That Last Summer (Whispering Pines Island Book 1)

by Sara LaFontain

  “You really missed me?” He looked at her with what he hoped was an intent and meaningful expression. He tried to keep from smiling, tried to maintain the seriousness of the moment. There were so many things he wanted to say, so much he wanted to convey to her . . . if only they weren’t standing out in the open at the docks, if only her cousin wasn’t watching, if only things hadn’t ended so badly last summer.

  “You have no idea how much,” she said, with her sweet smile he knew so well. “Amy’s been doing all the cooking and she’s experimenting with what she’s calling Indian-Italian fusion, and it’s pretty awful. We need you back in the kitchen.”

  Chapter Three

  Aspen, early March 2013

  The end of ski season is approaching, and Sam’s future is unfolding before him. There are two contracts sitting in his email inbox. One is for summer employment as the executive chef at the Inn at Whispering Pines, in case he decides to come back. This is where he’s spent the last three summers in the best kitchen he’s ever worked in. He’s not taking it, though. He can’t. It would hurt too much.

  The other is from a highly-rated fine dining restaurant in Denver, where he could take a full-time, year-round job as sous chef. A permanent position with a salary and benefits. A career.

  He starts to look at apartments in Denver. He has been living in Aspen while cooking at a ski resort, which is crazy expensive, so he and seven other seasonal workers are crammed into a one-bedroom apartment. The whole place smells like sweat and grease and dirty feet, and Sam is one of the unfortunates who sleeps on an air mattress in the living room. The apartment is always full of alcohol, skis, and snowboards, and there isn’t enough room for everybody to be home at once. He is not there right now. He’s at his girlfriend Lizbet’s.

  Somehow, she can afford her own two-bedroom condo, despite working only part-time as a ski instructor and spending the rest of the time racing Sam down black diamonds. He suspects a trust fund is involved, but he’s never cared enough to ask. He just likes to occasionally spend the night with her, enjoy the smell of freshly laundered sheets, and have room to actually cook breakfast in the morning. He is using her computer now, for his apartment search.

  Lizbet comes out of the bedroom, tossing her long blond hair. “Samuel, aren’t you coming to bed?” she asks. Her voice sounds like whining, but he knows it’s the tone she uses when she’s trying to sound sexy.

  “Later, Lizzy” he tells her, and she wrinkles her nose in distaste at the nickname.

  “Studio apartments?” She sits down on his lap, facing him. “You should be looking for a bigger place. I’m thinking about joining you.”

  He is dumbfounded. Yes, she’s technically his girlfriend. Yes, they are sleeping together (and have been on and off for the past two years). But neither of them has ever discussed a serious future, and he never thought that she’d go with him. It never occurred to him at all. In fact, he was kind of looking forward to a fresh start.

  “You want to move to Denver with me?” he asks, and perhaps deliberately, she misinterprets the tone of his question.

  “Oh, Samuel, I’d love to! I thought you’d never ask.” She starts to kiss his neck. “I can’t believe we’re finally moving in together! Come to bed, let’s celebrate.” Her hand traces a line down his chest, and he stops her before she can get any lower.

  “Later,” he tells her again, slightly annoyed this time but feeling guilty for sounding so rude. “Later, I promise.”

  He kisses her cheek, and she sticks out her lip and pouts. The expression is not as cute as she thinks it is. She flounces off to bed, warning him she won’t wait up much longer.

  Sam continues searching Denver apartments, still looking at small studios. He could live there, right? Denver is a nice city. He could live there and work and move on and forget about other things . . . things like the golden glints in Cara’s eyes, and the sweet scent of Cara’s hair, and how it felt to caress her face, and how big and shiny and terrible her stupid engagement ring looked on her finger. That day in the rain, had he imagined everything? Had he imagined their connection? How could she not see how wrong she was, how right he was? How they belonged together? He knew how he felt, how strongly he had felt for years. He was sure he saw those feelings reflected back at him, but she had chosen to run away.

