Cure for the Common Breakup

by Beth Kendrick

  She stumbled as her high heels got caught in the white gravel lining the driveway. “I don’t need you to take care of me.”

  He placed his hand under her elbow to steady her. “I’m well aware.”

  “But you—”

  “I’m being a gentleman,” he said.

  She shut up for about three seconds. “Well, I’m just saying. You don’t have to be careful with me. I’m not some delicate flower.”

  He guided her up the wooden stairs to the porch, where she could smell the faintest trace of blooming roses and fresh soil. As the rain fell faster and thunder rumbled in the distance, he tilted up her chin and looked down into her eyes.

  “Summer?” His lips were inches from hers.

  “Yes?” she breathed.

  “Do you want to stand out here and pick a fight, or do you want to come inside?”

  She realized that it was too late to make a choice—she’d already let down her guard. She felt safe with him. She trusted him. She wanted to stay up all night, laughing and talking about nothing with him.

  This was the best part of falling: the rush, the high, the illusion that it could go on forever.

  But it wouldn’t go on forever. And she didn’t want him to be careful with her because that would only compound the heartache when he inevitably stopped being careful and she had to pick up all her baggage and walk it off again.

  “I want to come inside.”

  chapter 23

  “The world is a better place when you take your shirt off.” Summer stretched her arms over her head and let them fall back against the pillows. “I’m serious. You should get humanitarian awards every time you undress.”

  She rolled onto her stomach, propped herself up on her elbows, and faced Dutch, who was sprawled next to her in the bed. The curtains were open and the porch light cast a cold, pale glow into the room. She trailed her index finger along his stubbled jawline. “You still breathing over there?”

  “Barely.” He sat up, his brow furrowing as he touched the shiny red burn marks on her back. “Does this hurt?”

  Summer swung one foot up and traced circles in the air with her ankle. “Not at all. I can’t even feel it. Nerve damage.”

  “Permanent?”

  She glanced over her shoulder long enough to confirm that he was still touching her skin. “No idea. I had so many doctors explaining so many things that I kind of lost track of what’s temporarily jacked up and what’s permanently jacked up.”

  “I’m guessing you’re supposed to follow up on that.”

  “Probably,” she agreed. “But sometimes I think a fully functioning nervous system is overrated. I mean, there’s worse things than not feeling, right?”

  “I don’t know.” His hand slid down to rest on the curve of her lower back. “You’re pretty sensitive for someone who claims not to feel anything.”

  She gave him a little kick in the shoulder. “Take that back or you’ll never see me naked again.”

  He laughed. “What’s wrong with being sensitive?”

  “Would you like it if I called you sensitive?”

  “Go right ahead.”

  “Whatever.” She let her foot fall back onto the mattress with a thunk. “You’re just saying that because you’re all swarthy and secure in your manhood.”

  They listened to the steady patter of rain on the roof and the muffled thump of a loose shutter banging against the house.

  Finally, he broke the silence. “Why did you come to Black Dog Bay?”

  Summer stared at the wooden headboard. “You watch the news. You have Internet. Hell, you have the Whinery and a working pair of ears. You know why I’m here.”

  He didn’t move, but his hand went from resting to pressing against her back. “I have a feeling your version is slightly different from the one they reported on CNN.”

  “Pillow talk: You’re doing it wrong.”

  He waited.

  She sighed and pulled away from him. “You’re the Mayor of Breakup Town, Dutch. I’m sure you’ve heard my story a million times. It’s boring. There was this pilot; there was this plane crash; blah, blah, blah.”

  Even in the shadows, she could see the intensity in those gray eyes. “It’s the ‘blah, blah, blah’ part that interests me.”

  “You really want the blah, blah, blah?”

  “I really do.”

  “Ugh. Fine.” She looked at the rumpled white sheet while she gave him the bullet points on her upbringing, her job, her restlessness. She looked at the floorboards while she told him about the emergency landing. She looked at the ceiling while she talked about the hospital, the ring, the note of regret in Aaron’s voice when he acknowledged the truth that Summer had always sensed: I love you . . . but I don’t love you enough.

