Postcards From Last Summer (34 page)

“T
he coast is clear, Mugsy. You'd better step on it and hightail it over here.”

Tara laughed, despite the questions looming on her computer screen, the timer ticking off seconds that she should be using to finish this practice test instead of talking to her secret boyfriend on the phone. “I wish I could, but I'm immersed in this online review course. I shouldn't have even answered the phone,” she said, selecting “C. Felonious Assault” for question thirty-eight. “I promised myself I wouldn't leave the house till I aced the multistate practice test just once.”

“Sounds like a bar review course for idiot savants,” Steve said. “Why do you make those bizarre goals for yourself? You know, if you pass the bar, no one's going to know whether you got a 98 percent or 100.”

“I know, but I just want to get it right.” She'd taken the summer off from work at Senator Wentworth's office to knuckle down and study for the September bar exam.

“Well, since it's June and the exam isn't till August, I'd say you'd better pace yourself. Don't want to peak too soon.”

“Actually,” she said, selecting an answer for question thirty-nine, “I know you're just trying to tempt me, but that's a genuine concern. Sort of like a pro athlete who blows all their energy in practice.”

“I rest my case, Counselor.” Steve snorted. “Besides, Ma's been gone to Kathleen's in Poughkeepsie all week, and Lindsay has some banquet to attend in the city, though she'll probably stay at Elle's when she comes out. The place is ours, at least for tonight.”

“As I said, I know you're trying to tempt me . . .” And the thought of getting out of her parents' house, sliding out from under these hefty law books, was truly sweet.

“You've been at it all day, right? It's time to take a break.”

“A convincing argument. Okay, I've got less than ten questions left on this practice test. Soon as I finish, I'm on my way over.”

 

A lilting ocean breeze cooled the summer night, and she noticed Steve had all the windows open as she parked behind the shed and went in through the screen door without knocking. Years ago Mrs. McCorkle had instructed kids to just use the back door—“I can't be running downstairs chasing after the likes of you every time the doorbell rings”—but back then Tara had never dreamed she'd be sneaking into the house to see Lindsay's brother Steve.

How long had it been now? For more than three years they'd been seeing each other on the sly. It had started with a phone call from Steve one day in October, just a few months after Tara had ended her relationship with John Sharkey. He'd said something about meeting at the Avalon, a bar at Union Square, and she'd gone there that night, thinking he just needed the familiar camaraderie of his kid sister's best friend. He'd brought a friend, a coworker from the sports equipment company, and they'd talked and joked effortlessly. She'd just started law school, and Steve brought up the subject of liability issues on sports equipment—the bats and gloves, masks and helmets he tested—wondering where the line should be drawn between the vendor's responsibility to consumers vs. the implied contract that the consumer would use equipment safely. “I love my job. I give this equipment a workout, violate it in dozens of ways to make sure it'll stand the stress of extreme sports. But no amount of testing is going to make a football helmet safe for a biker or prohibit a baseball bat from being used in an assault. You'd be amazed at what people come after us for.” She'd never had a conversation on this level with Steve before. And when did he trim his shaggy brown hair so that it fell softly over the tops of his ears, a subtle wave over his forehead? Gone were all remnants of white zinc sunblock from his nose. And that stubble he used to scratch was now a strong pale jaw with just a hint of five o'clock shadow. She'd crushed on him when he was a shiftless surfer dude; now the attraction tugged at her like the undertow in a storm.

“What?” he'd said, screwing up his face. “What are you staring at?”

“You, Steve.” She'd always seen Steve and his friends as the Lost Boys, an irresistible gang of malcontents who would always defy authority and the aging process, but here before her was a mature man. “All these years, I never thought it would happen, but it did. You grew up.”

He balled up a bar napkin and tossed it at her. “Get out! You were scaring me, staring at me like that. I was worried you were going to jump up and start singing a Celine Dion song or something.”

“But you did, not in a bad way. You matured when I wasn't looking,” she said. “Unlike the Fogarty twins, who are still stuck in adolescence.”

“I think it's called the junior high wormhole,” he said. “When thoughts of naked girls, surfing, and meatball heroes just keep spiraling through the brain.”

Tara cocked her head. “Junior-high wormhole . . . Is that the clinical term?”

He nodded sagely. “Textbook case.”

That first night at the Avalon, they kept talking long after Steve's friend headed out, Tara still sipping at seltzer when the bartender announced last call. “We'll have to do this again,” Steve had said, and then he'd found her a cab and sent her home without any pretense of romance, leaving Tara more than a little miffed. She'd remained that way for the next year, as they'd get together for drinks nearly every two weeks at the Red Eye or Joe Allen's, the Paramount or the Oak Room—bars that did not have pounding music and lines of celebrity hunters out the door, bars where they could sit and just talk. Tara enjoyed her “meetings” with Steve, the biweekly check-ins, but she didn't mention him to Lindsay or the other girls, not sure what it all meant or where it might be going. After all, what did it mean when a guy met you twice a month for a drink and never touched your hand or even kissed hello? Having grown up with Steve, she doubted he was gay, and she didn't think he was lonely, with all his surfer buddies, his friends from Brooklyn, and now his work colleagues whose anecdotes he shared. So . . . what was the deal?

