One More Summer

by Liz Flaherty

  Sometimes, she still wondered. If Debbie had napped in the evening as she often did, would that hour of rest have made the difference? If Grace hadn’t sat on her mother’s feet with her eighty-five pounds of almost-twelve-year-old exuberance, would the final heart attack not have happened?

  But she refused to think about those things now, nor would she consider the game of Monopoly with an inward shudder of dread. She thought instead of the laughter that was dancing along her nerve endings, and wondered if anyone else was using the little iron as their token for moving around the board. The iron had always been her favorite. She liked the way it felt between her fingers.

  If she just got off her couch and wandered toward the porch like she was bored with her own company—which she was—would anyone make a big deal out of it? If Promise or the others acted surprised by her presence, Dillon Campbell would think she’d joined them just because he was there. Which was nonsense.

  Of course it was.

  She remembered how Dillon’s hand had felt when he pulled her to her feet the night before. She’d avoided unnecessary touch all her adult life, and one squeeze of Dillon Campbell’s fingers had her wondering if that hadn’t been a mistake.

  More nonsense.

  She tried again to devote full attention to the book, but finally gave up and laid it aside. She sat in the harsh light from the reading lamp and sipped her high dollar wine and listened to the laughter of the others. Isolation and loneliness wrapped around her, not new feelings by any means, but somehow deeper and darker tonight.

  Maybe this time, as Promise often accused, she was excluding herself and the loneliness was of her own making. Maybe if she stepped onto the back porch, no one would make a fuss and no one would make her feel as though she didn’t belong. It was, after all, her porch.

  Carrying her glass, she whispered open the pocket doors and strode barefoot through the deserted dining room and the kitchen with its ever-present light over the sink. After a moment’s hesitation, she pushed open the door to the porch.

  “Replacement power. Just in time.” Promise’s smile was wide and brilliant. Welcome to the human race. Grace heard the words she didn’t say. “Now that I’ve been trounced, Grace can take my place while I make popcorn. No one’s using your iron, so have at it.”

  Grace sat in the chair Promise vacated, taking the little metal iron from the Monopoly box. It still felt nice between her fingers.

  “I’m the banker,” Jonah informed her, passing money around the table. “Since I’m better at losing money than anyone else, I was unanimously elected.”

  “I don’t even know why I play.” Maxie sighed, fluffing her blond hair with heavily beringed fingers. “I seem to spend all my time in jail. Unless Dillon rescues me with his ‘get out of jail free’ cards,” she added with a flutter of eyelashes.

  “I’m just a soft touch for a pretty lady.” Dillon smiled at her, his eyes glinting silver in the dim, yellow light on the porch.

  Grace’s heart hammered against her ribs.

  Geezy Pete, Grace, grow up.

  She was losing on purpose. No one could play that badly by accident. Dillon’s mind was only half on the game—the other half was taken up with Chapter Seven—and he’d still managed to take what little of Grace’s money Jonah and Maxie hadn’t gobbled up before him.

  She ate popcorn one piece at a time, catching it between her small white teeth and savoring each bite, and committed business suicide on the game board. As Dillon watched her, sought to meet the opacity of her nutmeg eyes, and became rapt by how she ate her popcorn, he forgot both the game and Chapter Seven. He thought instead of how her hand had felt in his the night before, and remembered her body against him when she’d stumbled into him here on the porch. She was a full half foot shorter than he was, but everything had fit together snugly. She felt…right.

  It was his turn and he moved her iron by accident. Her hand closed over his wrist. “People have been shot for less, Mister,” she drawled, then hastily released him when he grinned at her.

  “You callin’ me out, little lady?” He replaced her iron and moved his shoe instead.

  It sang between them—the sexual tension he was able to describe so glibly in his books—and wondered if she recognized it for what it was. He certainly did, although it was different from his descriptions. Warmer, sweeter, infinitely more precious.

  “I need a walk,” he said, when the game was over, “to overcome my defeat at Maxie’s greedy little hands. Anybody up for it?”

  Promise’s answer made him frown. “Not me. This heat saps me. I’m for bed. You, too, Maxie?”