  Finally, she stopped talking and looked out the window at the moonless night.

  “Summer.” His voice was low. “Look at me.”

  She tossed her hair and glanced in his general direction.

  He waited until she finally met his gaze.

  “I’m still here,” he said. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  She forced a smile. “That’s because I’m lying in your bed naked.”

  He smiled back. “Not entirely.”

  She tucked the sheet up around her shoulders. “Okay, then it’s also because I left out all the parts that make me look bad. You just got the highlight reel.”

  “Know what I think? I think you’re secretly very, very sensitive.” He brushed his lips against the nape of her neck and tugged on the sheet as he made his way down between her shoulder blades. “Do you feel that?”

  Summer’s breath hitched. “Maybe.”

  He ran his tongue along the valley of her spine. “How about that?”

  “Hmm. Possibly a tiny tingle.”

  He tossed the sheet to the floor and nipped the swell of her hip. “Tingling’s a good start. Let’s see if we can bring some of these nerve endings back to life.”

  —

  Summer wakened with a start at the first light of dawn. She’d been dreaming about the plane crash, the terror of plummeting through the darkness, the acrid smell of smoke filling her lungs. She must have shifted position in her sleep, because although she’d fallen asleep next to Dutch, now she was all snuggled up with her cheek against his chest. His arm was draped across her shoulder, anchoring her to him. She felt warm and peaceful and . . .

  She wanted to stay like this forever.

  That one word, “forever,” was enough to get her out of bed and back into her clothes. The warmth pooling inside her turned icy.

  She eased out the bedroom door and crept down the hall, pausing as a floorboard creaked.

  She held her breath, counted to ten.

  Just the wind. Just an old house settling after a storm.

  She exhaled and tiptoed down to the landing.

  “You are so busted.” Ingrid whispered from the top of the staircase.

  Summer whirled around to face the bleary-eyed teenager. “I . . . You . . . You missed curfew last night, young lady.”

  “And I see you took full advantage.” Ingrid yawned and tied the sash of her ratty plaid robe. Her hair looked frizzy and disheveled.

  “It’s not what you think,” Summer insisted. “We were just, um, talking.”

  “Really? Then why do have lipstick smeared all over your cheeks?” Ingrid squinted down at her. “And a hickey?”

  “Oh my God.” Summer clapped her hand to her neck. “I have a hickey?”

  Ingrid grinned. “Gotcha.”

  Summer could feel her cheeks flushing. “Listen, I’d love to stay here and match wits with you, but I’ve got to go.”

  Ingrid’s grin vanished. She glanced at the door to the master bedroom. “Does he know you’re leaving?”

  “
Um.” Summer rubbed her ankle with the toes of her other foot. “No. I didn’t want to wake him up because he’s got a breakfast meeting with—”

  “Uh-huh. So you’re nailing and bailing?”

  “Since when do you even know phrases like ‘nailing and bailing’?”

  Ingrid’s expression darkened. “Answer my question.”

  “Of course I’m not nailing and bailing!” Summer “yelled” this as loud as she could while still whispering. “But I missed curfew, too, you know! Hattie Huntington’s going to be on your porch with the FBI and a pack of bloodhounds any second now.”

  Ingrid looked incredibly intimidating for a seventeen-year-old with bedhead and pink striped socks. “You better not mess this up.”

  “I won’t.”

  “You better call him.”

  “I will.” Summer held up one palm.

  Ingrid leveled her index finger at Summer. “This afternoon.”

  “I will.”

  Ingrid gazed down at her for a few beats before nodding. “I’m trusting you to stick around. So is he. Don’t you dare let him down.”

  —

  The beach was chilly and deserted as the first pale streaks of dawn crept over the horizon. Summer dashed barefoot past houses and hotels toward the hulking purple mansion around the curve of the bay.

  She didn’t worry about muggers or jellyfish or even sand crabs. From the moment she’d first arrived, she’d known that Black Dog Bay was the kind of town where a woman could run around by herself at four in the morning. There was an unshakable, almost mystical sense of security here.

