That Last Summer (Whispering Pines Island Book 1)

by Sara LaFontain

  The water heater eventually runs out, and she steps out of the now-cold shower. Her plan makes her feel stronger. She will survive this relationship, and she won’t let him do this to her ever again.

  When her phone rings, she hopes it’s Sam calling again. Maybe she’ll explain to him that nondisclosure agreements mean maybe he shouldn’t tell people the party exists, and he’ll laugh, that great roaring laugh that always brings a smile to her face, and it will help her forget, just for a little while. But the voice on the other end is not Sam, it is a woman, a nurse, and she says there’s been an accident. Cara’s first emotion is elation. She really is free! Phil is dead, and she is free.

  “What happened? Is he okay?” she asks, but already her heart is singing.

  “He’s going to be fine. The airbags saved him. He’s asking for you.”

  And just like that, she is trapped again.

  Cara takes Phil’s old car, the one he lends her when she is in town. He bought himself a new Subaru last year, so that must be what he wrecked. She makes one stop on the way, at a drugstore where she pays cash for Plan B and swallows the pill in the bathroom.

  ....................

  Phil has been charming and wonderful ever since he came home from the hospital. He cleans the house, he cooks the meals, he tells her she’s beautiful. Cara wants to believe he’s actually changed, that the accident knocked some sense back into him, but she’s not that stupid. This is just one of the good periods. His rage will be back.

  But it doesn’t matter. She knows how to leave. In two months, her job here will end, and she will move back to Whispering Pines. When she gets there, she will cut off all contact. She will block him on email and on all her online accounts. She won’t answer the staff phone, ever. Her housemates can do that. She imagines that after Phil hears Sam’s voice telling him she’s unavailable enough times, he’ll take the hint. And she’ll block him from the island as well. All she has to do is give his picture to Vivian, and Phil will never be allowed to board the ferry. Sure, he can try to hire a boat, but even if he does, Cara will be safe at the inn. She lives in a house with two men, plus she shares a room with two other women, so he’ll never get her alone. She will finally be able to break free. She knows he won’t make another attempt at suicide—he needs her to be around for that. If he can’t reach her, he won’t do it because it won’t work as a manipulation tool.

  So it’s all going to be fine. She just has to make it through the next couple of months, which should be easy because Phil is acting like the man she fell in love with, and she can handle being with that version of him. As long as she’s careful and doesn’t make him angry, everything will be fine, and she will be able to escape.

  But no, nothing in Cara’s life works out as it should.

  It is one week after the accident, and they are going out to eat. When they arrive at the restaurant, there is a sign outside, Closed for a Private Event. “That’s okay,” she tells him, “we can go somewhere else,” but Phil says he’ll pop in and ask. He comes out a minute later with a hostess.

  “I’m so sorry,” the woman says. “This should have been taken down. We were only closed at lunch.” She takes them in and seats them. The restaurant is half full, surprisingly so since all of those people must have walked past the same sign. But Cara doesn’t think too much about it. She should have, maybe she could have avoided what was to come.

  Dinner is pleasant enough, though Phil seems nervous. They are seated in a corner near the stage, where a string quartet is performing. She can’t see what’s going on in the rest of the room, but Phil keeps looking past her shoulder and nodding to himself. That too, should have been a warning.

  When Phil excuses himself to the restroom, she sips her wine and smiles as she thinks about her countdown. Eight weeks to go.

  “Hello, everyone.” Phil’s voice on the microphone surprises her.

  She turns and sees him standing on the small stage. The quartet has stopped playing, and the entire room is looking at him. She scans their faces. Phil’s colleagues from the office. Phil’s running group. Phil’s triathlon team. Phil’s co-volunteers from the various community events he participates in. Both of Phil’s parents, who can barely stand to be in the same room as each other. Oh no. Cara’s heart starts racing. This is not good.

  “I want to thank you all for being here tonight. Just a week ago, I was in the hospital, again. You all know me and my perpetual bad luck. Or at least, it may seem like bad luck, but the truth is, I always have an angel watching over me. You’ve all met her. She’s right over there.” He points at Cara, and people clap.

  She flushes and wishes she could run from the room, run away right now without looking back.

  “Have you all heard the story of how we met?” Phil continues. “I was in Spain, admiring the architecture and paying absolutely no attention to my surroundings, and I stepped off the curb right in the path of a bus. Suddenly, this beautiful woman throws me to the ground, and the bus passes by. I didn’t know if she was real, or if I just imagined her, but then I was fortunate enough to meet her the very next night. And that’s when I learned that not only was she beautiful with extremely fast reflexes, but she was also sweet and smart, and, best of all, was about to move to Chicago for six months. It was fate.

  “She saved my life a second time, too. Remember last year when I was hospitalized with the flu? I nearly died on the floor of my kitchen. I passed out from being so sick and dehydrated. That was before Cara and I were living together, and we didn’t have plans to see each other in the next couple of days, yet somehow, she still knew to stop by for a visit. She found me and called the ambulance, and I spent almost a week in the hospital. I learned two things that day. The first was, obviously, get a flu shot, and the second was that I truly could not live without this woman.” He pauses to wipe a tear from his eye.

