“Thank you.” Summer opened her arms. “All is forgiven. Let’s hug it out.”
Miss Huntington promptly closed the door on Summer’s foot, then opened the door back up.
“Ow!”
“A thousand pardons.” Hattie’s eyes gleamed. “An accident, of course.”
“I’m bleeding.” Summer stared down around her red, swelling toenail.
“I wasn’t finished.” Hattie addressed Summer the same way she did her live-in help.
“With what? Living up to your reputation as a—”
“With my offer.” And that polite smile turned sinister. “I’m willing to drop the lawsuit . . . on one condition.”
—
“Her paid companion?” Forty minutes later, Jenna stared at Summer, her brow creased in bewilderment. “What does that even mean?”
“Sounds very nineteenth-century.” Hollis pulled her hair back into a bun. “Like something from a Henry James novel.”
Summer unwrapped a 3 Musketeers bar. “It means I’m her bitch, as far as I can tell. Did Henry James write about that?”
“It’s probably just snob-speak for personal assistant.” Hollis brought up a Web browser on her cell phone. “Okay, according to the Internet, paid companions are expected to provide entertainment and conversation. They aren’t responsible for household chores.”
“So I don’t have to scrub her solid-gold toilets?”
“No. You’re supposed to help with things like threading her embroidery needles and serving tea. And keeping up with her correspondence.”
Summer rolled her eyes. “That anything like e-mail?”
“And you don’t get a salary; you get an ‘allowance,’” Hollis continued.
Jenna pretended to shudder. “Salaries are so vulgar.”
“As long as the check clears, call it whatever you want,” Summer said.
“You know, she wouldn’t need a paid companion if she weren’t so awful.” Jenna scrubbed the bar top with renewed vigor. “When you have to pay people to be your friend, it’s time to reevaluate your life.”
“Oh, but I’m not her friend,” Summer said. “Friends can call you out on your shenanigans; employees cannot. This way she can lord her power over me.” She drew herself up. “Well, this should be an interesting few months.”
“I still don’t understand why you’d even consider working for her.” Jenna passed Summer a glass of Sauvignon Blanc.
Summer put the glass to her lips and inhaled the fresh, fruity scent of the wine. She didn’t want her new friend to feel guilty or responsible for her indentured servitude, so she’d decided not to share the details of Hattie’s ultimatum. “Don’t worry, I can handle her. I talked her out of the lawsuit, didn’t I?”
Jenna wadded up her dish towel. “And how exactly did you do that?”
Summer waved this away with a secretive smile. “She’s a peach compared to some of the passengers I’ve put up with over the years. Besides, the bed-and-breakfast’s getting pricey, and she’s offering me a huge suite with ocean views.”
“Not worth it,” Hollis said.
“Deal with the devil,” Jenna agreed.
“Maybe, but if I stay here for the rest of the summer, I could keep hanging out with you guys . . .”
“And Dutch Jansen,” Hollis finished for her.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.” Jenna unwrapped a miniature peanut butter cup. “Get it, girl.”
Hollis was still shaking her head and calling for caution. “Miss Huntington has never had a companion—paid or otherwise—in all the time I’ve been here.”
“How bad could it really be?” Summer shrugged. “I’ll cut the crusts off her cucumber sandwiches and hold her parasol while she plays the occasional game of croquet.”
“Schedule her conference calls with all her lawyers,” Jenna muttered.
“Taste her food in case one of her many enemies tries to poison her,” Hollis said.
“You know, if you want a job, you can bartend here with me,” Jenna offered.
“Too late.” Summer peered down at her big toe, which was still smarting and red. “But the good news is I’ll be in town for the rest of the season.”
“Poor Dutch won’t know what hit him.”
Hollis giggled, and for a second, Summer glimpsed the naive, fresh-faced girl that had set off for Hollywood once upon a time. “I’ll tell Beryl to stock up on skimpy underpants.”
