Cure for the Common Breakup (15 page)

“Which part?” Ingrid asked.

Summer snapped out of her candy-induced reverie. “What, now?”

“Which part of yourself do you keep off-limits?”

“Your soul. Your heart. Whatever you want to call it.” Summer lit up as she spied Rolos. “You just withhold a little bit. They want it, but you never give it to them.”

Ingrid looked dubious. “Hmmm.”

“Don't ‘hmmm' me. I know what I'm talking about.”

“But if you're holding part of yourself back, then you can't really be in love,” Ingrid argued. “And your boyfriend's insane, because you made him that way.”

“Which means, when you break up, you just dust yourself off and move on to the next prospect.”

“That just sounds so . . .” Ingrid flipped through a fashion magazine and slapped it back on the wire rack. “How about if you just find a really nice guy that you love, and he loves you back, and you both trust each other enough to be honest? How about that?”

Summer snorted with derision. “Oh, to be seventeen again.”

“What? There are some really nice guys out there, you know.”

Summer gave her a look. “Guys like Maxwell, you mean?”

Ingrid flushed.

“I've been around the block. Hell, I've been around the world. I know how this works.” She could hear her voice getting louder, knew she should shut up, but added, “And I'll let you in on a little secret: Nice guys can leave you, too.”

Ingrid stared at her.

Summer slipped her sunglasses back on. “Now, where's the latest issue of
Single and Bitter Weekly
?”

Ingrid touched Summer's arm. “Maybe you just haven't found the right one yet.”

“When it comes to men, play the law of averages.” Summer shook off Ingrid's hand. “Hope for the best, prepare for the worst. You'll get the hang of it. It's just a matter of setting boundaries. In the meantime, we can start with practical, concrete steps.”

Ingrid pulled her phone out of her pocket, her finger hovering above the screen. “Like what?”

“For starters, you might want to start wearing makeup every day. You never know when you're going to run into someone at the gas station or the grocery store, especially in a town this small.”

Ingrid tapped away at the screen. “Okay. What else?”

“Are you seriously writing this down?”

“Yeah.”

“You're very detail-oriented.”

Ingrid grinned. “You noticed.”

“So what kind of makeup do you usually wear to school or work?”

“None whatsoever. Oh, wait, does ChapStick count?”

“A little piece of my soul just died.”

“I work in a swimming pool!”

“No excuses!” Summer headed over to the cosmetics section. “They make waterproof mascara!”

“That sounds like so much work.” Ingrid put down her phone. “You know, maybe it's not just my social weirdness that's stopped me from having a boyfriend.”

“You're not weird,” Summer said.

“I'm a little weird.” Another world-weary sigh. “I can't help it. But growing up in this town, you kind of get cynical about love.”

“From the constant influx of heartbreak tourists like me?”

“Well, yeah. It makes you think, you know?” Ingrid browsed the selection of mascaras. “Lots of the women I see at the Better Off Bed-and-Breakfast are beautiful, smart, successful—we've even had a few celebrities—but they still get their hearts broken.”

Summer perked up. “Which celebrities?”

“I can't say. They have a right to privacy.”

Summer held open a magazine page filled with paparazzi shots. “Just point at a picture.”

Ingrid closed the magazine. “If you lived in a honeymoon destination, it'd probably be the opposite. You'd probably just want to fall in love and get married.”

“Demi Moore?” Summer pressed. “Jennifer Aniston?”

“You're wasting your time,” Ingrid said. “I'll never talk.” She stepped back and crossed her arms. “All this stuff about setting boundaries and holding back . . . is that what you're doing to Dutch?”

Summer opened and closed her mouth a few times. “If we're going to hang out, we can't talk about Dutch.”

“He likes you.” Ingrid's posture got even more defensive. “A lot. He talks about you. He never talks about anyone.” She cleared her throat. “And I read the police blotter.”

“You and everyone else.” Summer sighed and broke into the Twix bar. “Your brother is a grown man. He can handle his business just fine.”

Ingrid, usually so shy and tentative, looked positively fierce. “He's not playing games with you. So you better not play games with him.”

