Falling for Summer

by Bridget Essex

  Summer breathes out, reaches up, and then she delicately fingers the gold chain around my neck, her fingers scooping up the little locket that's resting at the hollow of my collarbones. “This...this is familiar,” she whispers, holding my gaze. “Have I seen it before?”

  “You must have,” I whisper tiredly. “It was Tiffany's,” I manage to tell her, and then a single tear leaks out of my eye and traces its way down my cheek, leaving a trail of salt behind it.

  For a long moment, neither of us says anything. And then Summer nods, clears her throat. She reaches up her hand and spreads her palm open to me, pressing her thumb to the ring on her left hand. “It's not my great-grandmother's,” she says then, her words soft, almost defeated-sounding. “Tiffany gave it to me when we decided that we were best friends,” she tells me, her tone rueful. “It was just this tin ring that we got out of a vending machine, so I've had it expanded, had it covered in gold... I just was never able to take it off.”

  She trails off, her words pain-filled, and then she closes her eyes, a single tear squeezing past her long lashes before she opens her eyes again, looks at me.

  I hold her gaze, surprised.

  I have, for my whole life, been entirely in my head about my sister's death. I saw how my parents dealt with it, how they shut themselves off from the harshness of her death by ignoring the pain they were feeling and shutting it all away. I learned how to deal with it myself from their not dealing with it. But I never really thought about how anyone else was managing with the fact that Tiffany had died.

  Yes, Tiffany was my sister, but she was also Summer's best friend.

  I can't imagine having my best friend die, right in front of me, when I was ten years old. I'm sure that scarred her in a lot of ways. And I, of all people, understand those scars.

  I'm not really sure what to say for a long moment. Then I think about the only thing that helped me deal with the pain, if just a little bit.

  “The thing that I always forget—and you think it'd be the most obvious thing, the thing I would always remember—but I don't,” I whisper, as I hold Summer close, resting my chin on the top of her head, “is that it was an accident.” I get the words out, take a deep breath as my voice quavers. I keep going. “Tiffany died because of an accident. She was in the wrong place at the wrong time doing the wrong thing. She wanted to go for a swim that night, and she was a good swimmer, but it was all the wrong conditions... That's what the detective said,” I tell her, my voice catching. “The wrong place at the wrong time. It was an accident,” I repeat. “I don't know... Sometimes, that's given me a little bit of comfort,” I tell her then, brushing my fingertips over her shoulder, “but most of the time it hasn't. I blame myself completely for her death. That night that I wanted to go out with Monica rather than watch my sister and her slumber party. I was so selfish,” I whisper.

  And then I'm crying. Really crying.

  I don't cry. Not since that night. I've locked away all those parts of myself that allow myself to cry, and when tears came to my eyes on the drive up to Lake George, I thought it was the strangest thing in the world, and I only shed a few of them because of how unpracticed I was at it. I've trained myself, over all these years, not to let on how deeply hurt I am. I hide it all away.

  Summer reaches up and brushes the pad of her thumb over my cheek gently, gently, breathing out at she holds my gaze, her eyes growing warmer as she looks at me.

  “I want you to know that It's not your fault, Mandy,” she says, the words so gentle that I cave against her, crumpling against her, holding her tightly to me, as tightly as she now holds me. “None of it was your fault,” she whispers. “Tiffany was going to do what she was going to do, and she would have snuck out to do it, even if you'd been there,” she says, brushing her hand over my hair over and over again, fingers soft against me. “You have to know that. It wasn't your fault.”

  “But I wasn't there,” I say, the anguished words that I've repeated over and over to myself, probably a trillion times within my lifetime. “I should have been there, but I wasn't. I'm so empty when I think about that...that I should have been there, and I left.” My voice cracks, and I shake my head, a sob rising in me. I squash it down, but my body is wracked with emotion as I hold tightly to the girl grown into a woman. As I hold tightly to Summer.

