Page 114 of Summer After Summer

James smiles. “All poets and novelists would disagree with you.”

“Maybe they’re just romanticizing heartbreak. Telling us that if there isn’t pain, then it isn’t a love worth having. But what if that’s the fiction? What if what we’re supposed to be striving for is something that’s clear and easy? Look at Colin and Sophie.” They’re walking arm in arm, Sophie’s head resting on Colin’ shoulder. “They met as teenagers. And I’m not saying they’ve never had a fight or growing pains and that they don’t drive each other crazy sometimes. But they’ve had their life together without falling apart. That’s a love story to admire. To write about.”

“They’re lucky.”

“They are.” I link my arm through his. “But, James, surely there must be someone else for you. I know it must be hard to get over …”

“Fanny. Her name was Fanny.”

“That’s a sweet name.”

“She was a sweet girl.”

“But you’re still here. And I’m sure Fanny would want you to be happy.”

“I never got the chance to ask her that,” he says.

“Yes, of course—how stupid of me.”

“It’s all right.”

“But poems, literature—they’re full of second loves too, aren’t they? I’m sure they are.”

“I have to meet her, though.” He gives me a soft look that implies that maybe I’m that girl, that I could be.

But I’m not. I pat him on the hand. “I’m sure you will. Now that the winery is ready to open to the public, take some time for yourself. Travel a bit. Live.”

“You’re very good to walk with me.”

I point to the group. “I’ve already heard everything they have to say.”

He throws his head back and laughs. “Wes certainly seems to be a good storyteller.”

He is, and Ann especially appears enraptured by what he’s saying. Even Charlotte, never his biggest fan since their breakup, is smiling at him in the way she used to when she was seventeen. He’s a magnetic force that’s hard to pull away from.

“He is great at storytelling. It’s the rest of life that he has a bit of trouble with.”

“Olivia!” Lucy calls to me, running up. Her face is red from the wind, and the salt air is making her hair a little wild. “Run with me.”

“What?”

“Remember how we used to do it?” She points up ahead to the breakwater, a huge pile of old rocks and pilings that gentles the sea. A memory pops out of the ether—Sophie, Lucy, Ash, and me running through the sand and then up onto similar rocks nearer to home. We’d leap from them, one by one, with Lucy’s nanny yelling after us, terrified that we’d slip and fall.

“Do you remember?”

“I do, but … it was dangerous then and still dangerous now.”

“Who cares? It’ll be freeing. Come on—let’s do it.”

She tugs on my hand, and I feel the pull of it. Why not run along the sand with her? I haven’t done anything fun since I’ve been home, and I’ve never felt free.

I kick off my shoes and we trot up to Sophie. “Come with us,” I say.

“What? No.”

“Come on, Sophie. I’ll race you.”

Sophie’s face changes in an instant. She was always the fastest, and though I doubt she’s sprinted in years, she has a deep competitive streak where footraces are concerned.

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