Summer with My Sisters

by Holly Chamberlin

“Soon,” Poppy promised, and she meant it. “Very, very soon.”

  Chapter 79

  “Ian,” Poppy said, “you need to leave.”

  Ian looked up from the pile of pancakes he was rapidly consuming. “Why?” he asked, his mouth full.

  “Because I told you to,” Poppy said, wiping up a bit of spilled maple syrup from the countertop. “Honestly, I don’t know why I invited you to come here.” Because I was weak. A pushover. But not anymore.

  Ian swallowed, took a slug of coffee, and smiled. “Because we’re friends.”

  Did he really believe that, Poppy wondered. Could he? “No, Ian,” Poppy said. “We’re not. I don’t think we ever were.”

  Ian said nothing for a moment as he wiped his mouth and beard of pancake crumbs. “You know,” he said, putting his crumpled napkin next to his plate, “now that we’re on the subject, you kind of asked me here under false pretenses.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Ian laughed unpleasantly. “You know exactly what I mean. I thought we’d be sleeping together, but then you stick me on the couch in the study. What’s that about?”

  Poppy knew she shouldn’t be surprised by this caveman-ish attitude, but she was. Surprised and somewhat sickened. “Ian,” she said, her voice higher than it needed to be, “we haven’t been—involved—for almost a year! Why would you ever think I was going to sleep with you?”

  “Since when did you get all Puritan?” he shot back.

  Suddenly, Poppy was overcome by an anger so intense it frightened her. “You never even sent me or my family a card!” she cried.

  “What?”

  Poppy took a deep breath. It wouldn’t do to have a stroke over Ian’s emotional negligence. “When my father died,” she said more calmly. “You never even sent us a sympathy card. What sort of friend is that?” The sort of friend I never should have allowed in my life—or in my home.

  Ian laughed again. “You’ve got to be kidding. Those things don’t matter. Greeting cards, all those made-up holidays, they’re all just money-making scams.”

  “Those things do matter,” Poppy argued. “They matter to me and if you really knew me even a little you would have understood that. Allie knew that. She came to the funeral. She’s a real friend.”

  “The way you go on about Allie.” Ian squinted at her. “Are you two doing it or something? Is that why you banished me to the study?”

  “You make me sick, Ian.”

  Ian pushed away from the counter, the legs of the stool scraping on the tile floor. “Fine,” he said. “I’ll pack my bags and leave tomorrow morning. I made a date with this girl I met last night.”

  “I want you to leave this afternoon,” Poppy said firmly.

  Ian shrugged and stalked off toward the study, presumably to pack, and Poppy made a vow not to lay eyes on him again. And she would apologize profoundly to her sisters and to Allie for bringing him into their home.

  Poppy scraped the remains of Ian’s breakfast into the trash and put the dish, cup, and silverware into the dishwasher. When she turned back toward the counter she spotted the letter from the scholarship committee at Adams College. Really, she thought, what was the harm in accepting the offer? If after some time she did feel she was in over her head or too uncomfortable among the scholarly types she could always quit, having at least the satisfaction that she had made the effort. She pulled her cell phone from her pocket and made the call.

  Chapter 80

  Evie stopped short at the door of the sunroom. Allie was standing in front of a wooden easel, her back to the door, gesticulating wildly with a paintbrush.

  “Come on!” she cried. “Seriously? Allie, use your . . . Use whatever it is you’re supposed to use! It’s just a freakin’ picture!”

  “What are you doing?” Evie asked, stepping into the room and trying to keep the amusement out of her voice.

  Allie didn’t turn away from the easel. “Making a massacre of this piece of expensive canvas.”

  Evie went over to Allie and her easel. “It doesn’t look so bad to me. It’s that plant over there, isn’t it? The one with the yellow flowers?”

  “Nice try. It’s that lamp over there, the one with the Tiffany-style shade.”

  “Well, it’s still . . . pretty.”

  “No need to be nice. I know I suck.” Allie sighed and put her palette and brush on the easel’s shelf. “The thing is I’ve really tried, but I just can’t seem to make what I see in front of me appear on the paper. There’s this huge disconnect somewhere. I am profoundly untalented when it comes to painting and drawing and that’s that.”