S
ummer stepped over the threshold into her new bedroom and felt as though she'd teleported to the swankiest retirement community in West Palm Beach.

Last week's glimpse into the Purple Palace's opulent foyer had in no way prepared her for the rest of the house. Every room was filled with priceless paintings and objets d'art and frail-looking furniture that should probably be cordoned off in a museum somewhere. The place might as well have been carpeted with hundred-dollar bills.

But she'd maintained her poker face while Hattie led her up the grand staircase to her quarters. This bed and bathroom suite, which was easily three times the size of her apartment in New York, featured vibrant green silk wallpaper accented with a white chinoiserie pattern. Green and pink drapes pooled on the varnished hickory floorboards, and a massive white scrolled chandelier hung from the ceiling. But all this finery only served to set off the view of the bay directly outside the balcony.

Summer tossed her garbage bag of belongings onto the pristine white eiderdown. “This is it?
Pfft.
I've stayed in Best Westerns nicer than this.”

Hattie didn't deign to respond.

Summer indicated a slim green sofa in the corner. “Is this a fainting couch?”

“It's a chaise longue.” Hattie's every syllable oozed condescension.

“For swooning? Or eating bonbons?”

“I leave it to your own discretion.”

“Ooh.” Summer brightened. “Can I get actual bonbons to eat while I'm lounging on my chaise? Fancy French ones?”

Hattie couldn't tear her gaze away from the garbage bag. “Turner can fetch whatever you require.”

“I'm guessing M&M's are too lowbrow for this place.” Summer flung herself down on the mattress, which was big enough to petition for statehood. “So do I have to make my bed in the morning? Because I have to warn you: I haven't made a bed since MTV played actual music videos.”

Hattie folded her hands in front of her yellow printed shift dress. “I thought you said you were well brought up. Boarding schools, et cetera.”

“It didn't take.” Summer snuggled deeper into the puffy white linens. “This is a pretty nice room for a servant.”

“You're not a servant, Miss Benson. I believe we've established that. I would never tolerate such insolence from a servant.”

“You can always fire me,” Summer suggested hopefully.

“I can.” Hattie smirked. “But I won't. Not until I'm good and ready.”

“Why do you even want me here?” Summer sat up and got to her feet. “You're rich enough to hire someone who would at least
pretend
to like you.”

“You're to be my companion, Miss Benson, not my psychoanalyst.”

“Or here's an idea: Stop suing people and painting your house hideous colors for spite. Use your powers for good. I bet you could be the most popular girl in all of Black Dog Bay if you just put your mind to it.” Summer gave her two thumbs-up.

“I'll leave you to unpack and get settled. Tea will be served at three.” Hattie walked out of the room and closed the door firmly behind her.

Summer threw the door open again and yelled down the hall. “You know, getting laid would solve a lot of your problems!”

Hattie never faltered in her stride, but Summer heard a surprised bark of male laughter from downstairs.

“Turner thinks I'm funny!”

All she heard in reply were the staccato clicks of high heels on marble.

—

Much to Summer's disappointment, tea at Hattie's house did not include cucumber sandwiches with the crusts cut off. But, as with everything else in the Purple Palace, the fare was upscale and fussy: pastry puffs with sun-dried tomato and asparagus, Scottish smoked salmon with lemon butter, and a delicate chicken and fruit salad.

Summer took a seat across from Hattie at the round dining table in the sunroom and unfurled her linen napkin. “You eat like this every day? How are you so thin?”

“It's unspeakably rude to comment on someone's personal appearance.” Hattie nodded as Turner approached with a pair of green teacups.

“Even if I'm saying you look good?”

“Have a biscuit, Miss Benson, and try not to talk with your mouth full.”

They regarded each other across the table in silence for a few moments.

“So is this where the companion thing comes in?” Summer asked. “I'm supposed to entertain you while you eat finger food? Dance, monkey, dance?”

Hattie thanked Turner and added a cube of sugar to her tea with sterling silver tongs. “Let's start with the art of polite conversation.”

“Fair enough.” Summer grabbed a biscuit, slathered on some strawberry preserves, and crammed half of it into her mouth. “So this entire house has central cooling, huh? Your electric bills must be obscene.”

