The Summer Man

Chapter EIGHT





John woke up with Annie Thomas’s soft hip pressed against the small of his back. He had one of those vague, halfdreaming seconds in which he didn’t know anything beyond an awareness that he wasn’t alone—and then he was awake enough to remember.

Oh, he thought. He opened his eyes, saw the familiar corner of his bedroom—saw, in fact, the open box next to the closet door, the one with the quilt. Lauren’s grandmother’s quilt. He’d been meaning to mail it to Lauren; he’d come across it just a few weeks back, apparently forgotten in a storage bag of blankets labeled “winter” in his wife’s neat hand. When he’d unfolded it, remembering Lauren wearing it wrapped across her shoulders on more than one icy winter evening, he’d teared up a little. And in spite of that still-tender spot in the general vicinity of his guts, last night, he and Annie had…

He blinked, worked not to jump to any diagnostic conclusions, part of him marveling at how quickly things had happened. Except for a few forays led by adolescent hormone rushes—which he’d mostly managed to get through by his midtwenties—he wasn’t one for casual sex. It wasn’t for lack of trying, back then, but he’d been an awkward youth, and by the time he’d grown into his social skills, he’d learned pretty fast that just because you could, that didn’t mean you should. Sex created complications.

Behind him, Annie stirred, her supple warmth pressing closer, and John almost smiled. Hello, complication.

“Hey,” she murmured, cleared her throat. Her voice was as soft as her skin.

“Hey,” he said. He rolled toward her, backing away slightly at the same time so he could see her. Not sure what he would see, what to expect. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d acted so impulsively, without at least having some idea of where things stood. Where he stood.

Her bangs were mussed, her lips slightly chapped, but in the soft light of morning, naked in his bed, she looked beautiful. He smiled at her. She was an attractive woman, and last night had been…

“Wow, huh?” she said, smiling back at him, and he relaxed into a grin.

“I was thinking the same thing,” he said.

Her crooked smile was endearing. “This is going to sound dumb, but I don’t usually—I mean, this is kind of a surprise.”

“You’re not that kind of girl,” he said, meaning it as a joke, but her own smile faded.

“No, I’m really not,” she said. She seemed almost puzzled, her expression matching his own feelings about what had happened between them. Glad but tentative. Uncertain.

John nodded. “I believe you,” he said, sincerely. “This isn’t—I’m kind of in the same boat you are.”

Her smile was back. “But don’t rock the boat, right?”

“If this boat’s a rockin’,” he replied, and if there had been any tension between them, even for a second, it was gone.

“So, since we both never do this kind of thing, what’s next?” she said. “Do we have coffee, or should I just gather up my panties and sneak home? Walk of shame, and all that.”

“Coffee, definitely,” he said. “In fact, I’ll go make it. You stay here, I’ll bring it in.”

“Automatic drip?” she asked.

“French press.”

“Oooh. A gentleman of taste.”

He grinned, sat up, and looked around, spotted his boxers crumpled on the floor. “Obviously,” he said, scooping up the drawers and pulling them on. He actually sucked in his stomach a little, amused at himself for it but not letting out his breath entirely, either. He wasn’t in bad shape, but no one would ever accuse him of sporting a six-pack, either. “I mean, look at you.”

“Why, Doctor, I do believe you’re flirtin’ with me,” Annie said, mock-Southern. She fluttered her eyelashes.

John laughed, pleased with how the morning was going so far. Pleased with the whole affair, as it were. They’d struck up an interesting conversation at the picnic, about criminal psychology, of all things, but had been forced to cut it short; she’d been on duty, after all. When she’d asked if she might drop by later, to talk more—she got off at nine, she’d said—it had seemed perfectly natural to accept, and to offer dinner. The bottle of wine she’d brought along had gone quite well with the pasta he’d managed not to overcook. After dinner they’d had more wine, talked for a while about all kinds of things—her third year of law school at UW in Seattle, her work as a deputy, the sheriff’s control issues. He’d mostly listened, enjoying her optimism, her wit, the sound of her laugh…and at some point, he’d actually talked about Lauren a little. Or, rather, how he’d felt about the end of their marriage, about how he’d finally realized that while he had been willing to keep trying, Lauren just didn’t want to be married anymore; she hadn’t wanted to do the work, or at least not with him. Annie had been understanding, had really seemed to empathize; he’d felt comfortable talking with her, relaxed. And when she’d leaned in and kissed him, he’d responded wholeheartedly. Going to bed with her had seemed inevitable by then, although he hadn’t made any conscious decision about it…and the passion with which they’d tackled that particular chore had been almost embarrassingly enthusiastic. Both times.

