Island Summer Love

by Amy Belding Brown

  “Oh, yes I did, Hannah!” Allison squatted to embrace the child. The smell of the sun in her hair made Allison want to bury her face in the soft curls.

  A few moments later she heard Martha’s excited giggle.

  “Come on! We don’t want to miss the auction!” Martha came up to her, urged Allison to her feet. “I told Cabot and Brent to save us some seats.”

  Martha pulled her away from the children, and Allison reluctantly followed her down a path behind the row of houses to a barnlike structure. It was filled with people who were milling around happily, chatting with each other in little groups and sitting in the folding chairs which were set up in jumbled rows. They found Brent and Cabot deep in conversation in the fifth row back.

  When Martha called and waved cheerily, both men’s heads went up.

  “We saved you a place,” Cabot called. He stood up, while Brent swiveled in his seat. Allison followed Martha past the people in the row and watched her drop into the empty chair between Brent and Cabot. The only other empty seat in the entire row was next to Brent. She slid into it, trying not to touch him, but the chairs were set very close together, and her arm settled unavoidably against his. She looked quickly away, wondering if he could hear the rapid pounding of her heart.

  Joe Barnes, the auctioneer, was a large, heavyset man who opened the proceedings with a series of Maine stories, all told in the lilting, down-east accent that Allison was beginning to love. When he began auctioning off the array of “attic treasures,” as he called them, his transformation was striking. He was no longer the lazy, slow fisherman, but a fast-talking, clever manipulator of the crowd.

  Allison enjoyed herself, in spite of the distraction of Brent’s closeness. Her only moment of disquiet came when Martha bounced up to the front of the pavilion, dragging Cabot with her, to examine one of the articles she wanted to bid on. They stayed there, chatting with townspeople for several minutes, while Allison sat in uncomfortable silence beside Brent, deliberately looking away from him, but intensely aware of the warmth of his body next to hers.

  When he placed his hand on the back of her chair and spoke, every fiber in her body tensed.

  “You could look at me, you know,” his soft voice challenged her. “Isn’t it considered impolite to ignore the person you’re sitting next to?”

  She turned her head, made herself smile at him. “I’m sorry. I’m just having a wonderful time looking around. It’s so picturesque here.”

  He looked at her, hard. “It doesn’t suit you, Allison.”

  “What?” Her cheeks reddened.

  “That pseudosophisticated tone. Cabot may be fooled, but I’m not.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She crossed her arms quickly over her breasts.

  “Yes, you do.” He leaned toward her and his hand slid under her hair, rested on the back of her neck. She almost gasped with the thrill that went through her. “It’s not going to work, you know,” he whispered, his fingers burning against her skin. “I can only keep my distance for so long on an island this size. I’ve stayed clear of you for two weeks. But I’m afraid I’ve reached the limit of my own willingness to go on with this charade.”

  “Then maybe I should go back to Boston.” There was a bitter taste on the back of her tongue.

  “No. Wrong solution to the problem.”

  “Well, what are you suggesting I do, Brent?”

  “You know the answer to that, love.”

  “No!” she whispered. “I’m not going to break up with Cabot!”

  “Well,” he smiled, “at least you’re not still claiming that you love him.”

  Allison bent her head to hide the sudden tears in her eyes, and was relieved to feel his hand slide away from her neck. A moment later Martha and Cabot reappeared. She looked up at them with a grin of such false brightness that even Cabot looked puzzled. He reached out and squeezed her hand as he moved past her to his seat, but when his fingers slipped away, her own hand dropped heavily into her lap.

  Beside her Brent slid his arm casually over the back of Martha’s chair, and Martha leaned against him. Allison lifted her chin and forced herself to concentrate on the rippling melody of the auctioneer’s words.

  By the time the auction was over, Allison had managed to gain control of her tumultuous emotions. She was able to join in the superficial chatter as the four of them returned to the Cutler house, weighted down with the collection of worthless items that Martha hadn’t been able to resist.

  “You have to stay for lunch,” Martha commanded the two men. “Isabel fixed it this morning—it’s already in the fridge.”

