Page 24 of Cool for the Summer

Still, I’ve gotten used to Beck being in the background. He plays music wherever he goes, and I like his eclectic taste. I don’t know how he got his phone to sync up to the sound system, though it was probably on one of Pete’s pages of instructions about the house.

But currently the house is quiet. I make my sandwich, dollop a healthy helping of potato salad onto my plate, and wonder where Beck is for the sixth time.

He’s an adult, I remind myself as I settle in the TV room and flip on the TV. I decide to watch some of the Super Rupert series and dig out a DVD. I’m halfway through the first surprisingly entertaining episode when my phone dings and I startle myself with how quickly I pause the show to take a look at my messages.

But the text isn’t from Beck.

Kingston James

Van the Man! Jack told me about the dog-sitting double-booking. You and Jack’s cousin doing okay? I’m coming to Rosedale for the weekend. Want to get together?

Kingston is more Pete’s friend than mine, but we get along well. We even hooked up a few years ago. It was fun, but neither of us was interested in a repeat. I’ve socialized with him a few times in the last couple of years since Pete moved to Rosedale and my circle of New York friends shrank by one. Kingston works in the city during the week but has his Rosedale house for when he wants to get away, or to lend to hapless friends when they need an escape.

Anytime. How’s your poker game?

I’m a little rusty.

I bet. I’m willing to be schooled if you’re up for it.

Sure. Tonight? I have a friend in town who might be interested.

I agree before I realize maybe I should ask Beck before inviting people over for a poker night. Well, if he has a problem with it, then we’ll just sequester ourselves in the den or something. I’m spending way too much time thinking about the kid, anyway.

Food might be an issue, but I’m not going to ask Beck to cook for guests. We can order pizza or something. Alcohol might be more of a problem, since we don’t have much on hand.

Where do you get alcohol around here?

Might as well ask a local.

For a curated selection, Wine and Roses on Cross Street. For the mass stuff, there’s a big box place on Route 7. But I can bring my own.

I need to stock up anyway. Thanks for the recs. See you tonight.

Okay, I can do this. I can leave the house by myself. I clean up from lunch, take Cleo out for a little exercise, then get my hat, wallet, and, finally, the keys to Pete’s car. I open the side door to the garage. The silver hybrid SUV is parked dead center, the lingering smell of exhaust in the stale garage air.

I take a minute to adjust the seat and the mirrors. The location of the garage door clicker eludes me until I find it in a hidden compartment above the center console. I open the garage door, start the car. It’s shockingly quiet. I wipe my palms on my shorts and give myself a pep talk. “You can do this. You’re a fine driver. It’s like riding a bike.”

I laugh at my own weak metaphor and carefully put the vehicle in reverse, backing out of the garage and onto the gravel driveway at a snail’s pace. I put the car in park while I tap the clicker to shut the garage door. Okay. So far so good. I pull up directions to Wine and Roses on my phone and see that Cross Street is one of the offshoots from Main, just around the corner from Hot Brew.

I put the car in drive.Here goes nothing.

Ten minutes later, I’m pulling into a town parking lot behind Main Street and feeling pretty proud of myself. It helps that Pete’s car has great visibility, and the directions were pretty simple. But I definitely have my driving confidence back. Just don’t ask me to go above forty miles an hour.

I lock the car and head to the shop, missing the sun. Today’s warm but cloudy and I hope the gloom breaks for the weekend.

Wine and Roses is a narrow, cluttered store, and a familiar man is inspecting a wall of red wine. He’s wearing a cardigan I’ve never seen on him before and his short hair’s charmingly messy. The boho-meets-preppy look really suits him.

“Beck! Guess what?” I bound up to him, and he turns and gives me a surprised smile.

“What are you doing here?”

“I drove!” I know it’s dumb, but I’m exhilarated by my minor accomplishment. “I haven’t driven in I don’t know how long.”

He laughs, and I laugh along with him. “Good for you.” He doesn’t make fun of me and I appreciate the simple acceptance.

“How did you know where to find me?” he asks, smile broad.

“Oh. I didn’t—I mean, I wasn’t looking for you,” I say haltingly. Why should the admission make me feel guilty? “I thought I’d get some beer and wine for the house. Kingston and maybe a friend of his are going to come over later.”

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