Mystic Summer (17 page)

“I know, John. I appreciate you pulling for me.” Tears prick the corners of my eyes.

“I've written you a strong reference, Maggie. You're a natural, and I hate to lose you. If there's anything I can do to help, don't hesitate to ask.”

John's sincerity is palpable, and I know this is hard for him, too. But I can't help but wonder that my reference is already in the mail. I think of the cardboard box sitting on my desk at Darby. The sole box I didn't pack in the trunk of my car as a last-ditch attempt at wishful thinking.

“I will,” I say, turning back to the bench. “Thank you.”

“Everything okay?” Cam asks. The sun is low in the sky, highlighting his earnest expression.

“Yeah,” I lie. “Just a friend.” There is nothing I can do right now. Not about the box on my desk back in Boston or the teacher applications I will apparently be filling out now with fresh urgency. At the moment all I can think about are the facts that I have nothing for dinner, Lucy's diaper probably needs to be changed, and I'll need to cajole everyone off the playground before I can even contemplate the joy of strapping them back into their car seats. A fresh sense of helplessness washes over me.

Beside me Emory starts to fuss. “I should probably get her home,” Cam announces. “It's about dinnertime. And that's a nonnegotiable in our world, huh, Em?”

Suddenly the thought of Cam getting up and leaving is more than I can bear. Without thinking I blurt out, “Wait. Want to grab a couple of slices at Mystic Pizza?”

Cam pauses to adjust Emory on his lap. His blue eyes travel lovingly over her face. “Well, I'm afraid Emory's too young for the pepperoni special,” he says, gesturing at her toothless smile.

I nod, embarrassed both by my rash invitation and lack of attention to detail—Cam's most important detail of all. I should just round up the boys and take them home. I should get back to Boston and get my life together.

But then Cam grins at me. “Though I'd love a slice.”

The boys are wiped out, the playground having exhausted the last fumes of their seemingly bottomless tanks. They slump wordlessly into the vinyl booths at Mystic Pizza while I settle Lucy's car seat on the bench beside me, and, for the first time all weekend, we all sit still.

Across from me, Cam balances Emory and her bottle in one arm and holds up a menu. “What do you think, will two pizzas do it?”

I do a silent count in my head, knowing the boys will easily eat two pieces each. “We could probably get away with a large,” I say.

Owen begins to protest. “Nah,” Cam says, waving his hand, “let's get two. Then you can bring home leftovers, right, Owen?”

Owen and Randall clap.

“Okay, who can draw their favorite toppings?” I ask, smiling gratefully as the waitress delivers crayons and paper to the booth.

As they get down to business with their paper pizzas and I get Lucy started on a jar of butternut squash baby food, I look up to find Cam watching me. “Look at you. You're quite the natural.” Emory, also worn out from fresh air and new faces, is nodding off in the crook of his arm. Glancing down at Lucy, I see she's not far behind.

“It's always a toss of the dice taking her out,” I say. “I get so focused on keeping up with the boys that I have to remind myself to slow things down and stick to her feedings and naps. Or all the wheels fall off the bus.”

Cam laughs. “Yeah. I've had too many rides on that bus.” He leans closer, admiring Lucy, who sucks noisily on the spoon. “But she looks rather pleased with life. I'd say Aunty Mags has pulled it off.”

Pulling off the burp is another matter entirely. Lucy is not an easy burper, but I know from experience it's not something I can skip. This isn't my last clean pair of jeans for no reason.

Cam watches as I lift her over my shoulder, suddenly self-conscious. Despite my gentle flat-handed pats, Lucy won't give up the burp. I pat a little faster and firmer. Still nothing. And she's starting to protest.

“Did you ever try the sitting burp?” Cam asks.

“The what?”

Cam sits Emory up facing out, to demonstrate. “That looks complicated,” I say, switching shoulders instead, and resuming my rapid-fire patting. I'm beginning to break out in a sweat.

He shrugs. “Or you can keep thumping. It's got a decent beat.” I give him a level look. It's not lost on either of us that he is the expert here, so finally I surrender.

“Face her toward me, and lean her forward just a little.” I try
my best to mimic Cam's demonstration. On the first pat Lucy emits the loudest belly burp I've ever heard, which sends the boys into a fitful of giggles.

Cam winks. “Well played.”

The pizza place is still empty at this early hour. Having settled Lucy, I'm finally able to lean back and let out a long breath. “So, you're the one tearing apart my favorite house in town,” I say.

Cam's eyes twinkle. “You know the Bate house?”

“Jane and I used to call it the Wedding Cake House, it was so beautiful. Please tell me the owners aren't changing it.”

“Oh, they're changing it,” Cam says.

“What do you mean?”

He smiles. “Relax. They're actually restoring the original design. We're even returning the front portico to its former self. Which you've probably never seen, unless you've looked at pictures in the Historical Society.”

I shake my head. “My favorite part was that portico; it looked so grand, especially flanked by the formal landscaping.”

“Then you'll love the restoration. It's even grander,” he says.

“Are they having the side gardens restored, too? Wasn't there a fountain?”

Cameron nods, seeming genuinely surprised at my interest in the house. “You seem to know quite a bit, Griffin. You should come by sometime. Make sure I'm doing it honor.”

“I'd love to.”

As we talk softly over the kids' heads, the scratch of crayons on the tabletop the only other sounds, I'm struck by an overwhelming sense of peace: this sticky, sleepless, minute-to-minute marathon of a weekend with the kids has actually been the most rewarding few days I can remember.

When the pizzas arrive the boys devour their slices, reviving just enough to pepper Cam with questions. “How do you know my aunt?” Owen asks, studying Cam carefully.

“Your aunt and I have been friends for a long time. We both grew up here in Mystic.”

