Cure for the Common Breakup (21 page)

S
ummer spent the next day attending to Hattie's every whim, fetching and fussing and making an extra trip to the study, where she used a silver Cartier letter opener to jailbreak her phone out of custody.

“I want to go to the beach,” Hattie declared after lunch.

“Well, then . . .” Summer nodded at the expanse of pristine golden sand across the lawn.

“I want to go to those dunes over there.” Hattie indicated a patch of sand half a mile away. “I want to bring towels, an umbrella, and a picnic hamper. And I want you to carry it all.”

Summer rolled her eyes. “You're just doing this because you're mad I consorted with the grandson of your archnemesis on a picnic table. And a bed. And the floor. And the—”

“No.”

“Okay, then, you're just doing this because I broke your drainpipe trying to climb back into the house.”

“When I'm punishing you, Miss Benson, you'll know it.” Hattie adjusted a wide-brimmed straw hat on her head. “Requiring you to act as a pack mule for a single afternoon will hardly suffice as retribution for ignoring my clear instructions.
That
will come later.”

After hours of angling Hattie's umbrella for maximum shade and refreshing her iced tea with just the right amount of fresh mint, Summer hauled everything back to the Purple Palace, where a sleek black Town Car idled in the driveway.

“Who's that?” Summer let the wooden umbrella pole drag on the grass.

“I'm expecting a visitor this afternoon.” Hattie's clipped tone did not invite further questions. “You may leave the beach equipment by the stairs, right here.”

Hattie took off her sun hat, smoothed her white hair, and climbed the stairs to the front door, where Turner greeted her with even more gravitas than usual.

“Your guest is waiting in the living room, Miss Huntington.”

“Thank you, Turner.” Hattie glanced back at Summer and made a little shooing motion with her hand. “Run along, now.”

“Delighted to oblige.” Summer dropped the umbrella, beach chairs, and picnic basket in a heap and headed back to the shoreline. Sunburned and weary, she strolled around the bay to Dutch's house, wended her way through the rosebushes, and let herself in the side door.

She found him sprawled out on the couch in the family room, reading. He put the book on his chest when he saw her and made room for her on the cushions.

“Hi.” She curled up next to him and tucked her head into the space between his chin and his chest.

“Hi.” He kissed the top of her head. “You smell like the sun.”

She nestled into him for a moment, listening to the steady thud of his heartbeat under his thin cotton T-shirt and feeling the rise and fall of his breathing.

“What're you reading?” she asked.

He glanced at the book's cover.
“The Nature and Properties of Soils.”

“Sounds like a page-turner.”

“It's pretty interesting, if you're into that kind of thing.”

She smiled. “Well? Don't leave a girl in suspense.”

He wrapped his free arm around her. “You want to hear about soil?”

“If you're the one telling me about it.”

He read a few pages to her, the timbre of his voice deep and soothing. She didn't realize she'd fallen asleep until the screen door slammed again. Ingrid bounded into the room, carrying a white paper bag stamped with the Eat Your Heart Out logo.

“I'm back and I brought brownies.” When she saw Summer and Dutch on the sofa together, she beamed.

“Oh good,” she said. “You're home.”

—

Halfway through the brownies, Dutch had to take an emergency work call, leaving Summer and Ingrid in the family room.

“Hey, why aren't you wearing any of that makeup we bought?” Summer asked.

“Oh.” Ingrid touched her bare cheeks, her expression sheepish. “I wanted to, but . . .”

“But what?”

“I put it all on this morning. Foundation, blush, eye shadow, everything.”

Summer waited.

“And then I washed it all off before I left the house.”

Summer considered the implications. “Does this mean you gave up on your one-night stand with the sex god in the lacrosse jersey?”

Ingrid ducked her head. “For now.”

“So wait—I actually talked some sense into somebody?” Summer held up her hand for a high five.

“No, it's more . . .” Ingrid nibbled her lower lip. “Okay, you probably won't get this since you didn't grow up in a tiny town where everybody talks about everybody else.”

“I worked for an airline, which is basically an intercontinental gossip mill.”

“Well, I have to be careful. My brother is the mayor. And he's been raising me by himself. So if I go out looking all”—Ingrid rubbed her cheek again—“trashy, it reflects on him. Everything I do reflects on him.”

“In what world is wearing beige eye shadow trashy?”

“I have to err on the side of caution. Same with dating and drinking and everything else.”

No wonder the poor kid was so angst-ridden all the time, Summer thought. Throughout her entire childhood and adolescence, Ingrid had been framing every action and decision in terms of what it would say about her family. That's what it meant to be the mayor's sister—constant scrutiny and criticism.

