Page 75 of Summer After Summer

“No,” Fred says gently. “Here.”

“William,” I say, touching his elbow. “Come on now—you remember Fred. His aunt and uncle—the Crafts?”

His forehead creases in concentration, then clears. “Oh, Jill’s boy.”

“Not quite,” Fred says. “But close enough.”

“How is Jill? I haven’t seen her recently.”

“She moved to Florida a few years ago. Something about the winters.”

“That’s where Tracy spends her winters,” William says vaguely. He hates the entire idea of Florida, a place where it’s impossible to know who’s who, according to him.

Lucy walks casually back to our group. “Hi, Olivia.”

She looks breathtaking as always, wearing a lime-green wrap dress that hugs her in all the right places, and gold drop earrings that brush her shoulders.

“Hi, Lucy. Thanks for coming.”

The other night, at Sophie’s, I was sure she and Fred had just met. But seeing them together again, I can see that it’s more than that. Maybe it’s new between them, but it’s not innocent.

“I’ve always loved this place.”

“It’s special.”

There’s an awkward pause as it occurs to all of us that the tables will be turned soon—my father, the guest; Fred, the host. Or maybe it will all be rubble, work crews digging up the lawn the way I’ve been digging up the past.

“Well, you’ll have to keep up the tradition, Fred,” William says, rattling the last of his ice in his glass.

Fred frowns. “The tradition?”

“He means the cocktail hour.” I turn to my father. “Fred can do whatever he wants to the house, the grounds, all of it.”

William grumbles his assent.

“And you shouldn’t feel any obligation to do anything to please us,” I say to Fred. “But I would suggest we change the topic.”

Lucy smiles at me. “I love this dress, Olivia. Where did you get it?”

William rocks back on his heels. “That’s my cue to leave. When the women start talking about clothing. Escape, Fred, now if you can.”

We all laugh, and then William walks away.

“A nice man,” Lucy says, watching him go.

“He is,” I agree. “And I found this dress in my closet. I think the last time I wore it was the summer of 2003.”

Fred’s head snaps up at the date, and I feel a small, petty sense of satisfaction.

“Everything old is new again,” Lucy says, oblivious to the tension.

I tear my eyes away from Fred. “Precisely.”

“Speaking of … if I remember correctly, it’s your birthday tomorrow,” Lucy says, touching Fred’s arm. “Fred, her birthday parties were always so great. These July Fourth parties on the beach. They were wild! This one time, these guys in my class decided to streak, and the Beach Police arrested them.”

That was my eighteenth birthday. I hadn’t wanted to celebrate, but Ash had insisted. It was the first time I’d been to one of those bashes since the disastrous one with Fred, and part of me kept expecting him to show up, like the lure of my big birthday would be enough to pull him back to the Hamptons. He didn’t come, and I ended up making out with some guy whose name I don’t remember, then throwing up in the bushes at the exact same spot.

“I remember,” Fred says, in a tone of voice I can’t decipher.

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