Page 31 of Seven Summer Weekends

When confronted, Rome admitted it and swore he would never see the woman again. He promised that he got caught up, even obsessed with the fact that he had only ever been with one woman—Kizzy—for his entire life. He assured her he had absolutely gotten it out of his system. And though, in her wildest dreams, Kizzy would never imagine she could be the woman who forgave an indiscretion such as that, she did indeed forgive her husband. But things hadn’t been the same since.

Once she knew that her marriage existed on a fault line, the stability it had given her was lost.

She knocked on the door of Suite 625, shouted, “Delivery,” in someone else’s voice, and held the cake box up in front of the peephole.

The door swung open to reveal the same robe-clad blonde that Rome had been sleeping with two years before—a woman he had known at Tufts. As she called back to him, “Close your eyes, birthday boy!” Kizzy wondered if this had been going on straight through or had recently started up again. She had detected a change in Rome lately. He seemed distant. She had even asked him about it. He cited stress at work, and she believed him. Believing was so much easier than falling back into the dark holeof doubt. She steadied her hands, determined not to make a fool of herself.

The blonde turned back around. Her face quickly contorted at the sight of her lover’s wife standing there in front of her, taking her in. “Tell Rome he has one week to move his things out of our apartment,” Kizzy managed.

She kept the mille-feuille.

Chapter Seventeen

Addison was quite excited for her friends to come. She missed them and was eager to take part in a group analysis of the contrarian next door. Even though they were not due to arrive until Friday, Addison had everything set. She would put Kizzy and Pru in the guesthouse and let Lisa bunk alone on the pullout couch in the studio. Even then, Addison imagined, they would still hear her snoring.

Until then, she would busy herself with the clay.Busy herselfwas actually an understatement. She would relish in it.

Addison had remembered from college how to work the kiln in Gicky’s studio, but before doing so, she watched a refresher video, just to be safe. She didn’t want to set the entire island on fire—though that would certainly make it easier to decide about the house. The next day, when she’d pulled the fired pieces from the kiln, she marveled at the explosive patterns of yellow and green. She knew exactly what she would use them for: she would place flowers in the vases and arrange them beside her guests’ beds. The day before, she had combed the beach for oyster shellsand decoupaged them with a floral paper she found in the kitchen. She painted their edges in gold leaf and wrote each of her friends’ names on them to set on their pillows. It was a nice touch that, if she weren’t selling the place, would make a great guest tradition—deflecting any scone disappointment. Addison loved making art again and vowed not to let it slip from her life a second time.

She fell asleep reading on the couch that night and was startled at around ten by her phone buzzing incessantly. She had unknowingly missed a bunch of texts from Kizzy. The last one being:

Pick me up at the 10:30 ferry.

It was ten thirty-five. She was late, but Kizzy was two days early.

She read back on the chain of texts.

Can I come to where you are?

I left Rome.

He’s with that woman again.

I’m on my way to you.

PLEASE ANSWER

Addison threw on sweats and biked to the boat. When she got there, Kizzy was sitting on a bench curled up into as small a ball as possible, holding nothing but a purse and a cake box. Addison walked Kizzy and the bike home in silence, set her up in the guesthouse, and rubbed her back until she fell asleep. And while Addison checked on her often, delivering and collecting barely touched cups of tea and toast with butter or jam, Kizzy slept for two days, during which Rome texted Addison a dozen times looking for her.

On the third day, the one on which all three friends had beenscheduled to arrive, Addison woke to find Kizzy standing in the kitchen in a hot-pink bikini (Addison’s) fixing herself a cup of coffee. Sally, the dog, sat at her feet. Her hips were swinging from side to side to her new anthem, blasting from her phone.

“You traded in a Ferrari for a Twingo.”

And just like that, she went from post-breakup Carrie Bradshaw to post-breakup Shakira. Kizzy lowered the song and turned to Addison.

“What’s with the dog?”

“She’s my tramp widower neighbor’s, but I somehow have joint custody.”

Kizzy laughed.

“You hate dogs.”

“I don’t hate dogs, I’m just sorta terrified of them—but this one feels human—she has people eyes.”

“I noticed that.”

“My suit looks good on you.” Addison smiled.

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