  Brent shook his head. “I’ve got other plans for this afternoon.”

  Martha pouted playfully. “The deal was, you have to spend the day with me.”

  He pointed an admonishing finger at her. “The deal was, I’d take you to the dance. Nothing more. You know I don’t like being tied down. If I want to be somewhere, I’ll be there.”

  Martha sighed with an exaggerated shrug of her shoulders. “Okay, but you have to pick us up at five so we can all go to the supper together.”

  “Right.” He glanced at Cabot. “Want a lift?”

  “Thanks. I’m sure Allison needs some time to get ready for the dance. She looks a bit disheveled at the moment.”

  Brent gave him a quizzical look and then studied Allison thoughtfully. She felt his eyes travel the length of her body.

  He grinned. “She looks pretty good to me the way she is.” He turned and was gone before it registered to Allison that he’d just winked at her over the top of Martha’s head.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Allison agonized over her clothes all afternoon. She took the pink lace dress out of her closet a dozen times and kept putting it back again. She knew the color emphasized the rosy fairness of her skin, but the cut and style of the dress seemed too bold, too sexual, for Harper’s Island. She considered and rejected the denim skirt. Comfortable as it was, it was too casual for the dance. That left her with only two choices: a cream-colored knit dress that hugged her breasts and fell in soft folds from her waist, and draped her arms in wide bell sleeves; and a pale blue linen shirtwaist, with a high lace collar and pleated bodice. She didn’t dare ask Martha for her advice, knowing that her friend would argue for the pink lace because it set off the dress she was planning to wear.

  She finally decided on the knit dress. It was simple and summery, and the contrast with her hair was stunning. She looked thoughtfully at her reflection in the mirror. She hadn’t really given much thought about how to wear her hair. She hadn’t had much time to experiment since she cut it, but there was still probably enough length to put it up in a small twist on the top of her head. Cabot would certainly like it that way. For a rebellious moment she yearned for her long curls. How lovely they used to look against the creamy dress! She sighed and gazed into the mirror, fingering a short tendril. She imagined herself twirling around the dance floor in Cabot’s arms with her hair spinning out behind her in glorious, auburn profusion.

  She sighed and shook her head. There was no use crying over spilt milk. Her long curls were gone forever. Quickly, she piled her hair on top of her head and secured it tightly with combs, telling herself firmly that, since she was going to the dance with Cabot, he was the man she wanted to please.

  At five o’clock she was wearing the knit dress, a white silk flower in her hair, watching the sun sink toward the water from Isabel’s living room window. It was strange how her heart was hammering away, as if she were about to go out on her first date. She put her hands to her cheeks, felt the heat and frowned. This was absurd! She forced herself to concentrate on Martha’s happy chatter. But when she heard Brent’s truck in the driveway, her chest tightened and she nervously fingered the white, hand-crocheted sweater Isabel had told her to bring along against the night air.

  “They’re here!” Martha cried, rushing to the window.

  Allison got to her feet and slowly followed her fr
iend into the kitchen to greet the men.

  Cabot came through the door first, wearing light blue slacks and a matching blazer; a white silk scarf circled his neck. She saw a flicker of approval cross his face, and knew she’d passed the test of his good-taste critique. She went to him immediately and was just slipping her arm through his when Brent entered the room.

  “Everybody ready?” He was dressed more casually than Cabot, in an open-necked lime shirt and brown corduroy jeans. He looked at Martha and then at Allison. She was aware of his eyes traveling the whole length of her body and back again. She forced herself to smile brightly up into Cabot’s face.

  “You both look ravishing.” Brent’s voice was hearty. “Let’s go eat.” He put his arm across Martha’s shoulder and steered her through the door.

  They walked along the road, Allison’s arm tucked into Cabot’s, Brent’s big hand clasping Martha’s. The sun was low in the sky; it threw long shadows across the bright green lawns as they walked up the hill past the houses. There were other people on the road, couples mostly, some with children trailing after them. Everyone looked freshly scrubbed and cheerful. They called out greetings to each other, and Brent was kept busy for most of the walk responding to the cheery shouts and giving them back in kind.

