28 Summers: The gripping, emotional page turner of summer 2020 by 'the Queen of the Summer Novel' (People) (24 page)

“It couldn’t have been easy to have Sloane Dooley and me in the same room. You and Frazier are acting like mature adults, and it’s remarkable how warm and generous you are with his girlfriend. And you are a
wonderful
mother. Link is such a sweet, good-natured baby, even-tempered and bright, and that’s because of you.” Kitty stops. There’s something else coming, Mallory thinks. With Kitty, there’s always something else coming. “I just wish you would find someone special. I want you to be happy.”

“Oh, Mom,” Mallory says. “I
am
happy.”

Kitty smiles, but it’s clear she isn’t convinced.

An hour later, Link is napping and Mallory and Cooper are sitting out on the front porch with drinks, braving the chilly wind blowing off the water.

“Mom doesn’t think I can be happy without a man,” Mallory says.

“It is curious that you haven’t met anyone,” Cooper says. “You’re quite a catch.”

Mallory doesn’t respond right away. Wine and confessions are the best of friends, so she has to be careful. She wants to tell Cooper about Jake, but she just can’t. The reason their relationship works is because absolutely. Nobody. Knows.

There
was
that night at Christmas a few years ago when she and Jake broke protocol and danced at PJ’s. Surely Coop picked up on something then? He must be thinking the exact same thing because the next words out of his mouth are “So did I tell you that Jake McCloud moved back to South Bend? And that his wife, Ursula, is running for Congress?”

Mallory nearly drops her wineglass. “What?”

“Yeah,” Cooper says. “And it looks like she might win.”

On August 30, Jake arrives by ferry, though in his postcard, he said she shouldn’t pick him up, that he would take a taxi to the house. Mallory knows this is so no one sees them together.

When he walks in, she hands him a beer. Cat Stevens is on the stereo. The cheese and crackers are ready, burger patties in the fridge, the last hydrangea blossom is in the mason jar next to a single votive candle, and Mallory has placed two novels on Jake’s bedside table:
The Lovely Bones,
by Alice Sebold, and
The Little Friend,
by Donna Tartt.

Everything is the same—except for the basket of toys in the corner and the stray Cheerios underfoot. Mallory finally got Link weaned; he’s spending the long weekend in Vermont with Fray and Anna.

The first kiss is Mallory’s favorite part of the weekend. It’s like taking a long cold drink of water after wandering in the desert for 362 days. Every year she worries that the chemistry will be gone—for Jake or for her—and every year the kiss is hotter and more urgent than the year before.

This year, Jake grabs her ass, squeezes, pulls her closer and tighter, and murmurs into her mouth, “You have no idea how much I’ve missed you.”

Mallory wants to make love, but she stops herself and pulls away ever so slightly.

“Tell me what’s going on,” she says. “South Bend? Running for
Congress?
”

It was 9/11, he says. Ursula lost coworkers—many acquaintances and one close friend. “Maybe he was more than a friend,” Jake says. “I always suspected that Ursula and Anders had something going on.”

“Oh yeah?” Mallory says. This is the first time Jake has ever hinted that Ursula might have been unfaithful. Mallory hasn’t breathed a word about the nature of her conversation with Ursula at Cooper’s wedding, or even that they had a conversation.

“Doesn’t matter now,” Jake says. “Except that it spurred this decision in Ursula. She wants to make a difference. Change the world.”

Jake and Ursula have bought a home on LaSalle Street in South Bend, a single-family, flat-roofed stucco house on a half-acre lot. Jake has kept his job with the CFRF; he flies around the country raising awareness about cystic fibrosis and lots and lots of money for research. Ursula is nominally employed by a law firm in downtown South Bend, though most of her time is consumed with learning the issues of Indiana’s Second Congressional District and campaigning. The seat has been held for over thirty years by a gentleman named Corson Osbourne, who is now retiring. He was Ursula’s professor at Notre Dame and has given her an enthusiastic endorsement. Osbourne is a Republican, but Ursula is running as an independent.

“An independent?” Mallory says. “Isn’t that a lonely position to take?”

“With both sides fawning all over her?” Jake says. “Hardly.”

Mallory won’t lie: she’s stung that Jake’s life has undergone such a major change and she had no idea. She spends the whole weekend grappling with why it bothers her so much, but it’s only on Sunday evening, after they finish watching
Same Time, Next Year,
that she can put it into words.

“Do you not think it strange that George and Doris both have entire lives at home that just sort of
disappear
when they get to the inn?”

“Isn’t that the point?” Jake says. “What matters to them is what matters to us: they get to live in a happy bubble one weekend per year.”

“It’s a movie, Jake. The viewer is willing to suspend disbelief. But this is real life.”

“What are you trying to say, Mal? You want to know how I feel about the terms of my mortgage? You want to know who I sit with in church?”

