The Summer of Good Intentions (24 page)

She pulled the fluffy comforter over her head, leaving a little pocket of air to breathe. The house was quiet. Earlier this morning, Mac had gotten a structural engineer to come out to ensure the kitchen was safe, and he'd given it a thumbs-up. Fortunately, the fire hadn't spread much beyond the cupboards above the stove. Later this afternoon someone else was coming to give an estimate for repairs and a new stove. Mac had been on the phone with the insurance company for most of the morning.
But the smell? What about the smell?
Maggie had asked.
What about it?
Mac asked.
Will it ever go away?
To which Mac replied,
Let's hope so.

And then there had been the wail from Sophie. “Mommy, the notebook!
The Book of Summer! 
” Everyone had raced into the kitchen to find Sophie clutching the singed spiral notebook, its pages flaking at the touch. The top waxy cover, once blue, was now gray, with the words
The Boo of Su
forming a jagged line across what was left of it. “It's ruined,” she wailed and broke into tears.

“Oh, honey, come on now. I'm sure we can salvage it somehow.”

“No, no, no!” Sophie stomped her foot and threw the notebook to the ground before running out of the room.

Maggie bent to pick it up. “This breaks my heart,” she said quietly. “It was in the top drawer by the stove. It's all the kids' milestones and quotes over the summers. Eleven years' worth.” She turned to Mac, tears budding at her eyes. “The stove is replaceable. This is not.”

Lexie gently took the battered journal from her mother's hands. She turned what was left of the pages, searching for anything she might be able to read. “Look, here's something, Mom.” It was the first time Virgie had seen Lexie try to make her mother feel better, and Virgie felt her heart lift. “You can just make out the date; it's from two summers ago.” Lexie began to read:
“Luke says he ‘thinks he'll wear his
(I can't read this part)
instead.' ”

“His feet,” Maggie echoed. “He said he'd wear his feet when Daddy asked him if he wanted boat shoes before going in the water. That was when he was three.” Her eyes traveled around their circle. “How we laughed at that.” Mac came and circled an arm around her.

“I know it's sad, honey, but I bet we could re-create a lot of this book from memory. It's the memories that make it real.”

Maggie let out a deep sigh. “I know you're right, but it feels as if we've lost the best part of the summer house.” She removed Mac's arm from her waist and walked out of the kitchen.

“Look.” Grace broke the quiet and pointed. “
The Boo of Su
. It rhymes.”

“Yeah, sounds like a creepy ghost story,” said Lexie. “The Boo of Crazy Sue.”

“Maybe let's not share that with Mom,” Mac advised. “She probably won't find it funny.”

But Maggie was right, Virgie thought:
The Book of Summer
was irreplaceable. This vacation was a disaster. Virgie needed Jackson, needed to hear his voice. She emerged from her air pocket to grab her cell off the table and saw that Larry had left five messages while her phone was on mute. But she didn't feel like talking to Larry. She punched in Jackson's speed dial number. All she got was his voice mail, telling her to leave a message.

“I miss you. Call me. You won't believe what happened last night.”

She tossed the phone on the floor and buried herself deeper under the blankets. She was also a little upset with herself for hanging out with Sal so late the other night. When he'd invited her back to his place, he was surprised that she said no. Then she confided in him about Jackson, about how much she liked this guy. That he might be the One, which was completely ridiculous because they'd been dating for only a month and a half. Sal had been gracious. “If that's the case,” he said, kissing her lightly on the cheek, “then I'm really happy for you.” When he dropped her off at home later that night, she told him, “You're such a sweet guy, Sal. You're going to find an amazing woman someday.” And he gave her the saddest look. “That's what they tell me.” She crawled into the tent with the kids, too tired to trek upstairs, and only then did she wonder who “they” was. All the women he'd dated over the years? She felt a twinge of guilt for letting Sal down.

Of course, now Sal was the least of her problems. Maybe, she considered as she dug deeper into the sheets, she'd never go back to work. Maybe she could live at Pilgrim Lane. She could be like one of the kids, except slightly more mature, able to help out on occasion. And Jackson could visit her on the weekends. It was an appealing thought. She imagined herself reading books all day, lounging on the deck. She wouldn't have to report to work! Wouldn't have to earn a living. All the pressures of the crazy world she'd jumped into with two feet would fade away. She'd been running and running on the success wheel for years. And she was exhausted.

Maybe it was time to get off.

She flipped onto her side. It was no use. She wouldn't be able to nap now. Not with all that had happened. Even Jess had thrown her for a loop, pulling her aside on the beach earlier and admitting that she and Tim were having problems but were working on it.
No surprise there,
Virgie thought. But then her sister confessed that she'd had a brief “flirtation,” for that's what she'd called it (not a fling, not an affair, but a
flirtation
) with a guy in the neighborhood. Virgie didn't think it was such an appalling sin. What was the big deal? she asked Jess, if the two hadn't even slept together? In Virgie's book, a few kisses didn't necessarily make a person a cheat.

She threw off the covers and checked the clock. Already two in the afternoon. Half of Saturday gone, wasted. She pushed out of bed and tiptoed downstairs, still in her sweats. The house was eerily quiet. When she walked into the living room, she found Arthur sitting at the dining room table, his eyes closed.

“Daddy?” she asked, hesitating.

He cracked one eye open. “Oh, Virginia,” he said and opened both eyes. “Come, come sit with me.”

She sat down across from him. His face was ashen, his eyes puffy, as if from crying or lack of sleep.

“Virgie, honey, I'm so, so sorry,” he said softly.

