Summer Darlings

by Brooke Lea Foster

  “But he’s different from someone like Ted…” While spreading the peanut butter—the bread crusts cut off—Heddy struggled to make sense of his rundown cottage, his beat-up truck, that he was a surf instructor. He wasn’t a typical businessman, hardly relying on his money to feel important.

  Ruth dabbed at a stain on her apron, returned the flour to the pantry. “I bet it was the ramshackle house that fooled you. Here’s a secret about this island. You can’t judge a person on their summer place. Sometimes the older the money, the more dilapidated the house. It humbles them.”

  “Huh,” Heddy said, packing two brown bags with the sandwiches, a few saltine crackers, and bananas. She used black magic marker to write on the bags: Happy 4th! Sparklers tonight. xo Heddy.

  She heard the pitter-patter of little feet coming down the stairs, and Jean-Rose’s voice: “Teddy, slow down.” Heddy and Ruth stood with their hands folded, preparing for the family to enter.

  Ted, who had been in the garage, came inside, hoisting a Styrofoam ice chest onto the counter, a cigarette balanced between his lips. “I hear you visited the island’s most famous resident yesterday,” he said to Heddy. Then, “Pack this with ice for me, will you?”

  Heddy opened the freezer. “I can’t believe you grew up with a true-to-life movie star, Jean-Rose. What was she like in high school?”

  Ruth kicked Heddy’s ankle. “You didn’t tell me,” she whispered, the sun shining through the kitchen window.

  “I meant to,” Heddy whispered back, but she hadn’t, because she didn’t want to brag.

  Jean-Rose settled the children into their seats at the table—she liked to choose their clothes every morning, and it was Heddy’s job to brush their hair and teeth. Ruth had cereal waiting in bowls with spoons balanced along the rims. Jean-Rose poured the milk. “Not as pretty as she is now.”

  “Jeannie!” Ted was opening drawers, sifting through, not finding what he was looking for.

  “Why can’t we go to the fireworks?” Teddy pouted. “All of my friends are going.”

  “No!” Anna held her hands over her ears, like the fireworks were already going off.

  When Teddy insisted they go, she screeched: “I’m scared, Teddy,” tears coming fast.

  Jean-Rose made a sad face at Anna. “Maybe next year, baby.”

  “I’m not a baby,” Teddy hollered.

  Heddy lifted Anna onto her lap, kissing her smooth forehead and rocking her, while Teddy began to follow his father, pestering him.

  Jean-Rose pretended not to hear, continuing about Gigi. “It wasn’t surprising she became an actress. She was always trying to be someone else. But she was popular with the boys. Right, Ted?”

  He looked annoyed, shooing the boy away. “Why are you asking me?”

  “Gigi’s father had a thing for cards. Lost that lopsided little house of theirs overnight.”

  Heddy never heard that part of Gigi’s story; she’d seen a photograph of Gigi’s mother on a movie set, and she’d seemed as glamorous as her daughter.

  “This will be full of fish tonight.” Ted was staring at the ice on the bottom of the chest, and she could almost see it: rows of fish, mouths agape, their vacant eyes staring up.

  “Mr. Mule says I can go fishing with them,” Teddy told his mother.

  “Edison?” Jean-Rose said, turning to look at Ted.

  “We ran into him the other day at the dock,” Ted said, patting the boy’s back. “And good thing,” said Ted, “because I’d forgotten my wallet.”

  “Well, good thing.” Jean-Rose clapped her hands together, a sarcastic edge in her voice.

  Ted went on with his hunt through kitchen drawers: “Where is that filet knife?” Ruth started to look for it, too.

  “Can I come fishing this morning? I don’t want to go to some dumb camp,” Teddy said.

  Jean-Rose sucked in a sharp breath, smiling pretty. “Kids aren’t welcome where Daddy is going. I’m not sure I am, either.”

  “Jeannie, stop. You hate fishing at Menemsha. You hate fishing, period.” Ted crouched down by Teddy’s chair, kindness in his voice. “I’ll take you out after camp next week. This is our annual Fourth of July fishing derby.”

  Teddy started to wail, a high-pitched yelping that made Anna hold her hands over her ears again. “You like Mr. Mule better than me,” he hollered.

  “Jesus Christ, can one of you women get him to calm down?” Ted said, shooting up to stand. “He needs a spanking.”

