A Summer Remade
By
Nicole Deese
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
A Summer Remade—©2015 by Nicole Deese
Kindle Edition
Cover Design by Humble Nations Covers © 2015
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior permission of the authors.
Dedication
To my readers.
The only people crazy enough to spend as much time with my imaginary friends as I do.
I appreciate you all.
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More books by Nicole Deese:
Letting Go series:
All For Anna
All She Wanted
All Who Dream
Love in Lenox series:
A Cliche Christmas
A Season To Love
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Let’s stay connected!
More books by Nicole Deese
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
About the Author
Chapter One
‡
One hour.
I’ve been on the phone with my mother for sixty straight minutes, and I’ve said approximately six words. Most of which are one syllable; half of which could be replaced by a hmm or even a caveman-like grunt.
The signal to my phone has dipped in and out, but no worries because no matter how long the gap of silence lasts, she’s still there.
Still talking.
The Bluetooth in my car is both a blessing and a curse.
I jam the clutch into the floorboard of my faithful Corolla and shift into fourth. The last ferry to the San Juan Islands leaves in just twenty-three minutes, but thanks to the pokey Golden Years tour bus, I might not make it aboard the punctual sea vessel. My only hope to salvage the worst summer of my life.
“…Your dad and I have also agreed on the holidays. We want to make this as easy as possible on everyone. We’re thinking you can spend Thanksgiving break with your dad since Grandma Sanders would be heartbroken if you didn’t show up for her big hoopla…and well, you know, she’s only going to be around for so long. And then you’ll be with me for Christmas.”
If I don’t speak now, I may actually vomit. “With you where, mom?”
“The condo.”
The condo. Two words that shouldn’t elicit a visceral reaction. Yet they do.
I need air. Right this second.
I crack open the window and a rush of salty air calms my restless gut.
“I thought you liked it,” she continues in a tone that borders on hurt.
“I don’t really remember it.” That’s not exactly true. I remember one wall, painted to match the ominous clouds of a coming storm. The backdrop to my nightmare come true.
I’d hoped the request to meet them at the model high-rise condo in Seattle would be the announcement of a fresh start, a new beginning, a decision based on the advice of their long-time marriage therapist.
But only one of my parents is moving to Seattle.
“Joss, you just saw it last week. Of course, I can add my own touches to it, make it homey.”
But nothing about that place would ever be home to me. It was as cold and sterile as the stainless steel appliances crowding the pocket-sized kitchen.
“And the den can double as a guest room, for when you stay with me.”
Taking a deep breath, a familiar mix of ocean, rust, and seaweed fills my lungs. I roll my neck and visualize the promise that awaits ahead.
A foghorn blasts in the distance.
“Joss? Where are you?” My mom’s voice has morphed into the robotic staccato of a dying phone signal. I couldn’t have prayed for better timing. The call cuts short. The second I’m stopped, I shoot her a quick text and then power down my phone.
Parking on the lower level of the ferry, I take my keys from the ignition, climb the nine white steps marked with faded caution tape, and push against the heavy metal door to the open deck.
And just like that, I’m free and going home. Not to the house I grew up in, but to the cabin that holds every treasured memory from my childhood. The same cabin I’ve visited every summer with my three closest friends.
Except for this one.
Sydney’s playing bridesmaid for her mother’s wedding—again. Darby has a once-in-a-lifetime audition in L.A., and Avery’s about to leave for a summer-long culinary internship.
But no matter how legit their reasons, this summer is one broken promise after another.
Thus the theme of my life as of late.
The ferryboat shudders to life and I grip the railing, a rumbly vibration under my feet. Dark water churns below, pushing and pulsing against the walls of the massive ship. I exhale, my breath lost to the cutting wind, and lift my eyes to the horizon.
This is the one view on earth that has the power to right wrongs, rewind time, and glue all the broken pieces back together again.
The white-capped Olympic Mountains that surround the San Juan Islands off the coast of Washington State are but a faint backdrop against today’s overcast sky. But their presence, their fortress-like protection which encompasses the Puget Sound and beyond, offer a breathtaking invitation to come closer. An invitation I accept.
The islands are a combination of rolling hills and fertile valleys, luscious green forests dominated by evergreen and pine, and patches of sandy beaches that border a rocky coastline.
And it’s this beauty, this mesmerizing wonder of my childhood summer home on Lopez Island—the heart of the San Juans—that stirs a belief in me that I can go back in time.
To a life before.
Before the fighting, and the packing, and the leaving.
A life before change.
Because the only chance to escape my future is to find comfort from my past.
*
“Holy Moses.” An odor so foul it could double as a torture device, rocks me back on my heels as I unlock the front door.
I yank my hoodie up over my nose and take a cautious step inside the cabin.