“You go to church?”

“We do now. Ursula is running for office.”

“Ursula is running for office,” Mallory says. “The United States Congress. You’re going to be thrust into the public eye. And we both have children now…”

“We both had children last year,” Jake says. “Last year was great and this year has been even better.”

“Maybe we should stop,” Mallory says. As soon as the words are out, she wants to snatch them back. Neither of them has ever said this before. “I noticed you didn’t want me to pick you up on the dock.”

“Simple precaution.”

“I think it would be better for
you
if we stopped,” Mallory says. She stares at the two fortune cookies on the coffee table, still wrapped in plastic. It would be helpful if they really
could
predict the future. “It’s a miracle we haven’t been found out yet.”

“I think it would be better if we
didn’t
stop,” Jake says. “This weekend is important to me. It has become a part of who I am. Do you understand that?”

Mallory climbs into Jake’s arms and rests her head on his chest. She loves their Sunday-night routine and she hates it. She would give anything for it to be Friday again. She feels this way every year. “Tell me the truth,” she says. “Is there a tiny part of you that hopes she loses?”

“I will tell you the truth,” Jake says. “And only you. There’s a tiny part of me that hopes she wins.”

The midterm elections in November are quiet. Few Americans are paying attention, but Mallory Blessing is. She watches Tim Russert all evening long until he announces winners in the minor congressional races, including Indiana’s Second Congressional District, where a young attorney named Ursula de Gournsey—born and raised in Indiana, valedictorian of the University of Notre Dame’s class of 1988—has come home and won in a landslide, running as an independent.

What are we talking about in 2003? Homeland Security; space shuttle
Columbia;
Mr. Rogers; the Atkins Diet; Saddam Hussein and the Iraq war; pumpkin-spice latte;
Lost in Translation;
P90X; Martha Stewart insider trading; “Shake it like a Polaroid picture”; New York City power outage; Arnold Schwarzenegger; weapons of mass destruction;
Everybody Loves Raymond.

M
allory has lived on Nantucket for ten years and she’s learned that the best month here is…September. The days are filled with golden sunshine and mild breezes. All of the shops, galleries, and restaurants are still open but the crowds are gone. It’s heaven!

The Saturday after Labor Day, Mallory’s heart is still recovering from Jake’s departure. The best thing for her is to get outside, and, thankfully, the weather is glorious—it’s seventy-four degrees with a cloudless, cerulean-blue sky. God doesn’t make days any finer than this one, so Mallory packs a picnic, her beach blanket, a basket of toys. She slathers Link with sunscreen and straps him into his car seat in the back of the Blazer.

They’re off to the beach!

This is funny, right, because they live at the beach? However, Link is still so little and the south shore’s waves so unpredictable that Mallory prefers to take him to the north shore on Nantucket Sound, where the water is flat and calm.

She can drive the Blazer right onto the sand at Fortieth Pole. Mallory lets some air out of her tires and they sail up over the whoop-de-dos in the dunes to the beach.

They have the golden crescent of sand almost entirely to themselves; it’s just them and one guy with a silver pickup who’s surf-casting a couple hundred yards away while a chocolate Lab sniffs the seaweed at the waterline.

“This is the life,” Mallory says to Link as she frees him from his car seat. “September is still summer, buddy.”

“Summer!” Link calls out as he kicks his feet. He can’t wait to get into the water.

What does the best beach day ever look like? Well, to Mallory, it looks like hours of warm sunshine, dips into cool clear water, reading on a blanket while Link digs a hole and then throws one rock after another into the ocean because he likes the sound of the splash. They share lunch—a chicken salad sandwich, celery and carrots with hummus, cold slices of watermelon, lime-sugar cookies. Then Mallory sets up a spot for Link under the umbrella and he lies down for his nap. Mallory curls up next to him and closes her eyes.

She jolts awake when she feels something cold and alive touching her foot. It’s the chocolate Lab, sniffing her. She tries to gently shoo it off the blanket as the owner comes jogging down the beach. Mallory puts her finger to her lips. It’s okay that the dog woke
her
up but if the dog or its owner wakes Link up, she will not be amused.

Mallory stands as the guy grabs the dog by the collar. “Come on, Rox,” he whispers. “Sorry about that.”

Mallory follows them a few steps toward the water so their conversation doesn’t wake up Link. “No problem,” she says. The guy is cute—tall, with a crew cut and friendly eyes. “Did you catch anything?”

“Nah,” he said. “I’ve had crappy luck.”

“Well,” she says, “there’s always East Coast Seafood.”

“I wanted to come over here anyway,” the guy says, “because I sold you that car.”

It takes a minute for Mallory to figure out what he’s talking about. “The Blazer?”

