The Forever Summer

by Jamie Brenner

  He picked up a stone and, with a twist of his wrist, threw it into the water, where it skipped three times before disappearing.

  “Impressive,” she said, half joking, half serious.

  “I’m rusty. I used to get at least two more skips out of it.”

  Rachel picked up a smooth white rock. With a twist of her wrist, she tossed it into the sea, but it promptly sank.

  Luke scooped another few rocks out of the sand and handed one to her. “You have to hold it kind of loosely, like this.” He positioned her fingers around the rock. His nearness was dizzying. “And then move your wrist like a hinge—just launch it.” He held her hand in his to give her a sense of the motion. The stone sailed from her fingers but still disappeared without skimming the surface of the water.

  “I suck at this,” she said.

  “It just takes practice. How long are you in town?”

  “Until Saturday.”

  “That’s plenty of time. You’ll master it.”

  “I accept the challenge.” She was shocked at her own flirtatiousness.

  They stood facing each other, total eye-lock. Somewhere in the distance, a foghorn sounded. It felt like the roar of her heart.

  “We should get back to the party,” he said.

  No, no, no—she felt a door closing. A door to what, she didn’t quite know.

  But she had to find out.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Just minutes after the three of them stumbled drunk into Coastline Tattoo, a small shop nestled in an alleyway, a text message lured Paul away.

  “You suck!” Kelly protested when he said he was going. Marin smiled. She hoped she was like that when she was in her fifties. She was so relaxed, so comfortable in her own skin. There were no other words for it: she was cool.

  “Not all of us have the loves of our lives waiting for us at home. Some of us have to take it when it comes. Or when it’s ready to come.”

  “Ugh! Go.”

  Marin laughed—for the first time in how long?

  They flipped through the artists’ books to find designs.

  “Are you really getting Amelia’s name?”

  “Maybe. I need to find a good font. I’m thinking this kind of cursive.” She pointed out an ornate, swirling treatment of the words Marine Life.

  “I might get a flower,” Marin said. “Maybe a little daisy inside my wrist.”

  “Is that your birth-month flower?”

  “What? No.”

  “You should find a design that has personal meaning.”

  Marin shrugged. “I’m too drunk. This is a bad idea. I’ll just keep you company.”

  “Yeah. If it doesn’t have meaning, don’t do it. That’s the problem today—we’ve lost all sense of the rites of passage. It’s important to mark things, you know?”

  “I’m not sure I’d be marking anything today except my life at rock bottom.”

  “Well, that’s not a bad place to be.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “Nowhere to go but up,” said Kelly. And then Marin remembered thinking she was at rock bottom the day that Rachel had called from the Times Square Starbucks. She’d thought, Why not meet her? Things can’t get any worse. And then the truth came out.

  But what could possibly get worse now?

  Kelly flipped a few pages and then stopped, pointing to an image. “This is the one. If you get it, I’ll get it.”

  “Matching tattoos? No offense, but we just met yesterday.”

  “And in a week you’ll leave, and maybe our paths will never cross again. Something to remember me by.”

  Marin leaned closer to look at the drawing.

  “What is it?”

  “A beach rose,” said Kelly.

  By late afternoon, Thomas Duncan’s house was filled to capacity, and there were more people outside than inside. Amelia held court in the living room; someone was asking her, “How could Kelly sell one of her mosaics to that awful Sandra Crowe?” when she spotted Luke Duncan slipping out the front door with Rachel.

  She smiled. He was a handsome young man, and Amelia could remember the first time he’d visited the island, a lanky preteen with big eyes and floppy, boy-band hair. She felt a pang of envy; Thomas had his life with Bart, but he also had his son. She ached for Nadine in that moment. Having Marin and Rachel somehow made Nadine’s absence all the more acute.

  Nadine still hadn’t responded to the letter, and now Amelia had to admit that she likely would not be doing so. If Nadine had nothing to say to a letter with such dramatic news, chances were that her daughter would never return. Not for her nieces—probably not even to bury her mother, when that day came. It was time for Amelia to accept that Nadine did not want to be part of a family.

