“Let me take a wild guess: He was passionate, spontaneous, and searingly hot?”
“He was a duplicitous philanderer,” Hattie spit out. “Who asked me to marry him.”
“But it didn’t work out.” Summer tapped her head again and mouthed, “Psychic.”
Hattie fumed in silence for a moment. Summer could practically see black smoke coming out of her ears, like a polyester wedding gown burning in a bonfire. Finally, the older woman spit out another two words: “My sister.”
“Double betrayal.” Summer grimaced. “Brutal. Hey, you want to go to the Whinery?”
“It’s not even ten o’clock. The Whinery’s not open, and besides—”
“You can’t have this kind of conversation without a drink. Fact.”
Hattie didn’t refuse outright, so Summer dashed into the house, grabbed a crystal decanter from the liquor cabinet, and spiked the lemonade with some unidentified spirit.
“Ah, much better.” Summer abandoned the table for the white wicker settee. “Now. Who broke your heart more: the guy or your sister?”
Hattie’s ramrod posture never slackened, but she sipped the spiked lemonade. “They both betrayed me equally.”
“Not buying it.” Summer shook her head. “Who do you still miss? Who do you want to drunk dial when you’re listening to the Andrews Sisters and throwing back shots of—what does a woman like you do shots of? Sherry? Liquid platinum with a chaser of pulverized diamonds?”
“I will hate them both forever,” Hattie adjusted the delicate gold chain around her neck. “But for different reasons.”
“And you’re sure this guy was related to Dutch?”
“Spitting image.”
Summer slipped off her sandals and tucked her bare feet under her. “That explains why you couldn’t keep your hands off him.”
“Mies Jansen broke my heart, dallied with my sister, and once he’d ruined our family forever, he went and married some”—Hattie’s upper lip curled—“two-bit chippie who came out for a week to visit her sorority sister.”
“Dutch’s grandmother,” Summer said.
“Sloe-eyed Jezebel,” Hattie corrected. “Gold-digging little tart.”
Summer watched Hattie’s face, looking for any trace of sorrow or softness. But all she saw was anger, still going strong after half a century.
“Okay.” She turned up her palm. “So the guy’s a tool. But don’t you think it might be time to let it go? Head to Vegas for a girls’ weekend and hook up with an Aussie rugby player with some interesting scars and an accent? I promise you’ll feel a thousand percent better.”
“Never.” Hattie wadded up her cloth napkin in her fists. “I will never forgive him.”
“Oh, I’m not suggesting you forgive Mies.” Summer paused. “Isn’t he dead, anyway?”
“Yes.” Hattie smiled with savage satisfaction.
“But your sister . . . I mean, you guys were, like, twenty when this all went down?”
“Eighteen and nineteen.”
“You were children! It was fifty years ago!”
Hattie took a deep breath and another sip of lemonade. “I take it you have no sisters, Miss Benson.”
“I have a stepsister. Well, former stepsister. It’s complicated.”
“Have you and your stepsister ever shared a man?”
Summer pretended to be scandalized. “Miss Huntington, are you asking about threesomes?”
“NO!”
Summer laughed. “Sometimes it’s just too easy. Anyway, no, we’ve never fought over a guy. But if we did, I’d just let her have him. And knowing Emily, she’d probably just let me have him.”
“Well, how lucky for you that you have the perfect sisterly relationship.” Hattie tossed her napkin on the table. “Try to have a bit of compassion for those of us who don’t.”
“I never said we had a perfect relationship. I just said I would never break up with my sister over a man. It’s not worth it.”
“Everyone always liked Pauline better. My parents, my schoolmates, my fiancé . . .”
“Hold on, hold on,” Summer said. “I thought you said he ran off with some floozy.”
“Ha! Running off would have been the decent thing to do. No, he had the gall to settle down with her, which was infinitely worse.”
“Okay, but he didn’t run off or settle down with Pauline, right?” Summer clarified. “You guys should have banded together and gotten revenge! Put sugar in his gas tank! Spelled out obscenities on his lawn with salt!”