It was more than a year after that date until things broke, and now, nearly four years later after that first meeting, Tara still hadn't undertaken sharing this relationship with her friends or family. It was all a big secret. Tara had always considered herself a private person, perhaps more protective of her privacy because of her father's visibility in the media whenever a scandalous case was breaking. Private, yes, but secretive . . . no. At least, not until Steve. She knew that someday, soon, she was going to have to let her friends in on this one. But for now, she was holding tight. For some reason she still felt the need to protect and coddle this relationship, afraid that too much attention would make Steve and her feel self-conscious or guilty, jinxing everything.

The screen door gave its familiar creak as she stepped onto the screened-in porch, passing the metal glider that used to hold Tara and all three of her friends at once, swinging on a lazy afternoon, lamenting that there was nothing to do.

“Hello, hello?” She saw him ahead in the kitchen, rinsing something in the sink. “I noticed the door open and thought I'd stop in and rob the place,” she said casually.

“Nothing to rob. Ma cashed in the family jewels to fly off to Carnivale in Rio.” He handed her a martini glass with a sugared rim. “Lemon drops—tip number one in the Steve McCorkle guide to bar review.”

“Lemon drops! I can't drink these!” she said, but she took the frosted glass and let her lips sink over the cool, candied rim.

“Just one. Relaxation is key. When your brain isn't wrapping around torts and con law, you've got to give it a rest.” He picked up his own drink from the counter and led the way into the den off the dining room, where a cozy nook was filled by a sectional sofa that rivaled a small island and an entertainment center.

Steve flopped onto the sofa while Tara put her glass on a side table and snuggled close. “So, where is your mother again?” She caught his scent, the smell of soap and fabric softener mixed with salty sweat, and she smoothed her palm over his flat chest, loving the feel of his abs under the worn cotton T-shirt. This was her life with Steve—stolen moments spent talking and laughing, holding each other as they watched a TV sitcom, great, screaming sex and sleeping close, their bodies spooning they shared their worries and fears, hopes and dreams for the world. At night, in bed, Steve was not the cynic he portrayed to the world, and she'd become inexorably attached to the kind, gentle person within.

“Poughkeepsie. Kathleen went with her husband to the orthodontists' convention in Atlantic City, so Ma's been corralling the grandchildren all week.”

“So you're the king of the castle.” She smiled. “I don't know what happened to our generation, none of us able to leave the nest. You, me, Lindsay—we're all still living at home.”

“It's called the price of real estate in the New York metro area. You can't save if you're throwing a thousand bucks to rent every month.”

“So we're living in our parents' pockets.” It had worked for her the past few years, going from work to law school at night, just checking in at home to sleep. Fortunately, her mother had eased up a bit, releasing her from household duties and allowing her nights away without torturing her to disclose her whereabouts. Of course, Tara always let her mother know when she wouldn't be home, and she always manufactured some convenient lie, usually claiming to stay with Lindsay or Elle, just to alleviate her mother's worries.

“It's a temporary thing.” Steve slid a hand over her thigh, cupping the inner muscle with affection. “But I've been saving, planning to buy a house in Brooklyn. Something small, maybe attached. Or even a condo. That old schoolhouse in the neighborhood is being converted to condominiums. Could be good.”

“Really?” Tara blinked. This was the first she'd heard of this plan. “Do you have a down payment?”

“Pretty much, though I hear the closing costs are a killer.” He sipped his drink, then put it aside and turned to her, a lock of dark hair crimped and falling over his eyes sexily. “You might want in on it. It'd be a great investment.”

“Buy a house with you?” Her heart beat a little faster. This was like a proposal of fiscal marriage. “That'd be great, but what kind of money are we talking about? I mean, I've been saving, but look at me now, with the summer off. And it might take a while to find a job in my field,
if
I even pass the—”

“I wouldn't sweat the numbers; we could figure that out,” he said, catching her eye. “If you're game.”

“Well, sure, but . . .” She paused, somewhat overwhelmed. “Let's talk about what it would really mean—the implied commitment.”

Steve winced. “The C-word. Every guy's buzz-kill.”

“But it's real. If we buy a place together, it implies some commitment, that we're going to live there together.”

“Well, duh. Of course.” He squeezed her thigh.

“But long term, Steve? Are you really thinking about this?” He seemed so cavalier, she didn't think he was getting the full picture. “That you'd be involved with an African American woman?”

“Tara . . .” He squinted at her as if she were speaking an indecipherable language. “I
am
involved with you. That part's a done deal. What do you not get about buying a house together?”

“It's a huge step.” She bit her lower lip, thrilled and a little concerned. A house—their own place where they could be together without having to make complicated arrangements or explanations. It was hardly a romantic proposal of love, but from Steve this was a raving declaration of commitment. And despite his fortitude, she worried that he didn't know what he was getting himself into.

