Cure for the Common Breakup (16 page)

“I
t's pain and suffering over there, I tell you.” Summer pounded the bar at the Whinery, rattling the ice in her water glass. “And no matter how hard I try, she won't fire me!”

Jenna couldn't suppress a smile. “Yes, it certainly does sound like hard labor.”

“It is! She makes me get up at the crack of dawn and play tennis. And golf. Golf!” Summer turned to Hollis, who was sipping iced tea and making sympathetic noises. “She forced me to play nine holes with her at the country club. And the whole time, she lectured me about my swing and my grip and my joints.”

“Here.” Hollis dug a child's activity book out of her woven straw beach bag. “Some kid ripped half the pages out of this, so I can't sell it. Try the word search—it's oddly therapeutic.”

“Ooh, can I have one of the dot-to-dot pages?” Jenna peered over their shoulders. “I used to love those.”

“Help yourself.” Hollis passed the pages around. “I'll take the maze.”

The three of them lapsed into silence for a moment and focused on their tasks. Though the awning shaded their seats, a slice of warm golden light filtered in through the window. Then Summer circled the word “MAD” and launched into a fresh rant.

“Let me tell you something about golf—it
hurts
! My entire upper body aches. I haven't been that sore since Rocco—he was a personal trainer from Chicago with eight-pack abs and full-blown narcissism—talked me into going to a CrossFit class with him.” She rubbed the back of her neck.

“I hate to be the one to point this out,” said Hollis, “but Hattie Huntington is more than twice your age.”

“Yes, but she's very spry. I thought we'd be spending all day playing canasta and taking naps.” Summer circled another word. “But no! It's golf and tennis and swimming and sailing all the livelong day. Like . . . like prison camp with monogrammed polo shirts. And a butler to bring you lunch on the patio.”

Hollis pulled a pack of crayons from her bag and tossed it on the bar. “Sounds brutal.”

“Ugh. I'm all sassafras to her, and she pretends to be appalled, but I think she secretly likes it.” Summer grimaced. “I can't keep going like this, you guys. For real. I'm going to have a heart attack and die.”

“On your fancy private beach with your butler.” Jenna pretended to wipe away a tear.

“Well, it doesn't sound like prison when you say it like
that
.”

They were all laughing and topping off their iced teas when Dutch walked in. Although he wasn't wearing a suit, he had the crisp shirt and tie thing going on, and Summer snapped to attention.

He took in the activity pages and the facial expressions and the iced tea before asking, very slowly, “What are you doing?”

“Connecting the dots,” Jenna said.

“Coloring a frog,” Hollis said.

“Making this word search my bitch,” Summer said.

Dutch glanced behind him. “Is this . . . am I missing something here?”

“It's kind of soothing,” Summer told Dutch. “You should try it. Here, want the hidden pictures?”

“I was hoping I might talk you into a quick lunch date.” He held up his wrists, which glinted in the sunlight. “I wore cuff links.”

“Like Kryptonite to Superman.” Summer hopped off her barstool and hustled him toward the bar's kitchen exit. She called back over her shoulder, “I'll be back shortly, ladies. Or not.”

As soon as they pushed through the heavy metal fire door into the alley, Dutch rounded on her, crowding her up against the building's brick wall. He held up the silver headband she'd worn to the country club dinner. “I found this in the backseat of my car.”

“Thanks.” She tossed the headband into the Dumpster across the alley and wrapped her arms around his neck.

He rested his chin on top of her head and murmured into her hair, “You haven't returned my calls.”

“I didn't get any of your calls.” Summer laughed. “Miss Huntington confiscated my cell phone.”

“She did?” He ran the backs of his fingers up her neck and tilted her chin up. “Did she ground you, too?”

She reached up to touch the simple square cuff links. As he brushed his lips against hers, she could feel the cool bricks against her back and the warmth of his body against her chest. “You hoping to end up in the police blotter again?”

“A man can try.”

He tugged down the neckline of her shirt to kiss her shoulder, exposing the strap of her newest bra.

He slid one finger between the strap and her skin. “Lavender.”

“And nails to match.” She fanned out her fingers, then twisted her hair up and let it fall.

“Forget the police blotter—I'm probably going to get thrown out of office. But it'll be worth it.” All pretense of self-restraint went into the Dumpster along with Summer's headband, and they spent a few glorious minutes panting and kissing and laughing like teenagers at the Cheeky Tiki. And then . . .

“Mayor Jansen!” A shrill, panicked female voice echoed down the alley. “There you are! I've been looking all over town.”

Summer gave Dutch's earlobe one last nibble and whispered, “You might want to get your hand off my ass.” Then she ducked out from his embrace and waved to the agitated woman. “Well, you found him.”

Dutch straightened up, his crisp white shirt now rumpled. “Mrs. Bucciol. How nice to see you.”

Mrs. Bucciol wore a dirt-smudged gardening smock and wide-brimmed hat. “Dora and Frank Post are putting their beach chairs on my property. They're supposed to carry them back to their own house every night, but instead they just lean them against my fence. On
my
property.”

“Dun dun
dunnn
,” Summer murmured.

“I have tried to be a good neighbor—you know me, Mayor—but they simply won't cooperate. Frank says the beach side of the fence is public property.”

Dutch shifted back into mayor mode, calm and unflappable. “I appreciate you voicing your concerns.”

Mrs. Bucciol narrowed her eyes. “There are rules about the beach dunes, you know.”

“There are.” Dutch nodded.

“And their folding chairs are on
my
side of the fence.”

“So you've said.”

“I already called the sheriff's department. But I want you to talk to them personally. Make them see reason—that I am right and they are wrong.”

