Mystic Summer (5 page)

I spend the afternoon being thrust from one guest to the next, politely answering questions about work and the Red Sox. Which means I have to also listen as my parents' friends tell me about their own kids, who, more often than not, are either married, about to get married, or just popped out their first baby.

“What about you?” Mrs. Banks from next door asks me, while I'm serving birthday cake. “Are you married, Maggie?”
Her eyes are wide and hopeful as she thrusts her paper plate in my direction. I resist the urge to nod at the hungry line behind her. It's backing up.

“I'm in a relationship with a great guy,” I say, balancing an unwieldy piece of vanilla cake on the knife.

She frowns. “Engaged?”

I shake my head. “But I'm
happy
,” I tell her, unsure of whom I'm trying to reassure more. My nosy cousin Ellen is right behind her, listening in. “Maggie is our picky one,” she jokes. Cousin Ellen is, herself, very married. To the tune of five children, all under the age of seven. Despite her oh-so-cheery exterior, Ellen's mood is as sharp as her blond bob that prickles her overblushed cheeks as she speaks. “Picky, picky, picky.”

Jane and I have never been big fans of Cousin Ellen. Since childhood she has smugly held it over us that she has always been first. First to drive. First to go to college. First to marry. The Christmas that I announced that I was going to Boston to teach, she was also the first to start a debate at the dinner table. All through the meal she peppered me with questions as to what I thought about women who defied their role in the home and maintained singlehood, putting career above a more traditional lifestyle, which ultimately absolved them of eternal happiness. She regarded me sadly and told Wilson, her eldest, to “give poor Cousin Maggie the last piece of pumpkin pie,” because I wasn't used to eating home-cooked meals alone in my urban apartment. I'd been too furious to take a bite.

After which, Jane had dragged me into the foyer and grabbed my chin. “Look at that shit!” Jane nodded over her
shoulder as Ellen's boys fought on the kitchen floor, her baby howled in its applesauce-splattered high chair, and her husband scurried off to watch football in the den. “Ignore her, Mags. She'd give her lactating left boob to be the one who is single in the city!”

I try to remember this as Ellen thrusts her empty plate under my nose now. “That's me,” I say in a singsong voice. “Picky, picky, picky.”

My sarcasm is lost on Mrs. Banks, who's still holding up the dessert line as she studies me with concern. “Well, don't be too picky, dear. If you wait too long, no one will be left.”

Cousin Ellen nods sharply. “Except for the gays.”

I dump a monstrous piece of cake on Ellen's paper plate.

It's almost twilight by the time Mom finds me outside on the porch. Her cheeks are flushed. “Oh, honey, what a day. It's too much.”

“You deserve it,” I tell her as she settles onto the swinging chair next to me.

“We don't have big gatherings anymore, at least not like we used to when you girls were little. I miss them.”

“I remember.” It seemed like every summer weekend was spent at a neighborhood barbecue. I'd watch my mom at her dressing table as she put on her colorful Bakelite bracelets and selected a swingy summer dress. Later, we kids would race our bikes up and down the street and dart through neighbors' yards, while the grownups clinked their glasses and citronella wafted across the grass.

As if reading my mind, she adds, “Of course now there's
a new generation to keep up with.” She nods at Randall and Owen, who at that moment burst through the door and onto the front porch with us.

Owen climbs onto my lap. “Come to my house for a playdate?” he asks. I nuzzle his head, and suddenly I don't want to be anywhere else. “I would love to come to your house,” I tell him. “But I think tonight I'm staying over at Grandma's.”

Mom's face brightens. “Really? You can stay? Because all I need to do is put some fresh sheets on your bed. And there's so much food left over, your dad and I can't possibly eat it all by ourselves. Plus all that cake.” She leaps up. “Or we could order out for dinner, if you want!” Her face falls. “Wait. What about Aunt Dotty?”

“Mom. Sit.” Earlier I'd cornered Cousin Ellen's unsuspecting husband in the dining room with a piece of cake and convinced him to drive Dotty home to Providence. I only wish I could see Ellen's face when Dotty piled into the back of the minivan between the kids. “I already arranged that; Ellen's taking her home.”

Mom claps her hands. “We get to keep you overnight!” Her enthusiasm fills me with no small dose of guilt.

Normally I come home for only short visits, often racing back to the city that same day, as if I'm in fear of missing out on something. But tonight it actually feels nice to be away from all that congestion and outside on the porch swing with my mother. Here I don't have to worry about plans for the night. Or what to wear, or how I'm going to afford it. I might drive over to the pier and watch the boats in the harbor. Even just sitting home in my pj's with a slice from Mystic Pizza sounds about perfect.

“Sit here and relax,” I tell my mom, pulling her back down onto the seat beside me. “I can make my own bed.”

She squeezes my arm hard. “I know, honey. You can do anything you want.”

Despite the fact we've been eating all day long, and my parents' fridge is bursting with leftover party food, when the last guest finally clears out, I realize I am starving. I'm not alone.

“Whaddya think? Should we call in a sub?” Dad is hovering beside me as I scour the takeout menu by the kitchen phone.

“But there's so much food!” Mom reminds us both loudly from the living room. “We can't let those finger sandwiches go to waste.”

Dad sighs. “We won't, dear. You know how I love cucumber sandwiches.” He turns back to me. “Meatball sub, extra cheese,” he mouths, pointing to the phone.