Hattie laughed mirthlessly. “Pauline was far too fragile for anything like that. She was so heartbroken that she couldn’t even set eyes on Mies without crying. She was so devastated that she threatened to kill herself when the engagement announcement was published. So my parents sent her off to California, while I had to stay here and molder.”
“Why didn’t you take off for California? Or Florence or London or Madrid?”
“Someone had to take care of my parents. I wasn’t their favorite, but I’m the one who saw them through illness and old age. And I had to grit my teeth and bite my tongue every time I saw Mies and his bride and their ill-mannered children.”
“And look at you now: grand marshal of the bitter parade.” Summer shook her head. “Seriously, Hattie, it’s been long enough. You have to at least try to move on. Isn’t that what this town’s all about?”
“I don’t want to move on.” Hattie set her jaw. “I don’t ever want to feel that way again.”
This is what happens, Summer realized. This is what happens when you wallow too long, when you keep picking at the scab. You fester. You get infected. You feed the fear and numb the pain until you don’t have the option to heal anymore.
She gazed at the stately old lady who had wasted her whole life wishing she could change the past. Who cherished old grudges like family heirlooms.
Whatever Hattie saw in Summer’s expression seemed to enrage her further. “Stay away from Mayor Jansen. That’s not a request.”
Summer didn’t bother to hide her irritation. “Do you really not see how dumb this is? I get that you have a blood feud with his grandfather, but Dutch didn’t actually do anything. You’re single; you’re powerful; you’re filthy stinking rich! If I had your money, I’d enjoy every dollar. I’d be partying like the Great Gatsby every night.”
“You’re not me, Miss Benson.” Hattie arched one eyebrow. “I believe we’ve established that.”
“Haven’t you ever heard that old saying: ‘Resentment is like drinking rat poison and waiting for the rat to die’?”
“I don’t mind dying, as long as I can take the rats down with me. Stay away from him or you’ll be sorry.” Hattie’s vengeful smile tightened. “And so will he.”
chapter 22
Summer’s heart had nearly resumed its normal rhythm by the time Ingrid parked Scarlett near the porch steps.
“Good job today,” she managed to say. The afternoon was damp and cloudy, and her cheeks were freezing from driving around in the wind with the top down.
“Really?” Ingrid handed back the car keys.
“Really. But let’s set some goals for next time.” Summer reminded herself to breathe. “Number one, the sign says ‘yield,’ not ‘surrender.’”
“I was just being cautious.” Ingrid bristled. “I didn’t want to cause an accident.”
“Which leads us to goal number two: If you don’t want to cause an accident, bear in mind that a stop sign is not merely a suggestion.”
“I told you, I didn’t see it because you were distracting me with the radio.”
“I cannot listen to any more Mozart,” Summer countered. “And besides, when you turn up A Tribe Called Quest high enough, you can’t hear that engine noise.”
“What’s wrong with your engine?” Dutch asked, rounding the corner f
rom the backyard. He’d spent his morning working in the garden, and had the sweat, dirt smudges, and fresh scratches to show for it.
“It’s making weird scraping noises,” Ingrid reported.
Dutch turned to Summer, hand outstretched. “Give me your keys.”
Summer shot Ingrid a look. “It’s fine.”
“Keys.”
“It’s fine.”
Dutch took off his work gloves, pried open Summer’s hand, and took the keys from her. She looked at his hands and his gloves, and when she glanced up at his eyes she could tell he was also remembering their romp in the rose garden.
He cleared his throat. “You’re risking life and limb in a car with a new driver and an engine making, quote, ‘scraping noises.’ It’s not fine.”
“She is not risking life and limb.” Ingrid put her hands on her hips. “I’m a very safe driver.” She paused. “Well, except for that one stop sign.”
Dutch popped open the convertible’s hood and disappeared into the engine cavity. “I’m taking this into the shop.”