Another warm smile exchange, and he went to make coffee, while she disappeared into the bathroom. He looked out the kitchen window as he waited for the water to boil, saw that it was going to be another sunny day. Across the street, two men were picking through the wreckage from the old school. He’d seen a lot more activity around the site since early spring; perhaps they would finally get around to clearing the lot, although John figured he’d lose at least part of his view as soon as the new development went up, whatever it was slated to be. Both men looked like construction workers, dressed in flannel and jeans—although after a bit more scrutiny, John could have sworn that one of them was Rick Truman.

He watched the two men gesture at the various piles of debris, struggling again to avoid picking apart what had happened.

He got a pair of matching mugs out of the cabinet by the fridge—mugs that he and Lauren had received as part of a set a couple of Christmases past, from her cousin or aunt, he couldn’t remember…and was pleased to note that the thought didn’t hold any sting, or at least not much of one. He started to analyze that—postcoital euphoria or actual personal growth, as evidenced by the spontaneous encounter and his subsequent calm?—and told himself to shut up.

Just make the coffee, John.

Annie stepped into the kitchen just as he’d finished pressing the coffee. She wore only her underwear and the light blouse she’d worn the night before, partially buttoned. He could see the curve of her breast as she approached, could clearly recall the feeling of it beneath his fingers and lips.

“Smells great,” she said.

John poured. “Cream or sugar?”

She took the offered mug, inhaling deeply. “No way. This is the good stuff. I only doctor it up when it’s undrinkable otherwise. What they serve at the station, or the dispenser at the university library. I go through buckets of that nondairy creamer.”

John grimaced. “Gah. That stuff’ll kill you.”

“Don’t I know it.”

They each sipped, smiled. At each other, at themselves. John opened his mouth to ask her how she was feeling, then closed it again. He wasn’t her doctor. If she wanted him to know, she’d tell him.

“So, are you going to take me on a real date now, or am I just a sexual plaything, to be used and tossed aside?” she asked.

“I was about to ask you that.”

She blew on her cup. “Date, definitely. Though I’d be OK doing that plaything part again. You know, if you didn’t hate it too much.”

John laughed. “I endured. I’d like to take you on a real date, though. What’s your schedule like?”

“Too busy for a real date,” she said promptly, but added, “I have Tuesdays and Wednesdays off. I’m usually studying, but I can make time, I’ve only got the one net class until September. Wednesday night’s good—if you want to do this week.”

The last held a hint of question. She was stepping carefully, perhaps feeling him out for depth of interest. There was a time in his life when he would have responded according to what he thought she wanted to hear, or what he wanted her to believe, but he liked to think he’d grown out of playing those kinds of games. Thank God. Life was much easier when you were honest.

“I do,” he said. “So, Elson’s or Poisson?”

Annie cocked an eyebrow. “You want to stay in town?”

He smiled and sipped his coffee. “I’m OK with people talking. Unless—we could skip over to Port Angeles, if you’d rather…”

“No, no,” she said. “I’m good. Umm…Poisson, I guess. I love their bisque.”

“Wednesday at…seven? We could meet there, if you like.”

“I like,” she said.

They smiled at each other again. John felt like a teenager, almost dopey with sudden infatuation…and with an optimism he’d not had much of, lately. That Annie might turn out to be someone special. That his life would go on, go somewhere new, and that he might have someone to share it with, at least for a time. He’d known those things, of course, but there was a vast difference between knowing and feeling. And even if it was only the dying gasp of last night’s endorphin rush, it was good to feel hope again. Jesus, it was f*cking great.





Amanda woke up from a late-afternoon nap feeling sticky and unpleasant, her brain in fugue. The apartment was hot, the box fan on her floor washing muggy air over her sweaty self, doing pretty much nothing at all. She sat up on the edge of her bed and reached for the half-empty can of warm diet soda on her nightstand. Drank. Yuck, but at least the fuzz on her tongue tasted better.

