Cure for the Common Breakup (7 page)

“It's fine.” Mrs. Sinclair heaved a weary, put-upon sigh. “I'll wait while you fix it.”

The wailing outside started up again.

“Sounds like your niece needs you,” Summer said.

“Yes, well,
I
need a decent manicure for the benefit ball this weekend.”

Summer crossed her arms and stared down the blonde while the nail tech rushed through the polish repair, then recapped the bottle of topcoat with evident relief. “All set.”

Mrs. Sinclair ignored Summer, scrutinized every millimeter of nail surface, and finally nodded. “That will suffice. Same time next week?”

“We have you in the schedule.”

“Fine. Put everything on my tab.” The blonde picked up a beige leather handbag adorned with designer-logoed hardware. She headed for the door with a grating little laugh. “Oops, I forgot to get my tip money out of my wallet and now I have wet nails.”

“That's okay,” the nail tech assured her.

“I'll get it for you,” Summer volunteered. She plucked the wallet out of the handbag before anyone could protest.

Mrs. Sinclair made a little noise that was half gasp, half squeak. “What do you think you're doing?”

“Saving your nails.” Summer opened the wallet and pulled out a crisp ten-dollar bill. “You're welcome.”

“Ten dollars seems . . .”

“Like not enough since they had to provide child care services, too? Well, if you insist.” Summer exchanged the ten for a twenty. “That's damn decent of you.”

Mrs. Sinclair narrowed her eyes, but whatever she wanted to say was lost in a bout of her niece's screeches.

“Stop it this instant, Aviva,” Mrs. Sinclair ordered.

“No!” The little girl gulped in a huge breath, gathering steam for the next round.

“Yoo-hoo!” Mrs. Sinclair's tone shifted from dragon lady to social butterfly as she lifted her hand in a friendly wave. “Ingrid!”

On the other side of the street, a slouchy teenager froze as if an FBI agent had just pulled a gun on her. “Mrs. Sinclair?”

“Fancy meeting you here!” The blonde strode through the scattered pile of playing cards and beckoned the girl over. “I'm so glad I ran into you. Natalie's birthday is next week, and we're having a little get-together on Saturday evening. She asked me to invite you.”

The teenager approached slowly, her expression vacillating between shock and suspicion. “She did?”

“Absolutely.” Mrs. Sinclair didn't laugh—she giggled. “Why do you look so surprised? Natalie simply adores you.”

The teenager's slouch got even slouchier. She was tall and gangly, struggling through the awkward stages of adolescence on her way to statuesque. Despite her striking gray eyes, porcelain complexion, and thick russet hair, she radiated self-doubt. Her baggy, earth-toned outfit seemed chosen to help her blend into the background. “Uh-huh.”

“Saturday evening, around six. And you know Nat—she's invited lots of cute boys. Bring your swimsuit.” Mrs. Sinclair paused and then added, in a tone that was probably supposed to sound nonchalant, “Oh, and the adults are going to chitchat while you kids are having fun, so bring your brother, too.”

Ingrid's eyes widened. “I don't know—”

“Then it's settled! We'll see you both on Saturday.” Mrs. Sinclair pressed her palms together, then turned back to Summer. “I suppose I'll be going now, if you're finished rifling through my wallet.” She oozed disdain as she glanced at Summer's nails. “And if I may make a suggestion, you really ought to consider getting a manicure, yourself.”

“How sweet of you to care,” Summer oozed right back. “Shall I have them put that on your tab, too?”

Mrs. Sinclair grabbed Aviva's wrist and stalked away, the queen of spades stuck to the bottom of her pristine white shoes.

One of the salon employees started to laugh. Then the others joined in, and finally the teenager. Summer realized that at least ten consecutive minutes had passed, and she hadn't once thought about plane crashes, Aaron Marchand, mistakes from her past, or fears of her future.

Things were looking up.

“H
ow did you do that?” Ingrid gazed up at Summer with awe.

Summer threw back her shoulders and stepped into the little salon. “Do what?”