Owen considers this information as Randall interjects with his own questions in quick succession. “What's your baby's name? How old is she? She's smaller than my baby.” He points across the table at Lucy. “That's my baby.”

Cam answers each question, and even balances Emory in one arm as he helps Randall cut his piece of pizza into small squares with the other.

“Thanks, Cam, but I can do it.”

“I've got it,” he says, watching as Randall shoves three small squares into his mouth at once. “Easy there, tiger.”

Emory has begun squirming in his lap. “I think I need to change her,” Cam says, rising. He glances out the window to where his Jeep is parked.

“Outside?”

He shrugs. “Typical single-dad problem—the only changing table is in the women's room.”

I hold out my arms. “Let me.”

Cam shakes his head. “Thanks, but you're still eating. Besides, it's no big deal, I'm used to this.”

I stand up. “Cam, hand her over. Unless you think it'd upset her.” I look at Emory's thick-lashed eyes warily. Such tiny people can exert such huge control.

Cam looks relieved. “Thanks, Mags. She won't mind at all,” he adds, passing her gently to me. He slides into my seat beside Lucy, who looks at Cam like she might mind, however, and I say
a quick prayer for everyone at the table to just keep it together for five more minutes.

Cam rummages through Emory's diaper bag. “It helps if you give her this guy to hold when you change her.” He pulls out a fuzzy gray hippo. “And there's one more thing.” A look of consternation crosses Cam's face. “You'll probably notice her scar.”

“Scar?”

He touches his chest gently. “Shortly after she was born, Emory had to have some surgery.” He pauses, glancing over at the boys still working on their pizza, and lowers his voice. “She has a heart condition.”

Standing in the middle of the pizza place with Emory tucked against my chest, all I can do is nod. But a thousand urgent questions fill my head.

“She's fine—you don't need to worry about handling her like china or anything,” Cam adds quickly. “I just thought you should know. I didn't want it to surprise you.”

“Of course. Thanks for telling me,” I say, willing my expression to remain neutral, even though fresh panic fills me. What kind of condition would necessitate surgery at infancy? And how bad a scar could a baby have that Cam felt compelled to warn me? But before I can put words to any of these fears, Emory starts to squirm in my arms and Cam quickly hands me her diaper bag.

“You'll be fine,” he says, as if reading my mind.

The women's room is dimly lit as I lock the door behind us. I unroll the cloth changing pad covered in little ducks and balance her gently on my hip. Unlike Lucy, Emory does not protest when I lay down her down, but instead puts her chubby fist to her lips and starts sucking on it calmly.

“Hi, baby girl.” I unsnap her onesie gently. Emory doesn't take her eyes off me. “Just going to get you changed,” I tell her, softly.

When I roll her onesie up to remove her diaper, I see the small pink ridge running up the center of her ribs. My breath catches. “You brave little thing. What have you and your daddy been through?” I change her diaper and roll her onesie back down gently. The scar disappears.

“Okay, all done!” I scoop her up, and press my nose to her little head. Emory smells like shampoo. And something else: like Cam. I kiss her three times, before I bring her back out to her dad.

Back in the booth, the boys are revving up again. Emory is warm and heavy against my chest, and it's with some reluctance that I hand her back. “Was she good for you?” he asks.

“The best.”

I can't take my eyes off Cam. There are so many things I want to ask him. About the surgery that made that scar on Emory's perfect little chest. About what it means—if she really is okay. And if he is.

But then the server arrives with the check, and Cam snaps it up. I protest. “Don't be ridiculous,” he insists. “It's my treat. Besides, you've got baby food in your hair.” He winks playfully as I put a hand to my head, horrified.

“Why didn't you say anything?”

He waves me away. “Because you're enjoying yourself. And I'm enjoying that,” he adds.

I glance at him, my cheeks warming.

The server returns with Cam's change. She looks around the booth at all of us as she clears our plates. “You have a beautiful family,” she says.

I shake my head. “Oh no, we're not—”

But she's already headed for the kitchen, the plates rattling in her arms.

I glance around the booth, trying to see what she saw. Two toddlers, two babies, two diaper bags, and a car seat between us. “God, can you imagine if all this was ours?”

Cam laughs aloud. “No! No, I cannot.”

But in that moment I see the picture we make. Beside me, Lucy coos in her baby carrier. Owen's and Randall's mouths are stained with pizza sauce. Across from me, Cam bends to kiss Emory's cheek. In that moment I am inexplicably happy. Baby food in hair and all.

A
wave of heat engulfs the northeast coast, delivering temperatures in the high nineties and a stifling humidity that makes it hard to move. Since Dean Hartman's call, my desire to return to Boston has become more insistent. I need to put my life back in order. As much as I like my mom's home-cooked meals and Dad's bad jokes, I feel helpless being back in Mystic.

But Erika convinces me otherwise. “I'm melting,” she groans into the phone. “You can't even walk up Commonwealth without feeling like you're going to get stuck in the pavement.”

Evan confirms this. “It's hotter than hell.”

“How are you handling it on set?” I ask. Even though they tape in the studio, a good deal of the action scenes are shot outside.

“We had to film until midnight last night, just to avoid the afternoon heat. One of the crewmembers fainted. And the humidity set off Angie's migraines.”

“Poor thing,” I say, grateful that he can't see me roll my eyes.

“I'd give my left arm to be away from this and out on the coast,” he says. “You should stay put. No reason to rush home.”

No one's rushing, I think. But deep down I feel the pressure. I need to find a job. And we need to look at apartments. “What's your schedule like?” I ask, anyway.

“I'm on set for the rest of the week,” he says apologetically. “So grab some ice cream. Hit the beach with a book.” The very things that'd be more enjoyable if Evan were here to share in them. It feels like we haven't seen each other in forever.