Cure for the Common Breakup (25 page)

T
he next morning was mild and clear, and Summer spotted someone on the edge of Hattie's beach, where the surveyor's crew had been yesterday. When she walked out to investigate, she found Ingrid kneeling in the sand, using a garden trowel to scoop out a deep, narrow hole.

Summer lifted her hand in greeting as she approached. “What's up?”

Ingrid didn't look up from her work. “I'm building a sea turtle nest.”

Summer crouched down next to her. “Do they have sea turtles this far north?”

“No. But sea turtles are endangered, so I figure that if I make the nests, they can't do any new construction near the shoreline.” Ingrid wiped her forehead with the back of her arm and checked a photo she'd pulled up on her phone. “I think that looks pretty authentic, don't you? Now I have to figure out what to use for eggs.”

“Oh, honey.” Summer sat down, letting her knee graze against Ingrid's. “I don't think that's going to work.”

“You don't?” Ingrid regarded the sand pit and nibbled her lip. “Well, then, I'll have find another endangered species to exploit.” She started typing on her phone. “What about an osprey nest?”

Summer took a deep breath. “Ingrid, I know this is hard, but Dutch and I—”

“You and Dutch?” Ingrid's fingers stilled. “Are you and Dutch even speaking to each other? I heard you guys fighting yesterday.”

Summer tucked her hair behind her ear. “You, uh, you heard that?”

“I'm pretty sure they heard you in Baltimore.” Ingrid hunkered down in the sand. She paused, then pleaded, “Don't leave. Dutch will forgive you. I'll talk to him.”

Summer sucked in her breath as her heart squeezed. She knew too well what Ingrid was feeling right now. The helpless desperation of trying to fix someone else's relationship. The hope that if you could just find the right words, act the right way, you could erase sins and correct mistakes you couldn't even label.

For a moment, she was five years old again, feeling the cold soda seep into her dress and knowing, from the flicker of sorrow in her mother's eyes, that she had ruined everything.

“You don't need to talk to Dutch for me. Please hear me when I say this. What happened yesterday was between me and your brother.” She placed her hand on Ingrid's arm. “We're adults.”

Ingrid snatched her arm away. “Then act like it.”

“I'm trying.”

“Are you breaking up with him?”

“I . . . It's not that simple.”

“I knew it.” Ingrid nodded with grim certainty. “I knew he should have proposed when I told him to.”

“It wouldn't have mattered.” Summer waited until Ingrid looked up at her. “I'm not leaving because of Dutch.”

“But you're leaving,” Ingrid finished for her.

“Yes. But I don't want you to think—”

“Even if you break up, even if you don't like him anymore, you don't have to go.” Ingrid looked up, her big eyes brimming with guilt. “I promise I'll stop bugging you about driving Scarlett and playing piano and buying makeup. I'll stop making you be my mentor.”

“Being your mentor has been the highlight of my year.” Summer smiled, willing Ingrid to smile back. “I wish I could stay here forever.”

“Then do it. Stay.”

“This isn't about just me. This is about everyone who lives in Black Dog Bay—including you.”

Ingrid's expression cycled through a range of emotions as she chose her next tactic. The tactic that would change Summer's mind.

The bargaining stage. Summer was all too familiar with that, too. Except now she was her mother, making an impossible choice, walking away from someone she loved. Because staying here would cost the ones she loved too much.

“Just stay until I go to college,” Ingrid said. “Who's going to help me apply to Tulane and Columbia?”

Summer, who had been carrying tissues around in her jeans pocket since the showdown in the kitchen, pulled out one for herself and one for Ingrid. “Believe me, I would stay if I could.”

“That's just an excuse. You do whatever you want—you said so yourself.”

A physical ache thrummed in Summer's chest. “We can Skype, FaceTime. . . .”

“You'll forget all about me,” Ingrid predicted. “Once you're back in the real world.”

“I will never forget about you,” Summer vowed. “And I will see you again.”

Ingrid's gaze turned hard. “No, you won't.”

“Yes, I will. That's a promise, Ingrid. And I want you to understand something. Are you listening?” She faltered as she prepared to say the words that someone should have said to her when she was younger. “There is nothing you did to make me leave. And there is nothing you can do to make me stay.”