  She was married by now. His sister-in-law had called in December, telling him that a wedding invitation with a Whispering Pines postmark had arrived for him. “Shall I open it and read it to you,” she had asked, sounding excited, “or wait and send it with the rest of your mail?”

  “No,” he had told her. “Don’t open the envelope. Just throw it away.” He should have told her to burn it.

  Weeks later, an email came from Sato, his island roommate: Hey, haven’t heard, you coming to the wedding?

  Can’t make it, he had replied. Sorry. Though he wasn’t sorry. Travel halfway across the country to see the woman he loved marry someone else, someone who, in addition to being not-Sam, was also horribly wrong for her? No. He couldn’t do that.

  Too bad, was hoping to see you. I’ll send pics! Sato had responded, and that email had recently appeared in his inbox as well, WEDDING PICS!!!!!, the subject line read, and Sam couldn’t bring himself to open it, couldn’t stand to look at pictures of his friends having fun, dancing, eating cake, Cara in a wedding dress vowing to love, honor, and cherish someone else. No, he would never torture himself by opening the message.

  Now he sits at Lizbet’s computer, thinking. He needs to move on. He needs to move to Denver, alone. He needs to stop tormenting himself by dreaming about the woman he lost.

  In a reckless, masochistic moment, he checks to make sure Lizbet isn’t coming out and opens an incognito window, types in the address to Amy’s blog, Always Amy O. He doesn’t want to see anything about Cara, but he can’t help himself. It might be painful, but a part of him is craving it, if only to look at her face again. He used to read the blog all the time, not just because Amy was Cara’s cousin, but because she was his friend and she lived an unusual and interesting life. He stopped last fall, refused to check in on his old friends at all. He couldn’t because what if Amy posted about the wedding? Surely she helped plan everything. Surely she was the maid of honor, threw Cara a shower and a bachelorette party, and took her dress shopping. And Amy always wrote about everything. She bragged that her life was lived completely openly, so she would have shared every excruciating detail. He didn’t want to know any of it, as if by avoiding the knowledge he could go on pretending he might one day have a chance.

  I’m only looking, he tells himself. Just a peek. The most recent post on Amy’s blog, written only a few hours ago, jumps out at him.

  Alright y’all, I’m going to need some help. I don’t usually do polls here, but everyone should have a voice, right? Democracy and all that. My contract at the resort here in Thailand is up, so I’m rather impatiently waiting for my awesome cousin Cara to arrive. (If you’re new to this blog, and want to know who Cara is, check out THAT EASTER WE ALMOST DIED and HOW TO DRIVE A SOCCER TEAM WILD.) Cara is on a flight to Bangkok at this very moment, and we’re going to spend the next six weeks backpacking around (and spending all the money we earned over the winter), and she needs to have some fun. She’s single and ready to mingle (and oh, does she ever hate when I use that expression!!). She’s been in a bit of a rut, and I need to snap her out of it, get her back on the old cowboy. (Yes, I know. Cara told me the expression is ‘back in the saddle,’ but how does that make sense? We’re from Texas; we know that real ladies ride cowboys.)

  So here’s the issue: a group of absolutely gorgeous Italian men is staying at the hotel up the road, and there is also a trio of hot Australian surfers a block away near the beach. For Cara’s first night in town, who do we cowboy-up with? Italians or Aussies? Vote below! Poll closes when Cara arrives (and don’t tell her I did this!!!!).

  Sam leans back from the computer. He can’t breathe. His chest is tight as though he’s h
aving a heart attack. Is he hallucinating? What does single and ready to mingle mean, exactly? Is she actually single, as in unmarried, or just traveling without her husband? Is she still engaged? Is Amy exaggerating for effect? He rubs his eyes, looks again. The words are the same. Single and ready to mingle. It doesn’t make any sense.

  He goes back to his email, clicks on WEDDING PICS!!!!! In the first one, smiling and wearing a black tuxedo, is Sato. And in the next, in a long white dress, is Margaux from the bakery. It hits him like a sucker punch. Sato and Margaux were dating last summer, and Sato started spending most nights away from the staff house and waxing rhapsodic about the future, but this . . . this is not what he expected. He scrolls through the images. Sato and Margaux dancing, Sato and Margaux cutting the cake. It’s Sato’s wedding. He can feel blood rushing through his entire body as he continues to click through the pictures. There, finally, there’s one—Cara, with her arms around her Uncle Paddy, smiling for the camera, no fiancé in sight and no ring on her finger. Sam’s head is spinning.