  Cara grits her teeth to keep from screaming. He’s selling his lies so well. He may have told everyone it was the flu, but he actually overdosed and spent three days under observation in the hospital’s mental health unit. And Cara went to his house because he texted her an apology and a goodbye, because he said he couldn’t live with what he had done to her. That was his first suicide attempt.

  “And last week, she did it again. Usually, she drives my new Outback, because it’s safer, and I take the old Civic. For some reason, when she went to work last Saturday, she took the Civic. She must have known somehow, what would happen. I was waiting for a call about a purchase I had made, something I was desperate to pick up before she got home. Well, I got the call, and it was later than I would have liked, so I got into the Outback, and on my way there, I’ll admit it, I was speeding a little—like I said, I wanted to finish my errand before she came home—and I hit black ice. I lost control of the car. It spun, and I crashed into a tree. At the hospital, they told me the only reason I survived was because of all the safety features. Had I been in my ten-year-old Civic, I would have been dead. But as you see, it wasn’t luck that saved me from my carelessness, it was my angel.”

  This is all a lie, a complete and total fabrication. Cara drove the Outback to work that day. Phil took it after she got home. He is twisting the story, as though everything he did to her that afternoon hadn’t happened.

  “While my car was spinning, all I could think about was Cara’s face, and how terrified I was that I might never be able to see her again, never be able to tell her how much I love her, never be able to . . .” He trails off and covers his eyes for a moment to regain composure.

  He is a convincing actor. The audience appears to be holding their collective breath, even Cara, though for a different reason.

  He is finally able to continue. “I never wanted to leave her like that and I’m so glad I didn’t have to. Now, I suppose you’re all wondering what was important enough to make me drive like a maniac. You see, I was on my way to pick this up.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a ring box.

  He’s woven his trap so wel
l, and she is firmly snared. He calls her up to the stage. Her feet are made of lead. She stumbles as she walks and she’s crying, and everyone is misinterpreting her reaction.

  Phil drops to one knee in front of her. “Cara, I love you. I truly cannot live without you. I’m asking you to love me for the rest of my life. I want to marry you, and hear you vow to love, honor, and save me till death do us part. Please, Cara, my angel, save my life again and say you’ll marry me.”

  And what can she say, here in this room, surrounded by all the people who don’t know the real Phil? Here, in front of his mother, in front of his coworkers and friends? She continues to cry, she can’t help it.

  Phil stands back up to embrace her. His breath is hot in her ear. “Don’t embarrass me, Cara.” His tone is dangerously close to his abusive alter ego. She knows what will happen if she refuses, and she’s not sure she’ll survive.

  So she lets him slide the ring on her finger. And her escape plan melts away.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Whispering Pines Island, July 2013

  Email from Amy O’Connell to Fabio Basile:

  OMG, Mr. Grabby Hands was at it again! He was putting the moves on Cara at a freaking wedding. First off, what a conniving jerk. You know her fiancé literally just died, so going after her at a wedding is low and secondly OMG! Keep your damn hands to yourself! I actually went over and interrupted them to rescue her. You know Matteo, that guy that runs the rental shop? He and one of his buddies were trying to crash the wedding, wearing tuxedos and everything. The couple hired a bartender from the mainland, so Matteo totally thought they could get away with sneaking in. I guess he heard it was open bar. So I pointed them out to Cara, and it was so f-ing funny. She went over there and grabbed him by the ear and dragged him out. She was way more pissed than I expected.

  Email from Amy O’Connell to Fabio Basile:

  I don’t speak British English. Pissed means angry, not drunk. I meant she was mad.

  Obviously, yes, I could have handled the wedding crashing idiots myself, but it provided an excuse to rescue my cousin, so why wouldn’t I use it? I also made sure Sam slunk back to his kitchen alone while Cara was busy.

  And yes, I know, she’s an adult and she can handle herself, but look at the situation: it was a freaking wedding. How much more vulnerable can a near-widow be? At this time last year, she was supposed to be planning her own wedding. (Not that I thought she’d go through with it. I didn’t really see Phil as a viable long-term option for her.)

  Hell, I feel vulnerable and kind of lonely at weddings, too, and I’ve never even been close to being engaged. Don’t get me wrong. I love my lifestyle, and I have no regrets about the decisions I’ve made. But sometimes I look at happy couples and wonder when I’m going to have that. You know I love you madly, but you’re also on the other side of the world right now, and we don’t know what’s going to happen for us.

  Don’t you get the same way? Weren’t you just telling me how lonely you felt at your friend’s wedding when everyone around you was all coupled up and you were alone? It’s like they’re all moving forward into the future, and you’re standing still.

  Email from Amy O’Connell to Fabio Basile:

  My last email was kind of a downer, so let’s change it up. Funny story time. You’re going to appreciate this one. Remember I told you Cara got really mad at Matteo for trying to crash that wedding over the weekend? I still don’t know why she was that upset over it. It’s not the first time he’s tried that kind of thing, but she was, and I guess she decided she needed to get revenge on him.

  So today, Cara and I were having an early dinner at the reception desk, and who should walk in but Matteo? He’s all dressed up in nice pants and a button-down shirt and he strolls over to the desk like he belongs there.