  “It wasn't your fault,” Summer tells me simply. And then she whispers it to me again, and again, and again, saying the words over and over until they become a mantra between us, her voice soft, soothing and gentle.

  I don't know how, but I fall asleep cradled in her arms, the wash of those gentle words covering me in peace until I'm relaxed enough to drift away.

  I fall asleep, but I do not dream.

  ---

  I wake up to a perfect morning—or as close to perfect as any morning can get. The sky is a brilliant, luminous blue, and there are puffy white clouds banked along the horizon, like the whole world is a beginner's painting in blue and white. The sky's sapphire color is reflected in the lake, and everything smells like ozone and fresh water, the pine trees overhead dripping gently onto the loam beneath. I can see the sky through the window above the bed, and I stare up at it for a long moment, surprised by how beautiful I find it. I'm not usually this sentimental, but then again...I'm in a really good mood today. I finally stretch a little, yawning as I sit up.

  In that very first instant of waking, I couldn't remember where I was, but I knew, then, as I heard a pot gently clang on the wood stove. These are the comforting sounds of camping, the plinking of water off of the pine trees, the splash of lake waves soft and gentle against the shore, the sound of pots and pans over an open fire...

  I sniff the air, my eyes rolling back in my head a little in pure pleasure as my mouth begins to water. There is the most incredible smell of frying eggs wafting in the air...

  “Good morning,” Summer tells me warmly when I sit up on my elbows to take in the small room in the back of the Main Office cabin at Lazy Days. Summer's already dressed, wearing what I'm thinking might be her usual attire of capri pants and a tank top that hugs her gorgeous curves. Her hair is replaited and braided, smoothed back behind her ears, and she flashes me a wide, brilliant smile as she turns the eggs in the frying pan on top of the wood stove with a wooden spatula. “I hope you like eggs,” she tells me companionably, flipping the eggs onto a plastic plate, where they sizzle and steam temptingly.

  “Oh, yes—I love them,” I tell her, drawing my blanket up over my bare breasts. I smile shyly as I take the eggs from her, and then I'm inwardly cursing myself. Shy? Really? I'm never the shy one after sleeping with a woman, but there's something different about this morning, and there's something different about what we did last night.

  Okay, so I have to be honest: there's something different about Summer.

  As I take the plate of eggs from her, I find myself smiling widely, my breath hitching in the back of my throat. She turns back to the stove, lifting up her own plate of eggs. I watch her rear, the graceful slant of her shoulders and neck and the braid of hair that slips over her arm...

  I think it's fairly safe to say that I've never met anyone like Summer, anyone who has captivated me so utterly, and in such a short time. She's genuine, authentic... Real is the only word I could possibly use to describe her. Maybe that's because I've been living in New York for too long, or maybe I missed Lake George more than I realized, but there's something about this woman that has undone me...quite unexpectedly.

  Yes, there is a quiet strength about Summer that makes me, admittedly, weak in the knees, but it's much more than that. She held me last night, held me and listened and then soothed away the pain I've borne for years. Plus, there was the mind-blowing sex, the intense attraction we had for one another from the moment that we met...

  There's something different, unique about Summer.

  She hands me my plate of eggs and toast, her smile turning up at the corners of her full mouth and illuminating the room like sunshine itself. M
y heart skips a beat...

  I'm falling for her.

  I've known her for less than twenty-four hours, and I'm falling for this woman who appeared out of the lake like a mermaid, her hair dripping in satin waves over her shoulder, her gorgeous smile lighting up my world. To say that this isn't like me is the biggest understatement of the century. I don't form attachments (I never form attachments), and I certainly don't form connections with the women I randomly sleep with...

  But it seems like none of that matters this time.

  Because Summer unlocked something inside of my heart, something that I'd carefully hidden away and kept safe. The vulnerable part of myself that I never let out, my fragile heart that had broken, splintered the day my sister died, that I believed could never feel anything again.

  Summer made me feel...

  She made me feel everything.

  And now I don't know what to do about that.