  As a teenager and even in college, Nadine always had to have a friend around during times that should have been just for family. Once, Amelia overheard her on the phone calling a friend her buffer. Amelia felt wounded by this but it wasn’t something she could bring up lest she be accused of eavesdropping. Nadine was constantly accusing her of something, ranging from the innocuous and typical “You don’t understand” to the more damning “You’re ruining my life.” During Nadine’s high-school years, Amelia had accepted this as normal. Her more seasoned mom friends told her that all young women needed to reject their mothers in order to establish their own womanhood. Although as much as Amelia wanted to embrace that modern, intellectual explanation for what was happening, she couldn’t remember rejecting her own mother. She had always revered and cherished the woman.

  So, no, she didn’t understand Nadine’s attitude toward her. She accepted that she couldn’t necessarily change it, but it never sat well with her.

  It had been different with Nick, her firstborn; from the very moment he locked his cloudy dark eyes on her, she’d felt a bolt of electrifying connectedness. That feeling never ebbed, never waned. Not until that last summer.

  Every year the Cabrals spent June through August at Amelia’s mother’s house on Commercial Street. When Renata died, in the mid-1970s, she left the house to Amelia, and the Provincetown summers continued. By the time Nick and Nadine were teenagers, the house was filled with an endless rotation of their visiting friends. This continued during the summers after they started Boston University. Nadine, more often than Nick, had a constant stream of friends—the aforementioned buffers. At that point, Amelia welcomed the buffers as well; her three-decade marriage to Otto Cabral was stale. She accepted this as the natural course of things. She doubted her own parents had had a rewarding, passion-filled marriage until the end. (She was certain there was a year or two in which they’d barely spoken to each other.) Yes, when she’d married Otto, she’d been mirroring her parents’ marriage. It’s what she thought she wanted in life. It had made her mother happy, and surely she was just like her mother. But as she got older, Amelia realized she wasn’t so very much like her mother after all, no matter how much she adored her. She was not able to find satisfaction in a marriage that ranged from lukewarm companionship to downright apathy. Yes, she had her children and her cooking, her house and her friends. But it wasn’t enough.

  And so the summers were a welcome distraction. Morning walks on the beach, the elaborate meal preparations, late dinners by the bay that started at sunset and didn’t end until the last person crawled off to bed.

  That final summer, Nadine’s roommate and new best friend had come along with her, a bright, artistic, high-spirited young woman who brought out a giddiness in Nadine that Amelia had rarely seen. Even Nick, usually annoyed with the cloying adoration of his younger sister’s friends, seemed to go out of his way to spend time with the two of them.

  Sometimes Amelia sensed the kids were crowding their guest, who seemed more interested in spending time with Amelia in the kitchen than in going to the beach or chugging margaritas at the Canteen. When Amelia (who enjoyed the company more than she cared to admit) asked the girl about this, she locked her wide green eyes on Amelia and said, “I gue
ss I’m an old soul.” Amelia’s heart lurched, an undeniable free fall that terrified her. Three weeks into the summer, and Amelia was in love with Kelly Hanauer.

  It was impossible. It was madness. She would not indulge in such thoughts, in such feelings. But one afternoon, when Otto went off fishing and Nick and Nadine went whale watching, an hour in the kitchen teaching Kelly to bake rosquilhas secas turned into a bottle of wine at the edge of the bay. And the irrepressible redhead kissed her.

  “This cannot happen,” said Amelia.

  “It already has,” said Kelly.

  Chapter Twenty

  How did Amelia find the time? First thing in the morning, Blythe saw her setting out a full spread of fresh-baked bread, berries, coffee, and organic granola. As if she hadn’t just whipped a party together the day before.

  “I hope you’re not doing all of this just on account of us,” Blythe said.

  “Please. It’s my pleasure. Ask Kelly—I don’t know what to do with myself if I’m not taking care of guests. Did you sleep well?”

  “I did. Perfectly.”

