28 Summers: The gripping, emotional page turner of summer 2020 by 'the Queen of the Summer Novel' (People) (39 page)

She loves living on an island and being part of a small community, and she also hates it.

“Is there something I can help you with?” Jeremiah asks.

What should she say? She can’t ask about Desdemona. It’s twenty-five thousand dollars a week and she’s a schoolteacher. And what possible excuse would she give for renting it? A family reunion? She has exactly one family member left aside from her child and that’s Cooper. She should never have called. Why did she call? How is she going to get off the phone with Jeremiah?

“I’m calling for a friend,” Mallory says, then she cringes because this sounds
so
fishy. “They’re looking for a one- or two-bedroom rental over Labor Day weekend. Preferably on the water. And not too expensive. Do you have anything available?”

Jeremiah laughs. “I don’t have a single thing.”

“Right,” Mallory says. She had held out a tiny hope that maybe there was a separate listing sheet for locals and that Jeremiah, recalling Mallory’s kindness toward him so long ago—because it
had
been kindness—would share it with her. “Okay, I’ll tell them they’re out of luck, then. Thanks, Jeremiah.”

“You’re welcome,” Jeremiah says. “Take care.”

(Jeremiah hangs up, then stares at the phone. He actually
does
have something out in Madaket, right on the beach at the entrance to Smith Point, that would be perfect for two people. He considers calling Miss Blessing back and offering it to her, but he stops himself. He loved her so much once upon a time. When she invited him to spend lunch at Gibbs Pond during the darkest days of his senior year, he thought his prayers had been answered. The whole drive out to the pond, he’d thought about kissing her. But when they’d gotten stuck in the mud, she’d been flustered and short-tempered with him. She had treated him poorly, sending him out to the road for help like she was the queen and he her footman, and then, once they got back to school and everyone was talking about them—Jeremiah’s not going to lie, he found this exhilarating—she became frosty. She stopped reading his poetry; she stopped recommending books. She’d been extra-critical on his final assignments and he’d ended the class with an A minus instead of the A he deserved. No, he will not tell her about the cottage on the beach in Madaket, sorry.)

The conversation with Jeremiah Freehold seems to be a sign from above that renting Desdemona is a rotten idea. Even if Mallory were okay with spending twenty-five grand on a weekend rental, Jake would be aghast. If given the choice, he would pick the
Greta.

Okay, she’ll put him on the
Greta.
He won’t be able to shower, he’ll return to Washington with a salt crust, but oh well.

The night after all this deliberating takes place, Link comes home just before his midnight curfew and Mallory is, embarrassingly, scrolling through real estate listings—at everywhere
but
Grey Lady Real Estate—on her laptop, looking for something available over Labor Day weekend that is less expensive than Desdemona.

Why is everything booked? Why is Nantucket so popular? Well, she knows why.

“Mom,” Link says, sitting down across from her at the harvest table. “Don’t say no.”

“To what?”

“Just promise me you’ll hear me out before saying no.”

“You’re not going to Italy,” Mallory says.

“That’s not what I was going to ask,” Link says.

“Okay.” Mallory closes out her tabs and shuts her laptop. “Shoot.”

“Nicole leaves on Monday, September fourth,” Link says. “Her flight is out of JFK and she and her mom are spending the weekend, Labor Day weekend, in New York City so they can shop for clothes and stuff for Nicole’s trip and they asked me to go with them.”

Mallory’s heart is on a trampoline doing flips. “
They
asked? Terri is okay with this? She doesn’t want a weekend of mother-daughter time?”

“She’s the one who suggested it,” Link says. “I guess she has some friend, a guy she visits in New York every year, who she wants to see, and so she’s even giving Nicole and me money so we can have a real date night.”

“
I’ll
give you money for date night,” Mallory says. Her thoughts are whizzing around like moths at a porch light. Terri has a friend in New York she sees every year. She has a Same Time Next Year too, maybe? And her Same Time Next Year is saving Mallory’s? Is that possible?

“So I can go?” Link says.

“Yes, you can go,” Mallory says. “Tell Terri I’m paying for all your expenses. She shouldn’t have to spend a dime.”

Link collapses back in his chair. “Thank you, Mama.”

“You’re welcome, my sweet prince.”