  “Me too.”

  “I just want to sit for a while.” Jonah moved to a rocker at the corner of the porch and took his pipe from the ashtray that rested on a table there. “Maybe smoke my pipe without the ladies hackin’ and chokin’.”

  “Grace?” Dillon raised an eyebrow at her.

  She gestured at her chenille robe. “I’m not exactly dressed for it.”

  Right away, Dillon imagined the robe lying across the foot of his bed, imagined Grace’s compact body as it must look when she climbed out of that massive tub upstairs. Jesus, Campbell, this is Grace you’re thinking about. Your best friend’s little sister who’s been a pain in your ass most of her life.

  “So, change,” he invited. “I’ll wait.”

  “Go ahead, Gracie,” Jonah said, his voice paternal as he relaxed in his rocker. “A brisk walk’ll clear the cobwebs right out of your head. Judgin’ by the way you played Monopoly, you got a few of them to clear out too.”

  “Thanks a lot, Jonah,” Grace said dryly. “All right. I’ll just be a few minutes.”

  When she rejoined Dillon, she wore sweat pants, a tee shirt, and sneakers with grass stains around the soles. Her hair, made bushy by the humidity brought on by the evening’s rain, was confined in a braid, but tight little ringlets sprang free around her face and at the nape of her neck. The errant curls softened her features to an almost childlike innocence that did nothing to dispel his sudden surge of testosterone.

  Once on the sidewalk, heading toward the Cup and Cozy, Dillon asked abruptly, “What’s wrong with Promise?”

  He sensed rather than saw the slump of her shoulders, barely heard the sigh that whispered between her lips. “Grace?”

  “She’s…having some physical problems.” The answer came after a long, uncomfortable silence.

  “Like what?”

  She hesitated again. “You know, female stuff.”

  No, he didn’t know. That’s why he’d asked. Good God, it was like talking to one of those cement block walls in the high school gymnasium. “You may as well tell me. If you don’t, I’ll just call Steven and ask him.”

  “No!” This time, her answer was quick and sharp. “She doesn’t want Steven to know about the problems, so I can’t tell you, either.”

  “Why not?” he asked impatiently, catching her arm in a loose hold and giving it a little shake.

  She flinched and pulled her arm free. “Because you’ll tell Steven.”

  “How do you know that? Steven and I haven’t exchanged confidences since we were in high school.” That was an out and out lie, but in this instance Dillon considered it worthwhile. How else was he to learn things?

  “I know that because if I were you and Promise were Steven, I’d tell Promise.”

  “That makes no sense whatsoever.”

  “I can’t betray a confidence,” she said flatly.

  “All right, fine. I’ll ask Prom myself.”

  “Excellent idea. Just don’t—” She hesitated, her features altered by something resembling fear. Or grief. “Just don’t badger her, okay?”

  “Okay.” Because her expression bothered him, he put his arm around her shoulders when they walked on. Let her stiffen up and pull away. Then she would be Grace again, and he’d know how to deal with her.

  But she didn’t. The shoulders that had been slumped squared under his touch, as he’d expec
ted, but she neither pulled away from nor leaned toward him. Just matched her stride to his shortened one and continued into the night.

  And he didn’t know how to deal with her at all.

  “The oncologist’s nurse suggested I cut my hair.” Promise’s knuckles were white where she held the glass of sweet tea. “She said it makes the hair loss less traumatic if you’ve already gotten used to not having a whole bunch of it.” She set down the glass and reached for Grace’s hands, holding them in a painful grasp. “I don’t know if I can do this, Grace.” Her breath caught on a sob. “It sounds so stupid, but losing my hair horrifies me more than the mastectomy. And right now, they both horrify me more than the idea of dying. How can that be?”

  “One step at a time.” Grace caught and held Promise’s gaze. “Today you get your hair cut, and that’s all you have to handle. Tomorrow you can help me with Mrs. Rountree’s laundry. We’ll think about Wednesday later.” Don’t do this, Promise. Don’t talk about dying.