  “Maybe you should take some lessons,” Evie suggested.

  “I have. And I’ve only succeeded in embarrassing myself in front of the others in the class. I give up. Why don’t you take my paints and see what you can do with them?”

  “Thanks,” Evie says, “but I don’t know how much longer I’ll be around. I mean . . .”

  “Well, use them while you’re here.”

  “I used to like . . .” Careful, Evie told herself. Be careful with what you reveal, especially to an adult.

  “What?”

  “Nothing. Just that I used to paint a bit when I was a kid.”

  Allie titled her head and eyed the canvas. “Well, pretty much anyone has to be better at painting than I am, even a kid.”

  “You have paint on your nose.”

  “Do I?” Allie attempted to cross her eyes to get a view of her nose.

  “Don’t do that!” Evie laughed. “Trust me, it’s there.”

  Allie sank into a chair and Evie took the one across from her.

  “What’s it like working at The Clamshell?” Allie asked.

  “It’s okay. Billy—Mr. Woolrich—is really nice. I wish he would get married again. He seems so lonely.”

  Allie smiled. “Marriage isn’t always the answer to loneliness, believe me. But it’s nice of you to want him to be happy.”

  Evie smiled. Her father, she thought, just like Billy, hadn’t asked to be abandoned. An odd thought crossed her mind. Maybe someday her father would find someone new to love and to love him in return, in spite of what had happened to him, in spite of what he had done and failed to do. She wondered how she would feel about that. Would she want to destroy the new relationship in retaliation for what had happened to her mother? No. It was a sickening thought, she realized, to want to hurt someone so badly, to deprive them of simple happiness. Even her father. Especially her father. Someone she . . .

  “I worked as a short-order cook once,” Allie said, breaking through Evie’s troubling thoughts. “Just for the hell of it. I didn’t need the money. I just thought, there’s a slice of life I know nothing about.”

  Evie laughed. “And? What happened?”

  “I quit after a week. I kept burning myself on the grill or the griddle—that’s a cute word—or whatever it was called. All that grease flying through the air. Ugh.”

  “The fry cook at work,” Evie said, “his name is Al, told me he’s been doing it for thirty-two years. I don’t know how he can stand the smell of grease day after day. I’ve only been at The Clamshell for a little over a month and already I’m sick of it.”

  Allie shrugged. “Maybe he can’t smell it anymore. People do get so used to things they stop even noticing them. Things and people. That’s why so many marriages—well, any long-term relationships—fade away into oblivion. One person stops really noticing the other or both people become blind to what they once found so special and interesting in each other.” Suddenly, Allie laughed. “Listen to me, going on about relationships! I had one ridiculous marriage when I was practically still a kid and nothing serious since.”

  “Do you want to get married again?” Evie asked.

  “Only if I’m in love with him and he’s in love with me,” Allie replied promptly. “I mean, really in love, with the good, the bad, and the ugly. Otherwise, no thanks. I’ve plenty of money—I’m lucky, did I tell you that?—to have mysel
f taken care of in old age. I’ll install myself in some swanky spa-like residence and be waited on hand and foot by people hoping to get what’s left of my millions when I die.”

  Evie thought it sounded like a cold and sad existence (though not as bad as being homeless), but she didn’t share her opinion with Allie. Besides, the less she said on any topic, the better. Already she had probably said too much, like telling Poppy she didn’t know French. What had she been thinking, reading the Balzac right out in the open? She had been lulled by a false sense of security. Hopefully, Poppy hadn’t noticed the title of the book.

  “I’ll be going back to Boston soon,” Allie announced.

  Evie was taken by surprise. “Why?” she asked. “I mean, do you have to leave?”

  Allie laughed. “There’s only so long I can freeload on Poppy! Not that she sees me as a freeloader. Not that I am a freeloader. We’re friends. I came here in hopes of doing her a service and I guess I’m thinking maybe my time is up. I’ve done what little I can. And Poppy does seem happier, less worried than she was when I showed up on her doorstep.”

