One Summer Night

by Caridad Piñeiro

  “And so are you. I bet you have lunch for us,” Connie said.

  Mrs. Patrick beamed at them, highlighting the laugh lines on a face otherwise free of wrinkles considering her seventy-plus years of age. “I do, my girl. If you want to get settled, I’ll set it up on the back patio since it’s such a lovely day.”

  “That sounds heavenly,” Maggie said. She shouldered her bag and followed Mrs. Patrick into the house. As the older woman walked off toward the kitchen, she and Connie trudged up the stairs to the second-floor bedrooms. Almost by rote, they went into the same rooms they had occupied every summer.

  Since she was a light sleeper, Connie took a quieter bedroom in the middle, leaving the two corner rooms for Maggie and Emma. Maggie’s father and guests used the two remaining bedrooms on the floor if they came to visit. The bedrooms shared bathrooms on one side of the house, and on the other, french doors opened onto a balcony that ran the whole length of the back of the building.

  At her end of the balcony, an enormous, decades-old wisteria vine climbed up from the ground floor to the second. When the gnarly vine was in bloom, the flowers perfumed the air with a delicate floral scent that the sea breeze would waft through the rooms.

  From her side windows and balcony, she had an amazing view of the beach, but also the Pierce mansion next door. On more than one summer night, she’d been up here and seen Owen and Jonathan next door with their father and mother, before their mother had given up on her marriage and abandoned the boys to their father’s care. That had happened just a few years after her own mother had passed, leaving her with just her father, grandmother, and Mrs. Patrick.

  She, however, had been lucky to be surrounded with love and acceptance and not an embittered and dour man who never had anything but complaints about his young sons. When he’d stopped coming down to Sea Kiss, she knew it had been a welcome thing for the boys. Even though they’d kept their distance, she could tell they were happier thanks to their father’s absence.

  In retrospect, it seemed that she and Owen had a great deal more in common than just the Mets and chicken parm. Their fathers’ feud and their long-gone mothers had probably shaped their lives in many similar ways.

  “I don’t see much unpacking going on,” Connie said as she walked in.

  Maggie shrugged and finally placed her overnight bag on the upholstered bench at the foot of her bed. “Just thinking about old times.”

  Connie sat on the bed to watch as she unpacked. “Not good thoughts from the look on your face,” her friend said.

  “Some good, some not,” she admitted, then folded a pair of jeans and tucked them into a drawer. There were some pants there already, but she always liked to bring fresh clothes when she came.

  She faced her friend and braced her hands on the edge of her dresser. “We’ve had a lot of fun here.”

  “Summers with you were always awesome, and even work wasn’t so bad. We had a good time and got lots of helpful experience.”

  Maggie nodded. She had taken a position at a local department store, getting real hands-on retail knowledge to add to what she was learning in school about the business end of things.

  Connie had interned with a lawyer who specialized in real estate transactions. He had provided a recommendation that helped get her into law school and earn a scholarship.

  Waitressing put a pretty penny in Emma’s pockets, but when an upscale bridal shop in Sea Kiss had needed an assistant, she had jumped at the chance. She had been working there ever since, moving her way up the ladder until she was now their top wedding planner.

  “Lots of fun, just like we’re going to have this weekend,” Maggie said and held her hand out to her friend.

  Connie slipped her hand into Maggie’s and swung it like a young girl skipping through a playground. “Totally. Let’s get started with lunch. Maybe some mimosas.”

  “For sure,” she said.

  They hurried down the stairs and to the kitchen. Mrs. Patrick was just tossing a salad when they came in. On the breakfast bar, a platter with an assortment of sandwiches rested beside a pitcher of orange juice and an ice bucket with an open bottle of champagne.

  Maggie wrapped her arms around Mrs. Patrick’s waist and brushed a kiss across her cheek. “You think of everything.”

  “Always for my girls.”

  “Take a rest. Please join us for lunch,” she said.