  Jean-Rose spooned another bite of cereal. “My parents didn’t lay a hand on me, and I won’t let you lay a hand on them.”

  Teddy wiped spittle off his cheek. “You never take me. Never, ever. Heddy said if I asked, you’d say yes.”

  “No, I never said that. What I meant was—” Heddy realized her voice was trembling.

  The boy fumed at her. “You said to get what I want, I had to ask.”

  Ted raised his hand, his voice deep and angry. “I don’t care what she said. I said we can go after camp next week.”

  Jean-Rose dropped her spoon, rising from her seat and resting her palm on the small of Ted’s back. “I’ll take care of this, honey,” she said. “What else do you need for fishing?”

  Ted slumped into the chair, rubbing his hands roughly on his face and mumbling something to himself. It sounded like he’d said, “Stupid bitch,” but Heddy was certain she’d heard wrong. He was a member of the revered Island Club, an application that was so grueling, the New York Times had once written about it.

  Jean-Rose didn’t seem to note anything improper, and she turned to Teddy, clapping her hands. “Stop right now, young man. You need to go to camp, and you can’t go to camp with swollen, red eyes. You’ll fish with Daddy next week. Now stop the tears.” Heddy, still scooping ice, waited for Jean-Rose to hold the boy in her arms and nuzzle him. Instead, she crossed her arms and narrowed her gaze. “I didn’t hear you say okay. Okay?” Her voice went vibrato.

  To Heddy’s shock, the child nodded, working to muffle his cries, his tears slipping into his mouth as he ate. Anna disappeared under the table.

  “Ted’s filet knife is on the shelf by the potting soil in the garage. Heddy, would you fetch it for him? Anna, get back in your seat.”

  It felt good to be out of that kitchen, away from Ted’s outburst. With the garage door open, she stepped into the cool, musty air. Standing on tiptoe, she leaned against a few cardboard boxes for support to reach for the knife but wobbled, and the highest box tipped. There was the shatter of porcelain, and after the shock of it, she realized what had fallen, a pile of gold-rimmed plate shards around her feet. One of the plates, upside down on the cold cement floor, had a stamp on the back: “Wedgwood.” She knew those plates from her mother’s job at Tiffany’s. “Damn it!” she exclaimed.

  “What was all that racket?” Jean-Rose looked toward the garage as Heddy handed her the knife.

  What if Jean-Rose docked her paycheck? What if those plates were worth more than her entire week’s pay? “I’m so sorry, but I may have broken your china.” She waited for her boss’s lecture on her carelessness.

  Instead, Jean-Rose handed the knife to Ted. “Please gut them on the dock this time.” Then she faced Heddy, looking at her like she was naive and unknowing of how the world worked, a look of pity spreading across the woman’s face. “Anyone can see that pattern is dated, dear. My fashionable china is in the house.”

  When Heddy went into the pantry to grab the broom, Ruth was already in the doorway, holding it out to her. Ruth whispered: “Don’t feel too bad. She loves when things break. It gives her an excuse to buy something new.”

  Heddy swatted her, a smile of relief on her face.

  Now that she was in the musty garage sweeping up the pieces, the straw broom dragging along the concrete floor, Heddy laughed to herself. Ruth had something clever to say about everything.

  “Who cares if he has it? It makes him happy, Jeannie.” Loud voices, Ted’s voice, coming from the porch. Dismissive and angry.
Now what? So much for Beryl’s idyllic description of these two—Jean-Rose and Ted pounded each other like boxers.

  “I care. He’s six years old,” said Jean-Rose.

  “We had a nice morning, Jeannie. Don’t spoil it.”

  “A nice morning? Is that what you call freaking out on all of us? You’re more like your father than you like to admit.” Heddy looked to see if Ted was going to lose his temper again, but he stared at his crying son with remove, his expression distant.

  “Give it to me, Theodore James Williams Junior,” said Jean-Rose. “No bringing it to camp. No hiding it under the table at breakfast. I told you: only at night.”

  Teddy clutched that odd doll, Miss Pinkie, to his chest, and Jean-Rose ripped it from him, tearing the bonnet off its head. Anna tried to grab the doll, but Jean-Rose held it up high.

  Ted slammed his cigarette onto the ground and stomped on it. “Jesus Christ, give it back to him.” Jean-Rose narrowed her eyes at Ted, not seeming to notice Teddy, who had collapsed to his knees, heaving.

