Firefly Summer (7 page)

C
HAPTER
13

A
fter stopping at the farmers' market for heirloom tomatoes, Piper turned onto Main Street and drove past the road that led back to the sleepy cemetery in which her parents were buried. Feeling oddly drawn to stop, she turned in and parked under the majestic pine trees. She hadn't visited her parents' graveside in years. Like the attic, it was a place she avoided, but now, it was as if the letters and pictures she'd come across had stirred something deep inside her, and as she walked on the pine needle–covered path, she recalled that long-ago time.

Whitney Quinn had retired from being a Pan Am pilot right after Piper had started her freshman year at the University of New England. Soon after, he and Martha had sold the family home in New Hampshire and moved to Whit's End full-time. Six months later, though, as so often happens when someone retires, Whitney was shoveling the heavy, wet snow of a late March storm when he suffered a massive heart attack. Martha was standing at the kitchen sink, washing the dishes, and she looked up and saw him leaning heavily on his shovel. A moment later, he crumpled onto the wet snow.

“Whitney!” she cried, running out and trying to lift him up.

“I'm sorry ...” he murmured.

“Sorry for what?” she cried, cradling his head in her lap.

“I'm sorry about Easton,” he whispered, his voice racked with pain, his eyes full of sorrow.

“Oh, Whitney, it wasn't your fault,” Martha cried, rocking him back and forth. “I asked you to take those kids. If it was anyone's fault, it was mine.” She looked down, realized his eyes had closed, and shook him. “Don't you leave me, Whitney Quinn!” she cried, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Don't you dare leave me!”

Birdie, Remy, and Sailor—who were all married by then—had been devastated when Martha called them with the news, but Piper had still been in college—and three years away from meeting Nat—so her father was still the center of her world, and Martha couldn't bring herself to call her youngest daughter and tell her on the phone.

It was snowing when Piper returned to her dorm that evening and found Birdie and David waiting for her. “What's wrong?” she asked, seeing the strained looks on their faces. Her heart pounded. “Why are you here?”

Birdie explained as gently as she could what had happened, but Piper had shaken her head in disbelief. “No, you're wrong,” she said angrily. “I just talked to Dad. He said he was picking me up on Friday for spring break.”

Tears filled Birdie's eyes as she listened to her sister try to make sense of it all. Then she wrapped her arms around her and held her as she sobbed inconsolably.

Whitney's funeral was held at the Federated Church in Orleans on a foggy, slate-gray Monday, and in spite of the dreary weather and the fact that it was a weekday, the historic old church was filled to capacity with family, friends, fellow pilots, and veterans. Years earlier, Whitney had offhandedly told Martha he didn't want a wake, so when the family walked into the sanctuary that morning, it was the first time Piper saw the dark mahogany casket—visible proof that her father wasn't coming back. She'd cried out in shock—his body was in that box! It was more than she could bear and her knees had started to buckle, but Jim, who was right behind her, had caught her and gently guided her into the pew next to her sisters.

Whitney Easton Quinn was buried with full military honors, and as the haunting sound of “Taps” was played, Piper had gazed at her brother's tombstone beside her father's open grave.

Piper couldn't believe it had been fifteen years and she remembered thinking that her tortured father was finally reunited with his only son. After the guests left that day, it became evident to everyone in the family that Piper would need more time to grieve, and at Birdie's suggestion, Martha arranged for her youngest daughter to take time off from school and stay home with her through the summer, their shared grief drawing them even closer.

 

Piper stood solemnly in front of the three sun-bleached tombstones now, her brother cradled between their parents, and listened to the wind whispering through the pines. Her parents hadn't been able to protect him in life, but they were forever by his side in death.

C
HAPTER
14

“D
id you fall in?” Birdie called up the stairs.

“Very funny,” David called back from behind the closed bathroom door.

“I'm leaving.”

“Do you want me to drive you?”

“No, no,” she said. “I'll be fine.”

“Well, let me know if you want me to pick you up.”

“Why would I want
that?
” she asked, sounding annoyed.

There was a pause while they read each other's minds. “Okay,” he said resignedly. “Have fun. Give your sisters a hug.”

“I will,” Birdie said more cheerily, feeling briefly emancipated from his judgment.

“Call if you change your mind.”

There it was again. “Okay,” she said to appease him, but as she limped to the kitchen, she muttered, “I
won't
change my mind,
and
if you remember correctly, I'm
not
the one who backed into the lamppost.”

She checked her bag to make sure she had everything, eyed her crutches, decided she didn't need them, slipped the bottle of pinot grigio that Alec, the new owner of the package store, had described as “crisp and elegant with hints of apple and citrus,” and the bottle of “PM” he'd said was “all the rage” into her bag. “It's from the Patagonia region,” he'd said. “You'll
love
it!” and although Birdie was old enough to be Alec's grandmother, he was just so darn cute, with his short blond hair, blue eyes, and those stylish rectangular glasses—
and
so passionate about his recommendations—that she believed he could talk her into buying Boone's Farm!