“Here, let me give you my credit card.” Summer dredged through the receipts, pens, and loose M&M’s at the bottom of her purse.
Dutch waved the card away. “Forget it. Go have a glass of wine and decompress. Are you free tonight? Let’s have dinner.”
“Oh, I can’t.” Summer pouted. “Hattie says I have to—”
“Seven o’clock?” Ingrid asked.
“Make it eight,” Dutch replied.
“Jeans or little black dress?” Ingrid asked.
“Little black dress. Better yet, little lavender dress.”
“She’ll be ready.” Ingrid saluted. “And, bonus! I’m going to the movies tonight, so you guys can have the house to yourselves after dinner.”
“You just doubled your allowance for the week,” Dutch told Ingrid as he walked around to the ignition and started the car. To Summer, he said, “See you at eight.”
Summer followed Ingrid into the house with her mouth hanging open and her hands flung wide. “Did you two just railroad me into a dinner date? Hattie’s going to be pissed.” She brightened. “Maybe she’ll fire me.”
“It’s nice, huh?” Ingrid tugged Summer’s purse strap. “Having some nice guy do nice things for you? I bet you could really get used to it.”
“He’s not doing it for me.” Summer took off her sweater as she stepped into the foyer. “He’s doing it for you. You’re the one learning to drive.”
Ingrid continued as if Summer hadn’t spoken. “I mean, I’m sure guys fall all over themselves doing nice stuff for you all the time. Flowers, fancy dinners, jewelry . . .”
Summer laughed. “I live quite the life in your imagination.”
“But I’ll bet none of them were as nice as Dutch.”
“That’s true.” Summer sighed. “I haven’t dated many nice guys. Just one. And that didn’t turn out so well.”
“I’ve decided I’m only going to date nice guys,” Ingrid announced with great authority.
“I’m glad to hear that. Makes perfect sense since you’re such a nice girl.”
“Once I get Maxwell out of my system.” Ingrid grinned and darted into the kitchen.
Summer stayed right on her heels. “Excuse me?”
“Don’t worry; I know I’m never going to be his girlfriend.” Ingrid opened the refrigerator, pulled out two bottles of water, and handed one to Summer. “I know he’s out of my league. I just really want to sleep with him before he leaves for college. Is that so wrong?”
Summer grabbed a bottle of water, twisted off the cap, and chugged half the contents while she tried to strategize her arguments. “Yes, it’s wrong!”
“Why?”
“Because . . . because . . .” Chug, chug, chug. “Listen, I don’t know this guy, but I know him. I know the type. You are out of his league, and don’t you forget it.”
“Oh, God.” Ingrid scrunched up her face. “Here we go with some lecture about how I’m so smart and such a good person and I should wait for someone else who’s such a good person.”
“That’s right! Here we go with that lecture!” Summer pounded her bottle on the counter, splattering drops of water across the floor. “Sit down and make yourself comfortable, missy.”
But Ingrid was having none of this. “I don’t want anyone else. Yeah, he’s shallow. Yeah, he’s superficial. Yeah, okay, he can barely fill in his name on standardized test bubbles. But guess what? I don’t care! I just really, really want to know what it’s like to kiss him.” Ingrid lifted her chin. “Haven’t you ever felt like that about a guy?”
“Um. Maybe.”
Ingrid’s expression went from defiant to desperate. “Why does being smart mean I have to be boring and lame?”
Summer sighed, combing her fingers through her windblown hair. “It doesn’t. But—”
“You have to help me get his attention.” Ingrid snapped her fingers. “Ooh, I know! I’ll take off my underpants and send them to him in a glass!”
“What? No!”
“Yeah, I guess we don’t really use glasses at high school parties. Okay, I’ll send them to him in a red Solo cup!”
“No. No way!”
“Why not?” Ingrid gave her a look. “You did.”
Summer sputtered. “How did you hear about that?”
“Are you kidding? The whole town heard about that.”
“Well, erase that image from your mind.” Summer strode to the other end of the kitchen.
“Too late; I’ll be talking to my therapist about it for years.”