Link’s eyes fill. “I don’t want her to go.”

“I know,” Mallory says. “Believe me, I know just how you feel.”

What are we obsessing over in 2018? The Parkland shooting; Kim Jong-un; tariffs; Justify; the Philadelphia Eagles; the opioid epidemic; Mark Zuckerberg; Waffle House; Bill Cosby; Anthony Bourdain; the Tham Luang cave rescue; Banksy; Larry Nassar; the Colorado baker; Peloton; Kate Spade; family separation at the border; the Boss on Broadway; duck boats; Cardi B.; Annapolis; Barbara Bush; Tree of Life synagogue; Stephen Colbert; Chris Pratt and Anna Faris; Daenerys, Jon Snow, Arya, Cersei, Tyrion, Sansa, and Bran;
Bohemian Rhapsody;
Jerome Powell; “Kiki, do you love me?”; California wildfires; Jamal Khashoggi; George H. W. Bush.

U
rsula wakes up to twenty-four text messages, twice as many e-mails, and fifteen voicemails, three of which are from Lansdell Irwin, chairman of the Senate Judiciary Committee.

Eighty-four-year-old Supreme Court justice Cecil Anne Barton, known as Justice Cece, has died in her sleep. It’s not exactly a tragedy at her age, but she was loved by one and all.

The three voicemails from Lansdell Irwin are variations on
Wake up, Ursula. We have work to do.

The selection of a Supreme Court nominee is delicate and Ursula de Gournsey happens to believe it’s the most important thing a president will do during an administration. The current president, eighty-three-year-old John Shields, is a kindly gentleman who comes across like a fun grandpa, the one who takes the kids out to Carvel for dinner. It’s understood that because of his advanced age, he’s a one-term president, a placeholder until the Future steps forward. Shields gamely admits that he doesn’t understand “the social media”—he can’t figure out Facebook, never mind Twitter—so he leaves that to “the youngsters.” Ursula doesn’t have high hopes for any Supreme Court candidate Shields nominates; she’s heard whisperings of some of the names on the short list and they’re all uninspiring.

When his nominee is announced, Ursula is pleasantly surprised. It’s Kevin Blackstone Cavendish; he goes by “Stone” or, to his closest friends, “Stonesy.” The only sticky issue with Stone Cavendish is that he’s yet another white male, and aggressively WASPy: St. Paul’s, Dartmouth, Yale. But overall, he’s a solid choice, one that is notably nonpartisan. He’s married; he has three kids in public schools; he’s personable (for a judge), charming, even. If Ursula herself were president, he might be her nominee. She predicts he’ll be confirmed by both the House and the Senate with very little drama.

Ursula is wrong.

A woman steps forward, a well-respected superintendent of schools in Richmond, Virginia, who claims that Stone Cavendish physically and sexually abused her in the summer of 1983, which was the summer before both she and Stone left for college. They met at a bonfire in Point Pleasant, New Jersey. Stone was working as a lifeguard there and the woman, Eve Quist, was visiting her friend’s summer home for the weekend. Stone and Eve talked at the bonfire; Stone brought Eve a can of Coors Light. Eve claims that when she went into the dunes to relieve herself, Stone Cavendish sneaked up behind her, tackled her in the sand, hiked up her skirt, and started to unbutton his shorts. When Eve started screaming, he threw a handful of sand into her face, and some of it went into her eyes and some of it into her mouth. She felt like she was choking, she says.

He said,
Just be quiet, please, and give me what I want.

He tried to slip his hand into Eve’s panties and she bit his shoulder, hard; she broke the skin, tasted blood. He loosened his grip enough that Eve Quist was able to struggle free and run back to the bonfire to get her friend. The two girls left the party.

Eve told that friend, Lydia Hager, about the incident and said she wanted to call the police. But the two girls had sneaked out of Lydia’s house in order to attend the party and Lydia was afraid of getting in trouble. She begged Eve to forget about it. Lydia knew Stone Cavendish, knew he was off to Dartmouth. Eve, meanwhile, was headed to UVA.

You’ll never have to see him again,
Lydia said.

