Postcards From Last Summer (10 page)

“C
an we just not talk about it?” I wrapped my hands around the Mikasa coffee cup and let blur the array of flowers tucked into the latticework about the lanai—white, purple, and lavender blooms swirled in a whimsical design created by Darcy's exclusive florist. I wished that the beauty of it all could wash away the ugliness I was feeling about last night.

“Tell me!” Darcy pressed. At least she'd held off bugging me until the others had gone inside to get showered. “Was he awful? Did you tell him to fuck off or . . . he didn't rape you, did he?”

“No, no.” I took a sip of coffee, but it seemed to lodge high in my throat. “If you have to know, we had sex, okay? But he left soon after that. I don't know. It was dark, and when I asked he said he had to go.”

“So why is that so wrong? Some guys don't like to cuddle afterward.”

“It just seems so wrong. I don't think he's really into me.”

“Stop being so self-deprecating.”

“He called me Darcy.”

“Oh.” Darcy pressed her lips together to keep from smiling. “Did he really?”

I nodded. “And that's not the biggest deal. It's just that I don't sleep around like that, not if I'm not into the guy.”

“And you're not into Austin? Have you seen him jogging down the beach? He could rescue me any day.”

“He's cute.” I thought about sex with Austin, his firm, precise hands plying me into response, the steady rhythm that brought me to orgasm. Sure, it felt good at that moment, in the dark of the quiet bedroom. This morning, regret had swept in, and no amount of reassurance from Darcy was going to ease my distress over the choices I made last night. Besides, Darcy had a way of twisting things around, manipulating people and facts to make everything fit into her own agenda.

“Oh, no. I see that look on your face,” Darcy lamented. “Don't say it.”

“I can't help it. I keep thinking about Bear.” I ran a fingertip over the patterned glass of the patio table. “Do you think he'll find out?”

“I don't know, probably. But it serves him right, doesn't it?”

I shook my head as gloom roiled deep inside. “I didn't want to screw things up with Bear, and now, that's just what I've done.”

“Excuse me, but you didn't screw up. He's the one who ditched you to stay at his surfing competition. If he wants you, he's going to have to treat you better than that, Linds. In the meantime, go to the beach, talk it up with Austin. I think you two would be great together.”

I had my doubts, but since it was my day off from Old Towne Pizza, I figured I might as well check out the surf and test the waters with Austin Ritter.

D
espite the best-laid plans to arrive in different vehicles to avoid making her parents suspicious, Tara had just pulled into the driveway at her parents' contemporary beach house when she noticed Kevin's van coming off Dune Road, right behind her.

“Oh, well,” she said aloud, waiting at the ground-level door for Charlie to catch up with her.

He waved at Kevin's receding van, then turned to her, his dark eyes flashing with want. “And how are you?” he asked as if they hadn't seen each other in a while.

“Fine.”

He moved into the doorway behind her and cupped her bottom with one hand. “Very fine.”

She felt breathless as their faces were inches apart. Lord, she wanted to kiss him! She craved him in the worst way, but her parents' house was forbidden territory.

Tara reassembled her composure and proceeded into the house, up the twisting contemporary staircase. “I know you're behind me,” she teased, lowering her voice. “Now don't look up my dress.”

“Wouldn't miss it for the world.”

She reached the main floor and swept onto the landing with a laugh, checking the kitchen for her mother. Instead, the reading lamp in the living room glowed yellow over her father, who sat reading the newspaper.

“Daddy . . . what are you doing here?”

“That's a fine welcome for your father, isn't it?” He lowered the newspaper and motioned her over so that he could place a kiss on her cheek without getting up off the couch. With the gray dusting the sides of his head and the skinny reading glasses, he seemed suddenly old, but then he'd been working so hard this summer, staying behind in Manhattan to defend an African American man who'd been blatantly passed over for promotion to top-tier management in a large corporation. The Blue Bell Corporation and Mr. Tyrell Olney had dominated dinner-table discussion the last few times she'd seen him.

“How's the Blue Bell case going?” she asked. “Have they fallen to their knees yet, pleading mercy?”

“It's status quo.” He squinted at Charlie over his reading glasses. “And who's this?”

“Wayne's friend Charlie. This is my father, Laurence Washington.”

“Charles Migglesteen, sir.” Charlie leaned forward with a curt bow and shook her father's hand. “I've had the pleasure of enjoying your family's hospitality these last few weeks.”