Birdie limped toward the door, trying to balance everything, and realized Bailey was waiting expectantly. “Oh, hon,” she said, kissing her sweet forehead. “You have to stay home with Dad tonight.” The old Lab gazed at her solemnly. “I know you want to come,” she explained, “but I'm not going to Piper's. I'm going to Sailor's . . . and Chloe's not going, either, so don't look so sad.”

Bailey folded her old limbs, clunked heavily to the floor, and put her head between her paws. “I'm sure Dad will take you for a walk, though,” Birdie consoled. Then she called through the ceiling, “Please take Bailey for a walk!” She listened to her husband's muffled reply, assumed it was
yes,
and said, “See, I told you . . .”

She opened the door. “I'll be home soon,” she said as the Lab's forlorn eyes followed her out the door. “Next time, Bay, I promise.” Bailey sighed heavily and Birdie shook her head as she limped toward her ice blue MINI Cooper Clubman with the license plate that read: SNWOWL. “Even the dog knows how to make me feel guilty!” she muttered, looking heavenward. “My life is just one big guilt trip, Lord. I should've been born a Catholic.”

On a normal day, Truro was a twenty-minute ride, give or take, from Orleans, but as Birdie pulled onto the rotary and turned onto Route 6, she groaned—traffic was bumper to bumper. “Who
are
all these people?” she mumbled, and then she remembered it was the Friday before the Memorial Day weekend. She heard her phone
beep
and looked down. Piper had texted:
Want me to pick you up?
She merged into the right lane, stopped in the barely moving traffic, slid her finger across the screen, and started typing:
Already left. Traffic is . . .
She heard a loud honk behind her and looked up. The car in front of her had moved all of ten feet and she hadn't kept up. As she rolled forward, she looked in her rearview mirror, gave the man behind her a wilting look, and resumed typing:
terrible. See you th . . .
There was another long, impatient honk, and when she looked up, she saw they'd moved another ten feet. She looked back down, finished typing her message, hit Send, and then looked in her rearview and held up her middle finger. As they continued to creep along at a snail's pace, she looked back to see how the disgruntled driver behind her was doing, decided he was on the verge of blowing a gasket, and took her almighty sweet time the next time, too. She was sixty-seven, after all, and she deserved a little respect. . .
and
she was a full-time resident! “Someone needs to take a chill pill,” she muttered, shaking her head.

Moments later, the left lane started moving and the man pulled into it, and as he blew by, he returned her gesture and raised her one rude expletive.

“Back at ya,” Birdie said with a smirk as she clicked on her radio.

People began to gradually turn off Route 6 toward their destinations and the traffic began to move. Birdie glanced over at Arnold's as she drove by. She couldn't believe there was already a line curling around the building. “It's definitely summer,” she said with a sigh.

A few minutes later, she turned onto Old County Road and into a sandy driveway straddled by a white picket fence. “Can you believe I finally got my picket fence?” Sailor had said when she'd been giving Birdie the directions.

“This is nice,” Birdie murmured as she parked behind Remy. She could see her sisters look up from where they were standing in the garden. She reached for the plate of Caprese salad—fresh tomatoes, mozzarella, and basil, drizzled with balsamic vinegar—and handed it to Sailor through the window.

“Mmm, this looks good,” she said, smiling.

“The basil's from my garden,” Birdie said as she picked up her cumbersome bag, clanking with bottles, and gingerly stepped out.

“Where are your crutches?” Remy asked, frowning as she gave her a hug.

“Oh, I don't need those old things,” Birdie said. She turned to Sailor, hugged her, too, and pulled out the bottle of pinot grigio with the festive ribbon tied around its neck. “I'm told the palate is full and ripe,” she said with a smile.

Sailor chuckled. “Is that what your favorite gay package store owner told you?”

“It
is,
” Birdie admitted with a grin. Then she frowned. “Do you really think he's gay?”

Sailor nodded. “I love the label,” she said, admiring the da Vinci drawing. “And I do because he's way too cute to be straight.”

Birdie laughed. “You're probably right.”

“And what did you get for yourself?” Sailor asked, eyeing the second bottle.

“Malbec,” Birdie said, holding out the bottle of Phebus.

“Did he talk you into it?”

She chuckled at how true her sister's observation was. “He said it's all the rage!”

“So you're betraying your beloved merlot?” Sailor teased, feigning shock.

“Just expanding my horizons,” Birdie said. “Do you have a corkscrew? Because I brought one just in case.” She started to reach back into her bag.

“I have one,” Sailor assured. “Come on in and we'll crack these bad girls open!”

Remy offered Birdie her arm and she gladly took it, and as they followed Sailor into the little cottage, Sailor turned. “Do you want the grand tour now or in a little bit?”

“In a little bit,” Birdie said, sinking wearily into the only chair in the kitchen—a folding beach chair. “My ankle's a little achy.”

“That's why you should be using your crutches,” Remy scolded. “It's only been a couple of days. . . .”

Birdie waved her off. “I'm fine. It's just because I had to push the damn clutch in so many times on my way here—traffic was terrible! In fact, it'll probably be a half hour before Piper gets he—”

“Hello!” a voice called cheerily.

