Page 78 of Summer After Summer

“Please. I’m not your father.” Aunt Tracy has a smudge of flour on her cheek, and she’s wearing an apron that says “Kiss the Chef.”

“Is this a good thing?”

“I think so.”

She puts her arms around my shoulders. “I hope so, my child.”

“It is. I promise. You’ll love him.”

“Only you need to love him.” She kisses me on the cheek. “Now, go into the dining room—your present is waiting for you.”

I kiss her back and follow her directions. The dining room is already set for four—her, William, Fred, and me. I decided long ago to stop wondering how Aunt Tracy always knows what this family wants or needs.

There are fresh-cut flowers at my place, and also a card. I pick it up, imagining something humorous and silly, but it’s got my mother’s handwriting on it.

The last card I got from her was on my sixteen birthday, the one with the tickets to the US Open. I thought it was the only one I was going to get, because it was a birthday we’d talked about so much. Maybe when I turned eighteen, I had a small expectation, but when nothing turned up, I tucked that away.

But now, here it is. Another message from the grave. Just looking at her handwriting makes me want to cry. There’s no way I can read this now, with Fred about to arrive. We haven’t even talked about the US Open, how I went with Charlotte and had to listen to her complain about everything from the sun, to the food, to the noise. I tried to cancel her out, but my heart was still raw, and I couldn’t enjoy anything, not even Roddick’s thrilling ride to the trophy. Afterward, I threw myself back into tennis with a renewed energy and purpose. Watching him win made it feel attainable. I could be a professional; I just had to put in the time. So I worked and worked and tried not to think about Fred. But it hurt, missing that experience—no mom, no him there to share it with.

I tuck the card into my pocket. I’ll open it later when I’m alone and can deal with whatever’s inside.

The doorbell rings and I go to answer it. Fred’s holding a bouquet of wildflowers that he’s picked from the garden, and his hair’s still wet from the shower. He kisses me on the cheek as he hands me the flowers.

I take them, burying my face in their fresh scent. “Come in, come in.”

He walks through the threshold. “It still looks like the lobby of a hotel.”

“My ancestors had grand designs.”

“On what?”

“The future.”

“Olivia!” My father calls from the dining room, tinkling the little bell that sits next to his seat. Sometimes he likes to pretend he’s living in a Regency novel, a semi-invalid who needs to be coddled and wrapped in woolly blankets like Mr. Woodhouse.

“Is that your dad?”

I pop the flowers into an empty vase on the entrance table and take his hand in mine. “What’s the matter? You’ve met him before.”

“That was five years ago. And I’m pretty sure he hated me.”

“He didn’t. My dad may growl a little, but he’s mostly bark, not much bite.”

“Olivia!”

“Coming!”

Breakfast is a success as these things go. My father is surprised to see Fred, despite the extra place setting, but he’s mostly polite, especially after he exhausts his questions about Fred’s “lineage” and learns (again) that he’s related to the Crafts. He then expounds on our own family history for another half an hour, but I mostly ignore him as I make my way through the enormous stack of pancakes, fruit, and syrup Aunt Tracy puts in front of me.

I need to get back on a tennis court soon or I’m going to hear about it from my college coach when I go back in the fall. But for now, I mop up the carbs and sugar with as much satisfaction as I can.

Then we spend a lazy day at the beach with Ash and Dave. Dave seems like less of an asshole than he did in the past, and Ash is happy, so I’m happy for her. It’s so much easier to be happy for someone when you’re in love.

And I am. I am. Every time I look at Fred, I want to shout it out, but not yet, not yet.

We both know enough to avoid a repeat of the lobster dinner at the club. Instead, Fred and Dave get supplies for a “real” clambake, digging a deep hole in the sand to build the fire in, and then putting a large pot filled with fresh seafood on it as the sun sets down low.

The smells are amazing, and when they pull the pot out of the fire and fill thick paper plates with crabs and lobster tails and corn, I sink into the sand and breathe it in.

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