Ingrid crumpled up her tissue and flung it into the sea turtle hole. She stopped crying and begging, and instead began to rage.

“If you go, I'm going to start doing drugs,” she threatened. “I'll pierce my tongue, I'll chain-smoke, and I'll . . . I'll eat processed lunch meats.”

She stole a glance at Summer to see if she was properly shocked.

Summer remained empathetic and impassive.

“I'll sleep with the mouth-breathing lacrosse jersey.” Ingrid got to her feet and glared down. “I'll wear blue eye shadow with the wrong shade of lipstick.”

Summer let out an involuntary gasp. “You better not.”

“Why can't this be enough?” Ingrid opened her arms to encompass the sky, the sand, the sea. “Why can't you just be happy here with us?”

Summer stood up next to Ingrid. “Life isn't that simple. I wish it were, but it's not.”

“Don't patronize me.”

“Okay. I'm sorry.”

“Everyone here loves you.” The pleading note crept back into Ingrid's voice. “Including Dutch, even though he's being stubborn. Including me.”

Summer took her hand. “I love you guys, too.”

“Why aren't I enough?” Ingrid's voice broke. “Why does everyone end up leaving me?” She swiped at her eyes. “I know you're not my stepmother, or my sister, or whatever, but you're
something
, okay? You and I are something.”

“We're definitely something, and we always will be.” Summer cleared her throat. “I know what it's like to lose your mom.”

“Did your mom die, too?”

“No, she . . .” Summer trailed off. “She left. She left my father and me for another man.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah. My father never got over it.”

“Did you?”

Summer sighed and pulled a bag of M&M's out of her sweatshirt pocket. “I grew up. I moved on.”
I walked it off.

“Did you have to go to therapy?” Ingrid looked both horrified and hopeful.

Summer poured a few M&M's into her palm, then offered the bag to Ingrid. “Oh, I probably should have, but I preferred to work through it the old-fashioned way. Underage drinking and acting out with inappropriate men.”

“And now you're doing the exact same thing your mom did,” Ingrid accused. “You had your fun and now you're going to forget we ever existed. How can you do this to Dutch? He has spent his whole life taking care of this town, taking care of me. He deserves a girlfriend who loves him.”

“Yes, he does,” Summer said softly.

“He's too nice, right? That's the problem? He doesn't treat you like crap, so you're not interested?”

Summer flinched. “I get that you're mad, Ingrid, and I don't blame you. But please know that what I have with Dutch, what I have with you—hell, what I have with this whole crazy town—means more to me than I can ever explain.”

“Who cares what it means to you? You're leaving to go travel the world with someone you allegedly hate.”

“There's nothing alleged about it,” Summer assured her. “I despise that bitch for real. And I swear to you, if there were any way I could stay . . .”

“Shut up.” Ingrid stalked away.

“I love you,” Summer called after her.

“Go to hell.” Ingrid broke into a run.

And Summer felt more devastated than after any breakup she'd ever had.

—

That evening, Summer checked in for one last night at the Better Off Bed-and-Breakfast. She took the long way, doubling back through Main Street, trying to absorb all the vibrancy of this tiny town. The locals, the tourists, the summer homeowners and bored teenagers. How was it possible that she'd arrived here only a few weeks ago, aimless and utterly depleted? Somehow, while she was busy making friends and enemies and memories, she'd put down roots. Somehow, after years of surviving turbulence and changing time zones, she'd found a home.

But not for long.

Tomorrow, she'd be back to reality. Back to jet lag, the blur of ever-changing faces, hotel rooms with thick curtains and bland framed watercolors on the wall.

But no—Hattie Huntington would never settle for corporate chain hotels with laminate furniture and synthetic bedspreads. They would have the best of everything—lodging, food, clothes. Summer would want for nothing.

Yet she was giving up everything.

She reached the turnoff to the inn and paused, inhaling the ocean breeze laced with the faint scent of grease from the boardwalk fries and sugar from the saltwater taffy shop.

When she entered the hotel lobby, Marla greeted her with a welcoming hug and a freshly baked oatmeal raisin cookie.

“Did you hear?” Marla whispered, her blue eyes welling with tears. “Miss Huntington is going to let them come in and build a trashy, tacky resort. I'll never be able to compete.”

Summer sat down on the sofa. “I heard.”