I place our order and grab my keys. First, I want to drive downtown. “Back soon,” I call.

The sun is low in the sky when I walk along Mystic River park, and aside from a few dog walkers and joggers, I've got the pier to myself. The air is heady with salt, and I tip my face to the last of the evening sun before it slips below the waterline. Out on the water there are a few small boats in the distance, the whir of their engines the background noise to my childhood. I step onto the pier and make my way down to the end, where the water laps against the pier pilings. I've missed this.

Before moving away and becoming what my dad playfully dubs as a “city slicker,” I always imagined myself living in a cozy place just like this. Where is that girl who would sit for hours
on the pier with her sketch pad and charcoal pencils? Still reminiscing, I take one last deep breath and turn back for the street. My heart stops.

Cameron Wilder is walking toward me across the green. He's wearing a baseball hat, so I can't see his expression beneath the shaded rim. But it's him, I am sure. The leggy stride, the squared shoulders. He glances up at the sky, and I know. I would recognize that mouth anywhere, the way the corners turn up playfully, as if he's about to laugh. He's not alone. Cameron is with a young woman. And he's pushing a baby stroller.

I freeze.

The woman flips her long hair over her shoulder and smiles at something he's just said. Instinctively I make a sharp left off the pier, fumbling in my pocket for my car keys.

But out of the corner of my eye I see him stop and turn in my direction. “Maggie?”

There's no getting away now.

We meet in the middle of the green. I'm more than a little relieved when I realize that the girl he's with is none other than his older sister, Anna. But there's an awkward beat before he lets go of the stroller and gives me a loose hug. “Wow,” he says. “It's you.”

“It's me.” I pull away and smile back at him, aware of the strangeness that's filled the space between us. Anna saves us.

“Maggie, so good to see you!” We exchange pleasantries, but I feel Cameron studying me.

“And who's this little one?” I ask, bending to peek into the stroller.

A tiny cherubic face gazes up at me, her eyes wide and blue. She has the longest eyelashes I have ever seen. “This is Emory,” Cam says, reaching in to touch her cheek. I had heard that Anna
had gotten married and had a baby. “She's beautiful,” I tell her. “Jane has three kids of her own, too.”

Anna laughs. “Three? Wow. She must be busy.”

“That she is,” I agree, feeling silly that we're all standing around talking about Jane. Emory begins to fuss, and Anna takes the handles of the stroller.

“Be sure to say hi to your sister for me, okay?” Then she looks at Cam. “I'll take Emory for a little stroll along the water,” she tells him, leaving us alone.

Up close Cam looks remarkably the same, though there is a haze to his blue-gray eyes that wasn't there before. And a few more crinkles around his eyes when he smiles. “So how long are you visiting for?” I ask.

“Actually, I moved back here. A couple months ago.” He looks directly at me for the first time and I feel a little release in my tummy, the same way I used to when we'd sit shoulder to shoulder on the hood of his Jeep.

Cameron moved back to Mystic? The last I'd heard he was still out in California, having finished graduate school.

“How about you?” he asks.

“I'm only visiting for the weekend. It's my mom's birthday,” I say. It's been a long time since we've seen each other, but that balmy August night we parted ways in my driveway surges back. I wonder if he's remembering it, too. He'd tried to kiss me goodbye and I'd turned my cheek. Something I've always regretted. When he doesn't say anything I add, “I'm living up in Boston, now. I teach at a private school.”

“That's great.” I'm not sure if he's talking about Boston or the teaching part, but he doesn't expand either way. Suddenly I'm aware of my baggy sweats and my droopy ponytail. This is
not the way I wanted to look if we met up again. And this is definitely not going as I'd always imagined it would. I have the sudden urge to flee to my car. But something holds me rooted to the ground in front of him.

Until he beats me to it. “Well, I'd better get going.” He nods toward his sister and the baby, who are waiting at the edge of the parking lot.

“Yeah, me, too.” Unsure of how to say goodbye (I am not going in for another awkward half-hug), I lift one hand.

Cameron looks at my hand, then back at me. The night in my driveway flashes once more. And before I realize what he's doing he clasps it in his own, our fingers entwining. My cheeks flush at the familiar warmth of his grip but I force myself to meet his gaze. I squeeze back. “See you around, Mags.” And just as quickly he lets go and turns down the pier.

“See you,” I manage. But he's already gone.

Breathless, I hurry to my car. It's only when I'm pulling away that I peek back in my rearview mirror. Cameron is standing beside Anna, bent over the baby stroller. She's the one watching as I drive off. I press my hand to my cheek.

When I get home with the subs I'm not hungry anymore. My parents are in the kitchen, at the table, drinking tea. “Everything okay?” My mother has radar.

I hand the paper takeout bag to my dad. “I just ran into Cameron Wilder.”

Mom's expression is one of feigned surprise. “Really?”

I take a deep breath, trying to slow my heart rate. “I had no idea he moved back to Mystic.”

My mother stares into her teacup.

“So how is Cameron?” Dad asks brightly. All through high
school and college, Dad refused to take any of the local boys I dated seriously, referring to them dismissively as “the car wash kid” or the “lifeguard guy.” But he'd liked Cameron from the start.

I shrug, still flustered by our awkward reunion. “He's fine, I guess. He was down at the pier with his sister, Anna. And her baby.” I pause. “Emory, I think her name is.”