“It was mine,” he says. “I sold it to you. I got your name from Oliver, the bartender at the Summer House—”

“Yes!” Mallory says. She takes another look at the guy. He does seem sort of familiar now that he’s told her this, though she never would have recognized him in a million years. “You’re…”

“Scott,” he says. “Scott Fulton.”

“Scotty Fulton, yes, I remember you!” Mallory says. “I have to thank you. I’ve had her ten years and she’s been a total rock star.”

“I can see you’ve taken good care of her,” Scott says. “It broke my heart to sell her but I remember how happy you looked behind the wheel and that made it easier. Good home and all that.”

“Didn’t you leave island?” Mallory says. “Weren’t you going to…”

“Business school,” he says. “Yep, I moved to Philadelphia, bought a Jetta, got married, got my MBA, went into commercial real estate, got divorced, poured all my time and energy into work, had a health scare at thirty-three, and decided I needed a lifestyle change. So I moved back here this summer, bought the storage center out on Old South Road as well as the six commercial lots right next door, and now I’m building affordable housing units.”

“Wow,” Mallory says. “Well, I’m Mallory Blessing, I teach English at the high school, I’m a single mom of one, Lincoln—Link—who’s two and a half.”

“You’re single?” Scott says. “Forget what I said about crappy luck.”

It’s a meet-cute, and for that reason, Mallory is wary. It feels like a setup—the beautiful day, the empty beach, the dog making the introduction, the beyond-bizarre fact that Scotty Fulton sold her the Blazer and therefore can hardly be considered a random stranger. He’s single, he owns a business on the island, and he’s committed to living on Nantucket year-round. He’s renting a house in town, on Winter Street, across from the inn that’s owned by the Quinn family (Ava Quinn is one of Mallory’s best students). He sounds too good to be true.
Is
he too good to be true?

Mallory is going to find out.

She can’t go on a date during the week—it’s too much with school and Link—but she agrees to go to dinner with Scott at the Company of the Cauldron the following weekend.

There is no restaurant on the island more romantic than the Cauldron. It’s tiny, rustic, candlelit, tucked away on cobblestoned India Street. The dining room is decorated with copper pots and dried flowers, and there’s a harp player. A harp player! This is, to be honest, Mallory’s first time eating at the Cauldron, because going there requires a date and who would Mallory have gone with? It was out of JD’s comfort zone, and she and Bayer never went anywhere. (Mallory doesn’t want to bring JD and Bayer with her on this date, though what were her past relationships
for
if not to teach her a lesson?)

There is one set menu at the Cauldron each night. Tonight, it’s a Bartlett’s Farm baby greens salad topped with a lemon-thyme poached lobster tail followed by a wood-grilled sirloin followed by an apricot tarte tatin with buttermilk ice cream. Scott picks a white wine to go with the first course and a red wine to go with their steaks. Mallory admires how confident and at ease he is and how down-to-earth when talking to their server. She imagines this is how Jake would act if he were across the table from her right now. She doesn’t want to bring Jake with her on this date either, but because Jake was on Nantucket a scant two weeks earlier, he’s still fresh in Mallory’s mind—everything he said and did, every time he touched her, every time he kissed her, every time he looked at her with smoldering desire. What would he say if he could see her now with Scott? Would he be jealous? Yes, of course. Mallory knows there’s no reason for her to feel
guilty
—after all, at that moment, Jake is probably attending some fancy political fund-raiser with Ursula. He will climb into bed with Ursula that night; he might even make love to her. (Mallory tries never to think about this.)

Across the table, Scott is shaking his head. She’s been caught loving Jake in her mind.

“I can’t believe you’re single,” he says.

“I can’t believe
you’re
single,” she says. She leans in. They’re seated at the best table, by the front window—or at least, it’s the best unless one of Mallory’s students strolls by. “You
are
single, right? I know you said you’re divorced, but are you
officially
divorced?”

“Officially divorced for six years,” he says. “Lisa stayed in Philly, married one of my Wharton classmates, and they have a baby now.”

Wharton; Kitty would be thrilled to hear this. But no, sorry, Kitty isn’t welcome at the table tonight. “But
you
don’t have any children? Now is the time to tell me.”

“No children,” Scott says. He reaches for her hand. They are holding hands. Does it feel okay? Yes, it feels nice. “But I’d like to have children someday.”

“Did you just say that on a first date?” Mallory asks.

“Was that a goof?”

“Um…” Mallory says. She isn’t sure how she feels about having more children; she’s never had a reason to consider it. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Our first course hasn’t even arrived.”

What does Mallory learn about Scott Fulton on this date?

He’s thirty-four years old, turning thirty-five in May. He grew up in Orlando, Florida; his father was an animator for Disney and died of a heart attack when Scott was a sophomore at Florida State. His mother got married again, to a man who works for the State Department and lives in Dubai, so that is where she now lives. No siblings. He met his future ex-wife at FSU; she was in hotel management and brought Scott to Nantucket when she got a job at the White Elephant. He fell in love with Nantucket. He worked at the Lobster Trap six nights a week, which was how he met Oliver (yes, Oliver used to hang out at the Trap; Mallory remembers this), and he drove the Blazer to Nobadeer during the day.