  “Thank you,” I manage to tell her, setting the plate on my lap as Summer returns from the stove with her own plastic plate of eggs and toast and sits down companionably beside me. She draws her legs up under her and, lifting her fork in a graceful hand, begins to eat.

  “The roofer is coming first thing to fix the roof on your cabin,” she tells me with a rueful smile, shoveling eggs onto her piece of rye toast, then taking a big bite. “I don't know what sort of plans you had today, but...but later, I thought it might be nice if we could go for a swim.” She swallows her mouthful of eggs and toast, and then she holds my gaze with her warm brown eyes. But there's something that flickers behind those eyes. I'm not certain what it is, and I can't tell then because she's looking away from me, her gaze pointed at the floor as her jaw tightens. “That is, if you want to,” she amends, voice soft.

  In that moment, I feel a strange coldness drift over my skin, making me shiver a little. I feel like there's something she's not telling me, something she's keeping from me, but maybe...maybe I'm just imagining it. I shift my shoulders a little, try to relax as I clear my throat.

  “Yeah, that'd be great,” I tell her, taking a bite of the eggs. God, they're delicious. “I wanted to go into town to pick up some food, maybe a few more six packs,” I tell her, my mouth curving, “and then I think a swim would be just what the doctor ordered. It's been a long time since I swam in Lake George,” I tell her, swallowing the eggs. “A really long time,” I say again, with a frown.

  “I honestly think it'll do both of us some good,” Summer says, then rises unexpectedly, crossing the room and placing her plate of mostly uneaten breakfast on top of the cupboard, like she's lost her appetite. She wipes her hands on a towel, carefully avoiding my eyes again. “I think I hear the roofer,” she says, her head to the side, her gaze pointed through the back window. “I'll...see you later?” she asks me.

  “Sure,” I tell her softly, a lump forming in my throat. It's then that Summer comes back across the room and leans over me, her hands planted firmly on the bed on either side of my hips, her mouth smiling, her full lips turned up warmly at the corners—but the smile doesn't quite reach her eyes. This alarms me...until Summer leans forward and kisses me.

  By her quietness, the way she won't hold my gaze...I was worried that she might be regretting last night. I was worried that she didn't feel the same way as me, and that maybe she wished it had never happened. Maybe she was feeling awkward about the whole situation...

  But that single, perfect kiss erases all of my fears. It is absolute, that kiss, and filled with so much emotion and passion. She kisses me deeply, slipping her tongue into my mouth and tasting me; my toes curl under me, my arms go around her shoulders, and I'm almost drawing her down on top of me again, plate of eggs on my lap be damned, but she chuckles ruefully against me and pulls back a little, her smile dazzling.

  “Later,” she whispers, a brow up, as she reaches her fingers under the covers, brushing her hands over my breasts, cupping my right one with a warm palm and grazing the pad of her thumb over my nipple with a slow, sensuous touch. I breathe out, my heart picking up speed, desire moving through me at the speed of light.

  “Later, I promise,” she growls softly, then she presses her forehead to mine, closing her eyes, breathing out. “I'm so glad you came here, Mandy,” she whispers to me, her voice catching, and then she's standing, gazing down at me with her warm, brown eyes. Eyes that undo me, remake me in a single look.

  “I am, too,” I tell her then. I'm surprised to hear myself say the words, but I mean them. I really mean them.

  Summer looks at me for a moment longer, then sighs, her lips curling up at the corners again as she nods at me. “See you soon,” she murmurs, and then she leaves the back room, headed for the driveway with her thumbs hooked in her belt loops and whistling softly. I watch her rear (I really can't help it; I'm pretty sure she's swinging her hips suggestively on purpose) as she walks out the front door, and then I fall back onto the bed for a moment, my head reeling, my pulse pounding...

  Yeah. I'm falling for her fast.

  With a happy sigh, I get up, stretching overhead, the blanket falling to the floor. It's then that I find my clothes on the chair by the door, already laundered. Good Lord, how early did Summer wake up? I press my folded shirt to my nose and inhale deeply; she used the fabric softener on my clothes that she uses on her own clothes, so the shirt smells like her, that warm, lavender scent.