  As she jumped over a pile of seaweed, Summer saw a huge black dog lumbering toward her. She scanned the shoreline, looking for a jogger or fisherman, but saw no sign of the dog’s owner.

  “Hey, buddy.” She crouched down and held out her hand. “Are you lost?”

  The shaggy dog dropped down into a play bow, wagging his tail. His eyes were partially obscured by wiry tufts of fur, and a drool-drenched pink tongue lolled from his mouth. When Summer took a step forward to check for a collar, the dog darted out of reach and galloped back across the beach, leaving a spray of sand in his wake.

  She watched him go, staring at the spot where he disappeared over a dune. The early glow of dawn gathered into a golden ray of morning sun and she felt the light pierce her heart and soul, as though she’d just witnessed a miracle.

  chapter 24

  “Do you know if anyone around here is missing a dog? A giant black furry one?” Summer sat down at the Whinery after another grueling day of paid companionship. Turner had busted her shimmying up the porch columns to get back into her bedroom before breakfast, and he’d ratted her out to Hattie, who had punished her by extending her cell phone ban and forcing her to play several rounds of croquet.

  Jenna jammed along to Rihanna’s “Breakin’ Dishes” and scooped fresh ice out of the cooler. “What?”

  Summer had to repeat the question twice to make herself heard over the chatter and music: “Black dog! Big as a pony! Does he have an owner?”

  Jenna exchanged a look with Beryl, who was sitting next to a burly guy in a baseball cap.

  “Hi, Summer.” Beryl rested her hand on the guy’s arm. “This is my boyfriend, Scott. He’s in concrete.”

  Summer wasn’t entirely sure what that meant, but she extended her hand. “Nice to meet you. I’m Summer.”

  Scott responded by grunting and glancing at his watch.

  “Sorry.” Beryl finished the last of her drink. “I promised we’d go somewhere he could watch the baseball game. He’s an Orioles fanatic.” She collected her purse and looked longingly at the candy dishes and pink napkins. “Jenna, have you ever considered putting in TVs with ESPN?”

  “God, no.” Jenna grimaced. Then she returned her attention to Summer. “So you saw a black dog at the beach.”

  “Yeah. I was coming home from Dut—I was, uh, out for a walk this morning on the beach, and this ginormous dog ran up to me. I didn’t see a collar.”

  Beryl toasted Summer with the icy dregs of her cocktail. “That’s great. We’re so happy for you!”

  “Why?” Summer looked from Jenna to Beryl.

  “How were you feeling?” Jenna poured a glass of Moscato. “When you saw the dog?”

  “I don’t know.” Summer shrugged. “Cold and wet and covered in sand?”

  “No, I mean emotionally.” Jenna passed the glass to a waiting patron. “Would you say that you were feeling peaceful? Hopeful?”

  “Warm and fuzzy?” Beryl said.

  “I don’t remember,” Summer hedged. “I hadn’t had my coffee yet.”

  “You guys! Can I have your attention, everyone?” Jenna paused the music and announced to the entire bar, “Summer saw the black dog!”

  Cheers erupted and glasses clinked. “Congratulations, honey!” A dozen bed-and-breakfast guests descended upon her in a group hug.

  Summer elbowed her way out of the embrace and demanded answers from Jenna. “What’s the deal with the black dog?”

  “This is Black Dog Bay,” Beryl said, as if this explained everything.

  “It means you’re turning a corner.” Jenna poured a glass of Shiraz and held it up to the lights before serving it. “I always double-check for cork chunks now.”

  “You saw Lavinia’s black dog,” Beryl explained.

  Summer scanned the crowd, exasperated. “Who’s Lavinia?”

  “Oh, she’s dead. But her dog still patrols the beach.”

  “If you’re all trying to drive me crazy, mission accomplished.” Summer put her hands on her hips. “Would someone please start making sense?”