“You
handled
her.”

“You did handle her,” the manicurist agreed. “And
no one
handles Mimi Sinclair. She's the second-biggest bully in Black Dog Bay.”

“Which is why someone had to handle her.” Summer grinned and scanned the bottles of nail polish.

Ingrid trailed behind her. “But you . . . you took her wallet and her money and you lived to tell the tale.”

“If looks could kill . . .” The nail tech shivered.

“Let her look.” Summer picked out a shade of turquoise, then put it back. “I get glared at worse than that every time I tell people to turn off their cell phones before takeoff.” She shrugged. “I'm a flight attendant. I absorb rage and wrath on a daily basis; it's my job.” She glanced back at Ingrid. “And by the way, you don't have to go to that party.”

The girl's cheeks reddened. “How do I get out of it? She didn't ask me to go; she
told
me.”

“Yeah, well, I'm guessing she doesn't sign your paychecks. Your brother's, either. Blow it off.”

Ingrid nibbled her lower lip. “I don't even know what I'd wear to something like that.”

“Madras shorts and a stick up your ass. But it doesn't matter, because you're not going.”

“Here, try this.” One of the salon employees selected a coppery polish and handed it to Summer. “By the way, I'm Cori and you're my hero.”

“Mine, too.” The second employee offered a handshake. “I'm Alyssa. Your mani-pedi's on the house.”

“Plus a deep-conditioning treatment.” Cori regarded Summer's hair with evident dismay. “I insist.”

Ingrid mumbled something that might have been “good-bye” under her breath and slipped out the door.

Summer introduced herself while Cori and Alyssa led her over to the shampoo basins by the back wall.

“You're going to be famous by nightfall.” Cori handed Summer a yellow nylon smock. “The woman who stood up to Mimi Sinclair and lived to tell the tale.”

“Most of our summer residents are great, but not her.” Alyssa grabbed a stack of towels. “She's a nightmare. We call her the terrorist in tweed.”

“Does she own that giant purple mansion on the other side of the bay?” Summer asked.

“No, that belongs to Miss Huntington,” Cori said. “The first-biggest bully in Black Dog Bay.”

Summer settled into the padded chair and positioned her head in the large black sink. “Really? No one who paints their house purple can be all bad.”

Cori scoffed. “That's what you say now. Wait till you meet her.” She examined Summer's hair and scalp, then gathered an array of shampoos, conditioners, oil treatments, and spray bottles. “She painted her house purple for spite.”

“Ooh, sounds juicy,” Summer said. “Who was she trying to spite?”

Alyssa shook her head. “Who can keep track of all her vendettas? There's so many of them.”

Two hours later, Summer emerged from the salon with immaculate nails and freshly highlighted hair.

“You look stunning,” Alyssa declared.

“I called Beryl at the boutique next door,” Cori said. “She's expecting you.”

“She'll take good care of you.” Alyssa gave Summer a quick little hug. “We told her the whole thing about Mimi Sinclair.”

“You did?”

“We did. You're a legend!” Alyssa picked up her cell phone. “Wait till I tell Jenna and Hollis and Marla and Theo.”

“News travels fast around here.” Cori grinned at Summer's stunned expression. “
Everyone
is going to want to meet you. How long are you staying, anyway?”

Summer paused. “I'm not sure. A week, maybe? Two weeks?”

“You have to stay until you see the dog.”

“What dog?” Summer asked. “Do you mean the bronze statue by the boardwalk? I've already seen that.”

Cori shook her head. “The black dog.”

Summer stared at them. “Like a Labrador? A poodle? A cocker spaniel? Give me a hint.”

“The black dog is what makes this town special.” Alyssa exchanged a look with Cori. “You'll know it when you see it.”

—

“You must be Summer, slayer of Mimi Sinclair.” A buxom redhead with a ponytail and a forties pinup-style black dress greeted Summer at the door of the Retail Therapy boutique. “I'm Beryl. Delighted to meet you.” She gave Summer's wrinkled outfit a once-over. “So what can I help you find?”