  “I’ll go to Carol Whitney’s shop. That’s where Faith goes, and her hair’s always perfect,” Promise said after a minute. Her grip on Grace’s hands slackened. “We were all in high school together and I don’t mind if she knows what’s happening. Maybe she can even get me a wig. I’ll need one.”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” Grace gave her a measuring look. “I think bald might work for you.” Pick up the ball, Prom, and run with it. We can do this.

  After a moment of tortured silence, Promise said, “But, my God, my makeup line would be somewhere back here.” She touched the back of her neck where the red hair lay like curls of satin.

  “Faith’s kids are artistic. I’m sure they could put a mosaic on there with felt tip pens that would look great. And you could pierce your ears a whole bunch more times to draw attention to them.”

  “Lord, no. I almost fainted like Faith did when you pierced them for us the first time.” Determination settled on Promise’s features. “Well, let’s go. Let’s find out what a pixie will do for me.”

  They left the Cup and Cozy and walked toward Carol Whitney’s beauty shop. Grace gazed around. “Why is no one in the streets singing, ‘Onward, Christian Soldiers?’”

  “You just can’t get good street singers anymore,” Promise said sadly. “Unions, you know.”

  Grace shook her head. “Damn. Next thing you know, the lamplighters will be wanting night shift bonus.”

  “Greedy suckers.”

  By the time they reached the shop, next door to the Methodist church, Promise was laughing. Once inside, they stood for a moment enjoying the air conditioning. Carol came out of the back room, carrying a psychology textbook and eating a banana.

  Promise reached for the doorknob. “You’re busy. We’ll come back.”

  “No I’m not.” Carol swallowed hastily and dropped her banana skin through the push-in lid of a trashcan. “What do you need, Prom? A trim?” She smiled at Promise, then beyond her to Grace.

  “Uh-huh.” Promise sat in one of the two chairs before the wall-length mirror. “Actually, I need it cut.” She swallowed. “Short.”

  Carol’s eyes widened. “You do?”

  “She needs it, Carol,” Grace said quietly.

  The beauty operator’s response was instant. “Well, damn it all to hell and back. I’d heard—you know the Peacock grapevine—but I’d hoped…” She shook her head, blinking against moisture in her eyes. “Damn it.”

  Grace took one of the chairs against the wall, a giant plastic hair dryer behind her head. Swathed in a pink nylon cape, Promise looked about twelve, and more like she was in a dentist’s chair than a beautician’s.

  “Shoot.” Promise’s voice was shaky. “I feel like Jo March in Little Women.”

  Promise had cried when Debbie Elliot read them the part of the book where Jo sold her long mane of hair.

  Grace, on the other hand, had gone into the bathroom and sawed off her hair. She’d really liked Jo March.

  She ducked out from under the dryer and went to the other operator’s chair. “Why don’t you trim me up first, Carol, while Jo here builds up her courage?”

  “Lord, yes. I’ve been wanting to get hold of this mess since we were in high school.” Carol took the rubber band off the end of Grace’s braid and pushed her hands through the thick mass of hair. “What do you think, Prom? A razor cut? It’d be just like Sting with brown hair.”

  Promise whooped laughter, and Grace passed Carol a grateful smile before saying mildly, “You’re both bitches.”

  Carol tugged on her hair. “We’ll make that a dull razor.”

  She cut them both at the same time, talking all the while, so that Promise’s curls hit the floor behind the chair with a minimum of emotional trauma. Then she handed Promise the comb and hair dryer. “Play with it, make it feel like your own hair while I work on Grace. What do you think of bronze highlights?”

  Promise kept her back to the mirror and gazed at Grace with undue consideration. “Good idea.”

  “Am I to be consulted?” Grace asked.

  “Nope,” the other two women said in unison, and Grace acquiesced because Promise was laughing.

  Slowly, while Carol crimped aluminum foil around pieces of Grace’s hair, Promise turned to face the mirror on the wall. “As Steven would say—and probably will—holy balls.”