“The soldier? Welcome. Forgive me, Charlie. I thought you were a friend of Tara's.”

“Tara?” Charlie's eyes fell on her, warming her to the core before he turned back to her father. “We've become friends, sir.”

Well, at least he didn't deny her, Tara thought, turning toward the kitchen door.

“Tara's been a huge help, taking me around a few places while Wayne catches up on the latest in Xbox technology.”

“Still hooked on that crap?” Laurence folded his newspaper in his lap. “I'd hoped he'd outgrow it.”

“Wayne's a dweeb.” Tara turned toward the kitchen.

“Don't speak ill of your brother,” her father groused.

“I'd say it to his face. It's a talent, Daddy. He should look into programming when he gets out of the army.”

“Your mother went into town to the fruit market. What's for lunch?”

Tara opened the fridge, hating that the domestic chores fell on her again while her brother was probably upstairs, thumbing his way through virtual intergallactic battles. “I guess I could make you an omelette. Cheese or bacon.”

“Both,” Laurence grunted. “With some toast, please.”

As her father leaned forward and popped open his briefcase, Tara wondered if it was wrong to hide her relationship with Charlie. After all, her parents always claimed to be free of prejudice, supporters of equality for all, at least on paper. Given the chance, would they accept Charlie, a white man, as an appropriate man for their daughter to date?

She doubted it.

Tara was wise to the harsh realities. It wouldn't look good for Daddy's professional reputation, the champion of slighted black people giving his daughter up to a white man. And Mama would claim that a relationship with a white man would squash Tara's cultural identity. In her mind Tara could hear the animated voices of her mother's sisters, the aunties, pouring on the advice, telling her she was too skinny and flat chested, pushing her to tuck into the corn bread and ribs and sweet potato pie, warning her not to act like a white girl, whatever that meant.

How she missed her Grandma Mitzy, Mama's mother. She felt sure Grandma Mitzy would understand, that she'd be crazy about Charlie, too. Before she'd passed, Grandma Mitzy had been a source of unconditional love, pulling each grandchild into the ample folds of floral fabric and hugging them close and finding something wonderful and unique in that child. For Tara, it had been her ears. “Such a sweet child! Look at the shape of the ears—like little shells. Wouldn't surprise me to find a baby pearl inside. Reminds me so much of my man Willy. Mm-mmm!” And she would hug Tara close, surrounding her with perfume that smelled of peaches and lilac soap.

Lost in the memory, Tara pressed a palm to one ear. Like a perfect shell.

Unfortunately, the rest of the world didn't have Grandma Mitzy's vision. As Tara lined up butter, eggs, cheese, and bacon on the counter, she concluded that her parents would definitely struggle over her relationship with Charlie. Best to keep it mum.

“So where were you two?” her father asked pointedly, as if smelling subterfuge. “Where'd you come from?”

“We . . . well, I was over at Darcy's . . .”
Getting down and dirty with Charlie.
Tara bit her lip and focused on cracking the eggs. “Mama knew about it, and Charlie . . . Where were you?”

“I got reacquainted with an old friend last night,” Charlie said, his eyes holding Tara's with a smoky promise. “Kevin just dropped me off out front.”

“Oh.” Her father seemed distracted again, paging through a brief.

At least he let the topic drop for now, Tara thought as she beat the eggs with a whisk. She didn't need Dad on her case about falling for a white guy.

Still, the seeds of suspicion were planted.

Staring out at the ocean through the wall of windows, Tara counted the days until the end of the summer. It was going to be nearly impossible, living under the same roof with Charlie and her parents, wanting to be with Charlie, needing to keep up the pretense for her parents that they didn't want to touch each other, lie together and talk into the night, satisfy each other . . .

This architectural gem of a house was not big enough for everything that was happening under its roof.

“S
tupid, stupid, stupid,” I muttered under my breath as I ducked into the shady coolness of the screened porch. I'd been stupid last night, and it didn't seem to be any better today. Shaky with a hangover, somehow I'd let Darcy talk me into visiting Austin on the beach. Then, as I was about to leave, someone had called Darcy with an invitation to a blowout beach party held by Anusa Armando, the fashion designer.

“Isn't she the woman who designs those eclectic patchwork jackets?” Tara had asked.

