

  ‘Hello, I’m Barney.’ He makes a beeline for my mother. ‘Now you, young lady, must be Sam’s sister.’ He kisses her hand and her cheeks redden as she smiles coyly. I shake my head and fill the tumblers with some fresh mango and orange juice that I blended earlier.

  ‘Hey, honey.’ Harry gives me an awkward kiss as I balance the tray of drinks in the kitchen. ‘Look at him.’ He points out of the window to Barney who is talking animatedly to my dad. ‘He’s in his element with new people. Before I go and say hi, do you need a hand?’

  ‘I’m fine thanks, Harry, go and sit down.’

  As Harry goes outside, I take a moment to watch them out of the window. Harry is already talking to my mum, Ethan and Lexi whilst Barney is still chatting away to my dad. Zac and Cindy arrive with their new baby, Lilly, and suddenly everyone is desperate for a cuddle, I smile as my mum gets in there first – like anyone else stood a chance. If Bridget could be here, I’d have all my loved ones together in one place. It’s hard to describe how complete I feel. When I used to think about Kev, the happiest of memories were always tinged with gut-wrenching sadness, but now, I find myself thinking of him with pure fondness. It’s weird how I thought my memories were enough to keep me happy. It’s taken finding real happiness to see that. It’s okay to love Ethan and still remember my love for Kev. I know that now. Ethan, Lexi and I marked the anniversary of Nicole’s death a few months ago by sending a white rose out to sea and we’re going to think of a way to mark the anniversary of Kev’s death when it comes around next month.

  The smell of the barbecue brings me round and I carry the tray of drinks outside.

  ‘Here she is,’ Barney says, standing up to give me a hug. I raise my eyebrows in confusion. ‘I was just telling your dad all about the Ethan rollercoaster you went on last year.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say dryly before giving my dad a sympathetic look.

  ‘Anyway, I was also telling your dad that we could go whale-watching and maybe have brunch at our house and do some cycling and take a trip to Nantucket and—’

  ‘Barney! Calm down,’ says Harry. ‘They’re not here to see you, they’ve come to spend time with their daughter.’

  ‘Uncle Barney, the tide is in. Will you take me swimming?’ Lexi asks before he gets a chance to look downhearted.

  As the two of them go off to swim, Harry goes to help Ethan with the barbecue and I finally get to sit down with my parents.

  ‘You’ve got a lovely life here,’ my dad says, patting my knee and I know it’s his way of acknowledging that I can make good decisions for myself.

  ‘I know. Things have finally turned around.’

  ‘We’re so glad to have you back in our lives,’ my mum adds. ‘I just wish it hadn’t taken you so much time to discover happiness again.’

  ‘I know, but if I’d have rushed it, I wouldn’t have Ethan and Lexi.’

  ‘That’s true. Us parents just want to see their children happy.’ I wonder if that’s my mum’s way of apologising for being too involved all those years ago. I give her a warm, meaningful smile.

  ‘Right,’ my dad says. ‘I’m going for a dip too. Are you coming, Jeanie?’

  I glance at my mum; there’s no way she’ll get in.

  She glances out to where Barney and Lexi are splashing about with squeals of delight. ‘Oh, go on then,’ she says. I giggle as they both go off to change.

  Harry and Ethan are stood drinking beer by the grill. The sun is lower now and deepening in colour. Swaths of yellow, orange and pink are cast across the bay. There isn’t much swimming time left. I take a sip of my juice and enjoy the all-encompassing feeling of contentment. When I look down at the water, my dad jumps in with a splash and my mum is ankle deep, stood rigid on the step. I think she’s about to change her mind when Barney takes her hand and yanks her in with a splash. She’s laughing when she comes up for air. I smile. I have everything I need.

  I have my second chance at happiness and I feel like the luckiest woman in the world.

  If you were enchanted by Sam and Ethan’s story, then don’t miss It St
arted with a Note, another heartwarming story of love and second chances, from Victoria Cooke:

  Click here if you’re in the US

  Click here if you’re in the UK

  Acknowledgements

  As always, it takes many fabulous people to pull a book together and this one was no exception. Firstly, Cara Chimirri, thank you for your honest, constructive feedback, knowledge and incredibly helpful editorial notes. Secondly, Kia Thomas, thank you for your invaluable critique notes. Thirdly, thank you Dushi Horti for correcting all of my mistakes, typos and randomly strewn commas.

