Page 23 of Same Time Next Summer

When we get to the cove, I am shocked by the beauty of the linden tree. I haven’t been down here in years, and it’s the same, if bent slightly more by the wind.

“I can’t believe you swam that far,” says Gracie.

“I know. I wasn’t thinking about it, I just kept going.” I’m out of breath, but I like the way my body feels. We sit down at the base of the tree, side by side, with all the shells scattered in front of us.

“You seem happier,” says Gracie. She’s making a circle in the sand with her index finger.

“Happier than what?”

“Than in the city. Happier than when you’re dressed in stiff clothes. I don’t know why you’re so weird about coming to the beach.”

I put my arm around her. I do know why, but she doesn’t need to hear it. “It sounds like Jack wants to stay the rest of the week,” I say. “Can we do this again tomorrow morning?”

Gracie smiles at me like she hasn’t seen me for a long time.

Jack and Imeet Donna and Glen at the Old Sloop Inn for lunch. I was relieved when my parents decided to stay home and get things organized for dinner on the back porch. I almost asked my mom to put her papermaking operation away and move the seaweed into Dad’s studio, but the sight of her puttering around her chaotic kitchen and humming softly to herself gave me pause. My mother is so happy and complete in the world she’s created. I am sometimes souncomfortable in mine. I envy her this and decided not to say anything.How many people know how to make paper?

“This is so exciting!” Donna says, giving me a tight hug. “Skip Warren. I had no idea.” This confuses me a bit, because I was sure she was about to say our wedding was the exciting thing.

“I can’t believe it either,” says Jack. “And don’t you love this place?”

We walk through the small lobby into the main dining room, where the wedding would be. It really is charming, with whitewashed wood and lighting fixtures secured by nautical rope. It has a beachy elegance to it that I like, I guess the next best thing to having the whole thing outside.

“It’s great,” says Glen. “Let’s see about the food.” Then to me, “Your parents are all for this place, right?”

This Old Sloop Inn thing seems to be getting away from me. If I throw my parents in as a yes, this will feel like a done deal. “They just want whatever we want.” We sit at our table, and Donna and Jack carefully unfold their napkins and spread them on their laps.

“Donna and I drove by Warren Woods on our way into town,” Glen says. “Gorgeous park. Perfect place for a rehearsal dinner.”

“That’s a great idea. The whole wedding weekend will have kind of a low-key theme,” Jack says. I’m sure I’ve misheard him because there’s no way I’m having a Washed-Up Tennis Player–themed wedding.

“It’s a great park,” I say. “Travis used to play baseballthere in the summertime. But Jack doesn’t want to plan anything outdoors in October.”

“Well, no, there I would. It probably won’t rain.”

“And we’d have a plan B for sure,” says Donna. “I have the perfect caterer, and they work with a rental company who will bring in everything we need.”

The three of them are nodding and smiling like we’ve just discovered a new clean energy source. I can’t think of any reason to disagree with them. My parents are going to be ecstatic.

“The washed-up tennisplayer?” my dad asks over dinner. He’s barbecued chicken and my mom has made orzo and a chopped salad. The table looks beautiful, and I am ashamed of myself for dreading this moment. My parents are gracious and happy, and this shared enthusiasm for my wedding gives everyone tons to talk about.

“He was a cad,” Gramps says. “Slept with every girl on Long Island before he knocked one up and had to marry her.”

“Dad,” my mom laughs. “That’s not true.”

“As true as I’m sitting here.”

“Well, this isn’t to do with them,” Donna says. “It’s a beautiful historic park, and the inn is just perfect.”

“I say we book it,” says my dad.

Jack looks at me, and I shrug. I’m not shruggingI don’t know, I think I’m shruggingWhat difference does it make?I can’t quite picture what this wedding is going to feellike, and at this point, Long Island and Connecticut seem interchangeable.

Donna gives me a smile. “Let’s leave it to the bride. You let us know what you decide.” She raises her glass and says, “To the bride!”

I am waiting to feel one way or another. I check my stomach for a hooray or an absolutely not. There’s nothing there but acceptance and a bit of relief that this decision is close to being made. I have let go, and this wedding is probably going to be the one thing I insisted it not be: on Long Island. I don’t really mind.

After blueberry pie, we walk Donna and Glen around the porch to their car. It’s a black Mercedes sports car of some sort, making me suspect Glen had a midlife crisis in the past few years.

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