Mystic Summer (13 page)

Always flawless, Erika's mother is waiting for us at the club in a pastel suit, attired as if she's presiding over the White House Easter egg hunt. Mrs. Crane twists her pearl choker as we approach. “Hello, hello, girls! Come. The planner is waiting!”

It's been years since I was last at the Mystic Yacht Club, but stepping inside it may as well have been yesterday. Erika used to bring me to their summer clambake and the annual holiday party at Christmas. Nothing has changed. There's a solidity to the
building that brings you back in time with the town's whaling history—even though the red pine floors tilt slightly toward the doorways, which are all just a little bit crooked. Yet there is modern grandeur, too, in the mahogany paneled walls, the crystal chandelier, and most prominently in the large picture windows overlooking the stately white porches. We pass the large bar, where I first sipped a Long Island Iced Tea when we were teenagers, and past the ominous oil paintings of long-dead whaling captains whose eyes seem to trail us.

Erika loops her arm in mine and squeezes it. “You were right. It's the perfect spot.”

We're introduced to Deirdre, the club event planner. “Ladies, if you'll follow me into the ballroom, we can begin the tastings. We have a new chef from New York. I'm excited to share his menu ideas.”

Mrs. Crane does a double take. “What happened to Pierre?”

Deirdre smiles over her shoulder. “Pierre left us last month. But I'm sure that you'll find Chef Ari to be a wonderful addition. He's worked in some of Manhattan's finest spots.”

Mrs. Crane purses her lip ever so slightly. “Of course.”

Chef Ari joins us to explain the dishes that are brought out. There's grilled shrimp with pesto, Vietnamese summer rolls, and
salmorejo
in tall shot glasses, followed by Dover sole with mango chutney and filet mignon stuffed with crabmeat. All of it to die for.

Mrs. Crane is less certain. She sniffs a spiced speared shrimp suspiciously and sets it back down on her plate. “What about something more traditional? Perhaps a chicken dish.”

“Mom, I'm sure the seafood and beef are more than enough,” Erika protests.

But the chef is not fazed. “Of course, ma'am. We do a lovely Balinese ginger chicken. Or perhaps you'd prefer a
makhani
sauce?”

“Trent loves spicy dishes,” Erika says.

“That sounds so . . . exotic.” Despite her privileged lifestyle, Mrs. Crane's palate, along with her social politics, are decidedly stuck back in the early 1980s.

“I went for a traditional menu at my wedding, myself,” Peyton whispers to her. But I notice Peyton spears one more shrimp with her toothpick before the chef can whisk it away.

From there we move on to the safer territory of wine tasting, which is by now much needed: Erika selects a champagne for the first toast and wine for the dinner course, plus a rich Muscat liqueur for dessert. It isn't long until the ballroom floor is starting to feel sloped beyond its historic charm. At least it leaves Mrs. Crane in a bubblier mood. She's finally let go of her pearl necklace.

At last we're in the land of confections. Erika selects a three-tier Swiss dot vanilla cake, to which the chef nods his curt approval.

“Fondant?” her mother asks hopefully.

“Buttercream.” To me she whispers, “We're going to eat it, not look at it.”

As the others follow the pastry chef into the rear of the club kitchen to sample frostings, Erika turns and squeezes my hands in her own. “So, what do you think?” We take a moment to look around the ballroom, envisioning her big day. “I want to put the bride and groom table by the bay window. Of course, the dancing will take place along the wall of French doors, so we can open them onto the porch.” The faint scent of salt water
floats in, and I can already imagine throwing those doors open midway through the evening.

“It's perfect,” I tell her.

And I mean it. But as I follow her back into the kitchen, I can't help but feel a little twinge of envy. Growing up, I tried not to compare my family to Erika's, but sometimes it was hard not to. If life were a plane, we were comfortably seated in the economy section, and she was in first class. But despite the fact that Erika's winter breaks took place out west in Vail, and mine just ten minutes west off Interstate 95 at Ski Southington, I've never felt like I missed out. Sure she flew to Grand Cayman each spring, while the only flying I experienced was watching the birds leave their nests outside my bedroom window. And while I didn't dare mention these differences to my parents for fear of sounding ungrateful—or worse, jealous—I know my mother noticed my feelings. “Was your party okay?' she asked, hesitantly, when I graduated from eighth grade. Erika's parents had hosted an extravagant affair here at the club. The girls wore mostly white dresses and the boys showed up in jackets. I went, too. But it was after my own family celebration of grocery-store ice cream cake with my grandparents on our back porch.