The nap had been kind of involuntary, brought on by an extreme lack of sleep. She’d stayed up too late the night before; it had been hard to get to sleep, thinking about the whole picnic thing. And then Peter and her mother had woken her up way too early, fighting, both still half-drunk from the night before. Over Peter leaving the goddamn toilet seat up, from what Amanda could hear through the pillow jammed over her head. It seemed that Grace had gotten up to pee in the early a.m. and had gone for a swim instead. They had eventually stopped shouting and gone back to sleep, but Amanda had been unable to do the same.

She reached for her pack of smokes, smiling in spite of her postnap wonkiness at the image of her mother dropping into cold toilet water by the dawn’s early light. It hadn’t been terribly funny at seven in the morning, when she’d finally given up trying to get back to sleep, but it was a classic. Devon would laugh his ass off. She stood and opened her window, then scooted her chair beneath it so she could smoke without polluting her room too much. She wasn’t worried about getting caught; her mother knew she smoked (and had the audacity to disapprove), but Amanda didn’t like the stale smoke smell in her clothes.

She lit up and leaned back in the rickety chair. Hot air wafted through from the parking lot, smelling of oil and baked asphalt. From late spring to fall, the complex would be an oven on sunny days; the wind off the bay never seemed to make it this far inland. She hawked, spit out the window, took another drag. Thought.

She’d spent most of the morning at the library, surfing for information about psychic ability. Ninety-nine percent of what she’d found had been total drivel—the sheer number of sites was staggering, almost thirteen million if you googled psychic abilities, and it seemed like most of them had something to sell (besides an assload of psychic reading ads, there was also a big market for books and videos promising to help people discover their own latent abilities), but she’d read some interesting things, as well. There were even a few serious, grown-up people who believed in it, who didn’t sound entirely bugf*ck—although some of them spelled “magic” with a k, which didn’t exactly contribute to their authority. She’d found out that precognition was the most commonly reported form of ESP, and that something like 70 percent of the experiences occurred within dreams. Also, that it was usually calamity, a death or a natural disaster, that was foretold; the ratio of bad news to good was like four to one. There was a lot of theory online too, about whether the perceived future could be changed—although some of the suppositions had gone into quantum physics, and she’d gotten a little lost trying to decipher phrases like “the feasibility of retro-causality.” In any case, stories similar to what had happened to her and to Bob Sayers’s brother weren’t all that uncommon. She’d e-mailed some of the more promising site addresses to Devon, since he had a printer and wouldn’t charge per page, as the library did. She’d checked out a couple of books, too. Her mother had been promising to buy a computer since she was like thirteen, but she would bet cash money that that wasn’t gonna come to pass—

A rap on her door.

“Yeah,” Amanda called. The door opened—and it was Peter. Grinning like a monkey. He’d be handsome, she’d often thought, if he never spoke; dark hair and eyes, wolfish jaw, nice teeth. Of course, he couldn’t say two words without labeling himself an undereducated, narrow-minded bigot, and his casual cruelty toward just about everyone made it impossible to like him. Grace had picked herself a real winner this time around.

“Hey,” he said.

“What?”

“Your mom had to go in early,” he said. “Jason called in sick, so she had to cover.”

“Oh,” Amanda said. “OK. Thanks.”

He stayed in the doorway, still smiling that wide, toothy grin. “So, what are you doing?”

She shot him a disparaging look. “Having some alone time, do you mind?”

“I don’t mind,” he said. He shifted his weight, leaning against the doorframe…stared at her. “You thinking about your boyfriend?”

Jesus Christ. “No, I’m not thinking about my boyfriend,” she said, dripping as much sarcasm as she could. She took another drag of her cigarette, feeling the first inklings of unease. It was Sunday. The bar closed early, but her mother still wouldn’t be home until after midnight.

“I’m going to have a beer,” he said, completely ignoring her obvious hostility. “You want one?”

“Don’t you have to work or something?” she asked.

Peter shook his head slowly, still staring at her, still grinning. “I did some work this morning looking over a work site, and they don’t need me at the dock. I’ve got tonight free and open, not a thing to do.”

Like she cared. “Well, no thanks,” she said, as sourly a possible, turning more toward the window. Here’s my back, a*shole. Leave. Leave.

