Page 47 of The Summer House
Seventeen
Callie layin bed holding the journal in her hands, grinding her teeth, guilt washing over her for just holding it now that she could actually give it back to someone. There was no reason to read it. She’d be delivering it to Frederick tomorrow. She’d only allowed herself to read it before because she was hoping to find him and now she had.
She put it back on the dresser and tried to go to sleep. But, she wondered, who was the man she would encounter tomorrow? What might Alice have said? Callie closed her eyes and rolled over onto her side, away from the dresser. But the more she lay there in the dark, the more she stewed about how Frederick had abandoned his child. Her pulse sped up as she reached up and grabbed the journal. Hoping to understand him a little better, she opened it and read, curling up under her sheet and summer blanket, the tiny lamp by her air mattress giving her enough light to see the words.
I spoke to Frederick. We’d spent a long time talking over coffee and I had waited until just the right moment to mention the topic. See, any talk about Frederick’s son is off limits. He closes right up. But this time was different. I’d seen the boy again—I’ve seen him many times now, and it doesn’t make it any easier. He was at the intersection by the new hotel, his car packed to the brim with things, and I wondered if he was going away to college. He’d graduated high school just before the summer. I went to his graduation to watch him walk across the stage and get his diploma. Frederick didn’t tell me he was going, but I saw him hanging back behind the crowd. I asked him if he ever wished things were different. He replied, “Well they’re not, so why should we bother wishing something that won’t happen.” He got up and left the room.
Irritation burned inside her and she wanted to go to Frederick right now and shake him. What if his son wondered where he’d gotten his height from or his features? Shouldn’t he at least be allowed the choice of knowing? With a huff, she picked up the journal and decided to read on. But she wasn’t prepared for what she read next.
The boy has come home! I don’t know why I call him “the boy.” Maybe saying his name would make the situation too real, and I’d fall apart. He’s home from college and he’s back in town.
He’s flashy now, like his family.
Callie stopped, her gaze lingering on that last sentence, the wheels in her head turning. She shook it off and kept reading.
He’s at that age where he feels invincible, like he could conquer the world. And, given his upbringing and his money, he probably will.
She was unwilling to think the thought that was pushing its way through her mind, her fingers feeling unusually light as she turned the page.
But when I look at him, I still see Frederick’s face and the smile of the little boy who dropped his baseball all those years ago. I wish one day he could know that I’ve been there. I’ve watched his soccer games and been at his choir performances; I’ve walked down the beach until it becomes his family’s private property and I’ve seen him building sandcastles. I’ve watched him grow into the young man he is now, and whenever I can, I try to send him my love in little glances, smiles, whatever the moment will allow. He is my family and I’m there for my family.
When she’d first met Luke, she’d mentioned Alice McFarlin and he’d said, “I saw her everywhere.”
An icy cold slithered through her.Oh my God.
She got up and went into the kitchen, taking the journal with her. She pulled a knife from the drawer and went over to the lockbox, wedging the point of it into the lock and twisting, but it wouldn’t turn. From the look of the box, it didn’t seem terribly secure though; if she tried hard enough, she might just get it open. She grabbed a sharper knife. With a shaky hand, she jabbed it into the lock again and frantically pushed, prodded, twisted. Nothing.
“Whatcha doing?” Wyatt said with a sleepy face as he padded into the kitchen.
Callie jumped, throwing the knives back into a drawer. “Oh, just trying to see if I could open this old thing,” she said as calmly as she could, her hands still trembling, her heart pounding. With a little smile put on for Wyatt’s benefit, she slid the box back into the pantry. “What are you doing up?”
“I’m thirsty,” he said, scratching the back of his neck and yawning.
“I’ll get you some water and you can take it up to bed. How does that sound?”
He nodded, gritting his teeth to stifle another yawn.
The idea was ridiculous. She was just reading into things. But those words from the journal kept shouting at her as she lay in bed the next morning, her eyes burning from a terrible night’s sleep. She reached over and twisted her clock around—ten o’clock! She’d slept half the day! She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to clear her head, which felt like it was full of cotton, her capacity for coherent thought completely drained.
She opened the window and took in the morning air, noticing the clouds rolling in. The heat overwhelmed her enough to shut it, and she went downstairs.
“Morning, sleepy head!” Olivia said. She and Gladys were sorting plates and putting them away in the large storage cabinets they’d had installed for guests’ dishes. Well, Gladys was mostly chatting while Olivia sorted, but Olivia liked things just so—both Gladys and Callie knew that—which might have been why Gladys was doing more assisting than actual sorting.
“Morning.” She pulled a glass from the cabinet and filled it with orange juice. “I’ll help you with that as soon as I get a little food into my system.”
“No worries. You should have your breakfast outside before the storm comes. It’s hot but the ocean breeze is still nice.”
Callie nodded. “I think I will.”
“Why don’t I join you?” Gladys stood up and pressed against her lower back in a stretch. “It’ll give Olivia some peace and quiet. I’ve been rattling on to her all morning about nothing in particular. You look like you’re still tired. Let me make you an egg sandwich,” said Gladys. “Go outside and relax; the heat’ll push the exhaustion right out of you.”
“I don’t mind making myself some breakfast.” She took a sip of her juice.
“Make an old woman feel useful.” Gladys was already pulling a pan out and turning on the gas stove, the little blue flame popping and igniting under the pan.
“Okay,” she relented, heading toward the back porch. “Thank you.”
“No problem at all.”