  The Bailey barn was a large wooden structure set into a dip in the hillside behind a tall bank of spruce trees. It was recently built, and Allison could see immediately that it had never been used as a real barn. The wide doors and windows were flung open, revealing long tables where people sat, conversing happily.

  They managed to locate four seats together along one side of a table, on the far wall opposite the kitchen. Allison sat between Cabot and Brent. After a few brief moments of consternation at Brent’s proximity, she found herself relaxing. To her great relief, Brent paid no attention to her, nor to Martha, either, who was seated on his far side, happily engaged in conversation with Dr. Johnson. Brent was in an exuberant mood, talking with the couple across the table, asking them about each of their four children. After a while Allison began to feel strangely isolated. Brent hadn’t said a word to her since the auction, and Cabot was discussing the stock market with the elderly woman next to him. She sat in silence, grateful that at least the food was delicious. When Isabel, who was waiting on table, came up behind her and gave her shoulder an affectionate squeeze, Allison beamed up at her out of sheer relief.

  “How’s it going?” Isabel asked. “Would you like some more coffee?”

  “No thanks. Everything’s delicious, though.”

  “Good.” Isabel bent down so that her mouth was close to Allison’s ear. “Could you give me a hand in the kitchen for a few minutes, or is that asking too much?”

  “No! I’d love to!” Allison followed Isabel eagerly, glad for the opportunity to share a few minutes of conversation with someone.

  In the kitchen Isabel put her to work spooning mashed potatoes from a huge pot into serving bowls. Several other women worked busily at the far end, washing pots and pans.

  “It was probably awful of me, getting you out here and putting you to work,” Isabel apologized. “But Natalie had to go feed her baby, and I wanted to tell you something.”

  “What?” Allison put down her spoon. Isabel was wiping her hands on her apron, a worried line etched between her eyebrows. “Something’s wrong, isn’t it?”

  Isabel shook her head. “No, it’s just . . .” She sighed. “Actually, I don’t really know why I’m talking to you. Brent’s the one I should be telling.”

  “What is it?” Allison leaned toward the older woman. “What’s happened?”

  Isabel licked her lower lip. “I just learned that Tracy Lawton’s on the island.”

  “Tracy Lawton?” Something contracted inside Allison’s chest.

  Isabel nodded. “Brent hasn’t seen her since she left last winter. I’m afraid . . .” She paused, rubbed her hands on her apron. “I’m afraid it might upset him to see her. But I don’t know how he can avoid it. She’s on her way over here right now.”

  Allison stared. Her brain didn’t seem to be working; it was as if it had been submerged in cold water. “Well,” she said slowly, “maybe Martha and I can get him out of here before she comes.”

  Isabel shook her head and reached to touch Allison’s arm. “I’m sorry. I probably shouldn’t have said anything to you. It’s just . . . I thought someone should know.”

  “No, you’re right. I appreciate your mentioning it.” Isabel gave her a small smile. “Well, if he leaves suddenly, you’ll understand. You can explain to Martha.”

  Allison nodded. “I guess I’d better get back to my table. Thanks.”

  She walked out of the kitchen and crossed the wide floorboards to the table, her eyes scanning the barn for anyone who matched the description of Tracy Lawton. When she sat back down, Cabot leaned toward her, smiling.

  “I missed you, darling,” he murmured into her right ear.

  She smiled back at him, but there was something cold in the center of her back. She was startled by the sudden realization that she didn’t believe him.

  She looked down the line of tables toward the door, glanced sideways at Brent. He was talking with Martha, tilting his tall body toward her. His blond hair looked soft under the light.

  The door opened a few minutes later, revealing a small group of young well-dressed men and women. Allison instantly knew which one was Tracy; the long hair and the startlingly dark eyes were dead giveaways. The woman was slender and graceful, and she walked with a pronounced sway of her hips. She wore a form-fitting black sheath that made her deeply tanned skin glow. She had her arm linked around the elbow of a tall, dark-haired man who looked like a male fashion model.

