The Last September: A Novel

“Okay,” I told Ladd. “That’s fine.”


A full minute passed. We watched a seal roll sideways off its rock. I could see its sleek head, bobbing in the water, staring at us. I took a step toward it, and the seal disappeared, under water. The rain picked up, not just misting but steady and torrential. Without speaking or putting our hoods up, Ladd and I ran up the beach, to the slick sidewalks, back toward town.

On the drive to Saturday Cove, sunlight slanted rays onto the pavement, making the puddles of water look like puddles of gasoline, streaked with black and violet. Clouds began to disperse. Ladd’s knuckles looked red and chapped on the steering wheel. His hair was soaked and slicked back, his jaw set and irritated.

“I don’t see why you’re angry,” I finally said, as if I weren’t angry myself. “When I said I’d do it.”

“I’m not angry.” His teeth set the barest bit, biting back the emotion he couldn’t contain or admit to. I sympathized with the struggle, and wanted to run my finger over the sunburnt skin across his cheekbones.

But I didn’t. Instead I said, “This is good news for your uncle’s party. The sun.”

Ladd’s face settled into a kind of relief, his eyes widening back to their normal size. He reached across to close his hand around both of mine. His hands were big enough for that.

“Yes,” he said. “It’s good news.”

I NEVER GOT AROUND to asking the reason Ladd’s father hadn’t inherited Daniel’s beach house. Maybe he didn’t want it? The house he did have was significantly larger than the one that belonged to his younger brother. I suppose to make up for the fact that it wasn’t on the beach, it had a swimming pool—a long, gleaming swimming pool, with a diving board, surrounded by white lounging furniture. I had never seen so much as a leaf floating on the surface of that pool, and I had never seen anyone swim in it. Late afternoon before the Fourth of July party, I stood staring out through the French doors at that pool. Ladd was their only son, and as Daniel had no children, there were no cousins. It would be up to me, then, to give the pool the life it needed. I tried to rearrange the placid scene before me, fill it with splashing children, the diving board always quivering.

From the staircase, I heard footsteps: definite, male, not Ladd’s. I didn’t turn, though I knew it was rude. Ladd’s father stood there quietly and I imagined I could feel joy emanating from him. Ladd had delivered the news, how easy it had been. Not the barest whimper of objection. When I did turn around, he wouldn’t say a word about that, but just say my name, and tell me I looked pretty. What else does a man say to a woman dressed up for a party? What else does a man hand to a woman who’s agreed to marry him but a gold pen to sign a legal document?

Would John Keats have signed a prenup? Would Emily Dickinson?

My constitution could only handle ignoring him for so long. I turned around. The red dress I wore had been purchased for the party, on sale at Filenes. It had spaghetti straps. The hem grazed my ankles.

“Brett!” His eyes looked ever so slightly glossy with sympathy. He likes me, I reminded myself. He is prepared to love me. He wants me to marry his son. “Don’t you look pretty,” he said.

“Thank you.”

Ladd came down the hall to stand next to his father. The two were dressed almost identically, in blue blazers and khakis. “Well,” Paul said. “Should we announce the engagement tonight? At the party?”

“No,” I said quickly. Ladd raised his eyebrows, surprised, and I said, “I want to tell my mother first.” As if anyone at the party knew of my mother’s existence, or she theirs.