“Quilted jackets and gypsy skirts. At least, that was this year. Anusa throws a great party,” Darcy had said. “I think we need to go—all of us.”

“We don't have invitations,” I had pointed out, hating to have to remind Darcy that not everyone in the Hamptons was “connected.”

“Half of the Hamptons crashes her parties,” Darcy insisted. “Do you think they have someone checking invitations in the dunes? You have to come, and you have to at least make an attempt to look happy.”

Bamboozled into attending, I could now see that my day off would get worse before it got better. I let the door slam behind me with a satisfied “thwack!” I figured the smacking noise could be part of my penance for making such a stupid move, sleeping with Austin.

“Don't slam the door!” came my mother's voice from inside the kitchen.

“Sorry.” I paused in the doorway, glad to be home and wanting nothing more than to hole up in my bedroom and swear off guys forever. I was surprised to see Ma up to her elbows in flour amid a steam-filled kitchen. The industrial stove, with its six burners, held five pots and pans, four of them boiling, bubbles smacking.

“It's hot in here.” I wiped my brow. “Whatcha making?”

“Kathleen will be here with the baby any minute and I'm trying to make her favorite chicken pot pie.”

“In four boiling pots?”

“Ah, no!” Mary Grace turned the burners down to a simmer. “That's to sterilize the baby's bottles. Though I should throw your brother's duffel bag in for good measure. He and Bear spent their entire trip living out of Bear's van. Reeked to high heaven. I sent Stephen marching straight to the outdoor shower. We can't have that in this house, not with a tiny baby around.”

“So they're back . . .” I felt the vise squeeze tighter. What if Bear heard about Austin and me? Austin didn't seem like the type to brag, but I wasn't sure.

“Will those two ever grow up? They're celebrating because Bear found some sponsors at the competition. A reporter was there from
Surf
magazine, and apparently he compared our Bear to the likes of Mickey Dora. Can you imagine?”

Since Steve started riding waves,
Surf
magazine has been circulating in our house, so we all knew the greats—LeRoy Grannis, Mike Doyle, Doc Ball, and the Duke. I felt a little sickened by Bear's success, especially at this vulnerable moment. What did it mean?

Ma pushed the crust aside and started hacking into lines of carrots on the cutting board. “Oh! And the most important thing. Elle called. She's back in the States!”

“What?” I squeaked, wondering if one more bomb could drop at my feet. “I can't believe it. She loved London.” I took the lightly floured note from my mother. Typical of Elle, to pop up with a phone call after being away for years.

“She's coming for a visit, and I told her she could stay here.”

“Ma! You've got Kathleen and the baby staying, and I think Steve promised Napolean's friend he could move into the shed for the month of August.”

“The shed! It's not fit for a dog.”

“Then it's perfect for Steve's friends. But it's going to be crowded around here. I'll be happy to see Elle. We can share a room and everything, but—”

“I want Elle to feel welcome, with her grandparents' place sold and all.” When we were little, my mother was the unofficial neighborhood mom, hauling all the girls up to the beach in a wagon, taking us for ice cream and movies, letting me host sleepovers on the screened porch. It wasn't surprising that Ma felt an attachment to all my friends. “But call her back,” Ma went on. “I didn't have time to get the details.”

“Got it,” I said, snitching a piece of pie crust. “Kind of hot to be baking, isn't it?”

“The things I do for my children, baking in the middle of July.”

 

After a short nap and a long shower, I loaded my board and pointed the Saturn toward Bikini Beach, wondering about Bear leaving and Elle returning. There'd been no answer on Elle's cell phone when I called, and I realized that somehow it was going to fall on my shoulders to warn Darcy that her least favorite friend would soon be back in town.

Although the relationship between Darcy and Elle had ended with a huge showdown, it had never been hearts and flowers between the two of them. Darcy had always managed to make herself the queen bee of every social group, the leader who ruled by instinct and self-promotion, a dynamic Elle never bought into.

I turned up the music, a Hootie and the Blowfish tune, remembering the first time we'd met Elle, at an outdoor fair in July. We were probably seven or eight, and Darcy and I had been riding the small roller coaster, repeatedly, jumping out of the car as soon as the safety bar popped up and scrambling back to the entrance to ride again. One time, Elle had ended up in the back car, the most exciting ride on the train.

