Last Summer

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Authors: Holly Chamberlin

BOOK: Last Summer
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Outstanding praise for the novels of Holly Chamberlin!
 
SUMMER FRIENDS
 
“A thoughtful novel.”
—ShelfAwareness
 
“A great summer read.”
—Fresh Fiction
 
“Touching.”
—RT Book Reviews
 
“A novel rich in drama and insights into what factors bring
people together and, just as fatefully, tear them apart.”
—Maine Sunday Telegram
 
THE FAMILY BEACH HOUSE
 
“Explores questions about the meaning of home,
family dynamics and tolerance.”
—The Bangor Daily News
 
“A dramatic and moving portrait of several generations
of a family and each person’s place within it.”
—Booklist
 
“An enjoyable summer read, but it’s more. It is
a novel for all seasons that adds to the enduring
excitement of Ogunquit.”
—The Maine Sunday Telegram
 
“
The Family Beach House
is an exploration of life in
its middle stages and the wisdom that comes from
truly understanding yourself. It builds to a quietly
satisfying end that neatly ties up the characters’ futures.
Southern Maine readers will delight in the references
to local restaurants, museums and destinations
woven throughout the book. Fans of Ogunquit will be
particularly thrilled as the town itself provides a rich
and vibrant backdrop for the McQueens’ story.”
—
Books by Holly Chamberlin
 
LIVING SINGLE
 
THE SUMMER OF US
 
BABYLAND
 
BACK IN THE GAME
 
THE FRIENDS WE KEEP
 
TUSCAN HOLIDAY
 
ONE WEEK IN DECEMBER
 
THE FAMILY BEACH HOUSE
 
SUMMER FRIENDS
 
LAST SUMMER
 
 
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
Last Summer
Holly Chamberlin
KENSINGTON BOOKS
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
As always, for Stephen.
And this time, also for Hannah Jane.
Acknowledgments
First and foremost, thanks to John Scognamilio for his perception, foresight, and guidance. Thanks also to Hannah Jane for sharing with me the sometimes puzzling but always interesting world of today’s young person.
 
Thanks also to Margaret J. O’Connell and Katherine J. Wilder for sharing with the community of friends and family their wedding at the Cathedral Church of St Luke’s, Portland, Maine.
 
This is for anyone, young or old, homosexual or heterosexual, girl or boy, who has ever suffered at the hands of a bully. You will triumph. I did!
 
