The Book of Summer

Palmer latches on to Bess’s elbow and guides her toward the door.

“But it has nothing to do with that house,” she says. “Let’s scrap tennis. Cliff House, too. I’m taking you to town. We need new outfits for tonight. If you dress the right way, who knows, maybe you’ll get to do it after all.”





40

Friday Afternoon



Phone in hand, Bess taps out a few words.

She deletes them. Types a few more.

They aren’t right either. Delete, delete, delete. There is nothing Bess can say that doesn’t make her sound like a pathetic high school girl incapable of talking to boys. This, when she is thirty-four years old and with much bigger problems than what to do about the cute neighbor boy.

Bess shakes her head and instead writes what she really wants to say.

Hey. Party for Flick tonight. 8pm. Marina, Old S Wharf, near Slip 14. Come with? Boat parties. Like the old days.

“God, Palmer,” Bess mutters, “you’d better be right about this.”

She is about to end the whole pathetic deal with a winky emoticon when her phone rings, startling her and causing her to hit Send before she can exercise her better judgment.

“Shit!” Bess yelps. “Shit!”

The text has gone to Evan. What was she thinking, inviting him to her cousin’s pre-wedding fête of bankers and blue bloods? She shouldn’t listen to Palmer. Palmer sees the world from a very rosy place.

“Shit,” Bess says a third time, for good measure, as her phone continues to ring. “Goddamn it.”

DAD, the phone screams at her. DAD.

“Um, hello?”

“Bessie, that you?” her dad bellows.

He is grumpy and short of breath. Bess imagines him pacing by the picture window in his office, glaring out over the Charles River.

“Yep!” she says. “Who else?”

“How are you?”

“I’m pretty go—”

“Glad to hear it. Listen, I need you to pick me up at the airport.”

“The airport?” Bess says, blinking. “What airport?”

“Nantucket! What’s wrong with you? Are you drunk?”

“What? No! It’s only noon! So, wait. You’re coming? Here?”

The phone buzzes in her hand. Has Evan texted her back?

“Yes of course I am!” Dudley says. “It’s my niece’s wedding. Seriously, what is wrong with you?”

“Oh … right. Sorry.”

It hadn’t occurred to Bess that her dad might come for the event, even though Aunt Polly is his sister, Flick his niece. She’s his very favorite niece, at that—his favorite in the whole family, no doubt. He likes her ambition, drive, and custom-made herringbone pantsuits. Bess should’ve guessed he’d show. Dudley Codman always comes through. Old Dudley-do-right-eventually.

“Um, okay,” Bess says. “When? Tonight?”

“Sunday. I’m taking the late flight. Six forty-five. Cape Air. I’ll be staying one night. At the Wauwinet.”

“I’m happy to get you,” Bess says. “But, Dad, wouldn’t you rather have Mom pick you up?”

“Your mother?” He snorts. “Elisabeth, that woman once showed up at the airport on a fucking bike.”

Bess laughs.

“Yeah,” she says. “Been there.”

“So you’ll do it, okay good, speaking of your mother,” Dudley says, spitting sentences like he’s checking them off a list, or shooting them from a gun. “You guys ’bout packed?”

Bess clears her throat.

“Sorta?” she says.

“‘Sorta’? Bess, you’ve been there a week. What the hell have you been doing if not packing? In case I haven’t mentioned you could die.”

“I know. It’s just, well, some things are packed.”

“Some things.”

“It’s been busy. Two town meetings in the past three days.”

“Christ, say no more.”

Bess can almost hear his eyes rolling.

“Your mother told me about the geotubes,” he says.

“She did?”

“So hooray. But you gotta get that woman packed, understand?”

“Yes, but it’s not that simple.”

“It never is,” he says. “Listen, thanks for going out there. I’m sure Cissy’s been a royal pain in the ass but it’s comforting to know that progress is being made thanks to you.”

Bess fights a groan. Progress. Right. What’s Dudley going to think when he sees Cliff House? And what will he do to Bess? With her father there are always “consequences.” He might cut her out of the family. Or send her to the Sudan with Lala.

“So, um, are you going to help pack?” Bess asks, her voice coming out in a squeak.

“Why would I do something like that? Gotta run Bessie, see you later, love you, bye.”

The phone goes dead.

Bess exhales. At least Dudley is staying at the Wauwinet and away from Cliff House. He won’t find out that Bess is a flat liar. Sorta packed. Just like Bess is sorta married. Technically. A little bit. But not in any meaningful way.

After checking for a response from Evan (nothing, nada, zilch), Bess tucks the phone into her back pocket. Jeans this time, for the love of all that’s not elastic, though the jeans are noticeably snug. Bess will have to figure out something. Soon. Sweatpants are comfy but they can’t solve all her problems.

“Hey, Cis,” she says, walking into the living room.

Her mother is hurricaning around the place, pulling and pushing and packing. Well, wonders never cease. There’s some movement yet.

“Hiya Bess!” Cissy trills as tweenager music blares from a nearby stereo.

I’m wide awake …

“Wow, Mom, I didn’t take you for a Katy Perry fan.”

“She’s cute. I like her hair!” Cissy smiles. “It reminds me of yours.”

“Isn’t hers blue?”

“Not always.”

Cissy swipes a collection of picture frames from the fireplace mantel and plunks them into a box.

“Glad to see you’re getting things done,” Bess says, and perches on the arm of a floral couch at least twenty years out of style. “Packing wise, that is.”

“Well, they can’t move the house with everything in it! Oh, Bessie, I’m just so jazzed all of a sudden. What is it that you Californians say? I’m stoked!”

“I do not say that. Ever.”

“I’m stoked on the geotube plan. Cliff House lives!”

Cissy twirls and leaps across the room, like Palmer from her ballet days, if Palmer were over sixty and mildly arthritic. Bess feels a little dizzy from all the motion.

“‘I’m falling from cloud nine,’” Cissy sings, then sets about attacking an assembly of gardening and entertaining books from the eighties.

“So Dad just called,” Bess tells her.

She checks her phone. No texts. No missed calls.

“He’s coming for the wedding,” Bess adds.

Cissy hesitates and then scowls.

“Mom?”

Cissy turns toward Bess and holds up a book. 101 Ideas for Carpeting Your Bathroom.

“Is it awful to trash old books?” she asks.

“Not that one.”

Cissy flings it into a bin.

“So yeah,” Bess says, eyeing the trash. “Dad’s coming, but only for twenty-four hours.”

“Okeydoke,” Cissy answers, wholly unfazed by the news.

Bess remembers what Grandma Ruby said, back when Bess was a little girl complaining that her dad didn’t stay the entire summer.

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