Page 9 of Summer After Summer

“I know. Don’t scold me.”

“Your father’s been missing you.”

“He’ll be sick of me by summer’s end.”

She smiles. “I’m making your favorite for dinner.”

“Seafood paella? You’re the best.” I pick up a gin and tonic and a bowl of cheese straws, and drift toward where Charlotte and my father are talking over their own drinks. His is half gone already.

“So, what’s the plan?” I say. “Where should we start with the clean-out?”

Charlotte shoots me a look. “We were talking about the garden party tomorrow.”

“Ah.”

“You’ll be attending, dear,” William says.

“I guess so.”

“Good, good. All the usual suspects—the Phelps and the Thorpes—and your sister’s family.”

“And I invited Ashley,” Charlotte says.

I ignore Charlotte’s addition. “Sophie made it down okay?”

Sophie’s husband’s family has a place a mile from here, where they spend the summer, letting their boisterous boys run around while her husband, Colin, commutes back and forth to Manhattan. I like Colin, but I find my nephews exhausting, even though I work with children. Maybe it’s because of that. It’s one thing for kids who aren’t related to me to give me a hard time. Another entirely when it’s my blood.

“She’s been down for a week, complaining daily,” Charlotte says.

“What’s it this time?”

“Her back, apparently.”

Charlotte and I exchange a glance, tamping down our laughter. One thing we’ve always connected over is how Sophie is old before her time.

“That’s a shame.”

“To already have problems with your back,” William says, “and so young too. I blame the children.”

“Naturally.”

“They run around like banshees. You should see them when they come here. Climbing all over me and the furniture. Your mother wouldn’t have liked it.”

“Mom would have loved it,” I correct. “She was always scampering around with us.”

“Was she?” He sips at his drink with that faraway look he usually reserves for financial matters. I long ago decided that his vagueness was a deliberate choice. A way of pre-creating an excuse when he lets the details of life get away from him. He can be as sharp as a tack when he wants to be.

“She was,” I say gently, then turn to the view again. I sip at my drink, that bitter mix of alcohol, tonic, and lime I always associate with home.

“Be that as it may … the garden party. She always loved the garden parties.”

“She did.”

“And everyone will be so glad to see you. Only, perhaps you could dress up for it?”

“Don’t worry, I won’t wear my sweatpants.”

“That’s all right, then. Barry, the lawyer, is coming too, and his daughter. Have you met her? She and your sister have been spending a lot of time together.”

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