This is also in memory of Maureen Wall Bentley and of Elizabeth Wasserman.
This is a work of fiction and is in no way meant to present a complete picture of the many successful anti-bullying campaigns and educational programs at work throughout the great state of Maine. Similarly, the story of Rosie Patterson is just that—a story. It is unique to the character and not intended as a representation of every victim’s experience.
Life appears to me too short to be spent in nursing animosity or registering wrongs.
—Charlotte Brontë,
Jane Eyre
1
F
ourteen-year-old Rosie Patterson stood at the window in the living room of her family’s house on Pond View Road in the town of Yorktide, Maine. She didn’t know why the road was called Pond View, as there was no pond anywhere in sight. She guessed there must have been one years and years ago. And maybe a developer had filled it in to build a house or even two houses. It seemed that every year more land that had been beautiful, wild woodland was being bulldozed or blown apart so that someone “from away” could build a huge house with big white columns out front (like anyone would really think it was historical!), a four-car garage, and an in-ground pool.
The Patterson house had been built sometime in the 1930s. At least, that’s what Rosie’s dad had told her. It wasn’t a tiny house, in fact, it was the second-biggest house on the road, but Mrs. Patterson had decorated it so that it felt cozy and welcoming, even on the coldest day of the year. And in Maine, even pretty far south where the Pattersons lived, close to the New Hampshire border, that could easily mean temperatures below freezing.
On the first floor were the living room and a small den. In the living room there was a big fireplace with a wide stone mantel on which Mrs. Patterson displayed portraits of the family, including those members long gone, and her small but good collection of milk glass. Generally, the living room was reserved for when guests came to visit, not that that was often, especially not now. The den was the room where the Pattersons watched television or read in the evenings, after the dinner dishes were cleaned and homework was finished. It was probably the most snug room in the house with a thick, colorful rug, a bookcase that covered almost an entire wall, and three big armchairs, one really big, another sort of big, and the third, Rosie’s, smallish. Just like the chairs for the three bears from the Goldilocks fairy tale, Rosie had noted when she was little. The comparison had often made her smile.
The kitchen, also on the first floor, was Rosie’s mother’s pride and joy. She loved to cook and had bought the best pots and pans and knives she could afford. Jane Patterson kept the kitchen spotless and the cupboards perfectly organized. Rosie had long ago memorized where every serving fork and can of tomatoes and jar of wild rice belonged. Behind the kitchen and leading out to the small patio and large backyard there was a small screened-in room where the Pattersons stored some of the spring gardening tools, as well as shovels and bags of rock salt for winter use. (The snow-blower lived in the toolshed.) On the patio sat a wrought iron table and chair set, Mike Patterson’s charcoal-fueled grill, and some of Mrs. Patterson’s potted plants. In good weather, the Pattersons often ate dinner on the patio, though so far this summer no one had made the suggestion that they emerge from the security of the kitchen. That wasn’t surprising.
A staircase off the living room led to the second floor, on which there were Rosie’s bedroom, a bathroom in the hallway, and her parents’ bedroom and private bath. Her mother had decorated both bedrooms with good faux-antique furniture and a few small genuine pieces. The chairs were upholstered in a cabbage rose print, and over each bed hung a ruffled canopy in the same print. Rosie had added her own small personal touches to her room, like a framed print of one of her favorite paintings. It was a portrait of the Princesse Albert de Broglie (whoever she was) painted by a French painter named Jean Auguste Dominique Ingres. Rosie thought the shimmering blue of the princess’s dress was magical. Rosie had no talent for art, she could hardly draw a straight line, but she loved to study the paintings in her mom’s art and design books and thought she might be developing what her mom called “a pretty good eye.”
The basement of the Patterson home housed Jane Patterson’s sewing room and a dressing room for her clients (Rosie’s mom had a small tailoring business), Mike Patterson’s at-home office where the family’s computer was kept, and the washing machine and dryer. The basement was also where the boiler and all those other kinds of frightening “Dad machines” lived. Rosie had little if any idea of how any of them worked or what, exactly, they did, and that was fine by her. She was like her mother in that way. Stuff to do with gas and electricity and plumbing was stuff that men dealt with. Maybe that was a little old-fashioned, but that’s the way it was in the Patterson house.
Rosie touched the glass of the living room window with one slender finger, as if that touch would bring her closer to the beautiful June morning just outside. The strengthening sun was drying what remained of the crystal-like dew. Two robins were hopping around on the front lawn, and she could hear the scolding cry of a blue jay somewhere not far off. The crows were silent at the moment and Rosie was glad for that. When she was little, their absurdly loud cawing had terrorized her. She had been convinced the birds were screaming in pain, not just going about the noisy business of being crows. But then, she had been an ultrasensitive child. Her mother often reminded her of that. And the past few months had further proved that her mother’s opinion was correct. She was now an ultrasensitive young woman.
Though at this time of the day she couldn’t see her reflection in the window in front of her, Rosie imagined that she could. (Imagining came easy to Rosie.) At times she wondered if there was some real connection between how you looked and your personality or character. It was a silly notion, and one that probably only found its truth in plays and novels where the villains were all short, dark, and ugly and the tragic heroines were all tall, pale, and beautiful. But what if it really wasn’t a silly notion? In that case, Rosie thought, seeing herself in her mind’s eye, her own appearance kind of proved her ultrasensitive personality and, as her mother often said, her “specialness.”
First, there was her long, light blond hair that she usually wore in a single braid down her back. When her hair was loose, like when she had dried it after a shower, her father said she looked like Rapunzel. Then there were her big eyes, an unusual vibrant green surrounded by dark lashes. Since she was little, people had been telling her how beautiful she was. It had always made Rosie uncomfortable, strangers coming up to her and her mother on the street and saying things like, “Oh, my God, your daughter could be a model!” Why did people feel the need to comment on other people’s appearance? Rosie thought it seemed kind of rude but was too polite to say anything like, “Could you please keep your comments about my body and my face to yourself? It embarrasses me.” Plus, her mother had never asked anyone not to talk about her daughter’s appearance—in fact, Rosie thought her mom kind of enjoyed hearing those comments—and Rosie wasn’t the sort of girl to protest a parent’s decisions. She just wasn’t.