“You guys, no. Dutch and I are not a thing.”
“Really. That’s not what it looked like when he dragged you out of the bar the other night.”
“Nothing happened.” She tried to look innocent. “Scout’s honor.”
Hollis scoffed. “Uh-huh.”
“You can tell us,” Jenna said.
“Yeah, we can keep a secret.”
“No one in this town can keep a secret,” Summer said. “Besides, for real, there’s nothing to tell. Dutch and I are not dating. We’re not having sex. We’re not even kissing.” Yet.
“Really?”
“Really.”
“That is so disappointing.”
Summer wound a lock of hair around one finger. “Well.”
Hollis leaned in. “Yesss?”
“We might be having dinner on Saturday.”
“I knew it!”
“It’s no big deal. He just needs a plus-one for some stuffy country club thing, and I need a suitably boring cocktail dress. Do you think Retail Therapy is still open?”
“No, but let me make a call.” Jenna picked up the phone. “Hi, Beryl.” She paused. “Wow, word travels fast, huh? Yeah, that old witch was going to sue, but Summer Benson convinced her to call off the dogs. Yeah, I know, she’s my hero, too. Speaking of which, she’s actually at the Whinery right now, but I’m sending her your way. I need you to give her the First Lady treatment.”
chapter 15
“First you want a muumuu, then a red thong, now this? You’re all over the road, aren’t you?” Beryl unlocked the back door of the boutique and ushered Summer in as she flicked on the overhead lights.
“Yep,” Summer said.
“I knew I liked you.”
“So I’m going to this super-stodgy dinner.”
“Really? With who?” Beryl put one hand on her hip and waited. “Dutch?”
“Funny—I thought the sign out there said ‘boutique,’ not ‘interrogation room.’”
Beryl grinned. “I try to give my customers a full range of services.”
“Whatever.” Summer scowled. “I need to look . . . I believe dainty is the word. No cleavage, no sequins, no leather.” She felt the life seeping out of her just saying the words.
“Well, you do have dainty bone structure.” Beryl studied her face. “Look at those cheekbones.”
Summer waved this away. “Just make me look like I’m a lobotomized lady who lunches. On something other than grilled cheese.”
“This is all so exciting!” Beryl made a beeline to the sale section, and indicated Summer should follow her. “Dutch never takes anyone anywhere. He must really like you.”
“The old panties-in-the-wineglass.” Summer laughed weakly. “Works every time.”
“I mean, he’s taking you to a fancy dinner! At a country club! As his official girlfriend!”
Summer stopped laughing. “Whoa, there. I’m not his official anything.”
“If he’s taking you to a fund-raiser, you’re official.” Beryl genuflected. “Oh mighty man-wrangler, I bow to thee!”
Summer focused her attention on the racks. “My best friend almost got married last summer and strong-armed me into this tasteful mint green tea-length deal, so I thought I might be able to wear that. But then I remembered that I threw it in the garbage the second the ceremony wa
s over.”
“Just as well—you don’t want to wear a bridesmaid’s gown to a political fund-raiser. I have the perfect thing in mind. . . .” The hangers clicked against the metal rack as Beryl flipped through the inventory. “Now, where did I put that lilac chiffon?”
Summer caught a glimpse of her expression in one of the dressing room mirrors. She looked pinched, anxious, pale. “That sounds like an ice-skating costume.”
“It’s going to look fabulous with your skin tone.” Beryl plucked a demure lavender cocktail dress from the rack. With a modest bateau neckline and a full, filmy skirt, it was the polar opposite of everything else in Summer’s wardrobe.
Summer shied away as Beryl tried to hold the dress up to her shoulders. “I have a strict policy against pastels. I should have mentioned that earlier.”
Beryl gave her a little push toward the dressing rooms. “Stop stalling and go try it on.”
Four minutes later, Summer was staring at a version of herself she almost didn’t recognize. The light purple fabric was formfitting without being clingy and the hemline hit midknee.