  When, Evie wondered, would her own time be up? “It’s fun that you’re here,” she said. “I mean . . . You’re interesting.”

  “Thanks. Better than being boring. So, what about you? Are you planning to make Yorktide your home? I mean, after the summer, when The Clamshell closes for the season, will you be moving on?”

  Evie fought a black moment of despair. Why couldn’t everything just freeze at this moment in time, with them all together at this wonderful house on Willow Way! Now that Ian was gone it was even more of an idyllic spot than it had been . . .

  “Evie?”

  “Sorry,” she said. “I haven’t given it much thought.” My future.

  “Well, if you find yourself in Boston this fall, give me a call. I’ll give you all my contact information before I go.”

  Evie managed to smile. “Thank you,” she said. “Thanks.” Another safe haven, however temporary. She was grateful.

  Chapter 81

  “I’m glad you were free this evening.”

  Poppy smiled. “How could I say no to a sunset picnic, and on the beach no less.” And, Poppy added silently, I didn’t want to say no to you.

  Jon had shown up at the house with a big wicker basket in the bed of his truck. “It belonged to my grandmother,” he told Poppy as she climbed into the passenger seat. “It’s the most well-made thing I’ve ever seen. And it weighs about a ton even when it’s empty.”

  When he had spread a blanket on the sand Jon began to unload the basket’s contents. A bottle of chilled white wine, a large bottle of a specialty ale with one of those metal locking mechanisms, a wedge of Brie, a baguette, a bunch of grapes, and a giant chocolate chip cookie. “Nothing very original,” he said. “I’m not very good with menu planning.”

  “Neither was I until recently,” Poppy admitted. “And it’s lovely, thank you.”

  They had the beach to themselves except for a very tall man walking slowly behind his metal detector down by the water’s edge, and a few hopeful seagulls who stationed themselves within distance of catching any food that might be tossed their way.

  Jon handed her a glass of wine (well, a plastic cup of wine) and poured some of the beer in his own cup. “Cheers,” he said.

  “Cheers.”

  “So, what’s been going on since we last talked?” he asked.

  Poppy wondered where to begin—with the scholarship committee, with Ian’s departure, or with Evie’s arrival? She decided to start with the committee. “Well,” she said, “there is something kind of big. At least, it’s big to me. A few weeks ago I was asked to take my father’s place on the committee that awards the scholarship in my mother’s name.”

  “Really? Did you accept?”

  “Not at first,” Poppy admitted. “Honestly, I found the idea pretty terrifying, me in a room with a bunch of professors! I felt they’d all consider me a fraud. I’m sure I was only asked as a courtesy. But I finally worked up the nerve and said yes. I went to my first meeting last night.”

  Jon raised his cup. “Good for you. So, how did it go?”

  Poppy laughed. “I was a nervous wreck. But pretty much everyone was nice and the head of the committee, Dr. Dolman, explained very clearly the criteria the committee has set for the awarding of the scholarship. He gave me a file of information on the past two winners so I’d have a good idea of the sort of student they’re looking for.”

  “Pretty much everyone was nice?” Jon asked.

  “Yeah. There was this one guy, a professor of philosophy, who clearly thought I was a seriously poor replacement for my father. Which I am, of course, but . . . Let’s just say he seemed more interested in sneaking a look at my legs than in listening to what I had to say. Not that what I had to say was all that interesting.”

  “Poppy,” Jon said almost sternly. “Stop cutting yourself down! You’re just as smart as any academic. And a so-called professional shouldn’t have been trying to get a look at your legs.”

  “He was wearing a wedding ring, too.”

  Jon frowned. “You’re sticking with the committee though?”

  “Yes. Now that I’ve taken the first step some snobby creep isn’t going to scare me off!”

  Jon busied himself slicing a few pieces of the Brie with a white plastic knife, and then offered the paper plate to Poppy. Brie was her all-time favorite cheese.

  “Is that friend of yours still staying with you?” Jon asked suddenly. “The guy, I mean, not Allie.”

  “Ian. No.” Poppy laughed a bit embarrassedly. “I sent him back to Boston. He was getting on everybody’s nerves. Especially mine. And I finally realized he never really was a friend, not a true one.”

