Page 61 of The Book of Summer

“Sure, why not? I’ve spent my entire day moving crap. I’m already in the groove.”

Bess leans down for the industrial fan on the ground beside Evan. After hoisting it up onto her right hip, she follows him toward the oversize silver truck parked at the bottom of the drive.

“So what’s Cissy up to this time?” Evan asks, unlatching his tool belt.

“Refusing to budge,” Bess responds as she grits her teeth.

This fan is a heavier load than she should’ve taken on.

“Not budging,” Evan repeats. “Hasn’t that been her deal all along?”

“Sadly, yes.” Bess moves the fan from her right hip to her left. “But it’s different this time because she promised to leave after the vote and then the vote happened and—surprise!—no move.”

“Is it really a surprise, though?” Evan asks, catching Bess’s eyes over his shoulder.

“You don’t understand. She’s gone beyond general, Cissy Codman, run-of-the-mill hardheadedness.”

“I presume the two of you have discussed the hazards of staying,” Evan says, and tosses his tools into the flatbed of his truck.

“Yes, we’ve reviewed the likelihood of death and/or dismemberment. But Cis claims that come Memorial Day every house on her stretch of road will have cars in front of it. Two doors down there’s only a dining room left and apparently the entire family camps out there, like soldiers, all summer long.”

“A convincing argument,” Evan jokes.

“No kidding. She won’t listen to me at all.” She drops the fan. “I don’t even know what’s happening in her head anymore. This morning she mumbled something about geotubes and then went for a jog. I mean, God!”

Bess pounds at the side of his truck.

“Oops.” She pats the car. “Sorry.”

“I’ll bill ya for that later,” he says with wink.

Evan lunges into the truck bed and then pulls Bess up behind him. He clears a place for her atop a lumpy gray bag.

As Bess settles onto the makeshift seat, she presses her hands along the bag, which is weighted down by… something. The whole deal is reminiscent of a body bag. Not that Bess has ever seen one in person. Not yet anyway.

“Lacrosse equipment,” Evan says to Bess’s quizzical face. “I’m coaching some rug rats in town.”

“Oh. Cute.”

Evan pops open a small, red cooler and hands her a beer.

“So lay it on me,” he says. “Tell me the gory details.”

“I’m at such a loss. Cissy’s the official problem child of the family but up until now it’s been fun, part of the gag, the wonky fabric in our family quilt. She’s always been reasonable, in the end, but the reasonableness ship has sailed. It’s crashed, actually. Lost at sea. Meanwhile the rest of my family is useless. Christ.” Bess exhales. “What even is a geotube?”

“It’s essentially a large, sand-filled jute bag that looks like a burrito.”

“Another erosion-control measure?” she asks. “Just like the oh-so-successful seawall?”

“Yep, though geotubes are supposedly better because, unlike concrete or stone, the sand is compatible with the existing beach. They say it’s less detrimental to the downdraft beaches, too, and, best of all, isn’t an eyesore like a hard armor structure would be.” Evan sighs. “It’s what your mother would argue, in any case.”

“Shewouldargue that, wouldn’t she?” Bess says. “I can see why she’d be excited about geotubes, in theory, but let’s be real. Isn’t it too late for Cliff House?”

Evan nods sadly.

“I’m afraid it is.”

“I don’t get it,” Bess says, picking at the label of her Grey Lady Ale. “Cissy’s no dummy. She must know Baxter Road is history. Why can’t she just cut her losses and leave? She’s always blathering on about good New England sensibility. This isn’t sensible at all.”

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