One More Summer

by Liz Flaherty

  The Cup and Cozy was nearly full, but their favorite back booth was empty. They sat across from each other, glasses of sweet tea between them. Promise squeezed lemon into her drink and stirred. “I wonder how many times we’ve done this.”

  “A bunch.” Grace leaned an elbow on the Formica table and propped her chin in her hand. “Since long before high school.”

  Promise laughed. “We were drinking coffee long before then, too, just because your daddy insisted it would stunt your growth.” Her expression sobered. “But it hasn’t been nearly often enough, Gracie. I want to be sitting here with you when we’re both so old we won’t remember how we got here.”

  That was what Grace wanted, too, but she didn’t have the words to say so. Even if she’d had them, they would have stuck in her throat. Seems most things did these days. “What’s the schedule?” she asked instead.

  “Surgery Wednesday morning. I’ll come home Friday night or Saturday if everything goes okay. I start chemo two weeks after the surgery. Six treatments, four weeks apart.” She stared out the window. “I won’t teach at all first semester. It’ll be the first time in eleven years the kids will go back to school without me.” She laughed again, though tears stood in her eyes. “To tell the truth, it’ll be the first time since we started kindergarten that I’ll miss the first day of school.”

  “There goes your citizenship certificate, right down the toilet.” Grace had to force her voice to work.

  “I lost that when you made me smoke in the bathroom at high school.”

  “I made you? Made you? And whose cigarettes were we smoking?”

  “Steven’s. He’s your brother, after all. I was his girlfriend. He wouldn’t have given me cigarettes, especially not unfiltered ones that left tobacco sticking to our teeth and got us caught.”

  “They found them in your purse,” Grace insisted. “And you’re still his girlfriend. I’m surprised you don’t wear his class ring with angora yarn wrapped around it.”

  “You put the cigarettes in my purse.”

  “That’s beside the point.”

  The laughter faded from Promise’s face. “The surgery’s in Kingsport, at Holston Valley Hospital.” She sipped her tea, then continued with a hint of determination in her voice, as if she had to say it all now or not at all. “It will last a couple of hours. I expect I’ll have some pain and be a real baby for a day or two. But then I’ll come home and start getting better.”

  She wasn’t going to mention Steven in connection with her illness, which meant Grace had to whether she wanted to or not. Which she didn’t. But—“What about Steven? When and what are you going to tell him?”

  A haunted expression filled Promise’s eyes. She wiped condensation from the sides of her glass. Carefully, as though it was the most important thing in the world. “What has any of this to do with Steven?”

  “Not a thing, other than the whole boyfriend-girlfriend thing that’s gone on for twenty years or so. Why haven’t you told him?”

  Promise sipped from her tea, her perfect oval fingernails just a shade rosier than the amber liquid. “Because he would drop everything and rush over here to take care of me. For a while, as long as I was sick and needy, things would be wonderful, but then I’d get better and he’d draw away again. He’d resent me for taking him away from his work just like he resents anything that takes him away from his work. He’d turn that anger inward and hate himself because he can’t have both his work and a relationship. I can’t let that happen again. We’ve played that particular game too many times over the years.” She held Grace’s gaze. “You have to swear you won’t tell him.”

  “I don’t like doing that,” Grace said. “It gets me in all kinds of trouble. Look at what happened when I promised Faith’s kids I’d quit smoking.”

  “You quit smoking.”

  “Exactly. And right now I’d give the little toe on my right foot for a cigarette.”

  “You have ugly toes anyway. That’s no sacrifice. Promise me, Grace.”

  “Promise.”

  “Oh, no, you don’t. We’ve been that route before, when you came back later and said you hadn’t promised at all, you were just saying my name. Do it the way you’re supposed to.” Promise tapped those perfect nails on the Formica, and Grace hoped she’d break one. It would serve her right.

  “Okay.” Graced heaved what she hoped sounded like a put-upon sigh, since she was most certainly being put upon. “Promise, Promise.”