Everyone in Dutch's life had to consider how her actions reflected on him. Especially his girlfriends.

“What?” Ingrid prompted.

“Nothing.” Summer blew out a breath and shook out her hair. “But you've got to let go and live a little. Otherwise, you'll be one of those overly sheltered kids who goes crazy and flunks out after freshman year of college because you're all drunk on freedom and cheap beer.”

Ingrid shook her head. “Can't go wild in college, either.”

“Why not? That's what college is for.”

“I'm just going to Wilmington.” Ingrid announced this with glum resignation. “That's where kids in Black Dog Bay go. Half the people from my high school class will be there, reporting back to their parents.”

“Hold the phone. I thought you were some frighteningly gifted supergenius.”

Ingrid laughed. “Don't exaggerate. I just have a high GPA.”

“Then you can go to school anywhere you want. I refuse to let you spend your life identifying yourself as ‘the mayor's little sister.'” Summer tried to pinpoint the perfect blend of academia and cultural enrichment. “Have you thought about UCLA? Columbia? Tulane? Let's swing by the bookstore and see if Hollis has any college guides.”

“Great idea. I'll drive.” Ingrid's smile dimmed as she remembered Summer's car was still in the shop. “Oh, crap. We'll have to take Dutch's car. Maybe you should drive.”

Summer threw up her palms. “I'm not driving his car!”

“Well, I don't want to wreck it!”

“Well, I don't want to, either!”

“I guess we're staying home, then,” Ingrid said.

“Guess so.” Summer popped the last bite of brownie in her mouth. “So what do you want to do?”

“I know!” Ingrid jumped to her feet. “It's my turn to be your mentor.”

—

“Take it from the top.” Ingrid turned a page of the magazine she was reading.

“Seriously?” Summer squirmed on the piano bench. “More scales?”

“Yep.” Ingrid put down the article on jewelry trends and repositioned Summer's hands on the piano keyboard. “Do 'em all again. And keep your wrists up this time.”

“My wrists are up!”

“Your wrists are like overcooked linguine. Posture, please.” Ingrid tapped Summer's back to remind her to sit up straight. “Scales. Let's go.”

“But I just did them.”

“You have to play them over and over. Your fingers are learning.” Ingrid put on her most superior expression. “Muscle memory.”

“So that's it? I'm just going to sit here all afternoon, playing a bunch of scales over and over?”

“Yep.”

Summer slouched and let her wrists go limp. “When I said I wanted to learn to play piano, I meant I wanted to play actual songs. Not just scales.”

“We'll get there,” Ingrid promised. “What, did you think we'd jump right in with sonatas and concertos the first day?”

“A little ‘Heart and Soul' never hurt anybody.” Summer played the opening notes, trying to entice Ingrid to join in.

“No. No ‘Heart and Soul,' no ‘Chopsticks,' no nothing.” Ingrid pointed imperiously at the keyboard. “Scales. Middle C is right there.”

“This sucks.” Summer flexed her fingers, launched into a new set of scales, and mentally revised her bucket list:

Have a garden.

Have hot sex in a garden.

Learn to play piano.

Learn to pole dance.

“Wrists!” Ingrid cried. “Wrists!”

Dutch strode down the stairs, jingling his car keys in one hand. He'd changed into crisp navy pants and a light blue button-down shirt. “I'll be back in a few hours.”

“More beach chair intrigue and sand dune scandal?” Summer's smile faded as soon as she made eye contact with him. “What's wrong?”

He turned his face away and straightened his shirt cuffs. “Nothing.”

“Liar.” She stood up and crossed over to him. “Something's wrong.”

Ingrid put down her magazine. “Yeah, what's up?”

“Nothing.” He pulled away when Summer tried to take his hand. “Sorry, I'm distracted. I have to go put out some fires.” An electronic ringtone sounded upstairs. “Damn. I left my phone.”

He loped back up the stairs. Summer and Ingrid looked at each other.

“This is bad,” Ingrid whispered. “Really bad.”

“Okay, let's think. What could have happened in the last twenty minutes?”

“I don't know.” Ingrid tucked her long brown hair behind her ears. “What should we do?”

“Well . . .” Summer perched on the back of the sofa. Getting information from taciturn men was not her forte. She was used to men who slammed doors, called names, raised their voices, and made empty threats. But Ingrid looked so worried, so certain that Summer had the answers.

So Summer climbed up the stairs and knocked softly on the bedroom door. She could hear Dutch's voice, muffled and low on the other side. When he went silent, she knocked softly. “Hi. Can I interrupt for one second?”

He opened the door, his face and demeanor betraying nothing.

“Ingrid's all freaked out down there, and honestly, so am I.”

