Page 19 of Our Secret Summer

“That is so well-deserved. Congratulations.”

Raffo pumped her fist. “Fuck, yeah. It’s really great.”

“How was Con?”

“Good, I think. I didn’t really ask, to be honest. He was over the moon about the news. He wanted to call me as soon as he heard.” A shadow crossed Raffo’s face. “Don’t worry. I didn’t give away that you’re here, but, um, I would really prefer if I didn’t have to do that again. If I didn’t have to pretend like that.”

“I know, Raffo. I’m so sorry. Thank you for… keeping my secret.”

“Why is it so difficult for you to tell him? Connor’s a great guy with lots of empathy and it’s not like you lost his money.”

“As a parent, it’s hard to admit a stupid mistake like that to your child. And I don’t want him to worry about me.”Or lose respect for me.

“Being a parent doesn’t make you any less human, nor immune to making mistakes. Connor will be so much more upset that you lied to him about being in Europe than about you making a bad investment.”

“I know but I just… need this time. Time for myself, without having to worry about Connor and what he thinks of me, but also about what I’m going to do next. I need time to decide and once I’ve made my decision, if I choose to sell, I need time to say goodbye to this house.”

“It’s not for me to push you, I know that,” Raffo said. “Nor to question your reasons for being here and for not telling Con, but… Dylan, surely you know that he will not think any less of you. I’ve only just met you and I already know, in every cell of my body, that you are an amazing person. I can say that with confidence because I know Connor very well. That buys you some credit. You’re not some shitty parent who never tried and never did anything right, only to lose a bunch of money on top of everything else. You raised a wonderful son who will understand this, because of how you brought him up.”

Dylan was moved by Raffo’s kind words, but guilt still gnawed at her. Losing half a million dollars wasn’t just financially devastating—it had shaken her to her core. She might have two properties, but her savings account was empty. She had gambled, and lost—not only money, but a lot of self-esteem as well. It forced her to take stock of herself and of her life—and the decision to quit her job.

“Thanks,” Dylan said, feeling rather inadequate again. “Let me get you some fresh coffee.” Sometimes, going into automatic mom-mode was the easiest, most comforting, thing to do—even though her own son hadn’t needed hands-on mothering in a long time.

“I’ll get the coffee,” Raffo said. “You sit. Take a load off.” Raffo was still dressed in what passed for her pajamas, showing a lot of skin—although not nearly as much as Dylan, she realized. Dylan had been about to jump into the lake, to give her body a jolt of energy to start the day with, but she’d rather sit here drinking coffee with Raffo instead.

Dylan finally dove into the lake an hour later, after Raffo had left for another hike. She pushed through the water trying to burn off the restless energy that had arrived with her unexpected house guest. Dylan had taken to the lake every day since she’d arrived, but she hadn’t felt this urge to move her body, to exhaust it, before Raffo had arrived.

She tried focusing on her stroke—the rhythm of her arms cutting through the water, the steady kick of her feet—but her thoughts kept circling back to Raffo. To Raffo’s mother. To Mia and the open relationship and the new woman who looked like a Scandinavian beach volleyball player. To Raffo’s question last night about the two women Dylan had been with. She’d Googled Alex this morning, before Raffo had gotten up. She was a professor at the University of Chicago—probably close to retirement age. Chicago made Dylan think about the news Raffo had received from Connor, and that started her brain up in the wrong direction again. Dylan hoped Raffo would only get good news from now on. Her tears last night had been heartbreaking. To see Raffo crumble like that had touched her deeply. Raffo had shed a tear on the first evening as well—Mia clearly had done a number on her—but last night’s torrent had been different. Everything about last night had been different. The conversation deeper, the vibe more intense, the connection between them more profound—as though the two of them being in this house together worked as a pressure cooker for their emotions.

As Dylan swam back to the house, she figured it was only logical that her thoughts kept drifting back to Raffo because they were in this emotional pressure cooker together. They were each dealing with their own turmoil, but being able to share it with each other so unexpectedly, brought them closer together.

