Cure for the Common Breakup (14 page)

Halfway through dessert, he leaned over and murmured, “Are we having fun yet?”

And she was stunned to realize that the answer was yes.

“L
et the record show that I didn't have a single drop of alcohol.” Summer sighed with relief as Dutch accepted his car keys from the valet at the end of the night. Her toes were numb from standing on carpet over concrete, her fingers felt grimy after countless handshakes, and her cheeks ached from forcing a smile while making inane chitchat.

Basically, she felt the way she did after working nine hours in first-class. All she had to do now was collect newspapers and plastic cups and stow the little oblong pillows in the overhead bins.

“You're the picture of restraint.” Dutch opened the car door for her.

“But let the record
also
show that I desperately wanted to play a political fund-raiser drinking game where every time somebody said the words ‘progress,' ‘future,' or ‘leadership,' I'd do a shot.” She slid into the passenger seat and kicked off her shoes.

“Maybe next time.” He settled into the driver's seat and pulled the car around the hedge-lined circular driveway.

“And if I
had
played such a drinking game, I'd be in the emergency room with acute alcohol poisoning.”

“Well, you're off duty now, and you did great.” He reached over and patted her knee through two layers of chiffon.

“So did you.” She inched the hem up a few inches to see if he'd try for skin-on-skin contact. “I can see why everyone votes for you.”

“Not everyone,” he corrected, putting on the brakes as they waited for the long line of cars in front of them to turn left.

“Don't be modest. My sources tell me that you won the last election by a landslide. Like, ninety-nine point nine percent.”

He laughed. “With Hattie Huntington being the very vocal dissenter.”

“Let's not talk about Hattie Huntington right now.” Summer made a face. “In fact, let's not ever talk about Hattie Huntington.”

“We'll add that to our pact.” He settled his hand back on her bare knee. She responded by reaching over and loosening the knot of his silk tie.

He upped the ante by edging out of the line of cars, executing a U-turn over the country club lawn, and pulling into the dimly lit parking lot by the service entrance.

Summer's jaw dropped as he reached across her to unbuckle her seat belt. “Oh my God, you left tire tracks on the grass.”

“I guess we both have problems driving while we're distracted.” He caught her hand in his and brushed a kiss over her knuckles.

“You rebel, you.” Summer continued to work on his tie with her free hand. Once she'd undone the knot, she grabbed both ends of the tie and tugged him closer. “Admit it: You have a fetish for tea-length skirts. Lavender to you is like a red flag to a bull. You have problems.”

“
I
have problems?” He hauled her up and settled her into his lap. “You can't control yourself around cuff links and two-button blazers.”

“It's true.” She leaned down and licked his bottom lip. “I had no idea an oxford shirt could be so clean and so dirty at the same time.”

He brushed her bangs back and yanked off the sparkly headband.

“That feels so good.” Summer threw her head back and shook out her hair like a shampoo commercial. “I'm pretty sure I—yep, I just came.”

He laughed and cupped her cheek for a moment, then ran his hands along her bare feet, her ankles, her calves, her—

They both startled as a blinding beam of light appeared on the other side of the driver's window.

“Police. Step out of the car, please.”

Summer clapped her hands over her mouth. Dutch gripped the steering wheel for a second, swore under his breath, then rolled down the window.

“Hi, Sean.” He raised his palm in greeting. “It's me.”

The baby-faced sheriff's deputy dropped his flashlight, picked it up, and dropped it again. “Oh, hey, Dutch. I mean, Mayor Jansen. I mean . . .” He backed away from the car, tripping over his own feet.

“We were just leaving.” Dutch rolled the window back up and started the car. He turned to Summer with a rueful expression. “
Everyone
is going to hear about this. The sheriff's department gossips more than a quilting bee.”

She tossed her headband into the backseat and reiterated her words of wisdom from earlier that evening. “Well, if everybody's going to be talking, we might as well give them something worth talking about. Let's go parking by the boardwalk.”

—

Summer arrived at Hollis's bookstore early Monday morning with a spring in her step and a box full of doughnuts from the Eat Your Heart Out bakery.

Beryl and Hollis were lying in wait with a French press full of coffee and the latest edition of the town newspaper.

“Well, well, well. If it isn't the star of the
Black Dog Bay Bulletin
's police blotter.”

Summer dodged Snidely Whiplash's attempt at assault and placed the pastry next to the cash register. “What are you talking about?”

Hollis rolled her eyes at Beryl. “Look at her, acting all wide-eyed and innocent.”

“I think we know who this little item is referring to.” Beryl pointed out a block of text on the newspaper's back page:

Saturday, 8:41 a.m.: A caller on Oceanside Drive reported a possible theft after she was unable to locate her grocery list.

Saturday, 6:35 p.m.: A caller on Bayshore Crescent reported that a pair of “belligerent seagulls” were trespassing on her second-story balcony, refusing to let the caller's husband use the barbecue.

Saturday, 10:27 p.m.: Adult male and female engaged in amorous activities in a parked vehicle in the Gull Points Country Club parking lot were issued a warning by the sheriff's department.

Summer scanned the newspaper, then read it again. “Holy shit. Someone seriously called the police because she couldn't find her shopping list?”

“Oh, that's probably Mrs. Ledbetter,” Beryl said. “She needs a lot of attention.”

Hollis nodded. “Last month, she called the sheriff because she couldn't get the price she wanted at a garage sale.”

“But there you lovebirds are.” Beryl tapped the page. “Right next to the gangster seagulls. I see the lilac chiffon worked its magic.”

“Making out in a car at the country club? Hot,” Hollis decreed. “Put down the doughnut and tell us everything!”