He didn’t move. She didn’t look at him, concentrating on the view from her window—a scraggly tree, a patch of graying bark dust littered with dried cat crap and cigarette butts, a corner of parking lot shimmering in the late-day sun. The moment stretched, stretched, moved from uncomfortable to unnerving. This was stupid; this was her house, her room, she should tell him to get the f*ck out, but she didn’t, and still, he didn’t move.

“I’ve got some pot,” he said. His voice was softer than it should have been. “You ever smoke pot? I bet you do. This is some primo shit, too; it’ll totally knock you on your ass. We could get high, watch a movie or something. You know, just hang out.”

It was too creepy. Her sarcasm failed completely as alarm bells started to clang, as the room got smaller. She’d always though he was a total f*cking dog, but she hadn’t really believed it, not till now. Out, get out, right now.

Although she’d had no plans for the evening, had no desire to leave the apartment after her sweaty nap, she butted out her smoke and stood up.

“Thanks, but I’ve got to get going,” she said. She forced a smile in his general direction, grabbed up her cigarettes. Her bag and shoes were by the door. She’d go downtown, get coffee or something, read one of the library books, and wait for Peter to clear out.

She took a few steps toward the door, expecting—hoping—that he would move, but he didn’t. His muscular arms, bare and scarred and tanned, were casually folded across his chest. He had a good six inches on her, and beneath his beer gut was the hard, well-developed body of a dockworker. She didn’t want to retreat, didn’t want him to think she was scared, but he was suddenly close enough to smell, smoke and sweat and cheap, heavy aftershave. She backed up a little, afraid to try to push past him. God, what if he grabbed her?

“Where to?” Peter asked. He was still smiling, acting like he was really enjoying their conversation.

“Meeting friends,” she said. “Downtown.”

“Aren’t we friends?” he asked. He actually looked her up and down, his gaze dropping to her chest, her hips, back to her chest. She wasn’t wearing a bra.

“I’m going to be late,” she said, struggling to seem casual, aware that her heart was beating loud and fast. “Look, Mom already knows I’m going out. Didn’t she tell you?”

The lie was automatic and hopefully credible, and Peter’s smile faded slightly. She seized on the line of thought and ran with it. “You can call her if you want.”

“I don’t want,” he said. He took a half step into her room.

“Or I could call her,” she said, making her voice hard. She met his eyes, but only for long enough to see the sudden spark of anger there, of sneering disappointment. He mastered it quickly, found a smile again, raised his hands slightly like someone trying to avoid a fight.

“We don’t want to upset your mother at work,” he said. He backed off, just a little. “Some other time, right?”

She quickly moved past him, mumbled a sure, right, and headed for the front door. It seemed a million miles away, a million miles of bad carpet and cheap linoleum when any second his heavy hand might come down on her shoulder. She grabbed her bag, opted for her clogs from the pile of shoes, caring only that they were the easiest to get on, and was outside in less than a minute. She hurried across the lot, not daring to look back, feeling sick with tension…and, strangely, guilt. No vague innuendos, no questionable looks; her mother’s boyfriend had been inviting her to f*ck.

Oh, man. She wanted a smoke; she wanted to sit and smoke and think about it, figure out what to do, but somewhere far from Peter. Should she tell her mother? Sure, but…Grace already knew that Amanda didn’t like her boyfriend, and she had accused Amanda of trying to break them up in at least three drunken rants in the last six months. Sober, she could be reasonable…but in any condition, she wouldn’t take the news well. Amanda couldn’t count the number of times she’d heard her mother, totally shit-faced, declare her love for Peter.

It was still hot out. She figured it was maybe five thirty by now, but it wouldn’t be dark till nine; he’d be gone by then. She’d go down to the Coffee Klatch; they were open until nine every night in the summer. She wanted to talk to someone about what had happened, but there was nobody to call. Devon and his Uncle Sid were having dinner with Carrie, Sid’s girlfriend, and her family tonight, some barbecue deal. There were three or four people she knew well enough to have coffee with, friendly acquaintances, but no one she trusted like Devon.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit. As if she didn’t have enough trouble in her stupid life without that dickhead making things a thousand times worse. Amanda dug for her sunglasses and hurried, in spite of the heat, in spite of the uncomfortable bounce of her unsupported breasts, to get away from her home.