  Back to Amy’s blog. The first comment on the post, appropriately enough, from IslandSato: Gonna need more info here, Ames. Cara likes tall, dark, and handsome. Maybe add some pics of the choices? More comments, many from people with Italian names writing disparaging things about Australian surfers. Cara is actually single? Sam can’t catch a breath. Cara is single. This changes everything.

  Back to his email. And before he can think about what he’s doing, he types a response:

  My situation has changed. If your offer still stands, I’d like to come back this summer. I’ll get the contract printed, signed, and mailed tomorrow. I’ve got some new recipes I want to try. Can we schedule a call to talk wine pairings? Also, please keep me informed on any staffing issues. Are you still considering hiring a pastry chef?—Thanks, Sam V.

  Chapter Four

  Kata Beach, Thailand, March 2013

  Blog post from Always Amy O:

  Ok, poll results came in, in favor of the Italians. Fabio might think I didn’t notice that the majority of them came from the same ISP address, but believe me, I did. (Very sweet, btw.) Anyway, Cara showed up, looking way too pale after spending an entire winter sitting in the Canadian dark, and immediately informed me that: 1) she was a bit jet-lagged and 2) she’s not going to obey the whims of a bunch of internet strangers and 3) she wanted to hear some Australian accents.

  So Cara and I went out with the Aussie trio. Dinner, drinks, dancing, extremely loud club music, more drinks. You know, the usual. I don’t want to gossip too much (also, I don’t know details, damn my close-mouthed cousin), but last I saw her (DAD! STOP READING THIS RIGHT NOW!), we were both drunk and skinny-dipping with some lovely well-built surfers. Don’t worry, she was safely back at the hotel this morning. Hungover, but hey, that was the plan anyway.

  Now we’re here, lounging on the beach while a charming Italian man brings us drinks and provides foot massages. (Fabio just read that bit over my shoulder and laughed at me. But then he went and got me a drink, so score!)

  It’s fabulous having my cousin with me again. She’s my very best friend and the platonic love of my life, which is good because for five months a year we are roommates in a tiny house on a remote island with not enough interesting people to entertain us. (I’m directing that at you if you’re reading this, IslandSato. And I’m kidding.)

  True story though, one problem I always have when spending time with my cousin is that people seem to think that we are twins and like to make lewd suggestions as to what they’d like to do with us. Even this morning, despite us looking quite hungover and miserable, we had a creepy older man walk past us on the beach, stop, do a double take, and then suggest a threesome because he’s always wanted a three-way with twins. This is how you know Cara is awesome: she smiled at the guy, told him that would be wonderful, and grabbed Fabio’s hand and said, “Me and my twin brother are definitely in! What’s your room number?” I was briefly afraid that Fabio was going to get punched in the face, but instead, the rather embarrassed-looking asshole cussed at us and walked away while we all laughed.

  It’s a bit ridiculous, but this is not the first time we’ve received such invitations. However—and this should be obvious to anyone with half a brain—my cousin Cara and I are not twins. Our fathers are identical twins, so I guess we’re genetically closer than regular cousins, but we were born to different mothers. My younger brothers are identical twins, as are my younger sisters; however, I was born alone. (Cara just muttered, “And you’ll die alone too” because she is old and bitter.) As a secondary thing, neither of us are into incest either.