“Too stunned to speak?”
“Stunned isn’t the word. I look . . .” Summer paused to tamp down the dry heave rising in her throat.
“Appropriate for a fund-raiser at a country club?”
Summer shook her head. “It just screams . . .”
“‘I’m dating the hottest mayor in Delaware’?”
“I feel like this should come with white gloves and a flowered hat. And a chastity belt.”
“You do need accessories.” Beryl rushed to the shelves by the cash register, then rushed back with a slim silver headband, which she arranged in Summer’s choppy blond hair. She stepped back to assess the effect and smiled. “There.”
“I’m wearing a headband,” Summer informed her reflection. “Next up, the apocalypse.”
“You look like a punk rocker pixie at charm school!” Beryl gushed. “I die.”
Summer yanked at the material brushing her collarbones. “I feel like I’m choking in this neckline.”
“A V-neck would be better with your face, I agree, but you want to play it safe. Trust me.”
Summer ripped off the headband. “Why did I agree to this, again?”
“Because Dutch is the hotness and you want to get him into bed?”
“Oh, yes, that’s right.”
Beryl hummed a happy tune. “So a few hours in pastels will be worth it. Give me your credit card, and I’ll ring it up while you’re changing.”
Summer looked down at the lavender frock. “I don’t suppose there’s any way you’d let me keep the tags on and return everything after the dinner?”
Beryl just laughed.
“Please? I’ll be careful. I won’t eat or drink or dance.”
“Oh, that reminds me: You’re buying some dainty shoes to go with your dainty dress.”
“I have shoes,” Summer said.
Beryl raised one eyebrow. “You don’t have country club shoes, and don’t even front like you do. Now hand over your card and let me do my job. If you’re going to be with Dutch, you’ll be doing this a lot, so you better get used to the charm school look.”
“For the last time. I’m not with him.”
“Whatever you say.”
“No, I mean it.” Summer reached both hands behind her back and yanked at the zipper. “We have rules. Deadlines. Clear-cut expectations. It’s all very orderly.”
“You’re wearing a silver headband for him. You loooove him.” A few minutes later, Beryl had bundled everything up in tissue paper and shopping bags. “Come back when you’re ready to buy a wedding gown!”
Summer stuck out her tongue. “You’re dead to me.”
“Have a great time! Oh, and here.” Beryl grabbed the black version of the lacy red panties and threw them in the bag. “For good luck. Enjoy your deadlines and your rules, you crazy kids!”
chapter 16
On the evening of the fund-raiser, Summer barricaded herself in the bed-and-breakfast’s attic and tried to psych herself up for all that lavender and tulle by blasting old-school hip-hop on her iPod. With the resigned air of a martyr donning a hair shirt, she pulled the chiffon dress over her head.
When she checked her reflection in the tiny oval mirror in the corner, she had to turn off the music right in the middle of Run D.M.C.’s “It’s Tricky” because the contrast between the downbeat and the dress design was bringing on a headache.
She looked like she was getting ready for prom. In 1958.
Horrified, she snatched up her cell phone and dialed Emily, who refused to treat the matter with the solemnity it deserved.
“What are you so worried about?” Emily asked. “I thought you hobnobbed with politicians on the regular.”
Summer stepped away from the mirror, bonking her head against the sloped ceiling. “If by ‘hobnob’ you mean that I pour them gin and tonics and then fend them off when they try to snake their hands up my skirt in the middle of meal service, then yes, I routinely hobnob with politicians. But fund-raisers? Small talk? Rhetoric and platforms and whatever? Not my scene.”
“Well, look on the bright side. You’re not thinking about Aaron anymore.”
Bonk. “Aaron who?”
“Exactly.” Despite being inundated with scheduling difficulties and studio demands, Emily sounded chipper and cheery. “This guy must be quite the charmer if he can sweet-talk you into lilac chiffon.”
