Ursula, he knows, isn’t going to lose.
But now, suddenly, that has no bearing on his life—win, lose, elected, reelected; it doesn’t matter. The melanoma came back, metastasized to her brain. Link has called hospice. Mallory is dying.
Jake tries to remember how she looked when he saw her the summer before.
Beautiful. She looked beautiful. She looked like Mallory.
Her eyes had been blue.
Jake enters the suite’s sitting room, St. Louis command central, where Ursula is meeting with her young staffers—one of whom is Avery Silver, Hank Silver’s oldest daughter, the squash champion—and the UDG campaign manager, Kasie Smith. Ursula met Kasie at a charity event sponsored by Western Michigan Woman magazine and hired her on the spot.
We do well together, Ursula said. She gets me. Jake remembers that these were the exact phrases Ursula used to describe her relationship with Anders; it’s her highest praise. Jake likes Kasie very much. She’s smart and focused like Ursula, direct and poised like Ursula—and warm and empathetic, qualities that she’s trying to teach Ursula. Kasie is now the most important person in Ursula’s life, in all of their lives.
Around Kasie and the staff, Jake works hard to come across as the consummate supportive spouse, but now, his voice is sharp. “Ursula, I need to talk to you.”
Ursula is reading something. She doesn’t look up.
“Ursula,” Jake says.
“Ursula,” Kasie prompts, and Ursula puts a finger down to mark her place. Kasie’s voice is the only one that can penetrate Ursula’s concentration these days.
“What is it?” Ursula asks.
Jake nods toward the bedroom.
The bubble over her head says, This had better be important. She follows Jake into the other room. He closes the door.
“I got a phone call just now,” he says. “From Mallory Blessing’s son. Mallory has cancer, it’s metastasized to her brain, and they’ve called hospice.”
“Oh no,” Ursula says. “Jake, I’m so—”
“I’m going to Nantucket tomorrow.”
“You can’t leave tomorrow.”
“St. Louis isn’t going anywhere.”
“We have three events plus the health-care symposium that you’re moderating. It’s a can’t-miss thing.”
“Nothing is a can’t-miss thing,” he says. “Get some perspective, Ursula.”
“Jake.”
“Fine,” he says. “I’ll go Saturday.”
Later that afternoon, Jake goes into his hotel room and puts the DO NOT DISTURB sign up. He sits at the desk and tries to work on talking points for the symposium, but he has a difficult time concentrating. There’s a tentative knock at the door. Jake is sure it’s Avery Silver. He’s assigned her a top-secret task.
But the person Jake finds is his daughter, Bess. She’s wearing a dress, heels, pearls, looking so much like a younger version of Ursula, it’s spooky. Bess is working on the campaign this summer, reaching out to Generation Z voters. “Hi, honey,” Jake says.
“Please take me with you to Nantucket,” Bess says.
Jake flinches. “What? Did your mom—”
“She told me you’re going to say goodbye to a sick friend.”
Jake closes his eyes. Ursula can’t keep her fingerprints off anything he does. She just has to be in control.
“Yes,” Jake says. “It’s delicate stuff and not anything you want to be a part of, trust me.”
“Please, Dad,” Bess says. “I have to get out of here, even if it’s only for a couple days.”
“I understand. But, honey, this isn’t a vacation…”
“I’ll let you do your thing, I promise,” Bess says. “I just need a break from the meetings and the strategizing and the canvassing. It’s a brain-squeeze. I want to get outside. If I could see the ocean, even for a couple of minutes—” She breaks off and gives him an assessing look. “Besides, Mom says you’re going to be sad. And I don’t want you to be alone.”
After his phone conversation with Jake McCloud—Jake McCloud!—Link has questions. He sits at his mother’s bedside Googling Jake McCloud. In every single photograph, Jake is with Ursula de Gournsey. And then Link reads about him on Wikipedia.
…graduated from Johns Hopkins University…
Aha! Link thinks. Maybe he knows Uncle Coop? But that still doesn’t quite explain it. Why would his be the number in an envelope in the sticky drawer?
“Mom?” Link says when Mallory’s eyelids flutter. He doesn’t like forcing her awake but he needs answers while she’s still somewhat cogent. “Listen, I called that number and Jake McCloud answered.”