“Daddy.” She put her hand on top of his. “It's not your fault. It could have happened to anyone.” She knew Arthur was feeling bad about the events of last night. But Virgie didn't think the blame fell squarely on him. In fact, she felt her own twinge of guilt: she'd wondered last night if they weren't leaving Arthur with too many kids. Was he really equipped to handle five by himself? But when Virgie had asked, Maggie shushed her, saying that Lexie and Sophie were big enough to help out with the little ones. Arthur was simply there to play chaperone.

And, so, Virgie had let it lie. She wondered if Maggie remembered the conversation now. Not that things would necessarily have turned out differently if someone had stayed behind. But who knew?

That was when she noticed Arthur was crying. “I'm so sorry,” he said again, as if she'd been waiting for an apology all day. He swiped at his tears with heavy hands. “I don't know how it could have happened. I keep replaying it and replaying it in my mind.” Virgie cast about for her sisters.
Where had everyone gone?
“One minute I put the kettle on, and the next minute the kitchen was on fire.”

Virgie wanted to reassure him that it was all okay. The protective instinct swelled up in her again.
Land here,
she thought to herself.
I'll help you, Dad.
Everyone was all right. It could have happened to any of them. Virgie hated to think of how many times she'd forgotten to take the kettle off, chatting away on the phone or wrapped up in a movie, only to have the whistle holler at her.

“Daddy,” she tried again. “People set kettles on fire all the time. I've almost set a few on fire myself.”

“You have?” he regarded her with such earnestness that it was all she could do not to invent a story, as if confirming her own shortcomings would absolve his own.

“Sure,” she said. “It happens to the best of us. It's no big deal. What's important is that you put the fire out quickly and you got everyone out of the house. I'm not sure I would have even thought to grab the fire extinguisher. If it had been me, I probably would have chased everyone outside and the whole house would have gone up in flames. We most definitely would not be sitting here at this table, talking.”

A small smile played across his lips. “Virginia,” he said softly. “How do you always know how to make your old man feel better?”

“It's a gift,” she said gently. “I got it from my dad. Remember that thing called empathy you once taught me about? You said no writer could amount to anything without it.”

“I said that?” he asked. She laughed at his surprise. “That's pretty good advice, I guess.” He paused and pushed a small pile of toast crumbs around on the table. “Do you think Maggie can ever forgive me?”

“Forgive you?” Virgie's head was throbbing again. “What for?”

He gestured widely, a sweep of the dining room and kitchen. “For this! For starting a fire when the kids were in the house!” His voice rose and broke. “For not keeping them safe,” he whispered and swept fresh tears from his eyes.

“But you
did
keep them safe, Dad. That's what you're forgetting.”

“You think?”

“Yes, Dad, I think.”

He sighed and patted her hand. “I suppose you're right. Thank you, Virginia. I needed to hear that. Thank goodness everyone is all right.” He pulled out his handkerchief and blew his nose loudly. “Now, tell me all about you,” he said, tucking the bandanna back in his pocket. “We haven't really had a chance to talk this vacation.”

And so she launched into everything—about her job and how she thought she was being treated unfairly even though she loved her show, about Jackson and how much she liked him, about her doubts that she was the marrying type. Her dad had heard much of this before, during their weekly telephone check-ins. He nodded as she ticked through her mental list. It was nice to have him listening to her. Someone who really understood her. It occurred to her that maybe there was some truth to the saying that every girl wants to marry her daddy. Would she ever find him? Could it be Jackson?

Arthur sipped an iced tea while she talked. Every so often he'd glance off to the side, as if looking for one of the kids. She even got him to laugh a few times.

Then he stopped her short, slamming his hand down on the table. “I'm sorry, Virginia,” he interrupted. “But would you excuse me? I think I forgot to turn the kettle off on the stove.” His watery eyes looked at her in alarm.

And that was when Virgie knew.

Maggie tossed the salad with the vinaigrette and shouted out the window to give the kids their five-minute warning for supper. They were playing Red Light, Green Light in the front yard. Lexie was in charge, tagging anyone who dared move when she turned her back. Did she look like she was having fun? Maggie wondered. Her little brow was furrowed, her hands on her hips. Maybe she was still thinking about that boy Matt. When Maggie had pressed for details, Lexie had predictably shut down. Even Sophie, Maggie's usual source, claimed to know nothing. Maggie sighed. It had been a long day, the contractors visiting the house to give estimates on the kitchen repair and the electrician checking to make sure all the wiring was safe, which, fortunately, it was.

The good news was that it didn't look like the cost would be too terrible (insurance would cover almost everything), but the contractors wouldn't be able to get to the repairs till the last week in July. Their final week at the summer house. Maybe, Maggie thought, they could extend their stay. Mac needed to get back to work, but there was no reason she and the kids couldn't remain a little longer.

At the moment, though, the smell of smoke permeated everything. Even the couch seemed to release an invisible puff each time she sat on it. She grabbed all the linens from the kitchen—towels, curtains, rugs—and threw them in the wash, dousing them with fabric softener. Earlier in the day, the contractors had hauled out the stove, leaving behind a square grid of linoleum covered in grime. There was still the charred cupboard to look at, of course, and the outline of the stove chalked in black along the wall. Maggie filled a bucket with warm water and ammonia and spent the rest of the afternoon scrubbing down the kitchen.

“You're like Lady Macbeth,” Mac teased. “Just say,
Out, damned spot!
once for me. What are you trying to hide, Maggie McNeil?” She shooed him away. When she finished, she could still detect a whiff of smoke beneath the ammonia, but it was a noticeable improvement, bearable now.