Page 2 of The Summer I Destroyed You

Liam

I guess Nana might have another day, despite what the doctors have told us. I’ll just remind her not to walk toward the light.

It’s dangerous, allowing myself to be amused. It’s dangerous that I’ve allowed him to amuse me for months now. I should have shut it down. When he expressed concern about me leaving the office late one night or when he said I think you need someone to take care of you, Em…I should have reminded him what this was.

A professional relationship, one that’s nearly over.

Instead, I read and reread those messages as if they’re exactly what they are: the closest thing to love notes I’ve ever received. And now he’s going to meet me and I’ll have to put an end to it. But I sort of wish I didn’t have to.

I put the phone away, hop in the shower, and descend to the lobby ninety minutes later, pulling three suitcases with my carry-on slung over my shoulder. I walk fast past Giorgio, the doorman—I loathe unearned friendliness and idle chitchat, and he has an insufferable fondness for both. There was never a conversation about the weather or my destination that Giorgio couldn’t drag out five minutes beyond its time of death.

“Rushing off somewhere exciting, Miss Hughes?” he asks, grabbing one of the suitcases.

“Elliott Springs, California.” My tight smile is a warning that says don’t ask more questions. It’s a warning he never fucking heeds.

He holds the door. “Can’t say I’ve heard of it.”

“No one has.” I move briskly toward the waiting town car. “That’s why I left.”

“Well, you’ll be missing some nice weather here,” he continues as the driver takes my luggage. “Seventies all week. But it’s good to get back to your hometown.”

“It is,” I reply with my first real smile of the morning. “Especially when you’re there to destroy it.”

Giorgio’s jaw is still open as I climb into the car.

* * *

It takes a six-hour flight, an hour waiting for the correct rental car, and a ninety-minute drive to reach Elliott Springs, a postcard-perfect Northern California village, equidistant to San Jose and Santa Cruz but not especially convenient to either.

Elliott Springs is known for its cobblestone streets, 1800s architecture, and small-town values, which are all things I don’t care about. But there’s a resort opening on the mountain to the right of the town and two major companies relocating to the left—and I care very much about that.

Soon, Elliott Springs will be flooded with wealthy new residents and even wealthier tourists. And will they want to shop at Cuddlebug Lady’s Fashions and Candles? They will not. Will they want to get their hair done at Cuts-n-Stuff after a plate full of Hamburger Alfredo or whatever the hell the local diner calls an entrée? Doubtful. They’ll want wine bars, decent food, and hundred-dollar yoga pants. I love wine bars and expensive yoga pants too, but what I like best is the thrill of destroying Elliott Springs.

As I drive through town, I pause for a moment in front of Lucas Hall. Once upon a time, the area’s biggest events were held inside its walls. There were wild parties there during Prohibition, fundraisers for the troops during both World Wars, debutante balls during the fifties, and every school event for a century.

The entire town’s history is wrapped up in this decaying old building, and my history too. I remember the way they tripped me on the way up to the stage and tore my dress; I remember Bradley Grimm saying, “I feel the building shake when she walks,” as I crossed the portico for my diploma. What a nice moment of levity they brought to our high school graduation, here in this building they all treasure so very much. I’m certain they’re still laughing about it, and that they laugh even harder about the worse moments, the ones so painful I can barely stand to remember them even now.

But once this building is an apartment complex and I’ve driven all their businesses into the ground, I bet they’ll find those memories about as funny as I do.

I turn down Main Street, heading for the bridge. My boss calls just as I hit it, as if he’s tracking my location, which I would not put past him.

“Is everything set?” Charles barks.

“Yes,” I reply crisply. It’s deeply annoying that he’s even asking the question. “The architect’s drawings were completed weeks ago, and I’ll talk to the mayor before the meeting.”

“We’re indulging you here,” he warns, “but we still expect results. Once The Hedgerow opens this summer, it might be too late to fly under the radar.”

“Yes, I realize that, Charles,” I say between my teeth. I’m the one who told you about it, remember?

I don’t fault Charles for being unfriendly—it’s hard to cut down the weak branches if you’ve gotten personally attached to those branches. I do, however, fault him for the fact that he likes to take credit for my work. It’s one of many reasons he’ll be a branch I cut away once I’m in charge. I’ve had a designer mapping out my tastefully feminine renovation of his office for months.

“Do whatever you have to do,” he says before he hangs up.

What he’s really saying is sink to any level necessary to achieve our goals, an unnecessary reminder since I always sink to any level necessary. But he also means be fearless, and as I pull up in front of my mother’s home, the place where I endured the worst years of my life, I’m feeling a lot less fearless than usual.

Nothing has changed in the two years since I was here last—the gate is still broken, shutters hang askew, the angel figurines I gave my mother as a child sit on the front porch collecting dust while the ones my brother gave her will sit on glass shelves inside like the treasured heirlooms they are.

She won’t be pleased to see me. Her voice will drip with disdain as she tells me my expensive purse is tacky, when she says it looks like I’ve gained weight and that she wishes Jeff was the one here to take care of her instead of me.

---