Second Chance Summer by Morgan Matson
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This book wouldn’t have been possible without the incomparable Alexandra Cooper. Thank you, thank you, thank you for your patience and faith and brilliant editorial skills.
Thank you to all the wonderful people at S&S: Justin Chanda, Amy Rosenbaum, Anna McKean, Venessa Williams. And huge thank-you to Lucy Ruth Cummins for such a beautiful cover.
Rosemary Stimola, thank you for your agenting superpowers and your faith in the story from the start.
In the UK, thank you to Jane Griffiths, Kat McKenna, Mary-Anne Hampton, and Franca Bernatavicius.
Thank you to Lauren Strasnick, writing buddy extraordinaire, for your friendship and your invaluable help with this book.
Thank you to my mother, Jane Finn, for more things than I have room to list here… but especially for all those magical Pennsylvania summers.
While this book was primarily written in Los Angeles, it was revised all over the place, and I owe a great deal of thanks to those who made that possible: Thank you to Susan MacTavish-Best, for the use of her beautiful, artbedecked Mill Valley home. To Eric Berlow, for the use of his cabins in the Sierra Nevada—revising has never had such a gorgeous setting. And thank you to Nancy Quinn and Ginger Boyle, who made the house-renting process in the Poconos so easy.
Finally, and above all, I must gratefully acknowledge Alex MacDonald. Thank you so much for finding us revising cabins, making scrambles, cheering me on, and always knowing when ice cream was needed. I could never have done this without your support and encouragement.
Love is watching someone die
—DEATH CAB FOR CUTIE
The Lake House
chapter one
I EASED OPEN MY BEDROOM DOOR TO CHECK THAT THE HALLWAY was empty. When I was sure that it was, I shouldered my purse and closed the door behind me quietly, then took the stairs down to the kitchen two at a time. It was nine a.m., we were leaving for the lake house in three hours, and I was running away.
The kitchen counter was covered with my mother’s plentiful to-do lists, bags packed with groceries and supplies, and a box filled with my father’s orange prescription bottles. I tried to ignore these as I headed across the kitchen, aiming for the back door. Though I hadn’t snuck out in years, I had a feeling that it would be just like riding a bicycle—which, come to think of it, I also hadn’t done in years. But I’d woken up that morning in a cold sweat, my heart hammering, and every impulse I had telling me to leave, that things would be better if I were somewhere—anywhere—else.
“Taylor?” I froze, and turned around to see Gelsey, my twelve-year-old sister, standing at the other end of the kitchen. Even though she was still wearing her pajamas, an ancient set decorated with glittery pointe shoes, her hair was up in a perfect bun.
“What?” I asked, taking a step away from the door, trying to look as nonchalant as possible.
She frowned at me, eyes resting on my purse before traveling back to my face. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing,” I said. I leaned against the wall in what I hoped was a casual manner, even though I didn’t think I’d ever leaned against a wall in my life. “What do you want?”
“I can’t find my iPod. Did you take it?”
“No,” I said shortly, resisting the urge to tell her that I wouldn’t have touched her iPod, as it was filled solely with ballet music and the terrible band she was obsessed with, The Bentley Boys, three brothers with perfectly windswept bangs and dubious musical gifts. “Go ask Mom.”
“Okay,” she said slowly, still looking at me suspiciously. Then she pivoted on her toe and stomped out of the kitchen, yelling as she went. “Mom!”
I crossed the rest of the kitchen and had just reached for the back door when it swung open, making me jump back. My older brother, Warren, was struggling through it, laden with a bakery box and a tray of to-go coffees. “Morning,” he said.
“Hi,” I muttered, looking longingly past him to the outside, wishing that I’d tried to make my escape five minutes earlier—or, even better, had just used the front door.
“Mom sent me for coffee and bagels,” he said, as he set both on the counter. “You like sesame, right?”
I hated sesame—in fact, Warren was the only one of us who liked them—but I wasn’t going to point that out now. “Sure,” I said quickly. “Great.”