  How strange that Teddy could be so attached to a baby doll, its hair a sickly butter yellow and pulled into pigtails. Without the bonnet, you could see how matted its hair was, frizzy and fake, the kind that reeked of plastic. Heddy thought of the little boys she babysat at her Brooklyn tenement with their metal trucks, the way they propelled them along the sidewalk, spitting their vroom-vrooms out as they went. Teddy had those toys, too—he just didn’t seem too interested in them.

  “He didn’t soil her when he took her out, Mama. I made sure,” Anna whispered, looking down at her feet.

  “I don’t need my son traipsing around town with a… doll.” Jean-Rose looked like she might spit on it. She held the doll overhead, which made its eyes flutter open, and tossed it across the yard like a football. Miss Pinkie’s skirt filled with air like a parachute, landing in the center of the lawn near a jar of bubbles they’d left there the day before.

  Teddy took off running, his chubby hands frantically cradling Miss Pinkie when he got to her. He whipped around to see if his mother was coming after him, but she’d already disappeared inside.

  Heddy, her heart racing, looked to Ted for some direction. Should she go after the child, or did his father want to talk to him? She got her answer when Ted walked away. Heddy fetched the pink bonnet, then took Anna’s hand and followed Teddy, who had stolen off to a canopy of long weeping willow branches, hunched over his doll.

  “It’s okay, Teddy.” She sat down in the grass beside him.

  The boy flinched, his eyes bloodshot, his cheeks wet. He clutched the doll closer to him. “I won’t let you take her,” he yelled.

  “I just want you to put her in your room.”

  “Mommy gets mad when Teddy plays with my dolls, but we love the dollhouse.” Anna climbed onto Heddy’s lap. “We put on lipstick and we wear Mama’s clothes. Teddy was punished for a week, but I wasn’t.” Anna had her mother’s blond hair, deep blue eyes and high cheekbones; she was a child whose face people could imagine morphing into its adult self, knowing she would one day be beautiful.

  Teddy lifted the doll to his mouth, running her plastic forehead along his lips. “It’s not fair,” he said.

  “You have so many other toys. What about that robot I saw on your bookshelf?”

  “Mr. Mercury,” Anna whispered. “See if he’ll play with Yogi Bear.”

  “Let’s get Yogi. We can make Jellystone Park out of sand.” Her voice was full of exaggerated glee, the voice she heard parents take on when they didn’t want their kids to sour a good time.

  “You don’t want other boys to laugh at you for playing with a doll, do you?” She rubbed the boy’s rumpled hair, but touching him only made him scoot farther away.

  “I don’t care.” He pressed the doll’s blond curl flat, stroking it over and over against her forehead.

  “But someday you will. Have you ever seen Anna play with your trucks? Boy toys are for boys. Girl toys are for girls.”

  Heddy looked to make sure Ted wasn’t watching. She couldn’t yell at the boy or demand he march inside and pick another toy, which is what her mother would have done. She wasn’t a parent. That he loved a doll was inappropriate, but with a child this upset, she had to try a different tack.

  “Here, I have her bonnet.” Heddy dangled the ruffled hat from her fingertips, letting it wave near his face. It got his attention, so she kept on. “Can I put it on her?”

  Teddy squeezed the doll to his chest when Heddy reached for its white patent leather Mary Janes.

  “I promise I’ll give her back.”

  Teddy must have loved the bonnet because he relented, handing her the doll.

  “At bedtime tonight, maybe we can wet her hair to make her curl flatter.” Heddy ran her finger against the curl. “She’ll look pretty.”

  He stared at Heddy with something close to awe, like she’d said something revolutionary, so she repeated it.

  “We’ll do her hair.”

  “We can do that?” A smile peeked out of his hangdog look.

  “Sure we can.”

  Anna jumped up. “Can you do that to Barbie, too? You shouldn’t tell Mommy, though.…”

  Heddy nodded, watching Ted emerge from the garage holding his tackle box; she knew he was waiting to see if she’d appeased the child. “But we’ll have to put Miss Pinkie down for a nap so she’ll be ready for her big night.”

  She led him up to the house, her arm around Teddy’s back, the boy’s head down. They passed Ted, who grinned at her, his eyes sparkling like sun on water: “I’d say it’s time for camp.” Ted patted Teddy on the back. “We’re still on for fishing next week, right?”