I would never trade the loving childhood that my family gave me. But today, when the pastry chef places a spoonful of lemon buttercream frosting to Erika's lips, I do feel a little scratch of the green-eyed-monster rising up in my throat. It's not the yacht club we're in. Or the expensive wedding she's about to throw. It's the chapter that Erika's life is suddenly in. She's found her partner, she's got the job she studied hard for. And soon she'll be moving into married life with kids on the horizon, just as surely as she'll be moving out of our tiny apartment
and across town to her first home. This summer everything I recognize seems to be changing.

Outside, the day is bright and clear. “What do you think of ending the day with a little shopping?” Mrs. Crane suggests in the club parking lot.

Peyton is already on it, stalking the nearby shop windows around the corner. “I need shoes,” she says. I could use a pair of sandals for summer. My teacher wardrobe is largely based on comfort and ease, and today I have the urge to buy a pair of shoes that are anything but.

“Come on, there's a cute shoe store this way,” I tell them. The day is still young, and maybe a little retail therapy will get me out of my funk.

We're halfway up the sidewalk when I see it. A navy-blue Jeep with California plates, parked in front of the post office. The sticker across the back window confirms it: University of California. Cameron's Jeep. I step off the curb toward it without thinking.

Erika grabs my hand. “Careful, you're gonna get run over.” Then she follows my gaze to the Jeep. “What's wrong?”

“That's his car,” I say, glancing ahead at Peyton and Mrs. Crane, who have passed us. “Cameron's.”

Erika lets out a breath. “Oh, boy. Does he know you're in town again?”

“No.”

Erika points discreetly to the post office door. “Well now's your chance.”

Sure enough, there's Cameron coming out of the post office, wearing his old high school baseball hat and faded jeans. He's carrying a car seat. I see a flash of pink blanket as he swivels in the direction of his car.

“Look. He's got the baby.”

I freeze.

“Go on,” Erika says, elbowing me gently. “You might as well say hi.”

I nod. But I can't bring myself to move. Cameron opens the Jeep door and tosses a package in the front seat.

“Quick, before he leaves,” Erika says. If I jog up the street right now I could probably catch him.

“Are you girls coming?” Now Mrs. Crane has circled back to see what the holdup is, and with the whole crew of us staring up Main Street, I suddenly feel like a voyeur. There's no way I'm running after him now.

“Maggie is ogling her old boyfriend,” Erika says, teasingly.

“What?” Mrs. Crane squints. “Oh. The Wilder boy. Yes, I heard he's back in town. Poor thing.”

I don't know if the poor thing she's referring to is Cameron or his baby, but I feel a protective wave suddenly rise within me. Cameron doesn't need the likes of us in all our wedding-planning pastels spying on him from the front door of the shoe boutique.

“Come on,” I say. “Peyton's gonna get all the good shoes.”

Erika raises her eyebrows as we follow her mother, but I shake my head. The moment has passed. When we finally exit the store, three shopping bags between us and one pair of cream wedges for me later, I can't help but glance up the street. Cameron's Jeep is gone. Even though I figured it would be, I still feel a surge of disappointment.

“Where to next?” Mrs. Crane asks. “There are a few new shops down the road.” Predictably, Peyton falls into step behind her. Erika lingers in the rear with me once more.

“He's gone, huh?”

I shrug.

“Why don't you give him a call later? When you have a little privacy.” She nods at the two figures bustling ahead of us.

“What would I say?”

“Well, you'd better think fast.” She points directly up the sidewalk.

It can't be. Headed our way, on our side of the street, is Cameron.

“Maggie?”

He stops just in front of me, the car seat in his arms the only thing between us. Erika has skittered ahead, leaving me behind.

“It's me!” It's all I can think of.

“Wow, twice in a matter of weeks. I thought you'd gone back to Boston for the rest of the summer.”

“I did.”

Cam nods, waiting for me to continue.

“But I'm back.”