She was tall, too, and that was another thing that people often commented on. At her last checkup the doctor had estimated she would grow to be about five feet nine inches, which was a little taller than her mother but not as tall as her father. And she was really slim, which lots of girls at school had told her they envied. But Rosie had no interest in their obsession with thinness. She was thin because she was thin. So was her mother. It was no big deal, no better or worse than having red hair or brown eyes. Sometimes, in fact, Rosie wished she were totally average-looking or maybe even ugly so that people would see only what mattered about her, like the fact that she was smart and tried always to be good and polite and kind.
Rosie’s attention was pulled back from the land of imagination and into the moment at hand as one of the neighbors, a nice older woman named Mrs. Riillo, came walking down the narrow sidewalk. Rosie began to raise her hand, intending to wave, but quickly dropped it. She didn’t want to call attention to herself, standing alone at the window. Lately, she had begun to feel too much like the heroine of a novel she had read back in eighth grade. She had found the slim volume on a shelf in the den, stuck in between two of her father’s fat mystery novels, almost as if it were hiding. In the story, a young woman not much older than Rosie was trapped in her home by her own fears and inhibitions. Her bedroom window provided her some small access to the outside world, while at the same time, with its heavy drapery that she could pull securely shut, the window represented the extreme isolation in which she chose to live.
It was a powerful story with no real ending, happy or otherwise, and it still haunted Rosie. She had chosen to write about it for an extra-credit assignment. Her English teacher had been more than a bit surprised at her choice—most of the other students had chosen to write about action and adventure stories—but she had given Rosie an A. Rosie almost always got As on her tests and assignments.
Mrs. Riillo was gone now, out of Rosie’s sight. A neighborhood cat, an enormous shaggy tom named Harvey, was slinking across the front yard, his eyes riveted on the two robins. Rosie shut her eyes and hunched her shoulders as he leapt forward, intent on a kill. When she opened her eyes, slowly and just a bit, she sighed with relief. The birds had flown to safety and the cat was washing his face as if nothing had gone awry. She knew that cats were predators and that Mother Nature was not always pretty. Still, any kind of violence made Rosie feel queasy.
Satisfied that he was clean and presentable once more after his failed attempt at breakfast, the cat trotted off. Rosie sighed and for a moment felt a wave of restlessness overcome her. The day ahead stretched out for what seemed like an impossibly long way, offering far too much time to fill. The last term paper had been submitted and graded, and the last test had been taken and passed. Now what?
The final weeks of ninth grade had been packed with activity, from writing those term papers to cleaning out lockers that had accumulated all sorts of interesting and sometimes slightly yucky tidbits. There had been the homeroom party on the very last day of class, complete with cupcakes and potato chips, and the trip up to Portland a few days before that to visit the museum and have lunch at Flatbread, the awesome organic pizza place with the huge brick oven. Judy Smith, a pretty, smart girl who everyone liked, had had a party in her backyard for most of the other freshman girls and a few of the boys. Mr. Smith had grilled red hot dogs and Mrs. Smith had made killer potato salad and brownies, and though it was still too cold for swimming, a few kids had brought their bathing suits just in case. In the end, Judy’s aboveground swimming pool remained empty of all but a bobbing beach ball.
Well, Rosie had imagined all those details about the homeroom party and the class trip to Portland and Judy’s party, because she hadn’t gone to any of them. She could have participated in all three events. But she hadn’t.
Here came Trudy Loren, a woman from the next road, walking her yellow Lab. Rosie stepped back a bit from the window, again reluctant to be seen watching the world go by. But Trudy was chatting on her phone, oblivious to the tall, thin girl behind the glass. In a moment, she was gone, heading in the direction of the park.
Rosie stepped forward and once again touched the glass with her finger. If this summer was going to be at all like last summer and the summer before that and even the one before that, she would have a lot of fun to look forward to. Sure, there was some reading to be done for school. Mr. Arcidiacono, who was going to be their tenth-grade English teacher, had given out a list of novels and nonfiction and instructed everyone to choose two books from each category, read the books through, and write a report on each one. For someone like Rosie who loved to read and write, the assignment would be enjoyable. And she would read way more books than the four suggested by Mr. Arcidiacono, anyway. She had always been a big reader, just like her parents.
But other than the reading assignment, the only responsibility facing Rosie this summer was to enjoy the warm and sunny weather. It had been a particularly long winter; by mid-May temperatures had barely reached fifty degrees. Everyone, even kids, not just grumpy, arthritic adults like their neighbor Mr. Newman, had been complaining about the cold and gray for so long it really had seemed as if this would be the year that spring never came.
Yes, if this summer was going to be like every other summer past, there would be trips to the beach, and lazy afternoons spent lying under the gingko tree in the backyard, daydreaming and planning an exciting, exotic future. There would be the annual trip to Chauncey Creek where they would get lobster rolls, and there would be a blueberry-picking excursion, after which they would make muffins and pancakes and pies with all the berries they had collected. And there would be trips to the green market and long bike rides and movies at the Leavitt Theatre in Ogunquit and ...
Rosie pressed her lips together tightly and reminded herself that this summer would not be like last summer or like any of the summers before it. This summer would be a summer without Meg Giroux, Rosie’s former best friend turned traitor. It was a strong word, “traitor,” but Rosie thought it was the right one. Not that she would speak the word aloud, not even to herself, not even to Dr. Lowe, her therapist. Dr. Lowe wasn’t supposed to judge her patient, but still, Rosie was afraid to appear vindictive.
Rosie consciously fingered the few thin, lingering scars on her left arm and then pulled the sleeve of her pink cotton shirt down over her hand. At that moment, as if summoned by Rosie’s troubled thoughts, Meg, carrying a watering can, came through the front door of her home next door. Rosie quickly backed away from the window and turned toward the sanctuary that was her own home.

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