Page 40 of The Book of Summer

“I’ll get over it,” Bess says, to herself as much as to her cousin. “One day it will all be a bad dream.”

Palmer doesn’t nod. She’s not buying it, not yet.

Outside, the winds are beginning to pick up, the drizzle turning to hard rain. Thank God the vote is tonight, because with every gust it feels like Cliff House is one inch closer to the end.

But the vote is tonight.

Which means it’s Tuesday and then it will be Wednesday. If she were to look at her calendar, Bess would see all of tomorrow blocked off. She still hasn’t canceled her appointment, but it’s not a matter of simply rescheduling. Suddenly Bess wants to leap on the next plane. Or straight off the Sankaty Bluff.

“So, I’m going to change the subject,” Bess says, stomach wobbling and turning.

“Understood.”

Palmer gives her an ardent thumbs-up.

“Is everything set for the wedding?” Bess asks.

“Just about!”

Her cousin perks at once. Really, it’s downright rude to talk to Palmer Bradlee about anything other than cake and tulle. Not that she can’t handle it; it just doesn’t seem right.

“Lala’s sorry she can’t make it,” Bess says. “Flights from Sudan are hard to come by.”

“At least Clay and Tiffany are coming!”

“You act like that’s a good thing.”

“Bess!”

“I love Clay. But Tiffany…” Bess rolls her eyes. “Luckily it’s only for the day.”

Tick, tick, tick,says the clock in her mind.

“You’d think by pregnancy number three,” Bess goes on, “Tiff wouldn’t be so dramatic. People do give birth around here. We have a legit hospital on Nantucket, believe it or not.”

“Aw, she’s just excited.”

Yes, Bess thinks, her sister-in-lawisexcited. Excited about her ability to act like the empress of an enslaved land.

“So, what kind of turnout are you expecting?” Bess asks, and reaches for someone’s half-eaten bagel. Flick’s, most likely, as Palmer can’t possibly eat carbs. “Cissy tells me the guest list is small?”

“Wassmall,” Palmer says. “My sister is so entertaining. She keeps adding guests like she’s throwing another ice cube into her lemonade.” She hesitates and lowers her voice to a whisper. “There will be a lot of people from Choate. Is that… okay? Will you…”

“Listen, P,” Bess says, shaking her head. “What happened twenty years ago is nothing. Rest assured, it’s the very least of my humiliation and shame.”

This is true, though it’s a humiliation still. Bess can’t admit this to her cousin, however.

“Well,” Palmer says with a sniff. “You shouldn’t have the smallest speck of shame about what happened with Brandon. He was a verbally abusive, controlling dickwad.”

“Okay, he’s a jerk. And I’m not sure I’ve ever heard you use the term ‘dickwad,’ so cheers to that. But verbally abusive? Come on. That’s a tad excessive.”

It’s not the first time Palmer’s sung this tune. She’s been playing it for some time now and Bess cannot get her off it.

“In my opinion he was,” Palmer says. “But either way, regarding the sex workers, he acted like a creep on his own. No assistance required.”

She takes a sip of coffee, wrapping both delicate, spindly hands around an old, cracked Yacht Club mug, her fingers obscuring the little blue flag.

“We had fun, though, didn’t we?” Palmer asks in her Disney princess voice. “At school? Before you left?”

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