Dutch tried to hand the woman his business card. “I'd be more than happy to—”

“Right now.” Mrs. Bucciol addressed Summer. “This is the marvelous thing about a small town like Black Dog Bay. You're on a first-name basis with your city officials, and they'll drop everything to help their neighbors.”

Summer straightened Dutch's tie and patted his shirtfront. “Have fun.”

He growled low in his throat. “I hate my job.”

She stepped back toward the bar's door and threw a saucy wink at him. “Until we meet again, Mayor Jansen.”

He grabbed her hand and reeled her back in. “Before you go, I wanted to ask you something.”

“Well, you're in luck,” she murmured. “I'm in the mood to do your bidding.”

He cleared his throat and glanced at Mrs. Bucciol, who was watching them with rapt attention. “I want you to . . .”

“Yes? Don't be shy.” She cupped a hand to her ear. “It's impossible to shock me, you know. I'm shockproof.”

But nothing could have prepared her for his request.

“I want you to teach Ingrid to drive.”

—

The next day, Summer helped stage a vehicular intervention in the Jansens' blue living room. Tensions were running high, with Dutch making his stand by the coffee table and Ingrid holding her ground at the piano.

Summer positioned herself between the two siblings and attempted to open negotiations. “Why am I here, again?”

“I have no idea.” Ingrid launched into an angry concerto.

“Yes, you do.” Dutch had to raise his voice to be heard over the pounding from the piano. “She needs to learn to drive and she refuses to let me teach her.”

Summer turned to Ingrid. “Your rebuttal?”

Ingrid ignored her, pouring her energy into dark, turbulent chords and echoing pedal work.

Summer crossed over to the piano and closed the wooden key lid. “Stop showing off and use your words, punk.”

Ingrid snatched her fingers back and slumped down on the bench with a sullen expression. “Would you want him teaching
you
how to drive?”

“Um . . .” Summer fought to stay on task as her mind flooded with images from the country club parking lot. “Why not? I'm a hundred percent sure he's a better driver than I am.”

“That's why I don't want him teaching me. He'll be all, ‘You didn't check your blind spot' and ‘You didn't come to a complete stop.'”

“I would not be like that.” Dutch looked offended.

“Please,” Summer scoffed. “You totally would.”

“It's fine.” Ingrid reopened the keyboard and flexed her fingers. “I don't need to drive yet.”

“Yes, you do,” Dutch said. “For your own safety. What if—let's just say—you're out with a friend who drinks too much and you need to get home from some seedy club? What if I'm at work and there's an emergency? What if—”

“Wait, wait. Why are we talking about all these dire scenarios? You're seventeen!” Summer cried. “Did you pass the test to get your learner's permit?”

“Yes,” Ingrid admitted. “But only because he made me.”

“How can you
not
want to learn to drive? Doesn't everyone want to drive? Does not compute.”

Ingrid examined a hangnail. “Driving is scary.”

“Driving is awesome!” Summer said. “Sweet freedom! Wind in your hair! Music on the radio! World at your feet!”

“Eyes on the road,” Dutch added.

“A car is a huge, heavy, dangerous machine.” Ingrid's eyes were solemn and dark. “One wrong move, one lapse in attention, and you could kill someone. Or yourself.”

Summer had no idea how to respond to this because her own perspective at seventeen had been the polar opposite. “Is this, like, some deep-rooted trauma thing?”

“There's no trauma.” Dutch glanced at his phone as his text alert beeped. “She's just being difficult.”

Ingrid clutched the edge of the piano bench. “So now I'm difficult because I don't want to be responsible for steering a two-ton hunk of metal around hairpin turns at high rates of speed?”

“Hang on. Do my ears deceive me?” Summer leaned forward, blinking in disbelief. “Little Miss Responsible doesn't want to be responsible?”

Ingrid's knuckles went white as she clenched her fingers tighter. “Not for other people, no.” And Summer recognized that tone and that body language: Ingrid didn't trust herself. She had no faith in her own instincts.

That
, Summer could understand. She also understood that the only cure for self-doubt was swift and decisive action.

“You know what? I'm not going to stand here arguing. This isn't debate club.” Summer pulled her car keys out of her bag. “Front and center, Ingrid.”

“I told you, I'm not—”

Summer nodded at Dutch, and together, they grabbed Ingrid, pried her off the piano bench, and carried her kicking and screaming out to the driveway.

“This is kidnapping!” Ingrid screeched. A pair of seagulls screeched back. “You can't make me!”

“Welcome to adulthood,” Summer announced, “where you have to do all kinds of crap you don't feel like doing. I had to play tennis at dawn this morning. Do you think I felt like doing that?”

“Oh, boohoo.” Ingrid made a break for the porch, but Dutch cut her off.

Summer yanked open the driver's side door of her little red convertible. “Get in.”

Ingrid dug her heels into the white gravel. “No way. I'm not wrecking your Mercedes.”

“Calm down. I learned to drive in this thing; you think it hasn't been wrecked before?” Summer tossed the keys to Ingrid, who instinctively caught them. “Good girl.”

“I'm not going to be responsible for wrecking it again.”

“You're right—you're not going to wreck it. You're going to drive it like a normal human being. Get. In.”

Ingrid sat in the driver's seat, but refused to put the keys into the ignition. “I'm not driving.”

“Oh, yes you are.”

“Says who?”

“Me.” Summer played her trump card. “Your mentor.”

“But you said—”

“Changed my mind. I'm officially your mentor now. And as your mentor, I'm ordering you to shut your mouth, adjust the mirrors, and put the keys in the ignition.”

Ingrid complied, sulking as only a teenage girl can sulk. “You're going to be sorry.”

“I already am.”

“Good luck.” Dutch rubbed the back of his neck. “If anyone needs me, I'll be inside having a nervous breakdown.”