Mallory’s eyes open.
“He said for you to hold on,” Link says. “He told me he’s coming.”
A single tear drips from the corner of Mallory’s eye. Link wipes it with his thumb.
“Mom?” Link says, but her eyes have closed.
Apple stops by the next day. She reads to Mallory from The English Patient for a while; it’s not a cheerful book by any means, but it’s Mallory’s favorite. Then Apple starts talking about their old Summer House–waitressing days—Hokey Pokeys, Ollie’s dollies—and Link hears his mother laughing. She seems better. Is she getting better?
Uncle Cooper flies in from DC and he and Link both talk with Sabina, RN case manager. Sabina tells them that watching a loved one “transition” can be painful and draining.
“Make sure you take care of yourselves,” Sabina says. “Fill your cup. Do things that comfort you and sustain you so that you can be whole and present for Mallory.” She pauses. “She probably has several more days.”
Several more days means five or six, maybe even a week. Which means this time next week…what? Mallory will be dead? How is Link supposed to process that?
After talking to Sabina, Cooper and Link take a walk down the beach. It’s warm and sunny, one of the first beautiful days of the summer. Link can see people gathering down at Fat Ladies with their brightly colored umbrellas and their coolers, so they walk in the other direction.
Coop says, “You will never be alone. For the rest of your life, I’ve got you, man. And your dad will be there too, of course. But even together, we aren’t going to be able to replace your mom.” Coop clears his throat. “Have you contacted Leland?”
“I wasn’t sure I should. Mom hasn’t spoken to Leland since I was in ninth grade.”
“I’ll get ahold of her,” Coop says.
“Mom asked me to call the number in this envelope that was tucked away in her desk drawer and I did, and you’re never going to guess who answered.”
Coop kicks at the sand. “Oh, I bet I can guess,” he says.
The door opens and Link, her beautiful, sweet, strong boy, says, “Mama, are you up for visitors?”
He doesn’t wait for an answer. He just lets them in, one by one.
Cooper.
Fray.
Leland.
Jake.
Everything is okay, she thinks. They’re around the harvest table, their faces glowing from the flame of one votive candle. Cat Stevens is on the stereo: I’m looking for a hard headed woman.
Everything is still okay.
Cooper is overcome; she can see that. She feels guilty about leaving him like this; first their parents, now her. She hopes he finds someone new, someone who will stay. He kisses her forehead.
She says, “In my next life, I’m going to be cool like you.”
“I hate to tell you this, sis,” he says, his voice breaking, “but you’re already cool.”
“Now you’re lying.”
“I love you, Mal,” he says, and then he disappears out the bedroom door.
Fray is next. He roams the room, hands stuffed into the pockets of his very expensive jeans. He’s jittery; too much caffeine, probably. All that coffee.
“Mal,” he says. “Come on, Mal.” His voice is pleading, as though she has the power to change what’s happening here.
“Thank you,” she says.
It’s funny, right? Peculiar funny and funny-funny that they got drunk at Cooper’s second wedding and Fray eased up her ballet-slipper-silk sheath and in that impulsive moment, a lark for both of them, she ended up with the greatest treasure of her life. Their son.
He kisses her cheek and then he too goes out the door.
Leland takes Mallory’s hand. Mallory is furious with Leland; she wants to scream. She still has one last fight in her. What she says is “Hi, Lee.”
She doesn’t say: You are my best friend, the best friend of my life.
She doesn’t say: I need you to keep an eye on Link. Please, Lee, fill my shoes. You, Apple, Anna. He’s going to need all three of you.
She doesn’t say: Go win Fifi back. You can do it. You deserve to be happy.
“Are you angry?” Leland asks.
There are so many reasons to be angry: the duck confit and lamb shank, brunch at the Elephant and Castle, the rooftop thing at Harrison’s, “suggestible…a follower,” Leland’s Letter.
“Disappointed,” Mallory says, and after a beat, Mallory and Leland grin like the crazy girls they were on Deepdene Road.
Leland bends down and squeezes Mallory so tight that it hurts and then she, too, leaves the room.
How had Jake described it so long ago? The dog that chased the cat that chased the rat.