  “Good.” Promise looked satisfied. No, actually, smug would be a better word for it. “Now, let’s go. I left a roast in the oven that ought to be done about now.”

  “The whole kitchen will be an oven,” Grace muttered.

  “So, we’ll eat on the back porch like you usually do anyway. And we’ll ask Dillon to join us.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Maxie has the hots for him.”

  Grace grinned. “Maxie has the hots for anything in pants.”

  “Everything except Jonah, who has the hots for her.” Promise led the way outside. “Oh, good, it’s cooling down early today.”

  “He does not.” Grace slid into the passenger seat of Promise’s Mustang, grimacing when her bare legs stuck to the leather.

  “He most certainly does.”

  “They argue all the livelong day.”

  “I know. Isn’t it sweet?”

  “Sweet.” Grace rolled her eyes. “Oh, Lord, what next?”

  Grace was even crankier than usual when Dillon walked into the kitchen for supper.

  “It was nice of you to finish mowing the yard,” she said primly, “but completely unnecessary. Take these out to the table on the porch. It’s hotter than hell incarnate in here.” She shoved a stack of plates at him, glowering first at him then over her shoulder at Promise.

  “Oh, put a sock in it. The roast will be delicious. Hi, Dill.” Promise waved to Dillon, smiling prettily, and Grace tossed an impatient glance heavenward.

  “Hi, love of my life.” He threw Promise a kiss before taking the plates to the porch.

  Grace followed with the silverware and napkins, her face devoid of expression. She stubbed her toe on the threshold and stumbled, landing hard against Dillon’s chest when he reached to catch her.

  His hand surrounded her elbows, holding her firmly. “Did you want to dance? I usually like to lead, but I’m sure I can follow if you’ll count it off.”

  She inhaled deeply before pulling away and retreating to the other side of the table. “I wouldn’t know about your dancing,” she said. “You didn’t show up, remember?”

  “I was only a little late. Fifteen years or so.” He grinned at her, but she just looked at him for a split second, a flash of pain crossing her eyes before she turned away and started flinging forks and spoons into place on the table. “Grace, I didn’t mean—”

  Her voice brusque, she interrupted, “Will you make sure Maxie does okay on the stairs? She absolutely will not use a cane, and her balance gets a little uneven sometimes.”

  “Happens to all of us,” Dillon muttered, remembering how she’d felt only a moment before. Her elbows had been bony under his hands, but the sensation of her body flush against his when she stumbled had been anything but. She’d felt downright womanly. He hadn’t expected that and wasn’t sure he liked it.

  He hadn’t expected to see the hurt in her eyes, either. He knew he didn’t like that, and liked even less being the cause of it.

  When he walked past her to go help Maxie, he touched Grace’s shoulder lightly. “I’m sorry.”

  She shrugged. That lift of her shoulder was really starting to bother him. “Get Maxie, please.”

  The atmosphere lightened at supper. Maxie talked to everyone, not seeming to care whether they answered or not. Jonah hung on her every word, but didn’t respond unless it was to disagree. Although she laughed in all the right places and told a joke about blondes and Santa Claus that had Dillon’s water going down the wrong pipe, Promise seemed introspective,
and she was pale, a sprinkling of freckles the only color in her face. He wondered if the heat was bothering her. There was certainly enough of it to bother anyone, and living in a house without air conditioning made it even worse.

  He thought longingly of his townhouse in Boston, where every room had a thermostat and all of them were set for his personal comfort zone. Nothing was very comfortable here. Being caught between Tennessee’s heat and Grace Elliot’s coldness was a whole lot like being in a thunderstorm without an umbrella.

  Grace ate like she did everything else—with economy of movement and conversation. She didn’t eat very much, either, but pushed her plate aside and sat relaxed and listening. It would have been nice to see her at rest for once if she hadn’t seemed as tired as Promise.

  After a dessert of ice cream, Grace disappeared. Dillon helped Promise carry the dishes into the kitchen for Maxie and Jonah to wash and dry, then went back to the guesthouse, pulling off his shirt as he went. Painting was hot work, even if the mercury had slid down out of the nineties for the night.