“That’s the problem, Em. He’s not a charmer.” Summer paused. “Well, sort of. He’s charismatic, but it’s not all practiced and manipulative. He’s . . . nice.”
“Okay. I’m waiting for the bad part.”
“No, I mean he’s really nice.”
Emily laughed. “And that’s a problem because . . . ?”
“You know how I am with men. I like to play a little rough.”
“Are we talking about Fifty Shades of Grey stuff? ’Cause if we are, I’m going to need a margarita before we continue.”
“No, no, that’s not what I’m saying.” Summer gnawed the inside of her cheek. “I’m used to master manipulators. Take-no-prisoners psychological warfare followed by hot sex. ‘Nice’ puts me off my game.”
There was a long pause on Emily’s side of the line, so Summer kept blathering.
“I mean, I’m offering to be his dirty little secret, and he’s taking me out to a country club to meet all his fancy friends? Who does that?”
Emily sighed. “You know you have serious emotional problems, right?”
“Of course I know that. Everyone knows that.” Summer started brushing her hair with renewed vigor. “Let’s stay focused. What am I going to do?”
“Here’s an idea: Why don’t you go meet all his fancy friends and have a good time?”
Summer’s stomach churned. “I should probably cancel. I think my spleen might be acting up.” She glanced down at the whitewashed floorboards. “And I have a splinter.”
Emily laughed and quoted their favorite line from Pretty Woman: “‘Call me when you’re through. Take care of you.’”
“You know, when you were going through a romantic crisis, I didn’t laugh at you,” Summer said. “I listened. I helped.”
Emily snorted. “You forced me to go to a male strip club.”
“Exactly. I helped.”
At six o’clock, she heard a knock on the door, but couldn’t bring herself to open it.
“Summer?” Marla’s voice drifted up from the landing. “Your date’s here.”
Summer dropped the hairbrush.
A few moments later, she heard another light rap.
“Keep knocking,” Marla’s voice urged. “I know she’s in there.”
“Summer?” Dutch sounded both concerned and amused.
She forced out
her breath in a dry cough. “Yeah?”
“You okay in there?”
“Absolutely! Almost ready.” She grabbed the sparkly silver headband and set her jaw.
But she could not bring herself to actually put it on. So she stood there, clutching the row of rhinestones, for what felt like forever. The sharp little prongs bit into her palms.
“Do you need a few minutes?” Dutch called. “I can wait downstairs.”
“I made iced tea!” Marla exclaimed.
“No, I’m ready,” Summer replied. “I just . . . uh . . . Any minute now.”
Dutch’s voice changed from concerned to cajoling. “I can’t tell if you want me to take the door off the hinges or leave and never call you again.”
Both. She sidled closer to the door and said, “I don’t want you to leave.”
“So I should go find a screwdriver, then?”
She took a deep breath, shoved the headband into her hair, stepped into her ivory shoes, and, without glancing in the mirror, flung open the door.
Dutch took a step back and smiled at her. “You look . . .”
Marla actually said the word “Squee!” then skedaddled back to the lobby.
“You look beautiful,” Dutch finished.
She had no idea how to respond, so she volleyed back with, “I have to tell you something. There’s been a slight change of plans, and I’m going to be in town a little longer than two weeks.”
“Okay.” He seemed to be staring at her headband.
“I’ll be here at least another month, maybe longer. Which I know is a violation of our pact.” She went to fluff her hair, then realized that the headband was in her way. So she pivoted, grabbed her clutch (ivory, beaded, borrowed from Hollis), and marched toward the stairs. “But we can still stick to the original agreement: two weeks. I don’t want you to think that—”
“Summer.” He said her name quietly but firmly and reached for her hand. “Let’s go have dinner.”
“Two weeks is what we agreed on.” She clutched her clutch until her knuckles went white.
“It’s fine. Don’t be nervous.”
Cure for the Common Breakup Page 12