Everything is still okay.
Jake is there. He’s there! Mallory can smell the browned butter sizzling in the pan before he makes the omelets. She can see him standing on Tuckernuck, their provisions at his feet, wondering if Mallory is ever going to pick him up or if he’s supposed to know where to walk, how to find her. She can hear him reading his fortune aloud: Practice makes perfect.
Between the sheets, she says.
“Are you going to leave too?” Mallory asks.
“No,” Jake says, and he pulls the chair right up next to her. “If it’s okay with you, I think I’ll stay.”
Let’s go back a few days to St. Louis and the top-secret task Jake assigned to Avery Silver.
An acoustic guitar? Avery thought. Where am I going to find an acoustic guitar? But St. Louis was a Mississippi River town and therefore a music town. Avery used her personal assistant, Google, and in less than five minutes she had rented a Yamaha Dreadnought-whatever-whatever-whatever for a hundred and five bucks for the week and guess what—the place delivered.
Now Jake pulls the guitar out of its case and slides the strap over his head and shoulder. Mallory makes a noise. He looks over. She’s laughing.
“No,” she says. “Are you…”
“Yes,” he says, sounding way more confident than he feels. He had to double-check the chord progression, but once he saw it, everything came flooding back. Jake closes his eyes, and suddenly, he’s a college senior again, sitting on the end of Cooper Blessing’s bed with the phone next to him and Mallory on the other end of the line, waiting to hear if he’s any good.
He’s far more nervous now than he was then.
He strums the D-minor chord, then G, then C. It sounds okay.
He whispers, “This is for you, Mal. My hardheaded woman.”
And he begins to sing.
While all the adults are with his mother, Link steps out back to get some air. He takes in the vista: the pond, the rugosa rose, the flash of amethyst irises through the reeds, the swans paddling side by side like a long-married couple. Nantucket Island in June.
Mallory wants her ashes scattered on the pond. The ocean, she fears, will carry her away, and she wants to stay right here.
Suddenly, Link startles; he’s just seen, sitting in the passenger side of one of the rental Jeeps in the driveway, a girl with dark hair and deep brown eyes. She has the car window down and is unabashedly staring at him. Link stands up a little straighter. He strides over. “Sorry, I just saw you there. I’m Lincoln Dooley.”
“Bess McCloud,” she says. “I’m Jake’s daughter. It’s nice to meet you.”
“Okay,” Link says. “Wow.”
Bess eyes his T-shirt. “Do you go to South Carolina?”
“I just finished my sophomore year,” he says.
“I just finished mine too,” she says. “I go to Johns Hopkins. What’s your major?”
He’s afraid to tell her it’s political science. That would be weird, right? When her mother is running for president?
He shrugs. “Political science.”
“Hey!” she says. “Mine too!” She gazes past him, at the ocean. “I’ve been stuck with my parents in hotels and conference centers for weeks. Do you think it would be okay if I walked down to the beach? Is there a path?”
Link opens the Jeep door and offers Bess McCloud his hand. What did Sabina tell him? Fill your cup.
“There is,” he says. “Come on, I’ll show you.”
Discover Your Next Great Read
Get sneak peeks, book recommendations, and news about your favorite authors.
Tap here to learn more.
Acknowledgments
Let me start with a story. As many of you know, I write two novels a year and I’m the mother of three. I also do over forty speaking engagements and book signings per year. Back in October 2019, I was on tour promoting What Happens in Paradise. It was a “short tour”—nine events in eight days. I had two events to do in Houston on the same day, the first of which was an eight a.m. talk to a book group in a private home. I arrived in Houston from St. Louis at one in the morning, and I’m not going to lie: I considered canceling, not only because I wanted to sleep but because, while I was on that tour, I was also finishing this book. I texted the organizer of the book group and she told me that there were two women who were driving to Houston from Rockport, Texas—nearly four hours away—just to see me. Now, listen, I’m neither a saint nor a hero, but on hearing this, I decided I couldn’t cancel.