“Sorry.” He pocketed the phone and rubbed his forehead. “I'm in mayor mode.”

“And that's fine, seeing as you are in fact the mayor. But your jaw is all clenched and your eyes are all flinty.” She glanced downstairs and lowered her voice. “And you're kind of . . . overenunciating.”

He blinked at her. “Overenunciating.”

“Yeah. I've noticed guys tend to do that when they're really worked up about something.”

He opened the door wider and brushed past her. “I'm fine. Everything's going to be fine.”

“Tell me.” She wrapped her hand around the doorjamb. “Whatever it is, just tell me.”

He didn't look back as he ran down the stairs. “I wish I could.”

“. . . So I have no idea what's going on, and he won't tell me.” Summer drained the last of her fresh-squeezed orange juice, slammed her empty glass on the bar, and signaled Jenna to pour another.

“Maybe he can't.” Jenna took the pitcher out of the refrigerator. “Maybe it's super-secret mayor stuff.”

“Maybe.” Summer sighed. She grabbed some M&M's out of the communal candy bowl.

“But whatever's going on, I think it's adorable that you want to take care of him.”

Summer's head jerked up. “What?”

“You worry about him, you want to smooth his furrowed brow, all that stuff.”

“Um, no. If anything, he's taking care of me. Against my will, but still.” She told Jenna about the car engine.

“Aww. That's nice of him.”

“I know.”

Jenna refilled the juice glass and topped off the dish of M&M's. “So I guess the days of begging him to go out with you are over?”

Summer grinned. “They were over the first time I made out with him.”

“And you're still teaching Ingrid how to drive?”

“I'm doing my best. And she's repaying me by teaching me to play piano.”

“Well, there you go.” Jenna flipped a pink dish towel over her shoulder. “The three of you are a cozy little family.”

“No.” Summer nearly spit out her M&M's. “No, no, no. We're only temporary. Not to mention dysfunctional and crazy.”

“All the best families are.”

“Don't even joke about that.” The sweet taste of chocolate soured in Summer's mouth. “We're not a . . .” She couldn't even force out the word.

“Call it whatever you want, but we all know the truth. And we're all rooting for you.” Jenna excused herself from the conversation to rock out as Joan Jett's “I Hate Myself for Loving You” came on the stereo.

The smell of Chanel No. 5 and filthy lucre drifted in as Mimi Sinclair walked through the door. She made a valiant effort to hide her disdain for the tourist trap of a bar, but couldn't quite suppress a little shudder. “Summer, I've been looking everywhere for you!”

Summer swiveled on her wrought-iron stool and raised her glass in greeting. “Hey, girl. What's up?”

“Don't you look cute today.” Mimi leaned in to deliver a kiss on each cheek. Jenna paused her air-guitar solo long enough to roll her eyes. “I've been looking all over town for you.”

“Next time, check the bar first,” Summer advised. “Save yourself some time.”

Mimi giggled and clutched the chain strap of her quilted leather purse. “Well, I'm so glad I found you. My husband and I have the white and green Cape Cod down by the dunes?”

“Okay.”

“And we'd just love to have you over for dinner one night next week. Shall we say Friday night?”

“Ooh, Friday night's not going to work.”
I'll be busy doing filthy, sweat-drenched things to Dutch.
“I think I have a prior engagement with Miss Huntington.”

The perfect white smile never wavered. “Saturday, then? Or perhaps Sunday brunch. I make a mean eggs Benedict.” Mimi gave Summer a playful swat. “And when I say ‘I,' I mean my housekeeper, of course.”

Summer swatted right back. “Of course.”

“So Sunday, then?” Mimi didn't give Summer a chance to object. “It's a date! We'll see you two next Sunday at noon.” She bounced off, her sporty tennis skirt and shoes as white as her teeth.

Summer watched her go, bewildered, then turned to Jenna. “What was that all about? I mean, we had a little moment of bonding at the country club a few weeks ago, but . . .”

Jenna patted her hand. “That was about Dutch. Note how she said she'll see ‘you two' on Sunday. Word's gotten out that you two are an item. So you're the one to schmooze if they want to get to him.”

Summer laughed. “Be serious. I can't make Dutch do anything.”

“One make-out session and he's putty in your hands,” Jenna reminded her.

Summer smoothed back her hair. “What can I say? I'm a good kisser.”

“Welcome to small-town politics. People who want favors, people who want publicity, people who want special treatment . . . they'll be knocking on your door.”

Summer heard Ingrid's words echoing in her mind:
Everything I do reflects on him.
She chewed on the end of her straw. “Dutch and I don't talk about his job. I couldn't care less about that stuff, and anyway, he's very discreet. Not to mention, I have better things to do in bed than play lobbyist.”

