Page 99 of The Book of Summer

“Invite him tonight,” she says casually, as she digs around in her tennis bag for some lip balm.

“To Flick’s pre-wedding party?”

“Yeah, sure! Why not? If he has a girlfriend, he probably has plans. But what if he comes? Maybe…” Palmer wiggles her brows.

“Yeah, I don’t think so.”

Then she thinks, just as Palmer said,Maybe.

“Is she still having a party?” Bess says.

She can’t invite him, can she? It’d be strange.

“Even in the rain?”

“It’s supposed to clear,” Palmer says, forever optimistic. “Anyway, a little drizzle never killed anyone.”

Suddenly there’s a crack of thunder. A streak of lightning shoots across the sky.

“A little drizzle?”

“Oh poo,” Palmer says, glowering at the courts, which are now getting a proper soak. “I really wanted to hit!”

“It’s for the best,” Bess says, and stands to join her. “I need to make progress at the house.”

“You need to make progress all right.”

Palmer latches on to Bess’s elbow and guides her toward the door.

“But it has nothing to do with that house,” she says. “Let’s scrap tennis. Cliff House, too. I’m taking you to town. We need new outfits for tonight. If you dress the right way, who knows, maybe you’ll get todo itafter all.”

40

Friday Afternoon

Phone in hand, Bess taps out a few words.

She deletes them. Types a few more.

They aren’t right either. Delete, delete, delete. There is nothing Bess can say that doesn’t make her sound like a pathetic high school girl incapable of talking to boys. This, when she is thirty-four years old and with much bigger problems than what to do about the cute neighbor boy.

Bess shakes her head and instead writes what she really wants to say.

Hey. Party for Flick tonight. 8pm. Marina, Old S Wharf, near Slip 14. Come with? Boat parties. Like the old days.

“God, Palmer,” Bess mutters, “you’d better be right about this.”

She is about to end the whole pathetic deal with a winky emoticon when her phone rings, startling her and causing her to hit Send before she can exercise her better judgment.

“Shit!” Bess yelps. “Shit!”

The text has gone to Evan. What was she thinking, inviting him to her cousin’s pre-wedding fête of bankers and blue bloods? She shouldn’t listen to Palmer. Palmer sees the world from a very rosy place.

“Shit,” Bess says a third time, for good measure, as her phone continues to ring. “Goddamn it.”

DAD, the phone screams at her. DAD.

“Um, hello?”

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