Hattie pretended not to notice the crumbs scattered across Summer's side of the table. “We do not discuss money. It's vulgar.”

“Says the woman who owns four houses and a ton of beachfront property.” Summer paused for another huge bite. “News flash: Some of us have to work for a living. Sorry if that offends your delicate sensibilities.”

Hattie finally cracked. She returned the teacup to its saucer with a clatter. “You're very impertinent, Miss Benson.”

“You're just now noticing this?”

“And who on earth told you I have four houses?”

“The unwashed masses.” Summer laughed at Hattie's expression. “Oh, come on. You practically own this whole town. Of course people talk about you.”

“Idle gossip and falsehoods.” Hattie reached across the table and swept aside some of the crumbs. “I do not own four houses.”

“How many, then?”

“That's none of your business.”

“Give me a hint,” Summer said. “Three? Five? Higher or lower?”

“This is not conversation, nor is it polite.” Hattie signaled to Turner, who whisked away the pastry plate before Summer could help herself to another biscuit.

“You're so touchy.” Summer attacked the salmon with her fork. “With your blood feuds and your lawsuits. Hattie, honey, look around and lighten up!”

Hattie gasped. “You do not refer to me as ‘honey.'”

“You have fancy artwork, an undisclosed number of houses, high tea every afternoon. You get to wake up and see the ocean every morning. You're living the life!” Summer's eyes widened as she glimpsed a patch of shimmering turquoise on the far side of the patio. “You have a swimming pool, too? Because your private beach isn't chlorinated?”

“I also have a tennis court,” Hattie informed her. “We'll play tomorrow morning.”

Summer shook her head. “I haven't touched a racket in at least fifteen years.”

“You'll pick it up again quickly enough.”

“But I don't want to.”

At this, Hattie's smile returned. “It's not your job to want to. It's your job to do it. And with your experience in air travel, I assume you're accustomed to doing things you aren't in the mood for with a smile on your face.”

Summer took her time considering her response. “I suppose that's true.”

“Now.” Hattie settled back into her chair, as much as her perfect posture would allow. “I'd like to hear about your travels. I've never left the States.”

“Really? I'd figure you for summers in Saint-Tropez and winters skiing in Gstaad.”

The stern lines in Hattie's face slackened just a bit. “When I was young, it was considered somewhat improper for a woman of my social standing to travel alone.”

“I heard you have a sister; couldn't you go with her?”

The facial lines tensed up again. “
Had.
Past tense.”

“She died?” Summer stopped teasing. “I'm sorry to hear that.”

“She may as well have.” Hattie took a slow sip of tea. “We do not discuss my family, Miss Benson.”

“Hang on.” Summer pulled her phone out of her pocket and opened the notes section. “I'm going to have to start making a list of all the topics we can't discuss.”

“Put that away,” Hattie commanded. “This instant.”

“But I—”

“I don't want to see or hear a cell phone in this dining room.
Ever.
I may have to suffer such boorishness at a restaurant, but not in my home. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, Lord Vader.”

“Excellent. Now, tell me about France. Have you been to—”

Summer's pulse sped up.
Please don't say Paris, please don't say Paris.

“—the Grasse region? I've done extensive reading on the perfume industry in Provence, and I've always wondered if the flower fields are as breathtaking as the photos make them out to be.”

“Oh, I don't know anything about flowers,” Summer said. “But you know who does? Dutch Jansen. He grows roses. Fancy ones. Ask me how I know.”

“We do not discuss the Jansen family.”

Summer whipped out her phone again and held up her hand to stem Hattie's protests. “Boorish or not, my short-term memory can hold only so much. There's no way I'll be able to keep track of all the things you hate.”

“I don't
hate
the Jansens, Miss Benson.” Hattie gazed out the window toward the ocean, her expression hard but her eyes soft. “At least, I didn't used to.”

“But you do now?”

“This town got its reputation as the gathering place for heartsick women for a reason. You'd do well to remember that.” And without another word, the stately old lady pushed back her chair and swept out of the sunroom.