  Well, not perfectly. She’d fallen asleep before Marin got home, and she woke up at two in the morning worried about her. Blythe crept out of bed and down the hall and peeked into the other guest room to make sure Marin was there. At the sight of her, safely curled up, only her dark ponytail visible against the pale sheets in the moonlight, Blythe was finally able to go back to sleep.

  Amelia set out a plate of golden-brown zucchini bread. Blythe thought of the Black Beauty zucchini she’d grown two years ago and looked around the yard in appraisal.

  “Did you ever think of having a vegetable garden? You have the perfect space for it.”

  Amelia shook her head. “It’s a lovely idea but the soil here takes a lot of work. This town was literally built on sand and silt. People with gardens sometimes have the soil shipped in. It’s just more trouble than it’s worth for us.”

  “That’s such a shame,” Blythe said. She made a mental note to call her neighbor and ask her to check on her tomatoes.

  “Good morning!” Rachel bounded out of the house, her long hair loose. She wore a flowing Indian-print sundress. “I’m starving.”

  Rachel sat on the bench across from Blythe. The sun reflected a narrow ring of gold in her eyes. They were lighter than Marin’s but the same wide, almond shape. She couldn’t get used to seeing similarities between the two of them. But it was small, tangible things like that that made the absurdity of their situation feel real.

  She wished she knew what Marin was thinking. Nearly a week since Marin had confronted her with the truth, and she was no closer to getting her daughter to talk to her, let alone forgive her, than she had been on day one.

  “Maybe the three of us can go to the beach this afternoon,” Blythe said to Rachel. “I just have to find a bathing-suit shop first.”

  When she had left Philadelphia, she had packed for only a few days in New York, not a trip to the beach. Had that really been less than a week ago?

  The back door swung open, and Blythe looked up hopefully. Sure enough, Marin appeared. She wore her usual sunglasses and her new uniform of black yoga pants and a rumpled T-shirt. She made her way to the table without a word, sat down, and slumped over, her head resting on her arm. She reeked of alcohol.

  “Hi, sweetheart. Coffee?” Blythe said, trying to sound chipper and not alarmed.

  Marin nodded.

  “Did you go out last night?” Rachel asked.

  “Yeah,” Marin said, sitting up and sipping the coffee. Even though half her face was behind sunglasses, Blythe could see the sickly pallor of her complexion.

  “Are you okay?” said Blythe.

  “Fine.”

  That’s when Blythe noticed it: something shiny and red on the inside of her daughter’s right wrist, the size of a quarter.

  “Marin, what in God’s name is that?”

  “What?” Marin said.

  “This?” Blythe said, grabbing her wrist.

  Rachel and Amelia peered over her shoulder.

  “You got a tattoo?” Blythe said loudly. Marin had never even pierced her ears. The most outrageous aesthetic choice she’d ever made was ill-advisedly highlighting her hair the summer between sophomore and junior years of high school.

  “Can you please not yell? My head is splitting.” Marin took her coffee and walked back into the house.

  “Oh my God,” Blythe said.

  Rachel put an arm around her. “She’s fine.”

  “You don’t even know her! She is not fine. She is not herself. My daughter is having a meltdown.”

  With that, she stormed into the house.

  Marin flopped down on her bed, facing the ceiling. She was so hung over, the whir of the ceiling fan made her stomach lurch.

  Did she really have that much to drink? Enough to get a good buzz on, sure. But to throw up three times?

  Still, she had to admit it was worth it. Kelly was fucking awesome. She looked at the red flower etched inside her wrist, and smiled. Even if she hadn’t loved the tattoo—which she did—the look on her mother’s face would have been well worth it.

  Marin closed her eyes and draped her arm over her face to block out the sunlight. She imagined her office in New York. The conference room. The lobby. Life at Cole, Harding, and Worth was going on without her. And the truth was, it didn’t feel that strange. She didn’t miss it. What did that mean?

  A knock on the door. Marin ignored it.

  “Marin,” called her mother. “We’re going to the beach. Want to come?”