  “Go to the bookstore tomorrow morning,” Jenna advised, then went to change the music as a tourist offered her twenty dollars to put on Iris DeMent’s “God May Forgive You (But I Won’t).” “Hollis will explain everything.”

  . . . In 1878, after being deserted by her husband, New York socialite Lavinia Leighton built a huge house on the Delaware shore and founded the town of Black Dog Bay. “When I first came to the ocean,” Lavinia told her biographer, “I was drowning in despair, pulled under by the jaws of the ‘black dog’ of depression. One summer night as I sat by the water, I saw him: a ghostly black beast romping on the sand in the moonlight. The apparition capered and ran, playful as a pup. I realized he hadn’t come to submerge me; he’d come to save me.”

  Shortly before her death in 1909, Lavinia commissioned an artist in Italy to create a large bronze statue of the phantom dog, which has since acquired a black patina in the salty sea air. The statue stands today in the Black Dog Bay town square, overlooking the boardwalk and the sand dunes. Passersby rub the dog’s nose for luck. The statue features an open mouth and a hollow interior, and local legend holds that if you write down your worries on a scrap of paper, Lavinia’s black dog will “swallow your sorrows” and leave you free to start a new life unencumbered by past disappointments. . . .

  Summer glanced up from the pages of The History of Black Dog Bay. “So you seriously expect me to believe there’s a phantom dog galloping around the beach?”

  “Believe it or don’t believe it.” Hollis hummed as she watered the potted plants by the cash register. “But the ghost dog is real.”

  “Come on, you can tell me.” Summer closed the book and set it aside. “You guys made this up for tourist purposes, right?”

  Hollis put down the watering can and fixed her gaze on Summer. “You know it’s real. You saw for yourself.”

  “I saw a dog,” Summer corrected. “An actual dog. Not a magical, woo-woo phantom dog.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “He left footprints in the sand! Ghost dogs can’t leave footprints.”

  “Whatever you say.” Hollis resumed humming. Snidely Whiplash the cat purred along.

  “What kind of dog is it,
anyway? Labrador? Poodle? Giant schnauzer?” Summer pounded her fist into her palm. “I need specifics!”

  “I’m not sure. We once had a dog show judge come through town, and when she saw it, she said it looked like an Irish wolfhound.” Hollis brought over a dog breed guidebook.

  Summer flipped through the breed descriptions until she found a photo of an Irish wolfhound. “Okay, well, that does look like the dog I saw. But aren’t ghosts supposed to come out at night? This dog is a rule breaker!” She returned her attention to The History of Black Dog Bay. “Who fact-checked that book?”

  “I did.” Hollis pointed out her name on the front cover. “I wrote the whole thing, actually.”

  “You did? Oh.” Summer flushed. “Well, in that case, I’ll buy ten copies. It’s just . . . a dog ghost? Really? I’m sure you understand my skepticism.”

  “How do you think this town got its name and reputation?” Hollis asked. “Lavinia Leighton is like the patron saint of broken hearts. Her husband deserted her for another woman, and Lavinia was left with nothing.”

  “Except piles and piles of money.” Summer considered this. “She and Hattie Huntington have a lot in common, actually.”

  “Yes, but what good did all her riches do her without love?” Hollis sighed. “Without the husband she adored?”

  Summer tucked her hair back behind her ear. “I know plenty of women who’d be thrilled to exchange their husbands for piles of money.”

  “Well, Lavinia wasn’t one of them. And because of the legal system of the time, she was stuck. Her husband had left but wouldn’t actually divorce her, and she couldn’t show her face in New York society—that’s why she moved down here. The black dog saved her life, and it’s saved countless others over the last century.”

  “So one night she saw a dog playing on the beach, and suddenly, she’s fine?” Summer snapped her fingers. “Just like that?”

  “Well, that’s the official story.” Hollis motioned her in. “The truth is a little grittier.”

  “Ooh, I like gritty.” Summer perked up. “What happened?”

  “Lavinia was going to kill herself,” Hollis said. “She tried to drown herself in the ocean, and the dog saved her. Literally dragged her back to shore and up on the sand.”