The Summer Without You (58 page)

Greg nodded. ‘OK. Come on, then.’

They all jumped down from the Humper, Greg having to help Bobbi in her tight suit. For once, she didn’t fight him. They had bigger concerns than each other right now.

‘We’ll have to take our shoes off. You especially, Bobs,’ Ro said, stopping at the sand line and walking onto the dimly lit beach. It was dark now and only the brightness of
the white sand created any kind of glow, although Bobbi quickly helped out with the mega-wattage of the torch on her phone.

The three of them followed the cone of light as they stumbled through the cool, dry sand, none of them speaking, none of them quite sure what they were going to do, all of them safe in the
knowledge at least that Greg – if needed – could overpower the older man. But were they in time?

‘It’s up here,’ Ro said, finding the small chain across the bottom of the boardwalk and the polite notice: ‘Private property. Please no trespassers.’

‘You’d better turn the torch off now,’ Greg said to Bobbi, and she obeyed for once, without argument.

They ducked under the chain and walked along the boardwalk that protected Florence’s beloved dunes. As they crested the top, the pretty, beleaguered shingled house reared up ahead of them.
The lights were on.

‘Keep to the shadows,’ Greg whispered, leading them to the left-hand side of the lawn, furthest from the drive. ‘We don’t want to announce our arrival too
soon.’

They walked barefoot in the grass, Ro feeling like her heart had quadrupled in size, blown up like a balloon, and was pressing against her ribs, trying to break free.

It wasn’t about the house. It wasn’t over yet . . .

She stared at the pool house as they passed; a lilo shaped like a dolphin was propped against it, an innocuous distraction to the dangers that had been hidden therein, the lights off in the pool
tonight.

They reached the back door. Greg put his finger to his lips and softly pushed down on the handle. It yielded with a faint creak. They all froze.

Nothing.

After another pause, he pulled the door wide and they stepped through into the utility area at the back – past the washing machine where foam boogie boards and water pistols were sticking
out of a wicker basket – Freddie and Jude’s? She saw a smaller, frilled gingham swimsuit and some UV vests still hanging from a drying rack, a half-inflated rubber ring sitting on top
of the tumble dryer.

Ella and Finn. Ro wanted to double over at the thought of them: Ella’s hopeful eyes, conspiratorial smile and the feeling of her small hand in Ro’s as they’d walked through the
trees in the early evening light; Finn’s precocious chatter and staggering walk, his unabating love of a spade and a bucket and a tatty blue elephant . . .

They stopped by the doorway into the kitchen. No voices. No sounds.

Greg looked through, motioning for them to follow him.

They walked into the kitchen, towards the island and the table set along the right-hand wall.

There were papers scattered all across the table, a black ballpoint pen with the lid off, two glasses of wine with the dregs still in, lipstick marks on one, and a three-quarters-finished bottle
of wine with the cork pushed back in.

Whoever Florence had been here with, she had invited her guest in, felt comfortable with them. And – her eyes scanned the papers on the table – they had been doing business
together.

It was obvious Brook had been here with her. But where were they now?

They walked over, sifting quickly through the piles scattered across the tabletop: complicated spreadsheets for budgets, stapled legal clauses, a survey stamped with the logo of the Army Corps
of Engineers, an application form – filled in but unsigned – addressed to the State Office of Emergency Management.

‘What’s that for?’ Ro whispered, showing it to Greg.

His eyes flicked over it. ‘That’s the office that manages grant applications for federal funding,’ he whispered back. ‘Only the town officer is qualified to submit it. In
the event of a “yes” vote, of course.’

Ro felt her stomach lurch. ‘She hasn’t signed it.’ She pointed to the blank signature box.

‘Yet,’ Greg said, looking at her, both their eyes falling to the pen, its lid off. Had she refused to?

Oh God. Ro looked around the empty kitchen. There wasn’t a sound in the rest of the dark house. Where were they?

‘Guys . . .’ Bobbi said, picking up some papers. ‘Army Corps of Engineers’ was stamped across the top, a paragraph seemingly angrily encircled with red pen.

They all peered over her shoulder.

Greg, expert in legalese, was quicker than the girls at skimming the report. ‘No, it’s nothing – just a report on the erosion issue in the Block Island Sound area of
Montauk,’ he murmured, pulling away disinterestedly. ‘It’s saying the erosion and flooding problems in the area have been amplified by over-dredging at the harbour
inlet.’