Eric Hess was sitting on the curb and smoking and thinking about home when he saw the girl walk past a block over, headed down the hill. He glanced back at his dad’s house, considered the consequences if he didn’t show for dinner—Jeannie would pout and wiggle her tits, and his father would do the whole point-his-finger thing and talk about respecting his rules under his roof, and then it would be over.

Worth it? He watched the girl disappear past a hedge, thought about how she’d looked at the picnic, all pale and soft, smoke spilling from her dark lips as she talked to her friend, and decided it was. He stood and flicked his smoke into the gutter, wondering what her name was as he started after her. Something cool, like Chloe or Thora. She had to be another tourist’s daughter, no way this hick shithole could produce that kind of alternative. Or maybe it could. What the f*ck did he know?

Not much, he thought, finally reaching the corner that intersected his street with the one she’d been heading down. He took a right, making a point of looking at the street name. Devlin. He lived at the corner of Devlin and Blair. Well, lived, that was one way of looking at it. They’d been in Port Isley for a week—nine to go before he could return to the strange, treacherous grind that was his life in Boston, and he expected all of them to be as boring and shitty as the first—and he’d only ventured into “town” on his own a couple of times. He didn’t particularly want to interact with anyone, fakey smiling at strangers or whatever. Mostly, he walked to the park by their house and sat and read and smoked. He listened to music and he jerked off and he watched action movies on cable. He’d successfully avoided his father so far, which hadn’t been too difficult—Dad spent his days working on the boat and every f*cking night boinking his prom queen wife, who was only, like, six years older than Eric and screamed like a porn star when she came. Or faked it, more likely.

The girl was a full block ahead of him, but he didn’t hurry too much. He liked watching her shuffle along in her slippershoes, clogs, liked the sway of her soft ass, the determined set of her shoulders. There were a couple of girls he hooked up with every now and again back in Boston, both smart girls, both kind of f*cked-up. This girl was like that, he thought. He hoped. Fashion girls weren’t his bag, too skinny and bitchy and they laughed too much at everything. He liked ’em morbid.

It was early evening, the sun still in the sky but dropping, and the air was getting cool. The girl had a flowered bag she wore over one shoulder, kind of a vintage-looking thing. She gave him a profile a couple of times, looking toward the bay when the trees opened here and there, and he liked the shape of her nose. When she finally turned enough to see that she was being followed, she didn’t slow down for him. He wouldn’t have expected her to.

She led him down the shaded hill to the small town’s epicenter, if such a word could be used, a couple of streets that ran along the water, that had restaurants and businesses. For another half block they were alone, and then they started passing a few people, walking to their cars or whatever, couples, a family. There were some kids carrying ice cream cones, and most of the faces he passed looked happy, relaxed, smiling, but he couldn’t imagine why. Except for a smoke shop that didn’t card and a good-sized used bookstore, there was a lot of nothing in Port Isley, as far as he could tell. Jeannie had apparently read some f*cking article about summering in the Northwest, and it was just like that weird old TV show, only his stepmom Jeannie wriggled her model bod instead of bobbing her head, and Dad did what she wanted. Anything for his blushing bride, even if it meant spending two months in some backwater rich-people’s tourist town, so she could feel like she was properly spending her new husband’s money.

The girl ignored everybody, keeping her head down. Introverted. He was more extro himself—he was a goodlooking kid, he knew that, knew that people cut him slack when he smiled and made bullshit small talk—but he wasn’t looking to make any friends, either, so he kept his focus on the girl, followed her across a back parking lot to a coffee shop. He had enough friends at home, where he should be the summer before his senior year, only Dad had insisted on his f*cking visitation and his mother had bargained him away, because she was pretty much a cunt and she wanted to travel Europe and pretend she wasn’t anyone’s mother. Both of his parents were bright and intensely manipulative people; he even admired them, at times, for their strangely clever maliciousness, but he’d grown out of being their puppet a few years back, since right after the divorce. Before the split, when they’d been one silent, dysfunctional family unit, his parents’ expectations had been few—as long as he kept his grades up and didn’t embarrass them publicly, they left him alone. Now his mom wanted a sounding board for her every neurosis, and his dad required him to submit to long, personal discussions about utter bullshit that ended with awkward hugs. They were supporting him financially, however; college was paid, and as much as he resented their general negligence of him as, like, a person, he wasn’t an idiot. So, summers with Dad in sunny LA, private school in Boston with Valium-popping mom. One more year and he’d have a private apartment just off campus; it was already a done deal…

The girl went into the coffee shop, a generic-looking place called Coffee Klatch. Eric followed her inside. Into a heavy coffee smell hanging over shelves with mugs and coffeepots and assorted random shit for sale, and the high-pitched squeal of the espresso machine’s steamer frothing milk. There were half a dozen small tables inside, the type that seated two uncomfortably. He’d been in the exact same shop on both coasts.