  He had just donned his oldest Boston Celtics cap and poured paint into a tray to begin painting the living room ceiling when there was a light tap at the door. Grace stepped in. She wore the most disreputable cutoffs he’d ever seen and a ragged T-shirt that avowed the items under it were larger than they appeared.

  “I’ve come to paint,” she said flatly. “You helped with the mowing.”

  “Grace, you really don’t need to.”

  “Yes, I do. It’s only fair after you helped me.” She smiled a little, and it was like the sun had come back out. “More than fair, really. I prefer painting to mowing.”

  He lifted a hand in surrender. “Go for it. Anywhere you like.”

  She nodded and went into the kitchenette.

  They worked without talking, accompanied by Dillon’s favorite Eagles CD. He sang along absently, his thoughts on his latest book.

  Chapter Six was where the book, and a major part of his mind, had been for quite a while. Unfortunately, the story didn’t feel like moving, and he didn’t feel like fighting with it. He’d already spent more than enough time in the dark place he was afraid the book required. He wasn’t sure he could go back there.

  He and the Eagles were halfway through “Desperado” when he heard her voice “…why don’t you come to your senses…” and realized she was singing too.

  Dillon shut up and listened. He leaned his elbow on the top of the stepladder and closed his eyes, the paint roller forgotten in his hand.

  For the first time in his life, he understood the meaning of the term, “heart’s ease.” Grace’s soft contralto worked as a balm to his spirit and a cattle prod to his mind. Through “Desperado” and “Peaceful Easy Feeling” he stayed still, lost in thought and the almost sensuous pleasure of her voice.

  There was, after all, a way to finish Chapter Six. He might even be able to write it without resorting to the bottle of antidepressants he kept—just in case.

  “So.”

  His reverie was interrupted by her speaking voice, neither as soft nor as sweet as her singing one. He opened his eyes reluctantly.

  “So what?”

  “What’s your new book about?” She peered over the counter at him. “You are writing one, aren’t you? You’re not going to let that last disaster stop you?”

  He needed to kill her. He really did. “It wasn’t a disaster. It made the number two slot on the New York Times list and stayed there for a good long while.”

  “Never made number one.” She painted over her head, the movement of her arm appearing effortless and downright lazy. He couldn’t tear his gaze away. “Shouldn’t have been number two, either. It just made it by author reputation.”

  “Did you happen to read the reviews?” He was pleased to discover he could snarl without shouting at the same time.

  “Uh-huh.” She dipped her roller. “They were bullsh—uh, hogwash. Mrs. Gallagher—sophomore English, remember?—said if she could get hold of you, she’d box your ears with that book.”

  “That book was grammatically perfect,” Dillon said indignantly, barely stopping himself from shaking his roller at her—she’d only make him wipe up the paint drips.

  “That’s something like what she said. Let me think just exactly what it was.” She paused, drawing her bottom lip between her teeth and frowning into space. “Oh, yeah. ‘Grammatically correct and emotionally bereft.’ I thought she put it rather well, myself.”

  “You did, did you?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Well, that’s just great.”

  “Yup.” She started painting again. “So?”

  “So what?” Wasn’t this where they’d come into this conversation?

  “What are you writing now?” she said distinctly, as though he were just the slightest bit slow in his mental processes.

  “Oh.” He had to drag himself out of the conclusion of Chapter Six. “About a reporter in the sixties. He covered Vietnam, saw everything, heard everything and reported everything. He couldn’t ever let it go, and it controlled his life. I don’t mean he was suicidal or anything. He just couldn’t attach himself to anything or anyone after the war.”

  “What does he do?”

  “Goes back home—a place like Peacock but not really—to see if he can find the part of himself that’s missing.” He painted in slow, even strokes, trying to make it look as easy as she did.

  “Autobiographical?”

  “Nope.” Damn, he’d said Vietnam, hadn’t he? And Grace didn’t know about Iraq. Well, maybe she knew he’d been there, but not what he’d seen.

