Page 62 of Summer After Summer

That day lingers between us, and I wonder what Fred thinks of me now. I’m five years older too. I have less baby fat in my face, and the body of a professional athlete. I’m strong, sure, outwardly confident. But inside I feel the same as I did the first time we talked on the beach. Unsure, nervous, excited.

“Where’s the funeral?”

He names a Presbyterian church and I nod, my chest tightening, sadness a veil. We’re lingering, not saying goodbye, but I need to leave. I need to go inside and cry and so I say, “I’ll see you in a couple of days,” then turn and walk to the door. I put my hand on the doorknob.

“Did you see it?” he says. “When it came out?

I smile through my tears but I don’t turn around. “The Golden Compass?”

“Yes,” he says to my back. “I wanted to call you, but …”

“You didn’t,” I say, then open the door and walk inside.

“Why are we going to this?” Ash asks the next day. We’re both dressed in black, and I’ve borrowed Charlotte’s car to drive to the funeral.

“Because Fred’s uncle died.”

“Amendment: Why am I going to this?”

“Because I need backup. And you owe me big-time after that stunt you pulled yesterday.”

“You never would’ve called him.”

I turn into the church parking lot. “That was my decision to make.”

Ash shrugs. She’s pulled her hair back into a bun, and with the sharp-cut jacket she’s wearing, she looks like a young executive. “You should be thanking me.”

“Uh-huh.”

The parking lot is full. Though they hadn’t been in town that long, Fred’s aunt and uncle were popular. I’d see them on my visits home every year, walking together on the beach or peering into shop windows. His aunt was cheerful and friendly, and she quickly gained them entry into various charitable and other institutions, including the SL&TC.

I’d never spoken to them, though, too worried about what that might lead to. Did they even know I existed? I didn’t want to find out.

I park the car at the back of the lot. “How about this? Stay out of my love life from now on.”

“What love life?”

“Ha ha.”

We join the somber-dressed line of people walking into the church. My plan is to sit at the back and leave before Fred knows I’m there, but that gets thrown out the window when he’s standing just inside the entrance, handing out programs. He’s wearing a black suit, and now, finally, he looks like the boy I remember, adorable and a little lost.

“Olivia.” The way he says my name, I don’t know if I’m a blessing or a curse.

“Hi, Fred. I’m sorry for your loss.”

He nods to me, then hands me a program. There’s a woman standing behind him who looks just like him. His mom.

“Mom,” he says, tugging on her sleeve, “this is Olivia.”

She turns toward me, her brown eyes warm. She’s heard my name before. She knows our story. “Nice to meet you, Olivia.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” I repeat, feeling inadequate.

“Thank you.” She moves on to the next person in line.

“There are some seats at the back,” Fred says.

I fold the program between my hands. “Okay, thanks.”

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