Rubbing my palm along the bumpy wall, I feel for the switch that will kill the darkness and shed some light on the cause of this rancid smell.
Click.
Nothing.
I flick the switch again. And again.
No. Way.
My hand fumbles for my phone in my back jean’s pocket, as if this tiny piece of technology holds the same protection as a military-grade arsenal. I bring up the flashlight app and aim. Instantly, the kitchen to my left is basked in a florescent glow.
Clutching my phone like a shield, I walk toward the fridge, its door slightly ajar. A box of old pizza, a tub of sour cream without
a lid, and a shelf oozing with greenish-brown slime—
“No!” My foot slips and my phone smacks against the floor, skittering across the linoleum.
Along with my body.
I’m flat on my back, fridge door banging against the top of my head and sloshing yet another dose of nastiness into my hair. Peeling myself from the floor, I grip the counter and curse the liquid green vegetation leaking from the bottom of the kitchen’s largest appliance. Obviously my parents had just cause for firing their property management company. If I were a random vacationer and not their only daughter, I’d sue.
Ignoring the ache in my lower back, the throb in my right elbow, and the squish in my shoes, I zombie-walk toward my phone.
I freeze.
Eyes—reflective, beady little eyes that guarantee certain death—stare back at me.
A guttural war-cry wrenches from my throat.
And then I run.
Down the hall, past the kitchen, and onto the front porch.
Slamming the door closed behind me, my chest heaves in unison with my pounding heart. “This isn’t happening, this can’t be happening.”
A frantic glance around the heavily wooded darkness might cause a lesser person vertigo, yet my fear doesn’t make time for that. Ages ago I used to pretend this place was Snow White’s cabin, and right now, I’d give anything to have the Seven Dwarfs stumble out of the trees and tell me what to do.
The back of my wet shirt has suctioned itself to my bra, but I won’t let myself think of the toxic waste seeping into my pores. Instead, I close my eyes and will my mind to focus. Because if I don’t, I’ll crumple into a pathetic heap right here in these less-than-fairytale-like woods and never get up again.
And then I see it. The storage shed, the one that houses my bike. The same bike I used to ride to the Culver’s house as a young girl.
The Culvers.
Pat and Shirley Culver will help me. They live on this island year-round. And they are two of the most generously hospitable people I know.
I sprint to the shed, tear open the metal doors and find that my pink Huffy bike—equipped with rainbow tassels and boy band stickers—is still here. Right where I left it.
Finally, something is how it should be.
I’m huffing, peddling down the path toward the yellow Victorian house. I know this path well. Even in the dark.
Several branches whip across my cheek, snag my hair. But I don’t stop peddling.
An old tire, suspended like a pot-bellied ghost in the moonlight, is tethered to the Culver’s large oak tree out front. Yet my eyes focus on the house behind it.
The very dark house.
Four feet from their driveway, I squeeze the hand breaks, slide off the seat, and allow my Huffy to fall to the ground. Along with my hope.
I kick the bike. Hard.
“Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!”
The magenta hunk of metal from my youth doesn’t deserve this kind of abuse, but I know the second I stop kicking, the second I stop fighting, the second I stop running, I’ll hear their words again. “We’re getting a divorce.”
Only the deeply male voice I hear next belongs to neither of my parents.
“Can I help you?”
I whirl around, lungs seizing from my bike-killing exertion.
A half-naked man who looks like he could grace the cover of Surfer Magazine, stands in front of me.
I have no words.
Seconds ago, I was on the verge of a full-fledged panic attack, and now I’m on the verge of wishing I could crawl under those porch steps and never come out.
The shirtless man, whose chest muscles jump and glisten in the moonlight, blinks. Twice.
“Joslyn?”
Chapter Two
‡
What the—I take a step back. “How do you know my name? Do you work for the Culvers? Do you know where they are?” My ability to speak has magically reappeared.
His laugh has a bounce to it, a lighter-than-air quality, but it doesn’t last long enough to put me at ease. I cringe as his gaze travels from my wildly sticky brown mane, down my growth-stunted, five-foot-two frame, and parks on my green-gooed sneakers.
My dignity and self-preservation are at war with each other.
“I’m Drew.” The man-boy says as he rests his hands on defined hips.
Drew. I don’t know a Drew. “How do you know me?”
Shaggy, sun-bleached tresses tease the tips of tanned ears. My eyes follow the imaginary line leading to the center of his face: a Roman nose, a squared chin, a pair of perfectly parted lips.
He’s smiling.
It’s this feature, this stunning, radiant smile that cuts my breath short. I blink myself sane, only his smile doesn’t fade. Not when the standard be-nice-to-a-woman-in-distress timeline has passed. Or even when a giant drop of ooze falls from the end of my ponytail and splatters near my feet.