The women’s names were Sabina Diebel and Gloria Rodriguez. Sabina Diebel was an RN hospice case manager. When I spoke to her, she told me that she’d had to take time off work to come to the book group but that her supervisor had been excited for her to “fill her cup.” Hospice care is so emotionally draining that it’s important for caregivers to do the things in their free time that bring them joy. All of this went immediately into the book, as you know. Thank you, Sabina, and thank you, Gloria, for making the drive. The book is better because of you.
To all of my readers who have made sacrifices to meet me in person—driving long distances (one man in St. Louis drove his mother five hours to see me!) and getting babysitters and missing other commitments—thank you. I’m humbled and honored. Meeting you is what fills my cup.
I’ll do things a little backward for this book and thank my children next. So much of this novel is about parenting, and I used my sons, Maxx and Dawson Cunningham, as models for Link, and my daughter, Shelby Cunningham, as the inspiration for Bess. Years ago, Maxx actually did hit three consecutive home runs in Cooperstown after a mediocre Little League career at the plate. I remember saying at the time, “This is such a great story. I should put it in a book, but no one would ever believe it.” Maxx, Dawson, and Shelby are now old—two of them adults—and they are my best friends (or two of the three of them are on any given day!). You guys: I love you. Thank you for being patient with the demands of my career—I’m trying to make you as proud of me as I am of the three of you.
This novel owes an enormous debt to the playwright Bernard Slade, who died on the day I completed the first draft. His play Same Time, Next Year, beloved by so many, is this book’s emotional touchstone.
Thank you to West Riggs who, as ever, served as my sailing consultant, and also to Donna Kelly from the Newport Ladies Book Group for the racer-cruiser!
A shout-out to the truly inspirational cookbook author Sarah Leah Chase, whose dishes appear throughout this novel. She has been my culinary guiding light since I took a cooking class with her in 1995. Her Nantucket Open-House Cookbook is everything I love about my island on a hand-painted platter.
Th
is is the last novel I’ll be doing with my brilliant editor Reagan Arthur. (She recently became the publisher at Alfred A. Knopf.) Although I will miss Reagan beyond anyone’s comprehension, I know I will be fine, because over the course of the twenty books I did with her, Reagan taught me to believe in myself. She always said, “You make it look easy.” Ha! No, it was never easy, but it was easier—and fulfilling and meaningful—because I had Reagan Arthur’s sensibility and clear-eyed intelligence to guide me.
To my agents, Michael Carlisle and David Forrer of InkWell Management: Thank you for taking such good care of me. You are the finest in the business and I love you forever.
To all of my beloveds at Little, Brown: Mario Pulice, Ashley Marudas, Craig Young, Karen Torres, Terry Adams, Michael Pietsch, Brandon Kelley, and my remarkable publicist, Katharine Myers—thank you for all the hours you dedicate to my novels and for making the ride so much fun. Copyediting is not a glamorous job but it is a vital one, and a big, gooey thank-you with hugs and rainbows goes to Jayne Yaffe Kemp and Tracy Roe (they may edit this out later, who knows).
And to my home team. What would life be without you? Thank you to Rebecca Bartlett, Wendy Rouillard, Wendy Hudson, Debbie Briggs (who named nearly every character in this book; it’s her superpower), Chuck and Margie Marino, Liz and Beau Almodobar, “the Beehive”—Linda Holliday, Sue Decoste, Melissa Long, Jeannie Esti (who gave me the Triscuit line and didn’t ask for a commission), Deb Ramsdell, Deb Gfeller, and my darling Katie Norton, who defied Dunbar’s number—Manda Riggs, David Rattner and Andrew Law, Evelyn and Matthew MacEachern, Holly and Marty McGowan, Helaina Jones, Heidi Holdgate, Kristen Holdgate, Shelly and Roy Weedon, John and Martha Sargent, Jodi Picoult, Curtis Sittenfeld, Meg Mitchell Moore, and Sarah Dessen. And thank you to Michelle Birmingham, Ali Barone, and Christina Schwefel for giving me the best part of my day.
Thank you to my family: Sally Hilderbrand, Eric and Lisa Hilderbrand, Randy and Steph Osteen, Douglas and Jennifer Hilderbrand, Todd Thorpe, and the one person I would never want to live this life without—you guessed it, my sister and very best friend, Heather Osteen Thorpe. Everyone should have a Heather.
28 Summers Page 41