‘Oh yes, Florence mentioned that on the Artwalk,’ Ro said. ‘She’s talking about not renewing their permits. Brook thought she was just trying to pen-push and waste time.
He was pretty angry about it.’

Greg thought for a moment, then shook his head. ‘It’s got nothing to do with the new beach. That’s what we need to find.’

A sudden sound made them all start – but not in fright.

Someone was laughing.

They looked on, frozen to the spot as Florence came through the French doors, a tartan blanket wrapped around her shoulders, her seed-bomb basket over her arm, her hair windswept, her cheeks
pink – and followed closely after by Brook.

It was hard to say who was the more astonished, although Florence recovered first.

‘Ro?’

‘F-Florence . . .’ she stammered, not sure where to start. ‘We came over to see that you were all right.’

‘Why on earth wouldn’t I be?’ Florence asked, shaking her head and putting down the basket. She frowned quizzically. ‘And how did you all get in?’

Greg, Bobbi and Ro’s eyes slid over to Brook. He was standing by Florence, growing wary as he picked up on the suspicious stares being directed at him.

Greg stepped forward, his eyes darting back and forth between the older couple. ‘Florence, I’m sorry to say we came over because we believed you were in danger.’

At Greg’s words, Brook put a hand on her arm, but Greg stepped further towards her. ‘From Brook.’

‘
Brook?
’ Florence laughed.

‘What?’ Brook uttered in disbelief. ‘Why on earth would you think Florence is in danger from me?’

‘Because she’s the last person standing in the way of Montauk building an emergency engineered beach and therefore qualifying for federal funding,’ Ro said, her eyes sparkling,
her cheeks flushed as anger spurred through her at the thought of what he’d done – to Florence, to her, the threat he’d raised against Ella and Finn. ‘And you need that
approval to come through. You’ve bought up the Montauk Harbor wharves using your privileged access to uninsurable properties in the area, and getting Kevin Bradley to negotiate the rest. As
soon as the area’s protected again, those values will skyrocket and you’ll be a very rich man – especially if you pull off the deal for the waterpark.’ She looked at
Florence. ‘It’s about hundreds of millions of dollars, Florence, not five. It isn’t about the house. It’s about the vote.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about!’ Brook cried. ‘I don’t own any property in Montauk.’

‘Granted, you’ve certainly made it difficult for anyone to attach your name to it,’ Greg said. ‘Registering the company offshore makes it all but impossible to get names.
But we do have one.’

‘
What
company? Whose name?’

‘SB Holdings Ltd,’ Greg replied. ‘And we have proof that Kevin Bradley was a director.’

‘Well, maybe he was, but how does that link to
me
?’

‘It’s registered in Bermuda – an odd choice for anyone in property, but for someone in the insurance trade who travels there numerous times a year . . .’ Greg paused, his
voice calm and steady, letting the cool logic of his words settle over Brook’s bluster. ‘You told us yourself you conduct most of your business on the golf course, the exact place where
Kevin Bradley was murdered.’

‘I never murdered Kevin Bradley. I never murdered anyone,’ Brook protested angrily.

‘I saw you, Brook,’ Ro snapped. ‘I was watching from the window. You were wearing a panama, the same hat you wore to the Artwalk two weeks ago.’

‘Anyone can wear a hat.’ Brook’s mouth fell slack. ‘I would never kill anyone.’

‘Not even for two hundred million dollars?’ Greg asked.

‘Give it up, Brook,’ Ro said. ‘Now that we can link Kevin to SB Holdings, it’s only a matter of time before the police get the names of the rest of the board. I mean, you
even named the company after your own wife. Songbird? I’ve heard you call her that myself!’

‘Uh, guys . . .’ Bobbi murmured, holding up a finger.

‘What is it?’ Greg asked, alerted by her tone.

‘The dredging company – the one that’s had the permit for works in Montauk.’ She pointed her finger to some print that, upside down and too far away, Ro couldn’t
read.

‘What’s wrong?’ Ro repeated as Greg fell silent too.

Greg looked up at her slowly, a look on his face that made her blood suspend its race through her veins.

‘It’s owned by SB Holdings Ltd. The permit was signed ten years ago by someone called . . .’ He squinted, unable to decipher the photocopied scrawl. ‘S-something
Barrington.’