  Not what he’d lost.

  Don’t go there.

  He was getting a crick in his neck. “There’s beer in the fridge. Want one?”

  “Sure. I’m done with the ceiling in here anyway.” She stepped down from her ladder and got two bottles of beer from the new refrigerator that was in the middle of the floor until the walls could be painted. “Catch.”

  He caught the beer and gestured with his arm. “Come on. I put two lawn chairs on my porch today. Let’s sit out there.”

  His chair was further back on the wooden porch floor than hers, so he pulled his cap down a little and watched her. He tipped his beer up to his mouth when sweat from the bottle rolled down his thumb, but kept his gaze on the woman beside him.

  It occurred to him that he was spending an inordinate amount of time watching Grace Elliot, but he was a writer, and that’s what writers did. At least, that’s what they told everyone. It gave them a perfect excuse for doing absolutely nothing.

  He found himself admiring the straight line of her slender back, the tawny gold of her neck and her trim legs. It was too bad those legs ended in such thin, bony feet. Or was it? Her feet, like her hands, were neither pretty nor particularly feminine. But, again like her hands, they were strong and capable and forward-moving.

  They didn’t look too bad, really.

  She turned to him, and under the yellow porch light, he decided her eyes weren’t plain brown after all, but the warm, spicy hue of nutmeg. He remembered his mother adding nutmeg to things when he was a kid. It had enhanced the flavor of such basic things as French toast and eggnog, turning them into something special.

  Something special. He was pretty sure that defined Grace Elliot. Who’d have thought it? And he needed to stop thinking it. It might be all right to get interested in Elliot’s little sister if he were in the market for marriage, kids and that whole business, but Dillon was pretty sure Steven would come unglued if his best friend and Grace had a summer liaison. Them both being in their thirties and the fact that Steven had had a few liaisons himself wouldn’t hold a lot of water when it came to arguing that particular point.

  “Come on, Campbell,” she said. “This isn’t getting the painting done.”

  He stood and stretched out a hand to help her to her feet. Not that Grace ever needed—or accepted—help. But he left his hand there anyway, and felt the heat of h
er nutmeg gaze when she looked up at him.

  Then she laid her hand in his.

  Chapter 5

  It was no use.

  Grace had taken her lengthy bath in the claw foot tub, shaved her legs and nicked her ankle right on the bone where it hurt most, and put on her chenille robe. She’d poured a tumbler full of the expensive wine Steven had brought a case of and sat on the couch with the book she’d gotten at the library when she’d read to the kids earlier in the week. Louisa May slept on the couch back, twitching her tail occasionally and smacking Grace in the face with it. Rosamunde dozed contentedly in the baseball cap Dillon had left on the lamp table. The window behind the couch was open, affording Grace a cooling breeze scented by the rain that had fallen that evening.

  She’d already gotten up once and closed the pocket doors between the living room and the dining room. But she could still hear it.

  Laughing. There were Jonah’s guffaw, Maxie’s theatrical trill, and the husky whoop that was always such a surprise coming from Promise’s soprano throat. Now and then another laugh slipped in, quieter than Jonah’s but no less gleeful. Dillon was there too. They sat on the screened porch, a good forty feet from where Grace sat with her feet up, and still she could hear them.

  They were playing Monopoly. Grace hadn’t played that since the day before her mother died. She remembered that last game, the board balanced on a bed tray across Debbie Elliot’s legs in the room that smelled of Cashmere Bouquet talcum powder and sickness and medicine. Faith had sat on one side of her mother, Promise on the other, and Grace at the bed’s end.

  “Sit on my feet a little, baby,” Debbie had said. “You keep them so nice and warm.”

  Grace had won the game, and the next day—when Debbie was dead and life for the rest of the Elliots had irrevocably changed—she had hated herself for buying Boardwalk and Park Place and forcing her mother into bankruptcy.

  “I made her die,” she’d told Steven.

  “Her heart made her die,” he’d responded, but Grace hadn’t really believed him until he became a cardiac surgeon.