Elle was dressed in a neat summer pinafore, like a character from a picture book. Her reddish brown hair was scraped out of her face with a headband so that tiny wisps of baby-fine hair sprinkled a fringe at her forehead. Ducky hair, I used to call it. Like a little brown duckling.

“Hey, that's our seat,” Darcy had said, hands on her hips. “Move it.”

Elle didn't answer, but her dark eyes flashed on Darcy defiantly as she thrust her bare legs forward and dug in.

“Excuse me?” Darcy scowled, ready to pick a fight.

“Come on. We'll sit somewhere else.” I grabbed Darcy's elbow. “Quick! Before everything is taken.”

We'd ended up sitting right in front of Elle, who shrieked over every rise and drop. When the ride finished, the ducky girl bolted out of the exit and beat Darcy back to the entrance to ride again.

“I don't believe this,” Darcy had steamed.

But I had been a little impressed, surprised that the ducky girl had beat Darcy at her own game.

A few days later, when I found Elle capturing sand crabs in the shallows, I offered to help, and together we threw ourselves into the mission. Elle dove right into activities Darcy wouldn't do with me. She could focus on a task for hours and she didn't mind getting sand in her swimsuit or salt water in her hair. By the end of the week, Tara joined us on the beach, searching for shells and jumping the waves. By the end of the summer, much to Darcy's regret, Elle was a part of our group, joining us for ice cream runs, bike rides, Monopoly tournaments, and sleepovers.

Over the years, Elle moved in and out of the clique, sometimes by choice, sometimes because of Darcy's not-so-subtle manipulations. Elle was brilliant, a math whiz with a photographic memory, a fact that curled Darcy's toes with jealousy. With parents mired in academia and medicine, Elle developed a reputation as a hippie-nerd—another reason for Darcy to keep her out of the group. And yet, despite Darcy's disapproval, I maintained my end of the friendship with Elle, who possessed a certain sparkle that made people enjoy being around her. Unless, of course, like Darcy, you were one of those people who couldn't tolerate sharing the limelight with someone else.

There were a few bad stretches when Elle seemed hell-bent on destruction. She'd searched the dunes for plover eggs to smash; made a game of throwing matches against the foundations of the houses, which once started a small fire at her grandmother's place; and when Darcy insisted that we construct little altars to honor the Catholic saints, we knew it was Elle who sneaked back and destroyed them.

There'd been days when Tara and I had secretly discussed who would win a competition for craziest, and while Darcy usually won the bossy award, Elle was the ultimate looney. Still, no one anticipated the events of my twelfth summer . . . the slick rocks of the jetty, the fierce battle of words between Darcy and Elle.

Having arrived at Bikini Beach, I circled the parking lot three times, sorely tempted to bolt out the exit. Instead, I parked and stepped out into the oppressive heat rising from the black pavement to unload my board.

Bear's camper was not back in its usual spot on the parkland. That meant he probably wasn't surfing today. My tension eased a bit.

This would be a prime situation to have Elle around, asserting herself without hesitation, chatting people up without worrying what they thought. As I lugged my board over to the lifeguard stand, I went over the carefully scripted lines one more time. I wasn't going to make any reference to last night or the party, didn't want to say anything that would make Austin feel uncomfortable in front of Max, the other lifeguard.

“Hey, guys. How's the surf been today?” I asked casually. Lifting one braid from my shoulder, I dared to look up at them.

But Austin didn't answer. He didn't make eye contact or acknowledge me at all. With a cold, repulsive expression he stared out at the water, pretending I didn't even exist.

The other lifeguard Max was just as cold. “Why don't you ask them out there?” he said.

I stepped back and clutched the blistered post of the lifeguard stand, feeling as if the wind had been knocked out of me.
Breathe, keep breathing. Maybe you misinterpreted.
He couldn't ignore me, not after what we'd shared last night. Okay, I could accept if he wasn't madly in love with me or not ready to commit, but we'd had close-up, naked sex—touched each other intimately. My face was level with the lifeguards' feet, and I noticed Austin shift his legs slightly, those tanned, hairless legs that I'd wrapped mine around last night. This couldn't be happening. He couldn't pretend he didn't know me now.

I checked Austin again, but his stony expression remained. Only now there was a new curl to his lips. A secret, nasty smile underlying the pretense that I didn't exist.

The bastard! Stung, I cast a sad look out at the surf I wouldn't be able to enjoy today and lugged my board across the scorching sand to the parking lot.