Stone Cavendish categorically denies the accusations; he says he doesn’t remember Eve Quist, but there is something in his eyes, Ursula thinks, that says otherwise. Or maybe what she and everyone else in America are seeing is his incredulity that anyone can just come out of the woodwork, say whatever she wants, and threaten his chance at a seat on the Supreme Court.

The FBI investigates the accusations. The media has a field day.

Eve Quist is attractive, poised, articulate, intelligent, and has nothing to gain from coming forward. In fact, she has everything to lose. She stays resolute and consistent with her story. Not a single detail changes over the dozens of times she tells it. Her husband, William Quist, is an orthopedic surgeon; he tells investigators that Eve related this story to him on their third date. He says he knows the incident has probably haunted Eve in a way that bad things from your past haunt you and although she would never have tracked the guy down, she couldn’t stand by and let him ascend to the highest court in the nation without letting people know that he is—or was—abusive. They aren’t looking to
ruin
anyone. Eve would like an admission of guilt and an apology from him.

Stone Cavendish provides neither.

Lydia Hager would have been an excellent corroborating witness but she died of breast cancer in 2011. Eve didn’t know anyone else at the party.

The FBI does its due diligence and contacts all the people who were lifeguards in Point Pleasant during the summer of 1983. They find three men and one woman who remember working with Stone, and all four people say they regularly attended bonfires on the beach at which Stone Cavendish was present. The men say they have no idea which night Dr. Quist is referring to. There were so many parties and it was so long ago. The woman, Cindy Piccolo, does claim to remember the evening in question. Cindy Piccolo had been dating Stone Cavendish for most of the summer of 1983 but they had broken up in the middle of August, she said, because Stone wanted to go off to Dartmouth without any lingering attachments. Cindy had still been hung up on him. It was impossible not to be, she said in her statement. He was good-looking, smart, confident, a preppy boarding-school kid who was going to an Ivy League college. Cindy had seen Stone that night talking to a redhead who someone said was a friend of Lydia Hager’s. Cindy had watched them closely. She saw when Stone brought Eve a beer; she watched Stone follow Eve into the dunes. She also claims she saw Eve come out of the dunes alone—Cindy registered relief—and she herself had gone to find Stone. They had ended up making love in the dunes that night.

Does Cindy remember if Eve seemed upset coming out of the dunes?

No,
she says.
I don’t remember.

Does Cindy remember if Stone had been bitten on the shoulder? Eve Quist says Stone Cavendish was wearing a tank top, so a bite might have been visible.

No,
she says.
I don’t remember.

Did Cindy hear anybody talking that night or the next day about what happened while Eve and Stone were in the dunes together?

No,
she says.

Did Cindy ever see Lydia or Eve again?

No,
Cindy says.
But I remember the red hair. Eve’s hair. That’s definitely the person he went into the dunes with.

The country is divided: Team Stone and Team Eve.

Jake is Team Eve.

“The guy definitely did it,” he says.

They’re in the kitchen, breakfast time. Jake is making Bess an omelet that she will devour without hesitation. She is wonderfully unselfconscious around food, which Ursula is happy about but also jealous of.

“Agreeing with Dad,” Bess says.

Ursula says nothing. She supposes families all over the country are discussing this very same issue and picking sides, but most of those families do not include a U.S. senator who will be voting on whether or not to confirm the accused to the Supreme Court.

“I have to stay neutral,” she says.

“Oh, come on, Ursula,” Jake says. “You can’t tell me you think he’s innocent?”

“He’s a good judge,” Ursula says. “Smart. His decisions are thoughtful and nuanced. He would be a wonderful addition to the bench.”

“He attacked a girl,” Bess says. “He tried to rape her. You can’t just overlook that because you happen to like the way he adjudicates, Mom, sorry.”

“Allegedly attacked her,” Ursula says. “I don’t think we have enough proof to convict.” She smiles at her daughter. “Sorry.”