  I don’t think we look that alike anyway. We both have long brown hair, but hers has reddish highlights, mine doesn’t. Her eyes have gold flecks, mine don’t. (I’m plainer than her, I guess.) Also, I assume you can tell by just by looking at our faces that I’m much more fun than her. She would agree with this statement. Hell, I’m more fun right now since I’m drinking a super boozy cocktail (thanks again, Fabio!) and writing this on a stolen laptop, and all she’s doing is lying on the beach drinking water (seriously, water!?!?) and reading a book about ‘eco-friendly hotel development planning,’ of all things. (Fabio would like me to correct this because he says I’m merely borrowing his laptop, so I was compelled to point out that it is extremely rude to read over someone’s shoulder, even if you are, as he claimed, safeguarding your property from an [amazing, smart, sexy, beautiful] American thief.)

  But enough complaining. We are here, on a gorgeous beach, with a gorgeous man (still need one for Cara though—only non-sleazy applicants please), and we have six weeks to relax, get tan, get drunk, and get Cara’s groove back before we are off to the cold Midwest to once again open the beloved Inn at Whispering Pines. Good times.

  Chapter Five

  Whispering Pines, May 2013

  Cara listened to Sam unpacking in his room on the other side of the staff house common area. He was always a bit of a neat freak, she remembered, and as soon as he arrived he always wanted to put everything away exactly in its place. Last year she’d sat on his bed and chatted with him, watching as he carefully and precisely folded every article of clothing. This year, she didn’t feel welcome. He’d been standoffish when she’d picked him up at the ferry, and she’d noticed a minute hesitation before he hugged her.

  That was fine with her though—she had the same hesitation. Nerves had set in last night, when she got back from the docks and checked the voicemail. Hey, it’s me, Sam, um, Sam Vervaine. I just missed the last ferry, so I’ll be arriving tomorrow morning on the first one. You don’t need to pick me up or anything. I can walk. I just wanted to let you know. Okay, um, bye.

  She’d played the message over and over listening for nuance and trying to analyze the feelings it brought up in her, until Amy came looking for her and she had to pretend she was hearing it for the first time. Now he called, she thought almost bitterly. She’d hoped to hear from him months ago, and there was nothing. She thought she could steel herself, face him without . . . without what, exactly? She wasn’t sure what she felt anymore. There was a sense of betrayal, a sense of sadness, but at the same time there was hope.

  This morning when the ferry arrived, Amy acted like her usual overly excited self and started jumping and waving like a lunatic when Sam came into sight. Cara hugged herself tightly and shrank back. She wanted to be stoic, and strong, and proud, and pretend that he hadn’t hurt her. But the second he lifted his hand and waved to Amy, she felt something melt. Damn it, she had missed him.

  Amy was the one who held up the conversation the entire way back to the inn, including when they stopped at Margaux’s coffee shop for a quick breakfast. Cara and Sam sat back and let Amy chatter on while they both seemed to search for the right words to say. Sam’s eyes kept traveling to the empty space on Cara’s left hand. He looked like he wanted to ask something, but the next voice Cara heard wasn’t his; it was the other one, the voice that she had been trying to avoid. I think
you’re lying when you say there’s no one else, Phil said. We could have been so happy together, Cara. You ruined everything. She hid her hand under the table out of Sam’s line of vision, but even without his eyes on it the guilt came flooding back.

  It didn’t matter though, none of it did. She lay back on her bed and through the open door she listened almost wistfully to the sounds of Sam as he moved about his room, unpacking and occasionally tripping over things. She reminded herself of her therapist’s words: You can’t change other people, Cara. You can only change how you react to them. It was good advice. She needed to stop reacting to Phil’s voice in her head. She had to stop letting it bother her, stop letting him ruin her.

  Fortunately, her cousin was there to distract her from thinking too much about the past, and Sam, and what the future might or might not hold for them.

  ....................

  “Well, I feel much better,” Amy announced, stepping out of their shared bathroom wrapped in a robe.

  Cara couldn’t help but laugh at her. “I’m glad you feel better, but I’m still going to make fun of you.”

  “You said you’d turned on the pool heaters,” Amy responded and shivered theatrically, though her skin had regained its color and her lips were no longer tinged with blue.

  “Most people would dip a toe in first,” Cara reminded her, “rather than shouting cannonball and jumping in. Also, most people would know that it takes a while to heat an entire swimming pool. I told you I turned the heaters on, I didn’t say the water was warm yet.”