  The older woman shook her head and shushed her. She put down the salad tongs and grabbed the bowl, turned, and handed it to Maggie. “I wouldn’t think of it.”

  Maggie took the bowl but gestured a go-ahead motion with her head to Connie.

  “We won’t take no for an answer,” Connie said. She took hold of the older woman’s hands and urged her out to the back patio.

  Maggie watched through the french doors as Connie guided Mrs. Patrick to the wrought-iron table and sat her down. The older woman was still protesting but laughed at something Connie said, and with that, she finally relaxed.

  Her friend could be a shark when she needed to, but she could also beguile people with her disarming charm and down-to-earth good-naturedness.

  Maggie put another place setting and champagne glass on the tray Mrs. Patrick had prepared and went outside. Connie eased the tray from her hands and started setting the table while Maggie returned to the kitchen to bring out the sandwiches and salad. Within a few minutes, the mimosas were prepped and they were all eating, drinking, and chatting in the warm sun of an August summer day.

  It couldn’t be more perfect, Maggie thought.

  Chapter 10

  It couldn’t be more perfect, Owen thought, staring up at the sprinkle of stars shimmering across the night sky. The smell of meat cooking wafted over from where his brother was grilling their dinner at the outdoor kitchen on one side of the patio.

  He reached down and grabbed another beer from the ice-filled bucket nestled between the two Adirondack chairs Jonathan had set out on the great lawn behind their home. Snagging the can opener, he pried off the lid, tossed it into the bucket, and chugalugged a good portion of the perfectly chilled beer.

  “Easy there, Bro,” his brother said as he sauntered over with two plates loaded with food. Jonathan handed him a dish that he balanced on his lap as his brother straddled the ottoman of the chair beside him before plopping down onto the seat.

  Grabbing his immense burger, Owen took a big bite and groaned with pleasure. “This is delicious. Fuckin’ delicious,” he said, prompting an inquiring glance from his brother.

  “Just how many beers have you had?” Jonathan asked and bit into his own burger.

  “Not enough to help me forget our fuckin’ father,” he replied around a mouthful of food.

  “Too many obviously,” his brother muttered as he continued eating.

  Owen didn’t respond, eager to forget about all that had happened that week. Work. His father. Maggie. His father. Just the thought of his old man killed some of the pleasant buzz he was feeling from the beer, food, and good company.

  He dug into the meal his brother had prepared with gusto, incredibly hungry after the time he’d spent in traffic on the parkway. Thirsty, he thought as he slugged back another mouthful of beer to wash down the burger.

  He forked up some of the potato salad on his plate and sampled it. Flavor burst in his mouth, a sweet-sour combo enhanced by the smokiness of bacon. He quickly devoured more. “This is really good. Where did you get it?”

  Jonathan smiled and ate some of it himself before he said, “I made it, Bro. I’m a jack-of-all-trades, didn’t you know?”

  His brother never ceased to amaze him, and it saddened Owen that his father couldn’t see how wonderful his son was. But then he recalled his father’s comment of the other day, and it occurred to him that maybe he could see it but ego kept him from acknowledging it. Which killed a little more of his pleasant buzz.

&n
bsp; “You’re da bomb,” he teased and tried the macaroni salad. It was equally delicious. Smooth, creamy, and with just the right balance of pasta to a variety of other ingredients.

  “It’s a beautiful night. Perfect,” he added, grabbed his beer bottle, and waved it in the air in a toast of sorts. And then a very feminine squeal pierced the relative quiet of the night and was quickly followed by additional female sounds unmuted by the row of thick privet hedges that separated their property from the Sinclair home.

  He bolted up in the chair and peered into the hedges, trying to make sense of the shapes and colors barely visible through the dense foliage.

  “Is that—”

  “Maggie, Connie, and I guess the excited noises are because Emma just got here,” Jonathan said and grabbed another beer from the bucket.