“You don’t remember me?” He tilts his head as if that gesture alone might pinpoint his face on my Handsome Stranger Inventory. It doesn’t.
I shake my head and the sour-tip of my ponytail lands inside my open mouth. I spit it out.
It’s fair to say the likelihood of making a good first impression is no longer in the realm of possibility.
“Why don’t we go inside. You look like you could use—”
“A bathtub full of bleach and some hard alcohol to forget this day ever happened?”
He laughs again. “Something like that.”
He turns toward the porch steps, as if I’m the type of woman who would just up and follow his amazingness inside a dark empty house.
Only I’m not. No matter how badly I wish I could claim otherwise, this guy is a stranger. I force myself to spell out the word, letter by letter, inside my hormone-crazed brain.
S-T-R-A-N-G-E-R.
“I’m not going inside.”
His steps halt. He looks over the top of one very muscular shoulder and throws another one of his electric-current grins my way.
I clear the weakness from my throat. “Stranger danger and all that.”
I glance down at the bike at my feet and remember the dark cabin and the hideous smell and the rabid eyes.
He hops down from the second porch step and walks toward me again. “Joslyn, I’m Drew Culver. Pat and Shirley’s grandson.”
My head snaps up to search his face.
I stare unabashed as a dusty memory crowds the forefront of my mind. “You’re Doo-Doo Drew?” And then the visual of a round, chunky boy running from the dock with mud caked on the butt of his jeans plays out before my eyes.
His laugh is a boom that shakes something loose inside my chest.
“But you were like…a foot shorter than me and…and you were uh…” Pudgy. Chubby. Liked the ice-cream a little too much.
“I grew up.” He shrugs as if those three little words could explain a transformation like his, swipes a t-shirt from the banister, and tugs it over his head. “Guess I’m not a stranger after all.” He holds out his palms to face me. “No danger to be had here. Promise.”
I bite my bottom lip to keep from grinning like a circus clown. “Alright, well, I think I might need some help.”
His gaze drifts down the length of me once more. “I think it’s safe to say you need a lot of help.”
*
Drew is bent at the waist, sucking in air like a cracked vacuum cleaner. “Wait—what were the eyes like again?” He’s actually crying. Real-life tears.
Hands on my hips, I shoot him my meanest glare. “This isn’t funny. I almost died.”
He tries to sober himself, tries to appear the ever-compassionate neighbor. He fails.
Two things I’ve learned about Drew Culver in the last ten minutes: 1. He loves a good story. 2. He’s a terrible actor.
“But it didn’t come after you? This uh, this creature of the night?”
I throw my arms out wide. “I didn’t stick around and wait for the attack!”
He leans back against the s
ofa I wish I were sitting on. But I’m much too aware of the nastiness that coats my body to do that to sweet Mrs. Culver’s furniture.
What I wouldn’t pay for a shower right now. And a hairbrush. Oh, good glory, a hairbrush.
“I think you should take a shower.”
I blink several times in a row, and my skin heats from a slow-rising simmer to a blistering boil.
He must re-hear his words, because for the fist time, Drew looks less than sure of himself. “I just meant…you obviously can’t go back there tonight. It’s dark and we won’t get anything accomplished until we have light. So, if you want to, you’re welcome to stay here. There’s a bed in my grandma’s sewing room at the end of the hall. Unless you have another option? Someone else you should call?”
At this, I curl my hand into a fist and punch my thigh. My phone. My stupid, stupid phone is inside the cabin with the freaky-eyed monster.
“No,” I say in a volume that would barely register above a whisper. “I don’t have another option.” Because trying to book a hotel room on the island during the height of tourist season is like trying to reach Santa Claus on Christmas Eve.
“Okay, then.” Drew stands and walks toward the hallway. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”
Humiliation burns through my veins as Drew’s footsteps grow faint. If he hadn’t been here tonight, what would I have done? Slept in my car? The first ferry out doesn’t leave until after sunrise tomorrow.
The thought makes my vision blur and my airway constrict. Pinching my eyelids shut, I swallow my ever-rising anxiety. Even if I caught the ferry back tomorrow, where would I go then? My dorm’s undergoing a complete renovation during summer break, and home is not home right now.
“Uh…I’m sorry in advance. I don’t think my grandma owns a pair of pants that aren’t elastic waist and polyester. This is the best I could come up with.”
I open my eyes.
Drew holds out what can only be described as a 1950s housecoat. It’s pale pink and sprinkled with white fluffy kittens. And, by the length of it, will reach just above my ankles. If there was even the slightest bit of sexual attraction between the two of us, this nightgown has murdered it. And buried it six-feet.
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