“Mimi Sinclair is the tip of the iceberg,” Jenna warned. “Prepare yourself.”

—

Sure enough, over the next few days, Summer found herself propositioned by both summer and year-round residents, many of whom she'd never met:

“We'd love to have you as a guest of honor at our charity luncheon.”

“Some of the girls are getting together for drinks at the country club. Care to join us?”

“You simply must come to the caviar clambake.” This last one was accompanied by an actual engraved invitation.

“What the hell is a caviar clambake?” Summer demanded as she and Ingrid hauled their reusable grocery bags out to the parking lot.

Ingrid glanced at the invitation. “Oh, it's a rich-person thing. They wear, like, old Levi's with Gucci and Louis Vuitton.”

Summer tossed a sack full of fresh corn into Scarlett's backseat, then handed her car keys to Ingrid. “Jenna says it's because of Dutch.”

“It probably is. Enjoy your caviar.”

“But I'm not a caviar kind of girl. I'm more of a pizza and beer kind of girl. Which reminds me, I'm starving. Want to stop for lunch on the way home?” She buckled herself into the passenger seat as Ingrid cranked up Vivaldi on the sound system. “The social scene here is surprisingly exhausting. I feel like I'm pledging a sorority.”

Ingrid backed up into a metal shopping cart, winced, and pulled forward again. “I'm surprised you're surprised. Haven't you always been popular?”

“With rock stars and rebels. Not with ladies who lunch.” Summer put on her sunglasses. “Is this how it is for you all the time? People trying to befriend you for the wrong reasons?”

“No, it's the opposite with teenagers.” Ingrid missed sideswiping a yellow concrete post by mere millimeters. “No one invites me to anything because they think I'm a snitch.”

“Killjoy by association?”

“Exactly.”

“Dutch has been busy the last few days,” Summer said, careful to keep her tone light. “Have you seen much of him?”

“Nope. I think he comes home for a few hours to sleep every night, but I have no proof.” Ingrid shot a sidelong glance at Summer. “I thought he might be spending time with you.”

“Uh-uh.” Summer propped her feet up on the dashboard. “Haven't heard from him.”

“Don't take it personally,” Ingrid advised.

“Oh, I'm not. It's fine. He's not my . . . We're not officially . . . I'm not his parole officer,” she finally finished. “He doesn't have to check in every minute of every day.”

“Well. He could take two seconds out of his busy schedule to text.” Ingrid braked for a yield sign. “But he gets like this when he's in crisis mode.” She tsk-tsked and changed the music to Bach. “Boys.”

“And we still don't know why he's in crisis mode?” Summer asked.

Ingrid shook her head as a stream of cars whizzed past them. “We can try to find out, though. Let's stop by his office and bring him lunch.”

Summer put her feet back on the floor mat. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Ingrid,
go
, already!” Summer cried. “Yield, not surrender, remember?”

Ingrid waited another few seconds before turning right. “Don't yell at me. I'm just trying to be cautious.”

So was Summer. In her previous life, she would have called up a distracted boyfriend or sexted him or shown up at his office door in a belted trench coat with a wisp of black lace underneath. She would have seen it as a challenge to regain his interest.

But right now, she was too filled with doubt to view love as a challenge. She refused to beg for Dutch's attention. She was afraid that whatever she did, whatever he felt for her, it wouldn't be enough.

She felt weak, and she hated herself for it.

So she did nothing, and steeled herself for Dutch to do the same.

—

Late that night, Summer curled up in bed with the lights off and her smartphone on, vowing she'd go to sleep as soon as she beat this level of Candy Crush, when she heard a sharp smack against the balcony doors.

She thought it might be a wayward bird or a tree branch tapping against the glass panes, but before she could get out of bed to investigate, she heard more scraping, thumping, and finally a knock.

She froze, torn between lunging for the lamp switch and going into cardiac arrest, when she heard a familiar voice.

“Summer?”

“Dutch!” She scurried across the rug, fumbled with the latch, and opened the doors. “What are you doing? How did you get up here?”

He stepped into the moonlit room and took her in his arms. She couldn't see him clearly, but as soon as he touched her, her whole body craved more. More pressure, more pleasure, more of his taste and his scent.

He threaded his fingers into her hair and kissed her, first hard and demanding, then sweet and soft, then hard again. Together, they stumbled back onto the bed.

He was all over her, his body taut and solid and hot, but he went still for a moment as he brushed his lips over the sensitive skin of her throat and murmured into her ear:

“I missed you.”

Before her mind could overrule her heart, she said it back: “I missed you, too.”