  Allison glanced at Brent. He had straightened in his seat and was staring at the group, who still stood in the doorway, laughing and talking among themselves. She had an impulse to put a solicitous hand on his arm, but she didn’t move. He rose slowly to his feet.

  Martha looked up at him. “What is it, Brent?”

  “There’s someone I have to see.” He was smiling; a thin, strained smile.

  Martha followed his glance. “Who are they? I don’t recognize any of them.”

  But Brent didn’t answer; he merely slipped out of his seat and strode down the row of tables toward the door. Allison watched as he made his way to the group. She saw the black-haired woman turn toward him, smiling, as he came up to her. A moment later he had taken her by the arm and led her outside. The rest of the group stood for a moment in surprised immobility before they were escorted to a table by a gray-haired woman in a flowered apron.

  “Who is that woman?” Martha said. Her voice was indignant. She scowled at Allison, who gave her a sympathetic smile.

  “Her name is Tracy Lawton. She’s somebody he met last winter.”

  “How do you know all this?” Martha asked. She slid into Brent’s chair so that she could be next to Allison.

  Allison shrugged. “Isabel told me.” She knew that Cabot was looking at her. She turned and smiled at him. “I think I know stories about practically everyone on the island, after living with the Cutlers for three weeks.”

  Cabot frowned. “I’m not surprised. These people don’t have much entertainment except for country music and local gossip.”

  Martha laughed knowingly.

  Allison felt herself bristle. “I think these people are wonderful!” she said hotly. “And what’s wrong with country music?”

  “Nothing, if you’re living in the boondocks.” He glanced at Martha, who laughed again. “It’s just not the sort of thing I care to listen to. Nor does anyone else I know.”

  “Well, it may come as a shock to you, Cabot, but I happen to like country music!” Allison knew her face had reddened dramatically and that her voice was much too loud. She pushed her chair away from the table. “If you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll go see if I can help out in the kitchen.” She stood up quickly, bumping her hip on the table. Cabot’s glass of
water sloshed dangerously close to spilling.

  “Allison!” His voice was a hiss. “Sit down!”

  She ignored him, whirling away from the table and heading for the kitchen. Her heart was slamming against her ribs; there were drops of perspiration along her hairline.

  Isabel met her at the door. “You look like you just lost your best friend!” She pulled Allison into the kitchen, tucked an arm around her shoulder.

  “I think maybe I did.” Allison gave her a stricken look. “Brent left to see Tracy, and then Cabot made a nasty comment—” She blinked against the stinging sensation in her eyes and looked at Isabel. “I came to see if I could help before I head back to the house and go to bed.”

  “But my dear! You can’t go home now! The evening’s just beginning!”

  A tear welled up and escaped Allison’s left eye. She shook her head. “I can’t cope anymore . . . everything’s falling apart.” She glanced at the women workers, who were busily washing dishes and storing leftover food in large containers. They were studiously ignoring her, but she sensed they were hearing every word she said.

  Isabel saw her glance, and steered Allison into a little side pantry. “It can’t be as bad as all that. Now tell me something: how did Brent look when he saw Tracy?”

  “I don’t know—upset, pale.”

  “Was he smiling?”

  “Sort of. But he didn’t look very happy.”

  Isabel let out a long sigh. “Well, that tells me that I still know my grandson pretty well. Unless I miss my guess, he’ll be back here inside of five minutes. He’s on the cleanup crew, you know, and the supper’s almost over.”

  Allison gratefully accepted the tissue that Isabel handed her and wiped her eyes. “I guess I’d better go apologize to Cabot. I left in kind of a huff.”

  Isabel patted her hand. “That’s a good idea, dear. Lovers should always make up as quickly as possible after they quarrel.” Allison opened the door from the kitchen to the main hall, and was startled to see that only a few people were left sitting at the tables. There was no sign of either Cabot or Martha. “Oh dear,” she sighed, giving Isabel a gloomy look, “he’s already gone. I was so angry, I just left. I didn’t think he’d leave, too.”