Summer shivered as her body adjusted to the arctic air-conditioning. “Something shapeless, soft, and ice-cream-stain resistant. A shroud made of Egyptian cotton and Teflon would be perfect.”

Beryl turned on the heel of her cherry red sandals. “Oh, we don't carry shrouds.”

“Okay, then a muumuu. Whatever. I'm not picky.”

Beryl's smile never faltered as she led Summer toward the other side of the room. “Let's start over here. I've organized the racks according to the stages of breakup recovery.”

Summer raised an eyebrow. “What, like denial and anger and bargaining?”

“Mm-hmm.” Beryl's ponytail bounced when she nodded. “You're still in the grieving stage, so we'll start here.”

Summer tilted her head. “How do you know I'm in the grieving stage?”

“Honey. You just asked for a stain-resistant shroud.” Beryl clicked her tongue. “When you're ready, we have the ‘rage and revenge' section over there, and then the ‘single and self-confident' section over there.” Beryl flipped through the hangers, pulling out flowy, simple skirts and dresses. “Here, try this on. And this and this and this.” She loaded up Summer's arms with garments in muted blues and greens. “But don't buy too much—something tells me you'll be moving out of the grieving stage and into the party girl stage with a quickness.”

“The party girl stage is my natural habitat,” Summer conceded. “But I'm through with that. Really, who has the energy?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Seriously, men are repulsive to me right now.” Summer pursed her lips. “I've learned my lesson—I'm going to simplify my life and stay single.”

“Uh-huh.” Beryl rolled her eyes and steered her toward the dressing room. “I give you two weeks before you're back in here, begging for shorter skirts and tighter tops.”

Summer rerouted and headed for the cash register. “I don't have the stamina to try any of this on. Just give me some pajama pants and a magical hoodie with a never-ending supply of wine and cigarettes in the pocket.”

“Here you go.” Beryl handed her a featherweight navy sweater. “Wine and cigarettes not included.”

“I'll take it.” Summer slapped her credit card down on the counter. “Whatever you want to sell me. I can't afford to be buying a new wardrobe right now, but it turns out that I really don't care. How convenient.”

Beryl picked out a gauzy gray sundress and a slate blue T-shirt with a striped skirt. “Sometimes you have to treat yourself.” She bundled the clothes into a bright pink bag stuffed with pastel tissue paper. “Don't forget to eat and drink plenty of water.”

“Is that the official town motto?”

“It's a fact. Heartache and dehydration are a dangerous mix.” Beryl gave her a little pat on the arm. “Come back whenever you're ready for those halter tops and miniskirts.”

“Never,” Summer vowed.

“That's what they all say. See you soon!”

—

On her way out of the boutique, Summer had to pause and brace one hand against the doorjamb as she reeled under a sudden dizzy spell.
Definitely time to eat.

She glanced around the nearby businesses in search of a café. The afternoon sunlight reflected off the bronze dog statue overlooking the boardwalk.

“There she is!” an angry voice cried. A posh, entitled voice that sounded familiar.

Sure enough, the terrorist in tweed stood across the street, waving a playing card and pointing out Summer to a broad-shouldered man in a gray suit.

“That's her!” Mimi Sinclair cried. “She littered! She tipped without my permission!”

The man turned around, and Summer realized he was the same guy whose roses she'd run over.

Except he wasn't the same, exactly. The Dutch Jansen she'd met in the garden had been windburned and rugged, with dirt in the creases of his knuckles. Now he was clearly Mayor Jansen, all silk tie and cuff links and immaculate grooming.

She hoisted her bag in greeting, then threw in a flirty little hair flip because, hey, old habits die hard and new highlights look good.

Mimi's scowl darkened. But Dutch's impassive expression finally cracked. He shaded his eyes from the sun, gazed across the town square at her, and smiled as if he couldn't help it.

And she had to turn around and hurry away, because she couldn't help smiling back.