  I dive into my gauchos and panties, bra and shirt with a smile, and then I'm sliding into my flip flops, throwing my hair up into a ponytail with the assistance of the little mirror on the wall, pulling a few strands of hair to hang down in front of my ears.

  I find that I'm whistling, too, smiling at myself in the mirror as if I have a happy secret.

  The drive into town is much shorter than I remember it, but maybe that's because the town is more built up than it was when I was a kid; Lake George is sprawling now. It isn't that there are thousands of new people living along the lake, but there are definitely a few hundred more people here than there were when I was a kid. I notice several new houses along the way, new builds mixed in with the old, but the town center itself is exactly as I remember it, with its little main drag, the ice cream shop (Twirly's!) in the same location, and the green-and-white store front of the general store on the corner.

  I pull into one of the general store's parking spaces and turn off my car. I hold the keys in my hand as I look up at the those wide front steps, the front steps that I used to sit on when I was a kid with my little sister, the both of us splitting the amount of penny candy that a dollar could buy us—which was a lot of candy.

  I take a deep breath, and then I'm out of the car. I'm going to get some beer, some fresh corn on the cob, if they have it—I remember they used to—and some chips. I'm up the stairs, and then the same general store bell rings out from the front door as I open it and cross the threshold, the exact same jingle that used to sound when Tiffany and I would come in for our candy.

  God, that takes me back.

  Gramma Morrie was the already-ancient woman who ran the shop when I was a kid. I'm a little shocked—and a little in awe—when I open the door and step inside, and she's still there, sitting behind the counter, looking not that much older than she did when I was little and in search of sweets.

  She glances in my direction, and then her eyes widen, and she's getting up off her stool, smiling hugely, pushing her dentures back in her mouth as she pats down her crazy, every-which-way hair that always mesmerized me.

  “Mandy? Mandy Tedlock?” she asks me with a hoot, hobbling around the edge of the counter to throw her arms around me, not waiting for my response. “Of course it's you!” she tells me then, giving me a little shake before she lets me go and takes a big step back to take me in. “My, you're a woman now. Damn, I'm old,” she tells me with a slight cackle, as she clicks her dentures in her mouth. “But, hell, you look good!”

  “Thanks, Morrie,” I tell her with a smile. I'm a little embarrassed at the praise, but then it's Gramma
Morrie. She'd tell me if she thought I looked like shit, and she'd say it exactly like that, so it really is a compliment that she thinks I look good. “I'm here for some junk food!” I tell her then, making a beeline for the back coolers and the beer beckoning me. I'm hopeful that she's not going to bring up my sister, but I know better. I just need to grab the things I want, and then I can pay her in cash and race for the door if she asks too many pressing questions.

  But she starts in on those pressing questions pretty much immediately.

  “Where are you staying? Since your folks sold your house, which I always thought was a shame, you must be staying at...Lazy Days Campground?” she asks, one brow arched as she grins at me toothily.

  Gramma Morrie is sharp as a tack. And she misses nothing.

  “That Summer is a nice girl,” she says carefully, her brow still up. She didn't wait for me to even answer her. She glances at me now with her beady eyes, pinning me in place. “How are you two getting on?” she asks, drawing out the words as she raises a gray brow.

  “We're getting on really well,” I tell her quickly, grabbing a couple of six packs from the cooler. I snatch two bags of chips off the rickety old shelves (the chips are covered in dust; this is not Gramma Morrie's busy season) and scoop up some unshucked ears of corn from the wooden bin by the door. “Do you still have popsicles?” I ask her, hoping she'll let it go.

  But of course she won't.

  “You know Summer is one of those queers?” provides Gramma Morrie helpfully. She's still grinning toothily, and the way she says the word queers bears no malice, so at least that's...good? I set the beer on the counter in front of her, along with the chips and corn.