  Then he asks us to call up to one of our guest rooms. “Could you tell Emma Smith I’m in the lobby?” he asks us. (I changed the last name for privacy reasons.) The ‘Smith’ family have a reunion going in our inn this week. Cara’s just like, “Why, did she book a tour with you?” and Matteo’s like, “Umm, no, can’t you tell from my outfit we have a date? I’m taking her out. There aren’t any rules about inn guests having to sleep here, are there?” Pretty f-ing sleazy, if you ask me. But Cara gave him her up-to-no-good smile and said, “No problem.”

  So, then Cara picks up the phone, but before she dials, she says, “Just so you know, I’m going to call her parents’ room first.” And, of course, Matteo asks why, and she says, “Well, if some thirty-year-old man came to pick up my fourteen-year-old daughter, I’d sure want to know about it.” You know in cartoons when someone runs so fast their legs spin in circles and there’s a dust cloud at their feet? I’m pretty sure that’s what happened. I’m not even sure if Matteo opened the lobby door or teleported straight through. FYI, Emma is the oldest of the Smith girls, and we don’t know her age, but we do know she’s a college graduate, so early twenties at least.

  It was hilarious.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Cara was lying on her yoga mat in the grove, relaxed and half-asleep when she heard footsteps crunching through pine needles on the approach through the woods. She assumed it was Amy, since her cousin was the one who was supposed to meet her there fifteen minutes ago. Then she realized the tread was too heavy, especially when the person stumbled and swore in a masculine voice.

  “Sam?” she sat up in surprise.

  “Hey. I heard you were out here.” He smiled, and it felt a little bit like the sun came out from behind a cloud. Oh, the things she wanted to do with that man, if the specter of Phil wasn’t always hanging over her head.

  “Yeah, Amy and I are going to do some yoga. She wants to try out a new thing for her class, and I’m her guinea pig. How was your trip to the mainland?”

  “Got everything I needed.” Without asking, he sat down on the mat next to her. “And I brought you a present.” He handed her his backpack.

  “Thanks, but I already have a dirty old backpack,” she told him, and he made a face.

  “Yeah, I didn’t have wrapping paper. Look inside.”

  She started to, but hesitated. “It’s not a duck, is it?”

  Sam’s laughter rang out loudly. “Why would I bring you a duck?”

  “You said you were going to the farmer’s market to meet with your new duck dealer, so why wouldn’t you bring back a duck?”

  “First of all, he’s a duck supplier, not a duck dealer. And I did bring back a duck, but it’s in the kitchen and I’m cooking it for all of us tonight. The guy does this interesting dry-brining method. He says he can give us a pretty good deal, but I want to test it out first, see how I like it. I thought I’d . . .” He trailed off as he realized she had been joking. “Fine, Cara. Very funny. Just open the bag.”

  She didn’t expect the contents to make her feel a sudden onslaught of grief, but they did. He had brought her a sketchbook, a pack of colored pencils, and a set of her favorite drawing pencils. “Sam, what is this?”

  “Has it really been that long?” he teased. “Cara, you don’t recognize paper and pencils? You used to draw, remember?”

  She sighed deeply, still trying to process this. Even after Phil’s death she hadn’t been able to bring herself to sketch. “Sam, these are Tombow Mono pencils. How did you know those were my favorites? But I never worked with color . . . and I don’t sketch anymore.”

  The art supplies were causing such a swirl of emotions. Pain and grief warred with a tiny kernel of pleasure. How did Sam know her so well? Did he know how seeing art supplies would make her feel? She tentatively touched the pencils with just one finger. Could she really let herself enjoy drawing again?

  “You used to, and it made you happy, so I thought maybe . . .” Sam paused for a second before starting over. “I know you’ve been going through a lot, and you’ve been kinda low. The colored pencils are to help pull you back up. You remember last summer, when I started experimenting with octopuses . . . octopussies .
. . octopusseses?”

  She laughed and patted his arm. “Octopi, Sam, it’s octopi. And yes, but mostly what I remember is the lecture Paddy gave you about keeping costs down and to stop buying weird imported ingredients to play with.”

  “Yeah. That was not a pleasant conversation. But anyway, I was experimenting with the octopi because I was in a food rut. I was feeling uncreative, like I’d lost my inspiration. Whenever that happens, I go buy an unfamiliar ingredient or learn a new technique. I play with it until I get my mojo back. I know you gave up on your art, but I think you miss it, and maybe you just don’t know how to start again. And I got you the colored ones because you don’t usually use them. They’re your rut-breaker. The woman at the store was super helpful, and she recommended this kind. She gave me her number, so I guess you can call if you have any questions about them.”

  “Uh huh, sure that’s why she gave it to you,” Cara muttered. Sam was one of those people who received excellent service everywhere he went, and he never seemed to realize it wasn’t normal. Nor was it normal for salespeople to slip their phone numbers to customers so often. “Sam . . .” She looked up, unsure of how to express how deeply moved she was by his gift. When she met his eyes, they had taken on that glow again.

  “I just want to make you happy, Cara,” he told her. The intensity of his stare made her heart race.