Brook’s eyes met Ro’s – real fear in them now.

But Ro already knew. She remembered that very first conversation, eating breakfast in the sun, how badly her parents had chosen her name. SB, not for Songbird at all, but Samantha.

Brook was right. Anyone can wear a hat.

Ro stayed with Florence after Greg called the police and he and Brook drove back to the house to meet them. Bobbi went home. Hump would need someone to talk to when he got
back. Out of all of them tonight, he was the one in for the nastiest shock.

She slept – or rather, didn’t – in the room that had been Marina’s when she’d been a child, and which Florence had kept almost the same for her grandchildren
– a pink pony print on the wall, the view over the dunes and out to the ocean unchanging but for the daily vagaries of clouds, wind and tide.

Ro sat on the single bed all night, her eyes tracking the moon’s silver march over the black ocean as she thought about the girl who turned into the woman who would always be the one
before her. She thought about Florence and the children, and how she’d fallen for them all in such tiny spaces of time, their lives flung together from across an ocean and enmeshed with the
deep, abiding trust that comes from surviving tragedy.

And Ted. He was back again. She could almost feel his closeness, knowing he was sleeping somewhere – maybe within a mile of here – knowing he had moved through this house, sat on
this bed, swam in that pool . . . She looked down at the phone in her hands, the brief text flashing as a draft.

He had said she had the decision to make. She had to be the one to do it because she wasn’t free. He was, in the most terrible of ways, and he was waiting for her; had been –
he’d said – since almost the beginning, when she’d stood laughing across the Wölffer party in a too-small dress, flip-flops and wild hair. She had spent the summer running
from him, hiding from him even as she’d been propelled towards him, drawn into the folds of his family as she watched their past with a fast-beating heart. But how could she be their future?
How could they be hers? Nearly half her life had been devoted to another man, another dream . . . How could she put her trust in another future when last night’s revelations had shown the
flaws in her judgement? Her thumb tapped the ‘send’ button and she watched the icon spin on the screen, closing off the door to another life. No matter what her heart told her, the
bonds of history felt like a chain she just couldn’t break.

Ro walked slowly home, her feet dragging and her head full as she tried yet again to recast Melodie in the light of her actions: she had been provocative, Ro saw that now
– flirting with Hump like it was a combat sport and dazzling him with a spirituality and flexibility that threw a shadow over all the pretty party girls wanting his eye. And what about the
odd chip on her shoulder about the smart society scene she helped to lead, despising it on the one hand, craving its approval and acceptance on the other? She remembered Melodie warning her off
Florence too – some sort of misguided show of friendship, perhaps? Trying to protect her? Painting Florence as erratic and unpredictable—

Wait . . .

Ro stopped walking, a frown on her face – the money, the missing $3 million. That would count as pocket change to Melodie surely, with an offshore bank account and a loaded husband?

Her feet began moving again, the thoughts non-stop, whirling around in her head like spells in a cauldron: she remembered Hump’s petulance that day in the studio as Melodie left to get
ready for another party. He had been jealous, pulling her down with envious spite as she went back to the husband whose status and financial clout she needed – and would never surrender. Put
together, everything painted a brightly coloured picture, clear to see. Why, why hadn’t she seen Melodie for what she was?

God, what a mess. She had sat down to a breakfast with Florence that neither of them ate; she had looked for catharsis in the pool and found nothing but exhaustion. Everyone had been undone, and
she knew Melodie couldn’t even begin to understand that Kevin wasn’t her only victim in this – Florence fretting almost constantly about Brook, Ro almost constantly about
Hump.

A trio of sun-kissed girls in Lilly Pulitzer dresses cycled past, their beach bags slung across their shoulders as they chattered about last night’s party, and she suddenly felt old, like
she wasn’t part of their carefree world anymore. Last night, she hadn’t been looking pretty and flirting with a stranger; she’d been confronting an ugly truth about a new friend.
The golden shimmer of her all-American summer had been tarnished and she felt sullied by the truths she had confronted. To have been so deceived . . . how could she know, anymore, what was real?
Her shoulders slumped again as she tried to imagine Melodie in a windowless interview room, lying, justifying . . . ‘Ambition in a bikini,’ Hump had said once, but it had turned out to
be more like a pair of harem pants and a diamond toe ring – materialism disguised by spirituality, ruthlessness hidden by a smile. At least in a bikini there was nowhere to hide.