Cure for the Common Breakup (5 page)

S
ummer arrived in downtown Black Dog Bay approximately three minutes later. As she drove through the main drag (two lanes of traffic, one dotted yellow line, speed limit twenty-five), she had to smile at the business names: the Retail Therapy boutique, the Jilted Café, the Rebound Salon. This must be the section of the community that catered to the breakup crowd. She noticed a woman strolling down the cobblestone sidewalk wearing baggy green yoga pants and carrying a handbag Summer had eyed covetously in the window of the Chanel boutique in Paris. This town was half kitschy tourist trap, half gentrified old money.

The street dead-ended in a quaint little town square consisting of white park benches, a wooden gazebo, and a large bronze statue of what appeared to be a big, shaggy dog. Beyond the town square, the beach and boardwalk beckoned. The bay created a semicircular inlet, and Summer could see rows of sleek, modern beach houses featuring walls of plate glass windows . . . plus one huge mansion painted violet. The house, sprawled across at least an acre of prime beachfront property, was the color of a fresh bruise.

Summer started speculating about what kind of homeowner had enough wealth to buy such an estate and the chutzpah to paint it purple. Then she spotted a sign hanging from an iron lamppost,
BETTER OFF BED-AND-BREAKFAST
, and followed the arrows to a large, saltbox-style house with white clapboard sides and green shutters. An orange striped cat sat on the front step, twitching its tail and basking in the sun.

The parking lot was packed with a diverse assortment of cars: soccer mom SUVs, sporty coupes, vintage hippie vans, and even a shiny mint green Vespa scooter. Summer managed to maneuver Scarlett into a space (well, okay, it wasn't technically a space, but it
would
have been if everyone else had parked properly) between a silver BMW sedan and a rusty pickup truck with a visible gun rack.

After she turned off the car, she settled back into the driver's seat and tried to muster the energy to collect her bags and go inside. She knew there were basic tasks she had to attend to—eating and showering came to mind—but the mere idea of those activities overwhelmed her. So she made a deal with herself: If she could force herself to go inside and navigate the check-in process, she could stay in bed for the rest of the day. For the rest of the week.

Moving at a glacial pace, she stepped out of the car and started up the flagstone path to the entryway. While the bed-and-breakfast's exterior harkened back to a bygone era, the interior had obviously been recently remodeled. The lobby was airy and full of sunlight, with ice blue walls and windows facing the ocean. The back door stood open, beckoning visitors to a deck lined with wicker sofas and Adirondack chairs.

A stout, pink-cheeked redhead bustled in to greet Summer. “Welcome to the Better Off Bed-and-Breakfast. You must be Summer?”

“I am.” Summer glanced around. “And you must be psychic.”

“No, no, I'm Marla.” When the redhead smiled, she looked so warm and maternal she might as well be wearing an apron and rolling out pie dough. “But I've been expecting a tall, beautiful blonde. Dutch called and gave me a heads-up.”

“Dutch,” Summer repeated. “Is that the guy whose fence I ran over?”

“That's right. Dutch Jansen.” Marla regarded her with a hint of reproach. “He works so hard on those roses. It's a crying shame.”

“It was an accident, and it wasn't even my fault! I blame the turtles and Taylor Swift.”

“Of course, honey.” Marla nodded as if this made perfect sense. “How long do you think you'll be staying with us?”

But Summer wasn't finished with their first talking point. “Hang on. So this Dutch guy. He said I was a tall, beautiful blonde?”

Marla's eyes widened as she picked up a coffee cup from a side table. “He said . . . Well, I guess I inferred . . . Do me a favor and don't tell him I said that, okay?”

“Absolutely. I'm just surprised, because he was not having any of my tall, beautiful blondeness at the scene of the crime. He couldn't get away from me fast enough.”

“Well, as I said, he puts blood, sweat, and tears into those rosebushes.”

“Dutch Jansen.” Summer filed this name away for future investigation. “So he grows roses and he knows the owner of the local B and B.”

“Oh, Dutch knows everybody. He's the mayor.”

Summer froze. “He is?”

“Mm-hmm. Didn't really have much of a choice; it's Jansen family tradition. His grandfather was the mayor, and then his father—until he died. Dutch took over as soon as he was old enough to run for office.”

Summer patted her windblown, unwashed hair. “I ran over the mayor's landscaping.”

“Sure did!” Marla hummed a happy tune as she rearranged the wildflowers in a blue milk vase. “Now, let me get you settled in before the dinner rush starts. How long do you think you'll be our guest?”

“I'm not sure, exactly. I know it's the height of tourist season. What's your availability like?”

“Well, we don't technically have any vacancy, but I'll squeeze you in somewhere. Though I'm afraid all our ocean-view rooms are taken.”

“That's fine,” Summer said. “I just need someplace quiet to crash.” She winced as the word left her mouth, her mind flashing back to the near disaster in the plane.

“Here.” Marla patted a sofa piled with embroidered throw pillows. “Have a seat while I ask my husband if we can put you up in the attic room.”

“Wait. You run this place with your husband?”

“Mm-hmm. Theo—that's him out there.” Marla pointed out the window at a burly, bearded man sanding a bit of peeled paint from the porch railing. “Isn't he a cutie?”

“I guess, but what about the whole better-off-breakup theme? Shouldn't you be single?”

Marla chuckled. “Oh, why, bless your heart, honey, that's the
guests
. Not the locals. There are three types of people in Black Dog Bay: year-round residents who have jobs and families and bills to pay, the rich summer people from Baltimore and D.C., and the heartbreak tourists.”

“Heartbreak tourists,” Summer repeated.