“I can't believe it. I broke down and cried when Beryl told me, and I start crying again every time I think about it.”

“Don't worry. She'll change her mind.”

“No, she won't. You know how ornery she is.” Marla dabbed at her eyes as she pointed at a trio of framed black-and-white photos on the wall. “For decades, this place has looked the same. Our guests have been able to sit on the porch and look out at the beautiful view and now . . . now . . .”

“She'll change her mind,” Summer repeated, but didn't elaborate further. Any explanation she offered would only lead to questions and conversations and misguided attempts to help. She didn't want everyone to rally around her or condemn Hattie.

She couldn't bear an outpouring of support from the community she was about to leave behind.

After pausing to nibble her cookie, she said, “I was hoping you might be able to squeeze me into the attic room tonight.”

“Of course, sweetie. I don't blame you one bit for getting out of that witch's house. How long would you like to stay?”

Summer inclined her head, feeling as aimless as she had the day she first checked in. “I don't know.”

“Well, you're always welcome here. I'm kind of hoping you'll decide to stay past Labor Day. You and Dutch seem so happy. Just look at you—you're a new woman, and you've seen the black dog to prove it.” Marla took a shuddery breath and regained her composure. “Want to go to one more bonfire, for old times' sake?”

Summer smiled wistfully. “Nothing left to burn.”

“Well, then, it's official: You're healed.” Marla dusted off her hands.

“Not quite. I need a favor. Can I borrow Theo's pickup truck and a flashlight?”

E
arly Thursday morning, while Hattie called the KRKJ real estate development team to inform them that the deal was off, Summer staked out the Jansens' front porch and prepared to say her good-byes.

She had to ring the bell three times before Ingrid answered the door.

Okay,
thirty
-three times.

Finally, Ingrid yanked the door open with the air of a het-up hillbilly about to discharge a shotgun. “Get off my porch before I call the cops.”

“I came to say good-bye.” Summer lifted her arms, offering a hug.

Ingrid shrank back. “Bye.”

“Ingrid . . .”

“Bye.”
Ingrid tried to close the door.

Summer wedged the toe of her sneaker in front of the doorjamb. “I'll call you. E-mail you. Send you sheet music from around the world. Whatever you want.”

“I don't want anything from you.” Ingrid bristled. “And while you're whoring around Paris, just know that I'm back here shaving my head and failing out of school and . . . and robbing banks.”

“Well, then, you'll need a getaway car.” Summer dangled her key ring and nodded toward the little red convertible parked in the driveway.

Ingrid eyed the keys with a glimmer of interest, then turned her face away.

“Take it,” Summer urged. “I want you to have Scarlett.”

“So you're getting rid of your car, too, now that it's not convenient for you to keep it? Wow, you're really cleaning house.”

Summer knew that nothing she could do or say right now would help Ingrid heal. So she stayed right where she was and absorbed the full force of Ingrid's anger and pain.

Finally, Ingrid stopped seething long enough to ask, “Well? Why are you still here?”

“I'd like to see Dutch.”

Ingrid's hands curled into fists. “He's not home, and even if he were, I wouldn't let you talk to him.”

Summer nodded. “You're a good sister.”

“Get out of here.”

This time, Summer complied. But she left the car keys on the porch railing, the silver metal glistening against the white wood that had been preserved and cared for since the days Black Dog Bay first began.

—

Six hours later, Summer settled into a cushy leather seat, her mind flashing back to the last time she'd been in the first-class section of an airplane. The smell of wine and coffee. The stubbly-faced English guy handing her the magazine and offering to write a song about her. Kim's expression when she rushed back from the flight deck, bursting with news about Aaron and the diamond ring.

Now here she was, buckling her seat belt on another plane bound for Paris, this time as a passenger. She would drowse and flip through magazines while some other flight attendant presented her with hot towels, salads, entrée, dessert. She would sit, passive, and stare out the window at the sky.

As the pilot made his preflight announcements, Summer expected to be catatonic with terror. She'd assumed that she would need booze, pills, and a suitcase full of M&M's to get through taxi and takeoff. But she didn't feel terrified. Fear would have been preferable to the overwhelming ache of loneliness and loss.