Three days later, a second woman comes forward. This woman, Meghan Royce, is a public defender in Broward County, Florida. She says she met Stone Cavendish at a New Year’s Eve party in Miami in 1991. The party was held in a condo in a luxury waterfront building. Royce and Stone struck up a conversation on the balcony, then moved inside to one of the sofas amid the crowd of noisy revelers. Both of them were drinking. Stone eventually suggested they go “somewhere quieter,” so he led Royce back into one of the bedrooms. They started kissing. Royce says that after a little while, Stone worried someone else would come into the room so he suggested they go into the closet. Royce says she agreed, but that once she was in the closet with Cavendish, she started to feel “claustrophobic and uncomfortable.” She tried to leave; she explicitly told Stone she wanted to “get out,” but he laughed and pushed her farther into the closet, back into the hanging clothes. Royce raised her voice, and Stone clapped a hand over her mouth, saying,
Just be quiet, we both know why we’re here.
Royce says she finally kicked him in the crotch hard enough that he called her a psycho and spit in her face, but he let her go. She left the party almost immediately, but before she left, she told her girlfriend what happened; she says she categorized it as “some guy just tried to date-rape me in the closet,” to which her friend responded, “Thank God you got out, though it’s too bad you’re going to miss midnight.”

That’s the way things were in the early ’90’s,
Royce says.
I didn’t realize how bad it was until years later.

Stone Cavendish claims he has no memory of meeting Royce. He admits to being in Miami over New Year’s of 1991 with his friend Doug Stiles, but according to Cavendish, they had dinner at a restaurant, then went to a few clubs. He doesn’t remember a party. The girlfriend Royce spoke to about it, Justine Hwang, is an expat living in Mongolia and can’t immediately be reached for comment. No one knows where to find Doug Stiles.

The media does a hit job on Meghan Royce. She’s twice divorced and lost custody of her only son to her ex-husband, who lives in Tampa. The ex-husband, when questioned, said that Meghan has a drinking problem.

Meghan Royce hires an attorney, and she points out Royce’s impeccable record as a public defender; she’s never missed a day of work and routinely goes to the mat for defendants who have no other champion. She adds that Royce’s personal life has no bearing on her memories of what happened between her and Stone Cavendish on New Year’s Eve 1991. He pushed her farther into the closet when she asked to get out. He clapped his hand over her mouth. She had to kick him to escape.

The FBI investigates this second claim and manages to reach Justine Hwang in Mongolia, who makes a statement that she does recall the night in question and she does remember Meghan Royce saying that someone forced her into a closet and that she fought her way out. Justine Hwang can’t say for certain that this person was Stone Cavendish. She never met the guy that Meghan was talking to, that party was crowded, and she has no recollection at this point of the address of the party or how they ended up there. Word of mouth, she assumes.

Stone Cavendish’s spokesperson says that clearly Meghan Royce had been drinking and while something might very well have happened to her at the party she went to, she is mistaken about the identity of the man because it was not Stone Cavendish.

“She probably heard the other accuser’s story and decided to try for her fifteen minutes of fame.”

Bess is outraged. “I hope you see what’s happening here, Mom. They’re shaming these women and they’re trying to say that just because a woman has lost custody of her son, she’s not credible. It’s disgusting. The two stories are pretty similar, and the first story has a corroborating witness who remembers seeing Stone Cavendish follow Eve into the dunes and seeing Eve emerge alone. What other proof do you need? People are saying, ‘Oh, Cindy is bitter because Stone ditched her for another girl and now she’s getting back at him.’ Getting back at him thirty-five years later? What’s so hard to believe about a woman just remembering what happened and speaking up?” Bess pauses to catch her breath. “You know he did it, Mom.”

“There wouldn’t be enough to convict him in a court of law,” Ursula says.

“Mom.”

Ursula sighs. Frankly, she would like to see Cavendish own up to the allegations—or at least admit the possibility that these women
might
be right even if it’s so long ago he doesn’t remember—and apologize. How refreshing would it be for someone in power to just
admit
to wrongdoing instead of unequivocally denying it? Stone could say he was forceful with women, that he was—just say it—
abusive,
that he was intoxicated and thoughtless, and that he felt invincible and entitled, like so many privileged white males do. And then he could say that he’s sorry now. He wishes he could go back to his younger self and give him a thrashing. He has learned so much in the past thirty years. He has grown up.

Ursula could write the statement for him.
This will work!
she wants to say. But Kevin Blackstone Cavendish remains in deny-deny-deny mode. He digs in. His team collects statements from eighty-four female attorneys that he’s worked with over the past three decades vouching for his integrity, his character, his manners. They get letters from his priests, from his neighbors, from his teachers and classmates.