The health scare was a mild heart attack, caused by stress and coffee and cigarettes—and cocaine, he admits. He quit the stress, the cigarettes, and the cocaine. “But not the coffee,” he says.

“But you did quit the cocaine?” Mallory asks. She knows she sounds like a federal prosecutor, but that’s because suddenly Krystel is at the table.

“Yes,” he says.

He likes to surf-cast and walk in the moors with Roxanne, his Lab, who’s six years old; he bought her right after the divorce. He plays golf and recently joined the club at Miacomet. He’s going to stay in his rental on Winter Street through next spring, though he’s looking to buy a house in town.

Houses in town start at a million dollars, Mallory thinks. She banishes Kitty from the table once again.

“This has been incredibly one-sided,” he says. “When are we going to talk about you?”

“Next date,” Mallory says.

Scott drives Mallory home to the cottage. There’s no question about inviting him in because Mallory asked Ava Quinn to babysit for Link. It was almost too convenient—Scott brought Ava over when he picked Mallory up, since Ava lives right across the street from him, and he’ll take Ava home.

Mallory lets Scott kiss her good night. The kiss is lovely—warm, sweet. There’s chemistry. Mallory tries not to think about kissing Jake goodbye in nearly the exact same spot two weeks earlier before he climbed into his rental Jeep and drove to the airport.

Just go away,
she tells Jake in her mind.
Let me see if this works.

Mallory and Scott go on a second date—to Le Languedoc for their famous cheeseburger with garlic fries—and then to the Club Car to sing at the piano bar. Mallory requests “Tiny Dancer,” and Scott throws twenty bucks in the glass jar. It’s a fun night. Scott knows people; the bartender greets him by name and they bump into two of his site foremen at the bar and Scott is gracious, introducing Mallory and buying them a round of drinks.

On their third date, they take both Link and Roxanne out to Sconset. They do the bluff walk with its uninterrupted views of the Atlantic Ocean to the right and magnificent homes to the left. For some reason, Link wants to hold Scott’s hand, so the two of them go up ahead and Mallory takes Roxanne’s leash and follows. This switcheroo is immediately unsettling to Mallory. Link and Scott could too easily be mistaken for father and son, and Mallory is talking to Roxanne like she’s
her
dog.

They wander around Sconset, peeking into pocket gardens, some of which are still lush with flowers and a second bloom of climbing roses. They peer at the tiny cottages, built in the 1700s, when people were smaller. Scott leads them down New Street toward the Chanticleer with the famous carousel horse out front and then farther down to the quaint, shingled Sconset Chapel.

“Could you ever see getting married here?” Scott asks Mallory.

“Did you just ask that on our third date?” she says. “What’s wrong with you?”

He puts his arm around her shoulders and squeezes. She still has Roxanne’s leash wrapped around her wrist, and Scott has Link’s hand, and they’re like a little family unit—except they’re not. “I like you, Mallory.”

You don’t know me,
she wants to say. She’s told him basically her whole life story—Kitty and Senior, Coop and his two failed marriages, Aunt Greta and Ruthie, Leland and Fifi, Apple and Hugo, Dr. Major; she even told him the story about Jeremiah Freehold. They talked at length about Fray and why Mallory decided on single motherhood. Although Scott has learned all this—he’s a very good listener—he still doesn’t
know
her.

What does it take to know a person?

Time. It takes time.

Will Scott still think she’s so wonderful when she has the stomach flu or he hears her on the phone with the parent of a student who’s underperforming? Will he think she’s a good mother when she snaps at Link for splashing in the bathtub or when she skips reading stories because she’s too tired? Will he find her fun when she informs him that she can never see him on Fridays during the school year because Fridays are for Apple? She doesn’t like lima beans or beans of any kind; she has no sense of direction; she doesn’t care for the theater and last year went home during the intermission of the high-school musical. She has
so many flaws,
so many areas that need improvement, and yet Mallory lacks the time and energy to work on them. She doesn’t make a charitable donation to Link’s day care because she pays so much in tuition already, even though she could, technically, afford an extra hundred bucks. She never watches the news and doesn’t know who the prime minister of the UK is. Well, yes, she knows it’s Tony Blair, but don’t ask her anything else about Great Britain. The president of France? She would say Mitterrand, though she suspects that’s wrong; Mitterrand might even be dead. She reads the
Inquirer and Mirror
but only to make sure there’s no one she knows in the police blotter; she has never once attended town meeting. He couldn’t find a less informed person. Well, except she does know about celebrities because she did, this year, get a subscription to
People
magazine, which was thirty bucks she could have donated to the day care.