Her old life was gone forever and her new life was about to begin, whether she liked it or not. This summer with Dutch and Ingrid and the women at the Whinery had just been an interlude. Simple and sweet and all too short.

She pulled her cell phone out of her bag.

“Stop texting,” Hattie ordered from the seat next to Summer's.

“I'm not texting, I'm IM-ing,” Summer informed her.

“Don't quibble with me—just stop. An obsession with one's mobile phone is both gauche and banal.” Hattie wrapped her tiny white talons around Summer's wrist, then pushed up her sleeve to reveal pinpricks of blood and faded smudges of dirt. “What in heaven's name did you get up to last night?”

Summer snatched her wrist back. “Oh, this and that.”

“You look like you wrestled a lynx.”

“Just because I'm your prisoner doesn't mean you can interrogate me.” Summer returned her attention to her phone.

“A prisoner flying first-class to Paris?” Hattie's laugh was thin and mocking. “Aren't you the one who told me to move on? Let him go, Miss Benson.”

Summer tightened her grip on her phone. “Let
me
go.”

“Fine.” Hattie rearranged her cashmere shawl. “I'm merely trying to make life easier for you.”

“So you keep saying. And yet my life keeps getting harder. Anyway, I'm not even texting him.”

The lower half of Hattie's face disappeared in folds of featherweight cashmere. “Your heart is broken; I know. Be patient. You'll get over it.”

Summer finally put down the phone and gave Hattie a glacial stare. “In fifty years? Just like you did?”

When the flight attendant took her place beneath the monitor while the safety video played, Summer had the surreal sensation of watching someone else live her life. If the engine hadn't burst into flames that night, she would still be flitting around the world, drinking and dancing and avoiding attachment. She would probably still be with Aaron, slowly sabotaging his attempt to get her to commit. She never would have met Dutch.

And she never would have had to leave him.

The flight attendant pointed out the nearest emergency exits. Summer watched the woman scanning the cabin, no doubt looking for able-bodied assistants among the frail and vulnerable.

Someone like Summer. Someone strong and scrappy, who could do what needed to be done.

“I am never going to get over this,” Summer said, as much to herself as to Hattie.

Hattie didn't respond, and Summer assumed the older woman had drifted off to sleep.

But then, in the moment when the plane tilted, leaving the ground and taking flight, Hattie reached over and put her dry, cool hand on Summer's warm, sweaty one.

“Some things we're not meant to recover from. But in the end, you'll find the pain was worth it.”

—

The next few weeks passed in a whirlwind of trips to museums, restaurants, ballet performances, and operas. Summer had seen Paris before, but never like this. Never through the scope of unlimited wealth and privilege. There was no waiting, no inconvenience, no sweating in the ripe urban humidity. Logistics clicked into place and life was easy—at least, from a practical standpoint.

One afternoon, as they left the Musée d'Orsay, Hattie turned to Summer and announced, “I've had enough of Paris. I'd like to go south and see the coastline before it gets too cold.”

“Why don't we wait until the weekend?” Summer suggested. “I've a got surprise planned for you.”

Hattie's gaze sharpened with suspicion. “What is it?”

“Well, if I told you, it wouldn't be a surprise, now, would it?”

Hattie was having none of this. “We're leaving for the coast tomorrow.”

“Can't wait to go topless on the beach, huh? Fine, have it your way. I'll just make a few calls and rearrange a few things.”

—

The next afternoon, Summer and Hattie arrived at a five-star hotel near the rocky shores of Cap d'Antibes. The white Renaissance Revival château was flanked on both sides by tropical gardens, beyond which Summer could see the ocean. The water was a startling shade of turquoise, darkening to cobalt along the horizon.

“Check it.” She pointed out a massive white yacht silhouetted against a craggy cliff. “Do you think that's Paul Allen or P. Diddy?”

“Hmm.” Hattie gazed up at the imposing, intricately carved stone facade. “I suppose this will suffice.”

Another car pulled into the circular driveway.

A small, stout woman with curly blond hair, sparkling blue eyes, and a jaunty red beret stepped out. “
Mon dieu
, Hattie. You look so
old
.”

Hattie dropped her smart little satchel. “Pauline?” She clutched Summer's arm. “What is she doing here?”

“Same thing as you.” Summer shrugged. “Reuniting with her long-lost sister.”