  The book wouldn’t exist at all if it wasn’t for my publisher, HQDigital, so thank you for believing in me for a sixth time and for designing such a wonderful cover.

  I’d also like to thank my army of supportive writer friends for their virtual hugs, humour and for always providing great procrastination fodder. Rachel Burton, Sarah Bennett, Maxine Morrey, Rachel Dove, Lucy Knott, Darcie Boleyn, Audrey Davis, Mary Baker and Rachael Stewart. There are so many more who know who they are. Finally, I want to give a huge shout out to the bloggers who have been so supportive in trying to help get my little books into the hands of readers. You rock!

  Turn the page for an extract from It Started with a Note by Victoria Cooke …

  Click here if you’re in the US

  Click here if you’re in the UK

  Chapter 1

  I clutch the envelope tightly to my chest – so tightly, in fact, my nails tear into the crumpled paper, which has been softened by my sweaty palm and the relentless downpour. I release my grip slightly. It’s too precious to damage, but I’m so scared of losing it. I feel like one of those mad scientists in a James Bond film who has developed a mini nuclear warhead and has to transport it somewhere with the utmost care to avoid detonating it at the wrong time. I’m not sure comparing myself to a villain is wholly accurate, though. Perhaps I should have laid it on a velvet pillow or something, like a prince carrying a glass slipper. Yes, that’s better – a prince, not a villain. A princess? I shouldn’t be in charge of something like this.

  As I scurry down the high street, the eyes of passers-by rouse suspicion. Do they know what I have? Are they after me? I walk faster, heart pounding. It’s difficult because my bloody shoes are killing me. Pleather. Man-made leather. Plastic-leather pleather sandals – a bargain at £12.99, but seriously, I’ve already spent double that on plasters for all the blisters they’ve given me.

  The quicker I walk, the harder my bag-for-life bashes into my legs. Dented tins of peas, beans, stew and whatever else I’d salvaged from the ‘whoops’ shelf after work all unleash their fury on my shins. It isn’t uncommon for certain staff members to accidentally-on-purpose cause a few whoopsies themselves. Not me, of course; it’s a sackable offence and I can’t risk losing my job since I’m the sole breadwinner in our house and my baby boy has just gone off to university so I need every penny.

  Thirty-seven years old and I’ve already packed my Kieran off to university while most of my friends are waving their kids off to high school. It makes me feel so old. When I looked that handsome six-foot-two beanpole in the eye and kissed him goodbye, I blubbed like a baby. He was still my little boy, even if I had to stand on my tiptoes to get close enough to grab his cheek. Of course, he’d just grunted and wiped the residue of tears, snot and my kisses off on his sleeve almost instantly. Boys. He’s turning into his uncle Gary.

  I’m still scurrying, every step causing me to wince in pain. Bag-for-life. Bash. Sandals. Chafe. And so continues the pattern as I dash through the town centre towards the bus station. Rain is forecast, thunderous downpours no less – an amber weather warning had been issued by that gorgeous weatherman, David Whatshisface, on the TV. He could make any weather seem bright and cheery. I’d weather his storm. I chuckle to myself, not even sure if that would even make sense to anyone other than me.

  A deafening roar rips through the sky. Uh-oh. I try walking even quicker. Bash, chafe, bash, chafe. I don’t have a brolly, though I know they’re unwise in a thunderstorm anyway – David said so. I can see the bus station in the distance all lit up in the dusky evening like a heavenly portal to refuge. Just one busy road, several passers-by eyeing me (I’m still suspicious), and a plume of smoke from the smokers outside the pub to negotiate and I’ll be home and dry, literally.

  Just as I allow myself to dream of being home, the heavens open. Of course they do. They couldn’t have waited just five more minutes – where would be the fun in that? The rain is so heavy it soaks through to my skin almost instantly. My denim jacket is leaden with liquid and the nylon of my uniform is soaked. I’m cold and sticky and my feet are squishing about in my sandals, squelching with every step. The envelope is getting quite soggy now so I stuff it into my handbag and tuck my bag tightly under my armpit for safety.

  I slow my pace, unable to keep it up because my mascara and foundation have run straight into my eyes, partially blinding me. I wipe them with the back of my hand and notice it’s streaky black when I pull it away. I must look a sight. I’ve reached the road and the cars are coming thick and fast. Headlights, taillights, headlights, taillights. Gap. I make a dash for it, landing in a huge puddle by the kerb as I do. Brown water droplets dribble down my American Tan tights. Why didn’t I wear trousers? David promised rain!