  “No,” she said.

  “It’s going to be a beautiful day.”

  Marin forced herself out of bed and opened her door a crack. Her mother smiled at her hopefully.

  “I can’t get sun on my tattoo,” Marin said. “I’m going back to sleep.”

  She closed the door again.

  She was just dozing off when another knock disturbed her. She wanted to yell at whoever it was to leave her alone, but she forced herself to call out—with just a modicum of civility—“Who is it?”

  No answer. Another light rap. Groaning, she sat up and dragged herself to the door. She opened it to find Kelly.

  “Amelia will kill me if you’re too hung over to leave your room today,” she said.

  Marin sighed. “I am pretty hung over. But I also just can’t deal with my mother. Or anyone.”

  “So you’re hiding in here?”

  “That’s the plan.”

  “For how long?”

  “You can wake me up when it’s time to drive back to New York.”

  Kelly put her hands on her hips, cocked her head to one side. “I have a better idea. Come hang out in my studio. I could use an extra set of hands for a project.”

  Marin rolled her eyes. “Kelly, you don’t have to do this.”

  “Do what?”

  “Babysit me. I’m fine, okay? There’s just a lot going on, and I want to be alone.”

  “I hate to break it to you, but I’m not asking for you. I actually do need help with something, and if you wanted to be alone, you’ve come to the wrong house. You’ve come to the wrong town, actually. In case you haven’t noticed, we’re all up in everyone else’s business. I think that’s printed somewhere on the brochure.”

  Marin couldn’t help but smile. “I’m not very artistic.”

  “I don’t need talent. I need manual labor. Come on.”

  Marin followed Kelly up one flight of stairs to her third-floor studio.

  The first thing that struck Marin about the room was color; it was everywhere. It wasn’t just the mosaics on the wall. Small end tables were tiled in cobalt and sky blue; a full-length mirror was covered in pieces of china, pale pink and moss green and red. A vivid green mermaid statue shone with opaque glass. The room was enormous, probably intended as a master suite. In the center, a wide rectangular table stretching nearly the length of the room. It was covered with plates of colorful tiles and glass, bowls of
pebbles, a teacup brimming with shattered china. The table was also littered with tools: a metal ruler, a T-square, an odd device that looked like gardening shears with two round wheels at the top, giant rolls of tape, tubes of glue.

  “Oh. Wow,” Marin said, walking around. The walls were lined with floor-to-ceiling shelves and cubbies that were filled with plastic bins labeled by color and material: sea glass, tiles, china, and crockery. Some shelves were piled with dishes; others had towers of teacups. One long shelf was filled with sheets of stained glass organized by color: vivid greens and blues and purple in every shade from deep, dark violet to the palest lavender to cotton-candy pink.

  “I have to say, it’s my favorite place in the world. This used to be Amelia’s bedroom—back in the day. But when I got serious about mosaics, we converted it into a studio.”

  “It smells good in here. Like spicy vanilla.”

  “Oh, that’s perfume. It’s from a fancy store, Calypso. Amelia gave it to me as a stocking stuffer one Christmas. I don’t wear it, but I do spray it around. Very expensive air freshener.” She smiled.

  Marin kind of loved her. “How did you get into this whole mosaic thing?”

  “Amelia taught me. Her family—your family—has been making them for generations. She just showed me because she thought it was a hobby we could do together, but then I got kind of obsessed. And since I moved here in my twenties, I had no idea how I was going to earn a living. I just got a hundred percent focused on it, and luckily it worked out.”

  “You made all of these?” she said, touching a tabletop lighthouse design constructed from mirrors and glass.

  “Yep.”

  “You’re seriously talented.”

  A panel on the floor was one of the few monochrome pieces, all pale stones and white stained glass. A sheet of paper was taped to it: Glass and stone on panel, twelve inches by thirty-six inches, $1,600. The lawyer inside of her, the one who calculated her worth by time sheets and hourly rates, wondered how long it took to make one of these pieces. She asked Kelly.