A
ll right already, just open the damned envelope.
My neck was stiff from turning from the large banquet table to stare at the podium, but I didn't want to move my gilded gold chair and turn my back on Susan Bamford, the author I'd come to support at the annual Mystery After Dark Guild Inc. Awards Banquet. Susan was up for a MADGI award for her second mystery novel, a book that was already edging up the extended
Times
best-seller list, and receiving an award like a MADGI could help the publicity department get Susan more national attention: review quotes, maybe even syndicated radio spots or—the publicity plum—a segment on a TV talk show like
Today
or
Good Morning America
or, heart be still,
Oprah!

“This is a very special award, not only our top honor, but it also often gives a mystery the ‘push' in the market to make it a best-seller,” the emcee said with grave importance.

Okay, okay, on with the show.
I had been hoping to catch the last train out to the Hamptons. We'd made it through salads, entrees, cheesecake, and twenty-some awards, but, checking my watch, I wasn't going to make it if this woman said one more word to inflate the importance of the mighty Mystery Guild.

I straightened my neck and shrugged expectantly at Susan, who bit her lower lip, a bundle of nerves. She'd been a joy to work with, earnest and full of good humor, unlike the first author I had seen rise to the best-seller list with an increasing list of demands that ranged from audits of the publisher's accounting department to first-class tickets when she went on tour. Pain in the ass. Diana Hargrove always delivered her manuscripts late, then spent weeks rewriting her page proofs, changing “lavender” to “lilac” and “simpering” to “sniveling.” She drove everyone crazy, but now that she was a best-seller we needed to keep the sniveling lilac bitch happy.

“And the winnner is . . .”

I crossed my fingers, hoping to see success come to one not so wicked.

“The MADGI goes to Susan Bamford!” The emcee's voice rose three octaves. “For
A Clue for All Seasons . . .”

Susan popped out of her seat with a squeak, and I stood up to hug her.

“Gift of the MADGI,” I joked before she went running toward the stage. This was an author who deserved the accolades, her mystery a tight, compelling story that had made me laugh aloud the first time I'd read it. I was happy for her, pleased that
A Clue for All Seasons
would probably rise up the best-seller lists now. Susan was supporting three teenaged kids and a dog and working per diem as a nurse in a depressed mining town of western Pennsylvania; she could use the dough.

Best-seller status would also mean another bonus for me—a tradition at Island Books to reward the editors of best-sellers. (The staff joked that Allessandra Beckett was probably a secret millionaire; she could afford to move from tuna salad to sushi, if she so desired.) Applauding madly with the audience, I took mental inventory of the upcoming weekend. If I missed the last train to Southampton—and I probably would, since there'd undoubtedly be a MADGI afterparty—I could return to the office and go through some of the manuscripts stacked on my windowsill. The security guard would let me in, and working in the office late at night could be productive, without the ringing phone, cavorting colleagues, and meetings to distract me. Although I already had two manuscripts in my bag under the table, which I'd planned to take home and edit over the weekend . . .

“I want to thank my editor, Lindsay McCorkle, who is a walking lifesaver,” Susan was saying. “The day she called to buy my first manuscript, that very morning I had posted flyers on all the local community bulletin boards to sell my car because I just couldn't afford the insurance anymore . . .”

I glanced up at her, glad I hadn't completely tuned out and missed this part of Susan's speech. In the past year or so I'd come to realize that you could never completely catch up in a job like mine, with manuscripts arriving in the slush pile every day, scheduling issues, manuscripts to be line-edited, cover copy to be rewritten, marketing calling for next season's concepts and catalog copy.

“I'd told my kids that either the car or the grocery bills had to go, but they just refused to stop eating,” Susan went on, causing a rumble of laughter in the audience.

My mind turning back to office tasks, I made a mental list of all the people to e-mail regarding Susan's MADGI award. Marketing, of course, and the sales force would want to know, field reps . . . I closed my eyes, trying to turn it off. I loved my job and I was good at it; finding three best-selling authors in four years was not a bad track record. But lately I'd realized that, even if I spiraled to the pinnacle of an editorial career, it wasn't going to bring me fulfillment. Social status, money, job security . . . sure, the bennies were sweet. But a voice deep inside me had begun to shout: More! I needed more. Something kinetic inside me needed to bust out and get moving, and I knew that the evolution of Lindsay wasn't going to be brought about through an editorial career or, the more likely mistake, a man.

“Thank you for this esteemed award,” Susan wrapped up her speech, “and thank you for helping me continue to do the thing I love best . . . writing.”

As I joined the audience in giving the lovely woman a standing ovation, Susan's words resonated for me. Writing . . . I'd always enjoyed it. Granted, I'd been stung when my romance manuscript was rejected, but I'd also been disappointed in myself for following a formula that didn't feel right.

I'd held the Muses at bay for a few years, but maybe this summer was the time to let them out. At last, a little something for myself . . .