“Then talk to your therapist. But don’t waste your time and energy on some mouth-breathing troglodyte in a lacrosse jersey. You deserve better.”
Ingrid got right up in her face. “Why is it okay for you to do it, but not for me?”
Summer put her hands on Ingrid’s shoulders. “Because, honestly, you’re better than me. You’re brilliant and beautiful and destined for greatness.”
“So are you.”
Summer wasn’t about to get sidetracked arguing that point. “You don’t need validation from some jackass who doesn’t see what a gem you are.”
“I don’t want validation.” A note of whiny exasperation crept into Ingrid’s voice. “I want to make out with him. Just once.”
“Oh, boy. I know that face. I’ve seen it in the mirror many times.” Summer glanced at the cabinet doors. “Where do you keep the Advil?”
“Here.” Ingrid rummaged through a drawer by the dishwasher.
“Thanks.” Summer pressed her hands to her forehead. “Fine. Fine. Make out with him if you must, but don’t have sex with him. I’m begging you.”
“Why not? It’s just virginity. Don’t be such a slave to the patriarchy.”
Summer sagged back against the countertop. “I’m having a heart attack and dying right now. You may not be able to see it on the outside, but trust me, inside, my circulatory system is screeching to a halt. You have no clue what you’re saying. You’re seventeen. A child! A toddler! An infant!”
Ingrid gave her a knowing look. “So you were still a virgin when you were seventeen?”
“I, uh . . .” Summer waved her hands. “That’s not the point!”
“Try to remember what it felt like to be seventeen,” Ingrid pleaded.
“I don’t have to remember,” Summer said. “I still feel seventeen.”
“I’m so sick of being smart and responsible. I’m tired of thinking about how my behavior reflects on my brother and my family name and all that shit.” Ingrid looked a bit terrified as she cursed.
“Did you just say ‘shit’?” Summer had to laugh. “You are in a rebellious mood.”
“I just want to be pretty and fun for once. I want to do something exciting.”
“Then apply to study at t
he Sorbonne. Join the Peace Corps. Go heli-skiing. Don’t swap bodily fluids with some guy who makes you feel like you have to bleach your hair and pretend like you don’t know the difference between ‘there,’ ‘their,’ and ‘they’re.’ And yes, I’m aware of how hypocritical I sound. But that’s why I’m your mentor—you can learn from my mistakes!” As she said the words, Summer realized that Hattie had said the exact same thing to her.
Ingrid stuck out her jaw the same way Dutch did when he got obstinate.
So Summer played her trump card. “Guys like that aren’t even good in bed. Trust and believe. Sure, he looks hot on the outside, but that’s not going to do you any good once the lights are off. You’re looking for excellent concentration and attention to detail.” She raised an eyebrow. “Does Mr. Mouth Breather have excellent attention to detail?”
Ingrid looked away. “I don’t know.”
“Then it’s a pass.” Summer swept back into the living room to indicate that the subject was now closed. “I mean, ultimately, it’s your decision.”
“That’s right.” Ingrid nodded.
“I can’t physically stop you.”
“That’s right.”
“But. I can tell your brother.”
Ingrid gasped. “You wouldn’t.”
“I would.” Summer touched up her lip gloss while Ingrid pitched a thirty-second temper tantrum. “So make the right decision. Be responsible for your actions. Now let’s go. I have to buy a little lavender dress before eight o’clock.”
—
By the time Summer and Dutch returned from dinner in Rehoboth Beach (“Where no one will interrupt us to rant about whose beach chairs are touching whose fence—I hope”), a light drizzle had started to fall.
Dutch took off his jacket while he walked around the car to open Summer’s door, and when she stepped out into the rain, he draped it over her shoulders.
Summer, shivering in her lavender blouse and black skirt (all she could find on short notice), tried to hand the jacket back. “I’m okay.”
He smoothed the silk-lined wool over her back. “Would you please let me take care of you?”
Cure for the Common Breakup Page 18