Sailor looked out the window. “Here she is now!”

“Hey!” Piper said, sweeping in and giving her sisters hugs. She set down a platter of bruschetta and a bottle of the Black Dog Tavern's new wine, Great White Chardonnay—it had a picture of the iconic black dog with a shark fin on his back.

“Where'd you get that?” Sailor asked, admiring the label.

“Package store.”

“Birdie's package store?”

Piper laughed. “Yes, that cute new French owner tried to talk me into something else, but when I saw this label, I knew I had to get it. I don't know how it tastes, but I'm easily swayed by labels.” She eyed Birdie's ankle. “How're
you
doing?”

“I'm doing . . . but I'll be
doing
a lot better after your sister gets that bottle open.”

Piper looked over and realized Sailor had broken the cork. “What the heck
are
you doing, girl?” she teased.

“I'm a beginner . . .
obviously!
” Sailor said, laughing.

Piper reached for the corkscrew and Sailor stepped back. “Oh my, look at that bruschetta! Where'd you get the recipe?”

Piper glanced over her shoulder. “Allrecipes.com.”

“I love that site,” Sailor said. She offered the plate to Birdie and Remy. “Did you see Remy's pie?!” she asked, nodding over her shoulder.

Birdie sat up to see. “Is that rhubarb?” she asked in happy surprise.

“It is,” Remy confirmed.

“Look at that fancy latticework,” Piper said, handing a glass of the red wine to Birdie and admiring the pie. “We should take a picture and send it in to a magazine!”

Remy smiled. Her sisters' enthusiastic compliments made all the trouble—even going out the third time to get sugar—worth it!

“I can't remember the last time I had rhubarb pie,” Birdie mused, taking a sip of her wine and immediately feeling the strain of the day exit her body like an evil spirit. “Mmm, this
is
good,” she said. “You should try it.”

Piper took a small sip and nodded. Then she looked at the bottle. “I've never had malbec.”

“You can have a glass,” Birdie offered, but Piper knew Birdie was a tad possessive of her wine and declined.

“No, thanks, I think I'll just stick to white tonight—it
is
summer, after all.”

“It is indeed!” Birdie said, smiling.

Sailor handed glasses to Remy and Piper, and Birdie held up her glass in toast. “To Sailor's new home!”

“To Sailor's
lovely
new home,” Remy corrected.

They clinked their glasses and Piper added, “And to finally getting her to move out here!”

“Hear, hear!” Sailor said, laughing and taking a sip.

She put her glass down, uncovered the dip she'd made, and pulled open a bag of tortilla chips. “Want to sit on the deck?”

With everyone carrying a dish, they went outside. “Where'd all this outdoor furniture come from?” Piper asked, setting the plates on the table.

“The previous owner left it, even the grill. I think he must've rented the house out to people. There were some plates and pots and pans in the kitchen, too.”

“How come he sold it?” Remy asked.

“He died.”

“Oh,” Remy said softly.

“Happens to the best of us,” Birdie said, her voice edged with sarcasm. She paused. “So, ladies, I have a tidbit for you, but you have to promise not to tell anyone.”

Sailor looked up from scooping dip. “Oo-oo!
Promise not to tells
are the best kind of secrets.”

“Well, it's not that big a deal. It's just that I was sworn to secrecy.”

“Do tell,” Piper pressed.

“Dr. Sanders is
retiring!
”

“Oh, no!” Remy groaned. “Who are we going to go to?”

“He's hiring some young new whippersnapper to take his place.”

Sailor shook her head. “I hate changing doctors. So much so, I've even driven out here from Boston just to get my thyroid prescription refilled. It's bad enough we have to go to a doctor at all, but to have to start all over with someone new.” She shook her head. “Did he say when?”

“October. But you can't tell anyone . . .
and
you have to act surprised—or dismayed—when he tells you.”

They all nodded.

Piper sipped her drink and looked over at Sailor. “Have you heard from Frank?”

Sailor started to scoop some dip but broke her chip. “He called but I didn't pick up,” she said, fishing it out.

“Are you going to sell the house?” Birdie asked.

“We are, unless he wants to buy me out. I'm only communicating with him through my lawyer.”

“How are the kids taking it?” Remy asked.

“Merry said she doesn't know what took so long and Thatcher is so busy I don't think he's had time to think about it, but it's not like they're kids anymore. They both have spouses and Merry has the girls
and
they've both been in previous relationships that didn't last, so they know how it is.”

“This is a little different,” Remy said, seeming to mourn her sister's failed marriage more than she did.

“Rem, I can't spend any more time agonizing about it. Frank is not like Jim—he cheated on me more times than I can count—he even cheated on me when I was having chemo. Life is too short. I've known it was coming, and now I'm relieved it's over. Plus, God obviously has a plan; just look at this place—it's the perfect retreat.”

Piper scooped some dip. “I think God has a bigger plan for you than just a beach cottage. You guys should've seen the handsome Realtor who stopped by to give her a box of Munchkins
and
these lovely flowers,” she said, motioning to the sunflowers on the table. “Not only that, but Sailor told him she was a
Munchkin girl!
”