“Well.” Summer dabbed a sprinkling of powdered sugar off her lip. “We did get a little carried away.”

Hollis and Beryl nudged each other and giggled. “And when you say ‘carried away,' you mean . . . ?”

“He took off my headband . . . and I loved it.”

“Oooooh!” They all laughed.

“And then?” Beryl pressed.

“And then the police shut us down and blabbed to the media, apparently. Political scandal!”

“Are you guys going out again?” Hollis demanded.

Summer was saved from having to answer this by Hattie Huntington, who tapped her huge cocktail ring against the bookstore's plate glass window and beckoned her paid companion out to the sidewalk.

“She is such a piece of work,” Beryl muttered.

“Here.” Hollis pressed a paperback titled
Coping with Difficult People
into Summer's hands. “You'll be needing this.”

Summer marched outside and greeted her employer with a snappy salute.

Hattie was not amused. “What time will you be moving in today?”

“Oh, right, I guess it's Monday. I don't know. A few hours?”

Hattie glanced at the book in Summer's hands. “I'll expect you at noon sharp.”

Summer squinted in the sunlight glinting off the ocean waves. “You know, I don't seem to recall signing any sort of contract or employment agreement.”

“Noon, Miss Benson.”

This time, Summer responded with a curtsy. “As you wish.” She straightened up. “Is that better, Your Highness?”

Hattie inclined her head. “Inestimably so.”

Summer spotted Ingrid walking out of Rebound Salon, so she flashed Miss Huntington the peace sign and hurried across the street.

“Looking good!” She fell into step beside the teenager, noting that Ingrid had reverted to her usual baggy jeans and reddish brown hair.

“Thanks.” Ingrid ducked her head to hide her face. “I had to go in twice for restorative color. Cori called in a master stylist from Baltimore to help.” She hugged herself with both arms. “I just forked over a month's pay.”

“And it was worth every penny.” Summer steered her toward the bronze dog statue in the town square. “Blond washes you out. Now you know.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Ingrid shot an envious look at Summer's platinum layers. “Some of us are doomed to boring brown hair.”

“Boring is an attitude, not a hair color,” Summer informed her. “Which reminds me, I did promise to take you shopping, so let me know when you're ready.”

“I'm going to need more than new clothes to get Maxwell to notice me.” Ingrid plopped down on the gazebo steps with a sigh. “I need, like, a new personality and massive amounts of plastic surgery.”

Summer sat down next to her. “I'll only ask this once: Are you sure this dude is worth it?”

“I dyed my hair gray. What do you think?”

“I think that, if nothing else, shopping will cheer you up. Rumor has it there's an outlet mall in Rehoboth Beach.”

“Can't.” Ingrid heaved a world-weary sigh. “I just spent all my fun money on restorative color.”

“I thought you had all these jobs. Teaching swim lessons, babysitting, whatever. And you clearly don't spend anything on gas, car insurance, or cute outfits. How do you have no money?”

“Oh, I have money,” Ingrid said. “But I invest most of it.”

“You invest it?”

“Yeah.” Ingrid scratched a mosquito bite on her elbow. “Municipal bonds and index funds. High-interest CDs. Nothing crazy.”

Summer narrowed her eyes. “
How
old are you?”

“Old enough to know that money is better off compounding interest in the market than wasted on some overpriced tank top.”

“Really. Says who?”

“Dutch.”

“Of course. I should have known. This is crazy. This is like an episode of
Scooby-Doo
.” Summer tugged at a lock of Ingrid's restored russet hair. “Take off your mask. Admit you're a sixty-five-year-old tycoon.”

Ingrid laughed. “I'm just practical, okay? I like to plan ahead and think about the future.”

Summer shook her head. “Then we really have no business being friends.”

“Oh, we're not friends,” Ingrid said with the same sense of authority that Dutch often displayed. “You're my mentor.”

Summer kept shaking her head. “Uh, no.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Yuh-huh.” Ingrid got to her feet, rubbed the bronze dog's nose, and started toward the drugstore down the block. “Can you at least help me pick out some lipstick and mascara?”

“Open your ears. I'm done giving you advice.”

Ingrid ignored this. “Would you say I'm more of a winter or a spring?”

Summer stood up and rubbed the bronze dog, too. The metal felt warm from the sun. “I'd say you're a nut job.” She couldn't help herself from adding, “Who should be wearing pinks with copper undertones. And just so we're crystal clear: I'm not and never will be your mentor.”

“Please?” Ingrid turned around to face Summer, her eyes wide and earnest. “You saw me at the Cheeky Tiki. I need help.”

Summer couldn't refute that. “Fine.
Fine.
I'll give you five minutes' worth of dating advice, but that's it.” She opened the door to the drugstore and stepped into the air-conditioning.

Ingrid followed, rolling her eyes. “I know the drill already: Be yourself. Don't play games.”

“What?” Summer yanked off her sunglasses. “Who the hell told you that?”

“All the women's magazines in the library.”

“Child, what misguided crap are you reading?
Single and Bitter Weekly
?” Summer paused. “I should probably subscribe to that, myself. Anyway, no. Never listen to anyone who says don't play games. You should always play games.”

Ingrid's clear gray eyes got even wider. “But isn't that manipulative?”

“It's
strategic
.” Summer threw up her hands. “Not playing games and being yourself is the worst possible thing you can do.”

“Okay, got it.” Ingrid pursed her lips. “What am I supposed to do, then?”

Summer tried to figure out how to word this. “Hold back part of yourself. It drives men crazy. They can't get enough.”

“That doesn't sound very healthy.”

Summer perused the candy counter. “No matter how much time you spend with him, no matter how much you talk or how physically intimate you are, keep part of yourself off-limits. Ooh, peanut butter Twix.”