  I make it across the road and begin negotiating the shrunken smoke plume, which is now concentrated to the little canopy above the door. My task is made all the more difficult by the next torrent of foundation and mascara liquid streaming down my face. The smoke makes me cough and splutter and I’m flapping my arms about as best I can with a one-ton carrier bag on my arm and a stiff denim jacket shrink-wrapping my body.

  As I near the edge of the smoking circle, I bat the air one last time – one time too many for my so-called bag-for-life, which bursts open, spewing bargain tins aplenty all over the pavement. As I scan the devastation, I notice that the pesky little pokey thing you never quite know how to work has fallen off the corned beef tin. Typical.

  I never swear.

  Ever.

  But if I did, Hells Angels would blush at the words I’d choose right now.

  ‘Cath, you idiot!’ I mumble instead.

  A tatty-haired man bends down and starts to pick up the tins and I follow. Warmth in my chest grows from the seed of his kindness. He has a lit cigarette in his mouth and the smoke from it is so close and raw that it’s burning my nostrils, but he’s kind enough to help so I do my best to ignore it.

  ‘Thanks, love,’ I say, my voice thick with implied gratitude. He just nods and hands me four of the five tins he’s picked up. I look at him, confused, as he stuffs the corned beef in his pocket and shrugs. The rain is beating down still, pummelling into my bag, and I’m shaking with the cold. Or shock. Before I can organise my thoughts and string together a sentence of scorn, he’s stubbed out his cigarette and vanished back into the pub taking my tea with him. As my eyes sink to the ground, I spot the glinting little silver twisty thing off the corned beef tin, and it’s mildly satisfying to know he’ll never get to enjoy my tin of deliciously processed meat.

  Striking corned beef hash off the menu tonight would be one more thing for Gary to moan about. Still, I have the envelope and no amount of whinging from my freeloading brother would change that. Hearing those words in my head makes me feel a little guilty. I’m supposed to be helping him, supporting him, but instead, I’m slowly losing my patience with him. I make it to the bus station and can see my bus has pulled in at stop number sixteen, which is right at the other end of the station, of course. I start running. I’m holding my shopping in two arms, cradling it like a precious baby so I don’t lose any more tins. Gary will have to have the stew.

  Just as I approach stop fifteen, there is a miracle. My bus is still in! Thank God! I slow to a walking pace, panting – the smoke, the bus fumes and the fact I haven’t done any exercise since my last year eleven PE lesson all contributory factors.

  Juggling m
y groceries, I stuff a hand into my bag, fumbling for my purse, which I locate quickly, and glance down at it to find some bus fare. The rumbling sound of the bus engine coming to life alerts me to the fact it’s about to leave. I have no choice but to barge past the people queuing at stop fifteen and pop my head and arm outside; I wouldn’t make stop sixteen. I’m waving frantically, balancing my precious tin baby in the other arm. ‘Please stop.’ The headlights get closer, but they’re gaining speed. Please stop. ‘Stop!’ I yell.

  He doesn’t stop.

  The next bus comes an hour later.

  Chapter 2

  When I finally arrive at the end of my road, I’m trembling, battered, and bruised, and all I’ve done is commute home from work.

  The off-licence near the bus stop is open, and I have an idea to salvage the evening. My spirits are still high; I still have the envelope and I’m almost home. I plonk a bottle of cava on the counter and rummage in my purse for six pounds.

  ‘Celebrating tonight?’ Jim, the owner, asks.

  ‘Ooh, yes I am.’ I can’t help but grin. ‘But I can’t tell you why – I don’t want to jinx it.’ I smile and give a little shrug.

  ‘Well, whatever it is, you enjoy it, love.’ Jim smiles back. ‘How’s that brother of yours doing?’

  I want to offload and explain how exasperated I’ve become with him, how he never helps around the house and has yet to find a job, but I find myself unable to. I don’t know if it’s embarrassment or loyalty, or a complete unwillingness to bore the lovely Jim to death with my woes.

  ‘He’s good,’ I say instead.

  ‘Glad things are working out.’ He smiles. ‘I told him he could have a few shifts here to tide him over, but he said he thought things were looking up.’