  Fuck, Owen thought and tried to school his emotions, because his brother was too sharp-eyed not to notice that something was up with him. He leaned back into the chair and picked up the last little bit of his burger. He ate it slowly, thoughtfully, wondering why the gods had chosen to deposit Maggie just yards away on a weekend when all he wanted to do was forget about her for just a moment.

  As if he could, he admitted to himself.

  “You know what I think about this supposed family feud?” his brother said pensively.

  “That it’s horseshit,” he said, paraphrasing what Jonathan had said to him when an eighteen-year-old Owen had come back after a magical kiss with Maggie in the dunes.

  “Definitely horseshit. Who even knows why those two old bastards are fighting?” Jonathan said.

  Owen took another long swallow of his beer. “They’re fighting about the properties.”

  Jonathan fervently shook his head. “It’s more than that. No one stays angry for that long just about some dirt.”

  “Not just dirt. Bryce Sinclair was a friend, and he betrayed our father when he bought those store locations for his wife,” he clarified.

  Jonathan laid his empty plate on the ottoman and faced him. “Are you saying that you think he’s right? ’Cause if you are, you’re just as crazy as he is.”

  “He” being their father, who Jonathan refused to accept as his father since the day their old man had decided to disown him. Much like the bastard refused to admit that his youngest son was a truly unique and wonderful individual.

  Another burst of feminine laughter came through the privet hedge, snagging Owen’s attention.

  “It’s crazy, Owen. Seriously crazy. Just go for it already. Find out if it’s just an itch or something more,” his brother urged and motioned toward the Sinclair property.

  Because his brother was like a great white shark that wouldn’t release its bite on a swimmer, he admitted, “I’m already working on it.”

  Jon’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Seriously? You’re not fucking with me, are you?”

  Owen chuckled and wagged his head. “I’m not fucking with you. So here’s to scratching that itch,” he said and held up his beer bottle for a toast.

  His brother hesitated for a moment, then grinned and knocked his bottle against Owen’s.

  “To going for it.”

  * * *

  The night air was warm but not too muggy. Maggie stood on the edge of the balcony, enjoying the peace and solitude of a Sea Kiss night.

  A slight breeze from the south kicked up, and the scent of cigars wafted to her. She glanced across the way to the great lawn behind the Pierce mansion. There was just a sliver of moon tonight, but it cast enough light for her to see the silhouettes of the two men reclining in the Adirondack chairs, sharing a smoke. Their faces were in shadow, and she was far enough away to ignore the two, but suddenly, one of them raised a hand in greeting. The gesture was followed by a whispered discussion, and then the second man slowly lifted his hand, mirroring his brother’s gesture.

  Jonathan reluctantly followed by Owen, she surmised.

  She waved back, feeling a little awkward with the whole Owen situation unresolved. Feeling exposed thanks to the light spilling from the room behind her, making her highly visible to the two men.

  It should have occurred to her to be more discreet since they’d realized that Jonathan was in residence. Later, when Emma had gotten there, she’d caught sight of Owen’s Lightning prototype car sitting in the circular driveway just behind the Jeep. It was one of the electric vehicles that Jonathan Pierce’s company hoped to release to the public shortly.

  Pushing away from the edge of the balcony, she entered her room and closed the french doors behind her. She had been looking forward to leaving them open to enjoy the sounds of the sea and the breeze, but the slight perfume of the cigar smoke would just lead her to thinking about Owen. Owen being one of the things she had wanted to avoid thinking about by coming down this weekend.

  She grabbed a romance novel to help her relax and was climbing into bed when something rattled against the glass of the french doors. Narrowing her gaze, she peered toward the opening, searching for the source of the sound, when a second round of rattling came from the glass.

  She rose, walked to the doors, and noticed the dozen or so pieces of pea gravel outside on the wooden balcony. Pea gravel like the mulch beneath the long row of privet hedges separating the Pierce and Sinclair mansions. As kids, they’d dodged in and out of the hedges and grabbed handfuls of gravel to toss at each other.