As she caught sight of the house, which would be very difficult for her to part with—especially after this particular stay, no matter its reasons—Dylan could only hope that Raffo would get her painting mojo back soon. She was absolutely dying to find out what that painting of her would look like. And every time she thought about Raffo, so deliciously awkwardly, asking her permission to paint a topless picture of Dylan, it brought a smile to her face—which was not ideal while swimming. Still smiling, Dylan coughed up some water, as she approached the pier of the house she would have to sell.

CHAPTER 15

Raffo hadn’t cried in days, which was a relief. The news about the Dolores Flemming Gallery show had sparked her mojo back to life, and her painting of Dylan was progressing well. While it was still a topless image of her best friend’s mother, for Raffo, it had transformed into something else. Even though she’d only painted in about ten percent of the colors, she could already see, in her mind’s eye, what it might look like finished—when she’d applied all the colors that were bursting on her eyelids every time she closed her eyes.

Raffo got her drawing talent—her artistry—from her father, not that he’d ever told her that. The only reason she knew was because she’d found some of his drawings—beautifully refined portraits of her mother—between her mom’s belongings after she’d died. Her sense of color, however, Raffo owed completely to her mother. Most people with a bit of flair for it could learn to draw and paint, but the way color worked inside of Raffo’s brain was inherited. Color was in Raffo’s DNA—as it had been in her mother’s. She’d seen it in Rishi too when he was little, but now, probably as a way to protect himself, he only dressed in black and white. As though denying himself color could take away his truest desires.

Raffo, on the other hand, cherished her love of color. Her use of it was a tribute to her mother. It made her feel connected to her in a way that would otherwise not be possible. It was yet another reason why, without the ability to paint, Raffo only felt like half a person. Because her mother felt too dead to her when she wasn’t working, whereas when she was painting, for brief moments, Raffo felt like her mother was somehow still alive inside her.

Just because Raffo could see what the painting might look like when it was done didn’t mean that getting there was an easy process. Mixing the exact colors that she wanted, and applying them in the right spot, with the desired consistency and brush stroke on the canvas, was a slow undertaking with lots of trial and error. But it was all part of what she did. Besides, if it was easy, it wouldn’t be special. Raffo didn’t think of herself as special—ever—but it was impossible to be unaware of what her work meant to some people. Her workwasspecial to certain people. She had accepted that. And now it was going to be on display in the best art gallery in Chicago. The news still made her stomach flutter.

A knock came from behind, pulling her from the reverie her mind drifted into when she was in the zone.

“Hey.” Dylan was barely wearing any clothes again—just a spaghetti-strap tank top and the shortest pair of jeans shorts Raffo had ever seen. Raffo had been here over a week now and she didn’t try as hard to look away anymore. Moreover, she couldn’t shake the feeling that Dylan enjoyed it when Raffo’s gaze lingered. “Dinner in about half an hour. Does that work?”

“Absolutely.” Raffo shot Dylan a big smile—she deserved every last sprinkle of it. “Thank you.”

As the days had passed, and Raffo had been spending more hours in her painting nook in the corner of the porch, Dylan had grown less hesitant about disturbing her.

As Raffo’s gaze traveled down Dylan’s smooth, tan thighs, Dylan studied Raffo’s painting—not something Raffo could hold against her. Dylan never commented, though. She didn’t nod or react, keeping her thoughts carefully hidden.

“I’m grilling some chicken and I want to time it right.” Dylan’s blue eyes glinted in the early evening sun that bathed everything, Raffo’s work most of all, in a flattering, honeyed hue.

Goodness. This woman. Raffo wasn’t sure she would ever want to leave Big Bear. What would she even be going back to? A life in ruins and no one to grill her the perfect piece of chicken, that’s what.

“I’ll put my stuff away and get cleaned up,” Raffo said.

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