  “Good.” Jon looked down at his cup. “I mean, good that you—”

  “That I what? Came to my senses?” Poppy laughed more freely now. “Too bad it took so long!” Be brave, Poppy . . . “Jon, there was nothing between us, you know. There was once, but that was a long time ago and it was never serious. It was back before I began to grow up. I just wanted you to know that.”

  Jon looked up at her and smiled. “Thanks. I appreciate your honesty. And I can’t say I’m sorry to hear he’s history.”

  “He made Violet break out in hives. Really. She was allergic to him!”

  Jon laughed. “Poor Violet.”

  “And I really thought Daisy was going to pop him one. She’s not a violent person at all, but something in Ian brought out the thug in her.”

  “I suspect that Daisy’s one of those fiercely loyal people. Joel’s told me enough about her to make me think that if she even suspects someone she loves is being ill-used she’ll come out fighting.”

  “Joel’s absolutely right. And there’s something else to tell.” Poppy explained that Evie, one of the girls who worked at The Clamshell, was staying with them. “She’s an excellent houseguest and I really have no problem with her being there.”

  “But . . .”

  “But, well, I don’t know. At some point she has to move on. I mean, she can’t stay with us forever. Daisy says she’s trying to save enough money to pay a first and last month’s rent somewhere in town, but that could be a very long time. The Clamshell isn’t open all year round and she might have trouble finding a job for the winter months. The town really empties out.” Poppy sighed. “The problem is I can’t see myself being heartless enough to ask her to leave. I get the feeling she might be all alone in the world.”

  “Except for you and your sisters.”

  “And your cousin. Daisy said Joel considers Evie almost a sister.”

  Jon was silent for a moment. And then he said: “I hope you’ll keep me up to date on how things are getting on with Evie. I mean, if she can’t seem to get on her feet. I’d like to help if I can. With all the people my family knows in this area there’s bound to be someone with a room to let or a job to get her through until spring. Dad shuts the restaurant down for most of Jan
uary and after that there’s a skeleton staff until April, but if we put our minds to it we could probably come up with a job for Evie, at least something part-time.”

  “I promise to keep you posted,” Poppy said. “And thanks.”

  Jon shifted on the blanket so that he was facing Poppy, rather than sitting at her side. “I’ve been wanting to say this for some time now,” he began, “but I wasn’t sure I had the right.”

  Poppy felt her heart speed up, just a bit. “Oh?”

  “Well, I’m still not sure I have the right, but here goes. I think there’s enormous value in what you’re doing, Poppy. Being there for your sisters. I hope you see that.”

  “I do,” Poppy said. “Sort of. But remember, I didn’t choose to come home and play parent. I was told to. Sometimes I feel like I’m just following orders, being the dutiful daughter. I don’t feel like I’m doing anything particularly noble or selfless.” Poppy laughed. “Mostly all I do is complain about my responsibilities!”

  “Complaining,” Jon said with a smile, “can be underrated. But seriously, Poppy, sometimes it’s good enough just to play the part. The results can still be worthwhile. You might not be wholeheartedly devoted to being your sisters’ guardian, but you’re there. You’re making sure the bills get paid and dinner is on the table and the house is clean. There’s value in maintaining normalcy for those you love. There’s value in being reliable.”

  “Not very glamorous, being reliable, but I suppose you’re right. We all need—at least, we all want—someone on whom we can rely, at least part of the time. First, it’s our parents. And then . . .”

  “Yes,” Jon said. “And then. It’s like that great old song, ‘Someone to Watch Over Me.’ Total independence isn’t always ideal. Well, that’s just my opinion.”

  And suddenly, Poppy felt an unfamiliar and yet entirely welcome wave of emotion overcome her as she looked at Jon Gascoyne. She wondered if there was anyone on whom he could rely. On whom he wanted to rely. And suddenly she knew that she wanted him to want to rely on her.

  And then Jon leaned in and she did too and he kissed her and she kissed him. It was a very good kiss, Poppy thought, sweet though hinting at passion to come. She liked it very much.