She went straight to the bar in the back, where someone else was ordering…he joined her, the two of them making up the line. She was tall for a girl, like five seven or eight, even. As close as he was, he could see the roots of her dyed hair, an ashy brown against the burgundy-black of the dye. She smelled like cigarettes and baby powder.

“Double iced espresso,” she said, her voice low and a little husky. She rummaged in her bag, dragged out a battered black wallet, and waited while the woman turned to the machine and scooped up a plastic cup. Eric reached for his own wallet and saw he had, like, eighty bucks on him. Dad left a twenty on the counter every other day, usually with a note explaining that he and Jeannie were sightseeing (read: out f*cking on the boat) and would be back with dinner later, takeout seafood from some ritzy place by the pier; Jeannie didn’t cook, of course. All he’d bought since coming to Port Dullsville were smokes and some yellowing paperbacks, so he was relatively flush.

The girl got her drink, doctored it heavily at an extension to the counter, and sat at one of the tables while Eric ordered his coffee. He’d already decided that he’d try the direct approach. It usually worked.

He walked to her table, stood next to her chair. She was digging through her bag again, but she looked up when she realized she had company, her expression careful, ready to be defiant. Her eyes were green.

“Hey,” he said. “Is your name Chloe?”

“No,” she said.

“Huh. You kind of look like a Chloe. I’m Eric. Would you mind if I sat with you, just for a couple of minutes? I mean, if you’re not meeting anyone.”

She hesitated, but then nodded. “Yeah, I’m not. Meeting anyone.”

Eric sat, leaning back in the spindly chair. “So…not Chloe?”

She smiled, a little twitch of a thing. “Amanda.”

Eric nodded. “That’s a good name.”

“I’ll thank my mother for you,” she said. “You here for the summer?”

He nodded. “You too?”

Her smile curved, a sardonic thing. “Nope. I call this shithole home, thank you for reminding me.”

Nice. She was funny. This close to her, he could see how flawless her complexion was, pale and creamy. She had a baby face, but her gaze was sharp. Her mouth was a little too wide.

“So…you’ll be around?” he asked. “Is this where you hang?”

She raised her eyebrows. Her tone was slightly derisive. “Where I hang?”

“Not the local lingo?” he asked, and hit her with his best smile. “So, now I look like a total dickhead or something? Dickhead, that’s the shiz, right?”

She smiled back at him, and he decided he had to know her better. Something about her eyes, when she smiled…he could see her vulnerability, beneath her punk-rock front. He could see that she was slightly damaged.

“No, you’re fine,” she said. “Yeah, I come down here a lot. Can’t smoke, though, so I usually end up on one of the benches by the pier. If it’s nice.”

“If it’s not?”

“Library,” she said. “Under the overhang, front steps.”

“Home’s no good?”

She leaned back a little, matching his posture. The glimmer of openness was gone, just like that. “You a therapist or something?”

Time to leave her wanting more. He stood up, picked up his coffee, and gave her another patented Eric Hess grin. Didn’t want to look like an a*shole, either…

“Just interested,” he said, sincerely. “I gotta run. I’ll see you.”

“Chances are good,” she said, her tone dismissive; she was already busy rummaging through her bag again. Good. She was interested, he could tell, so she was hiding a little bit. He understood the need, appreciated her as another f*cked-up person in the universe, just making her way…and knew that she’d likely spend the next week hanging around the places she’d mentioned, hoping to run into him again.

Mission accomplished. He took his time walking back out into the dying day, pleased that he’d decided to follow the girl. Amanda. Amanda. He set his still-full coffee on the curb in front of the shop—what the f*ck was a klatch, anyway?—as a good-bye gift, so she could see why he’d really come in, and started back up the hill.