“That's what we call them. Mostly women, although we do get the occasional man. Two years ago, I rented a room to a groom who was left at the altar. He stayed in our best suite for a week, smoking cigars and heaven knows what else. The place smelled like a humidor by the time he checked out. We had to rip out the carpets and replace the drapes.” Marla shook her head at the memory.

“Don't the rich summer people object to the heartbreak tourists?”

“Not really. Most of them figure we're better off with weepy women than rowdy college kids. Besides, this town was founded by a filthy-rich socialite. Lavinia Leighton. Her name's on the plaque by the dog statue down at the town square. Her husband left her, ran off with some floozy actress. She lost her lifestyle in New York, all her fancy friends, and she came down here to start fresh.” Marla plucked a book from the shelf beneath the window seat and showed Summer the title:
The History of Black Dog Bay
. “You can read all about it if—” She broke off midsentence as a lanky woman wearing a woven black sun hat and oversize sunglasses strode in. “Would you excuse me for just a moment?”

“Take your time.” Summer collapsed onto the sofa.

Marla rolled up the sleeves of her pale pink shirtdress and hurried over to intercept the newcomer, who was tugging at a locked drawer in the front hall table.

“Celeste, honey, no.” Marla wedged herself between the woman and the table. “Step away from the cell phones.”

“Where's the key?” The woman ripped off her hat and ran her fingers through long, tangled hair. “Forget everything I said yesterday. Just give me my phone.”

“Absolutely not.” Marla adopted the demeanor of a stern finishing school headmistress. “This is for your own good.”

“One text.” Celeste grabbed Marla's hand. “That's all I'm asking for. One last little text. For closure.”

“Consider your dignity.”

“Fuck my dignity!”

Marla didn't bat an eye. “Now, now. You don't mean that.”

“I do, too!”

“Texting him's not going to make you feel better.” Marla adopted the tone of voice you'd use to soothe a spooked horse. “This is just your brain chemistry resetting itself back to normal. That's what Hollis says. You're not in your right mind—you're a junkie in withdrawal.”

The willowy brunette glanced down at her trembling hands, her expression mutinous. “I know exactly what I want, and it's to text that miserable, selfish SOB and tell him that . . . that . . .”

“What?” Marla planted her hands on her ample hips. “That you still need him? That you can't live without him? That you know you two still love each other deep down?”

At this, Celeste burst into tears. “You don't know him! You don't know me!”

Marla engulfed the distraught guest in a motherly hug and handed over a box of tissues—but no phone. “There, there. Let it all out. The first three days of detox are the hardest. I promise it gets easier.”

Summer marveled at the innkeeper's maternal warmth and “tough love.” Marla hugged you when you needed a hug and confiscated your cell phone when you were jonesing for the rat bastard who broke your heart. How did some women step so effortlessly into the Mom role? And what would it have been like to have been born to one of them?

What would it have been like to have a mother who stayed instead of left?

“When?” Celeste sobbed into Marla's collar. The dry-cleaning bills around here must be astronomical. “When will it get easier?”

“Tomorrow,” Marla promised. “And the day after that and the day after that. You're bottoming out and it's miserable. I know. But you're going to get through this. If you text him right now, you're restarting the clock and undoing all our hard work.”

“But I—”

“Here.” Marla wriggled out of Celeste's bear hug, reached into her dress pocket, and pulled out a hammer. “You'll feel better.”

“But you—”

“Run along.” Marla made little shooing motions with her hands. She didn't even glance at the smears of lipstick and mascara on her dress. “Give it all you've got for fifteen minutes and if you still want your phone after that, we'll talk.”

Celeste accepted the hammer, still scowling. “Don't lie. You're not giving me my phone back in fifteen minutes.”

Marla waved her fingers. “Toodle-oo.”

Celeste stomped off, hammer in hand, and left her sun hat abandoned on the rug.

Summer stared after her. “What was that all about?”

Marla picked up the hat, dusted it off, and placed it on a hook next to the front door. “What was what, dear?”

“Where's she going with that hammer? Why are you holding her cell phone hostage?”

Marla shrugged. “Hotel policy. I make all the guests surrender their phone when they check in. It prevents backsliding.”

“Backsliding,” Summer echoed.

“Begging, pleading, threatening.” Marla ticked these off on her fingers. “Regrettable calls and texts at three a.m.” She smiled up at Summer and held out her palm. “Speaking of which, dear, if you'd be so kind . . .”

Summer clutched her purse strap protectively. “You want my cell phone?”

“Just for a few days.”

“You can't have it. I'm very important. And busy. I'm getting calls from my employer, the media—people need to be able to reach me.”

Marla didn't argue. She just stood there, smiling, with her palm outstretched.

“Look, I get that you don't know me, but I don't backslide. When I'm done with a man, I'm
done
with him.” She swallowed hard. “And I definitely don't beg.”

Marla's smile softened. “What's his name, dear?”

Summer swallowed again. “He, uh . . . You've probably seen him on TV over the last few days. He's the . . .” She couldn't force the word “pilot” out, let alone “Aaron.” “Can I have some water, please?”

Marla bustled off to the kitchen and returned with a glass of pink lemonade. “I'll take that cell phone now.”

Summer sighed and surrendered the lifeline that kept her tethered to the hope that, any minute now, Aaron would come to his senses and reach out to her. Apologize. Repent. Beg her to take him back.

Decide that she was worth loving.

“Take good care of her,” Summer said as Marla locked the phone in the drawer.

“I'll love it like it was my own,” Marla promised. “And if you need to make calls, you're welcome to do so. In the common areas. Under supervision.”

Summer took one tiny sip of the cold, delicious lemonade and almost gagged. Her body wanted nothing to do with food or drink right now. “So this is like breakup boot camp?”