  Teddy sniffled.

  How hard would it be to cancel his plans to spend a day alone with his son? She wished Ted could see how happy it would make Teddy, that it was obvious even to Heddy that Ted avoided spending time with him. She assumed he saw something of himself in the child, something he didn’t like.

  EIGHT

  As soon as they’d gotten out in the dirt parking lot at Katama Beach, Heddy heard the hypnotic sound of the ocean, the big waves seemingly slicing the sky away from the sea, leaving behind a sheet of foam in their wake. The ocean always made Heddy want to run to it, feel the force of it wash up her ankles and chill her legs, and she always laughed, because of the playful nature of something so explosive.

  Anna tugged at Heddy’s denim shorts, holding a charred-over remnant of a Roman candle firework she found on the ground. “Will you carry me?”

  “Let’s put that in the trash first.” Heddy plucked it from the child’s grip.

  Three surfers bobbed just beyond the breaking waves. Several beach blankets were spread out on the beach, many shaded with colorful umbrellas, a necessary reprieve from the blasting sun. She leaned down to balance Anna on one hip, switching the beach bag to the other, while trailing behind Jean-Rose, who was clutching her pink espadrilles in one hand, a streak of plum eye shadow softening her thick black mascara, and waving.

  “Ash!” she said. Teddy ran to him, too, slamming his hand with a high five.

  A thrill built in Heddy’s chest, the slow climb of a roller coaster up the tracks. She’d been anticipating Teddy’s surf lesson all week for this reason, and there was Ash rising from his aluminum beach chair, a long-pointed surfboard at his feet. He sipped a can of Narragansett beer.

  Ash leaned in to kiss Jean-Rose’s cheek. “I like what you’ve done with your hair, Mrs. Williams.”

  Jean-Rose’s eyes grew wide. “Ted never notices these things. But I suppose he’ll notice the bill next month.” She touched the bejeweled topaz comb she’d used to part her hair in place; she was trying to preserve the cascade of ringlets from the hairdresser the day before. “And please, it’s Jean-Rose. You make me sound ancient.”

  Heddy unpacked the beach bag, laying out a striped blanket near Ash’s chair, handing Anna her bucket and shovel.

  Ash leaned down, helping her pull the blanket taut.
“Did you have fun with the sparklers last night?”

  “We went through them fast—thank goodness Ted brought home an extra box,” Heddy said, letting her cheeks dimple. She helped Teddy pull off his T-shirt, folding it neatly. Boys her age were tossing a football around, and Heddy took a minute to size them up; one was handsome, a head of caramel curls.

  “That’s right, the two of you have already met.” Jean-Rose spoke to Ash, as if Heddy wasn’t even there.

  “A few times now,” Ash said.

  “Right.” Jean-Rose motioned to the aluminum cooler. “Do you mind if I grab a soda?”

  “There’s plenty.” Ash handed her a can of ginger ale, and Jean-Rose snapped it open and sipped, scanning the men in the water.

  “Surfers on the Vineyard! I have to say, I didn’t get it. Seemed like a sport for Florida boys.”

  “I’m trying to change that.” Ash put his hands to his hips, and Heddy, pretending to be concentrating on building castles with Anna, noticed his biceps, the flex of his muscles. “If there are waves,” he said, “you can surf. Doesn’t matter if you’re in Miami or New England.”

  “Everyone on the island is talking about it. Ash Porter, the mysterious South Florida boy who can ride on waves. When I say you’re teaching Teddy, everyone—”

  “Yes, thank you for the referrals. Got a full schedule now.” He held his beer up to toast her ginger ale.

  Jean-Rose presented herself like she was onstage, letting people look at her, immensely comfortable in her own skin. It was a talent, Heddy thought. “I know a lot of the women are dying to try,” said Jean-Rose.

  “We’ll have to get you out there then,” he said.

  Jean-Rose grinned.

  He pointed to several surfboards he’d lined up along the dunes. “You can pick up a smaller board for about fifty dollars. Name the day.”

  Teddy jumped up and down. “Can we buy one? Fifty is a good price, Mama.”

  Ash and Jean-Rose laughed, like they were tickled by his remark, and Heddy didn’t let them see the roll of her eyes. Why is it funny to raise kids that thought fifty dollars was a bargain?