Cam breaks into a slow smile. “I can see that.”

“I thought you'd left.”

He cocks his head curiously. “Left?”

“You moved your Jeep. I mean, I saw you go by earlier. I wanted to say hi, but—”

He points up the street to where the Jeep is now parked. “I forgot to get stamps. Had to come back.”

“Stamps. Huh.” I wince. Who would ever believe that I was once an English major? Thankfully we are rescued from our ineloquent interaction by a little cooing sound. I kneel down mostly to break the awkward silence, but as soon as I'm level
with Emory's piercing blue eyes, I don't want to look away. Her bow lips curl into a smile.

“Remember Emory? I don't think I introduced you properly last time.” Cam looks bashful.

“Of course I remember. She's beautiful, Cam.”

As if she is determined to make me eat my words, Emory's face suddenly goes beet-red and she arches in her car seat. A small wail erupts from her mouth.

“Oh, oh. I think she's had enough.”

I stand up straighter. “Of me? Oh, no. I'm sorry.”

“No, no,” Cam laughs. “Of running errands. It's almost her nap time. Here. Do you mind holding her a sec?” To my horror, he passes the car seat to me. No sooner do I accept the handle than I lurch forward—tiny Emory is a lot heavier in this contraption than she appears. The bumpy pass-off silences Emory's crying for a beat.

“Got her?” Cam asks.

“No problem,” I say, straightening. And just like that, Emory lets out another long shrill wail.

“She's okay,” Cam assures me, bending to reach inside her carrier. He fiddles with her straps, and in one deft move she is free. Cam cradles her head and lifts her from her little prison. Emory blinks at us, stunned.

“Hi, baby girl. Is that better?” he asks her.

She answers with another loud wail.

Cameron tucks her quickly against his chest, and motions to the car seat. “Could you please grab her pacifier? It's pink.” There is nothing that sends grown men and women into motion like the squall of a baby. Especially in public.

Emory's shrill cry goes up another octave as I dig through
the little blanket in search of her pacifier. I know the magic of this miracle-inducing plastic sucker from watching Jane pop it into the mouths of her own kids. So where is it?

“It's not here,” I cry, trying to raise my voice high enough to be heard over Emory's wails, but not loud enough to startle her further. Though I doubt she could be more perturbed.

“Try the diaper bag,” Cam says. He is bouncing up and down in place, swaying back and forth, in an attempt to quell her.

I'm leaning against Cam now, as I fumble through the diaper bag hanging from his shoulder. I'm well acquainted with these bags from my niece and nephews. They have about four hundred pockets. As if a mother (or father) has either the time or the wherewithal to search through all those compartments for a miniature plastic soothing device. Finally, I locate it.

“Got it,” I cry, holding it up for her to see. “Look, Emory!”

And at that moment, with me thrusting the pink pacifier triumphantly into the air and Emory still wailing over Cam's shoulder in the middle of the sidewalk, Erika, Peyton, and Mrs. Crane exit the boutique. I freeze.

Cam reaches for the pacifier and pops it into Emory's mouth. Instant silence.

“Are you ladies done shopping already?” I manage to ask in a nearly normal voice.

But they aren't listening to me. All three sets of eyes rest firmly on Cam, who turns Emory around to face us as he cradles her in his arms. Her face is a less frantic shade of red, her long eyelashes wet with tears. She works the pacifier rapidly in her tiny mouth, taking us all in.

“Cameron, you remember Mrs. Crane and Erika?” I say.

“Nice to see you all.” Cam leans forward and offers the tips of his fingers, beneath Emory's round bottom, for an awkward handshake.

Mrs. Crane reaches forward and grips them warmly. I send her a million invisible thank-yous.

“Nice to see you,” she says fondly.

Peyton is staring at Emory's flushed cheeks with a look of concern. I can't help but wonder how much she wants one of these little creatures now.

“This is my daughter, Emory,” Cam tells them, proudly.

Mrs. Crane is the only one who looks genuinely delighted. She leans close to Emory. “Hello, little one.” And just like that—
pop—
the pacifier flips out of Emory's pursed mouth. Before any of us can react, it hits the paved sidewalk with a tiny plastic
thwack.
Right on cue, Emory emits one of her deafening wails.