Page 8 of The Book of Summer

Cissy vanishes beneath the bar and resurfaces with a bottle and a glass. Like a rerun of your favorite show, she makes herself a vodka rocks. The backdrop is disorienting in its sameness. Here stands Cissy Codman on the patio at Cliff House, stirring drinks and mixing schemes. Bess can almost overlook the gawping Atlantic a few yards away.

“I can’t believethat’swhere I got married,” Bess says, and points to the clouds.

A headache is coming on.

“That was a great day,” Cissy replies, beaming.

“Was it?”

“I can’t wait to have weddings here again. I offered Cliff House to your cousin forherwedding.” Cissy frowns. “But Flick turned me down. The Yacht Club, of all places. It’s like she’s taunting me.”

“Flick is not taunting you.”

With the mere mention of Felicia, Bess feels the undeniable creep of dread. Her cousin’s wedding is on Memorial Day—a week from Monday. Will Bess have to stay on-island until then? “Play through,” as it were? She has her shifts covered, but the time off is supposed to be for another reason altogether, a reason that does not include unexpected trips to Nantucket. Forget the time involved in going back and forth between two coasts, Bess is not exactly flush with cash. Divorces will do that to you. Especially ones like hers.

Bess shakes her head.

“Cis, no bride in her right mind would get married here.”

“Cliff House has hosted countless weddings,” Cissy says. “And the side yard is plenty big for the one Felicia is planning. She’s only having fifty guests!”

“Don’t take it personally. I’m sure Flick doesn’t want to tussle with liability insurance or sorority sisters falling to their deaths.”

“All of her friends are investment bankers and lawyers,” Cissy says with a shrug. “A few less of them wouldn’t hurt.”

“Hilarious.”

Bess tiptoes up beside her mom and puts a gentle arm around her shoulders.

“You have to admit, Cissy. This place isn’t exactly event-ready.”

“Oh, I know,” she says, and forces a laugh. “I might be a little foolhardy at times but I’m no fool. Mark my words, though. Once we get the new measures in place and push the house closer to the road, Cliff Housewillbe guest-ready once more.”

Cissy turns to lock eyes with Bess. Tears gather on her lashes.

“A hundred years,” Cissy says, voice quavering. “Next summer Cliff House turns one hundred years old.”

“Wow, I didn’t realize. But 1914.” Bess pictures the bronze plaque by the door. “The math is there.”

“I have a marvelous party planned.” At once Cissy’s eyes brighten and grow. “Just wait. We’ll host a soirée to beat any this house has ever known. And there’ve been hundreds on this property. A thousand. I’ll die before I let them take that from us.”

“Okay, Mom.” Bess has to bite her lip to prevent her own tears from forming. “I’ll book my flights for the Centennial this week.”

Cissy sighs and sets down her glass. She crosses her arms and surveys her daughter head to toe.

“You are beautiful,” she says. “Out here. The light, the sea, the air. Cliff House, it makes everyone lovelier.”

“Now you’re just getting sentimental.…”

“No. Really.” She smiles. “Your skin looks kissed by the moonlight. Your hair is tangled and lovely and wild.”

“Tangled hair. Got it.”

“That’s a compliment and you know it. It’s so much more relaxed and free than when you stepped off the plane. No one’s hair should be that straight or that dark. You’re working too hard at it, my girl.”

Bess smiles back, taking the praise where she can get it. At least she’s faking it well enough to be called beautiful when really Bess feels like a heap of food trash on a humid day.

“I’m working too hard at it?” Bess says. “This coming from a woman trying to save an entire shoreline!”

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