  The door to the shop opened and Faith came in. Ignoring her sister and Carol, she and took the hair dryer and comb from Promise’s limp hands and did a few minutes of the drying and fluffing routine that had always seemed to Grace like a weird sort of sign language. “You look beast. The twins informed me that saying ‘beast’ instead of ‘cool’ made me sound younger. I personally think it makes me sound strange.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Grace said. “It would be handy at church. Deac could boom out one of those prayers that makes everyone feel really inspired and instead of you saying ‘amen’ like everyone else does, you could rise from your seat and shout ‘beast!’”

  Faith clapped a hand to her chest in feigned shock. “Mrs. Rountree would have me thrown out of the Ladies’ Aid.”

  “See? It would make it all worthwhile.”

  Faith grinned at her, and for a moment Grace felt as close to her sister as she did to Promise. Oh, Faith, I do love you. I don’t know how you always manage to do the right thing, but bless you for it.

  “So, how’s Dillon?” Faith continued to fluff Promise’s hair. “I haven’t even talked to him.”

  “He’s wonderful,” Promise said, “isn’t he, Grace?”

  Grace shrugged.

  An hour and a half later, when Grace’s patience was stretched to its absolute breaking point and her backside was numb, Carol whipped off the nylon cape and said, “Voila! Faith and Promise, you can quit checking my homework now. What do you think?”

  Faith gasped, a smile blazing across her face.

  Promise clapped her hands. “Oh, Grace, you were in there all the time.”

  Grace said, “Would you mind turning me around so I can see?”

  Carol complied, and Grace stared into the mirror. She turned her head. This way. That. She tilted it forward. To the side. Carol, Faith and Promise beamed at her in the mirror, and she smiled back at them.

  Then she looked at herself again.

  “Well, geezy Pete.”

  Chapter 6

  The sight of Promise’s close-cropped hair hit Dillon like a fist to his stomach. She was as beautiful as ever, but the short hair emphasized the fragility he’d seen in her over the past few days. “…some physical problems,” Grace had said.

  He was afraid he knew now what those problems were. One didn’t live in today’s society without seeing the ravages of cancer. They were everywhere. Bald children in baseball caps were on television. People lost weight and heart until they became shadows of themselves. He’d heard all about the strides in research, the encouraging rise in cure rates, and that people lived on and lived well after doing battle with what had been called “the C wo
rd” or “the big C” in his childhood.

  But he didn’t really believe it. Iraq had irrevocably destroyed that innocence. People lived on after devastation, but they didn’t live well. They just walked around with haunted eyes and went through the motions of living.

  Dillon understood going through the motions. He’d written his last book that way—the book Grace hated. She had even, he recalled with some resentment, used those same words once. But it had made it all bearable, being able to stand outside himself and pretend he didn’t feel the pain.

  Why was he thinking of himself? He had seen Promise in the classroom on one of his visits to Peacock years ago. She’d brought him in to talk to her students about newspaper reporting, and he’d witnessed firsthand the rapport she had with the kids, the love. Oh, the love. What a loss it would be if more adolescents didn’t feel the soft touch of her hand on their heads, reap the benefit of her smile that was bright enough to light the sky.

  How would she cope? There was a vulnerability to Promise, even when she was well. Grace—strong, unyielding Grace—could have handled it better. She would have faced the challenge head on and beat the hell out of it.

  He didn’t examine the shaft of horror that thought sent coursing through him. Grace was…well, she was Grace, and he’d just let it go at that.

  Leaving the front window of the guesthouse, he went to the computer and tapped the save button, then pulled a shirt over his head and walked into the yard. Promise was at the clothesline, unpinning sheets and pillowcases and folding them where she stood.

  “Prom.” He took her elbows and turned her this way and that. “Very chic.”

  She smiled at him, although the gesture was wobbly at the corners. “Very diplomatic.”

  He released her elbows and cupped her face. “What can I do?” he asked. “How can I help?”

  She shook her head inside his light touch. “Just be around. Be my friend. Don’t tell Steven.”

  Well, she cut right to the hard part. How could he not tell Steven that the woman he’d loved all his life was…no, she couldn’t be dying. Could she?