  When the third barrage hit the glass, she had no doubt just what was causing the noise. She hurried out to the balcony, leaned over the edge, and looked down. Owen stood in the shadows, holding another handful of the small stones, ready to launch them yet again, presumably if she failed to respond.

  “What are you doing?” she said in tones barely above a whisper, hoping that her friends would not hear what was happening.

  “I wanted to get your attention,” he shouted out, much louder than she hoped.

  Grimacing, she held an index finger to her lips in the age-old sign for quiet and whispered, “Shh. Everyone’s asleep.”

  He looked up and across the balcony, wavered a little on his feet, and said, “You’re not asleep.”

  “Go home, Owen,” she urged.

  He shook his head with a bit too much vehemence and wobble. “We need to talk,” he said and walked toward the wisteria vine at the base of the balcony.

  “What are you doing?” she said, louder and more insistently, as he grabbed hold of one thick branch of the vine and pulled upward.

  “What does it look like I’m doing?” he shouted back, finding a foothold in the twisted wisteria branches and boosting himself up a few more feet.

  “Shit, Owen. Climb right back down, do you hear me?”

  Despite her instructions, he continued his way up, fumbling for purchase on the branches, losing his grip at one point, which had him precariously flailing for a hold until he managed to wrap his arm around a thicker bough of the vine.

  Luckily for him, it was late summer, and there weren’t any of the fragrant purple blossoms that attracted a host of bees in the early spring. It was also lucky for him that with some of the leaves starting to fade, he could get a more solid grasp on the gnarly limbs. Because she feared the possibility of his falling and getting seriously hurt, she said nothing else until he climbed over the railing and landed unsteadily on the balcony.

  Then she attacked, her hands fisted. Her voice was hushed to avoid others hearing but still crackled with anger. “What the hell were you thinking?”

  With a dimpled, boyish grin and eyes that were slightly unfocused, he said, “I was thinking you and me on the balcony, romantic-like. That is if we can hash out what is happening between us.”

  She slashed her hand through the air. “Nothing is happening, remember?”

  “Because of some stupid family feud,” he replied confidently, but his words were slightly slurred. He tried to cross his arms in a sig
n of bravado, she guessed, but it took him a few tries.

  Leaning closer, she sniffed him. The scents of cigar, bourbon, and Owen filled her senses.

  “You’re drunk. Jesus, Owen, you could have fallen and broken your neck!”

  “Doesn’t God watch out for children, drunks, and fools?”

  “And you’re two of the three right now. Can you imagine how you hurting yourself would have added to the damn feud?” Despite her comment, it was hard not to smile at the almost goofy, self-satisfied grin on his face that was dimming her upset.

  She just couldn’t resist those damn dimples.

  “I didn’t fall, Mags.” Stretching his arms out wide with a flourish, he said, “And I’m here. In one piece. What do you plan to do about that?”

  Shit, she thought and rolled her eyes. She couldn’t send him back down the vine in his condition, but she also didn’t want to keep him out on the balcony. Connie and Emma could step out at any second, and if they did, there was no telling what crazy ideas they’d get into their heads.

  She grabbed hold of Owen’s hand and hauled him through her open french doors.

  “Whoa, I kind of like where this is going,” he said, a little too loudly.

  She laid her index finger on his lips, shut the doors, and pulled the lightweight curtains closed to keep away any prying eyes.

  “Even better,” he said when he realized it was her bedroom. He reached for her, sloppily laying his hands on her waist. Shifting them to her arms where he lightly trailed his fingers across her bare skin.

  She slapped his hands away and fought to ignore the shiver of need his touch caused down her spine. “Stop, Owen. You’re drunk—”

  Raising one finger, he said, “I only had one bourbon.”

  If she knew Jonathan at all, they’d probably had a few beers as well and that one bourbon had likely been a water glass full and not just a couple of fingers over ice.

  “You’re a cheap date, then,” she teased and placed her hand on his chest to guide him toward an upholstered divan in the sitting area of her spacious bedroom.