Postcards From Last Summer (7 page)

T
ara had never fallen for that stardust-and-flowers notion of love at first sight. She understood intellectual attraction from the way she had clicked on a higher plane with two of her professors at school. She also understood sexual attraction—totally got it—but unfortunately she'd never felt the heart and mind tug at the same time.

So it had been an oddly disarming, even startling sensation when Charlie Migglesteen had filed into the living room of the Hamptons house behind her brother, both guys toting duffel bags and wearing military uniforms that reminded Tara of something her brother had worn back in Boy Scouts. She had never met Charlie before, and so there was no reason for her to feel anything toward him at all. Anything.

And yet she did. When he spoke, he told stories full of imagery that transported her to a country road in Korea or a crowded hut the size of a one-car garage that was shared by a family of eight, stories that revealed social context and compassion, cultural awareness and willingness to connect. From the day he arrived, she found herself wanting to be near him, helping her mother cook in the kitchen or serve drinks on the deck or even drive into town so that she could be near Charlie, basking in his presence.

And then, there was the physical attraction, the surprising curiosity of how it would feel to press her fingertips into the hollow of his neck, to feel his thick lower lip move over her skin, to explore his smooth chest, following the line of feathery hair that dipped past his navel, below the waist of his shorts . . .

“I think I've lost my mind,” she told her friends one of the first days of the tentative truce as they cruised down Southampton's Main Street in Darcy's convertible, passing picket fences and gardens, small shops and boutiques, and Darcy's eastern shrine, Saks Fifth Avenue. “My brother used to drive me crazy. Whenever he was home, I had to get out of the house. But now, I don't mind him. I think of reasons to stay home. I don't know what's wrong with me.”

“Oh, come on. This is not about your geeky brother,” Lindsay squeaked, her freckled nose scrunched in a grin. “Admit it: you're into Charlie. Do you want to stop for ice cream?”

Darcy nodded knowingly as she angled into a parking spot. “Yeah-huh. Yes on the ice cream, yes on the secret attraction. It's so obvious, Tara. So, have you done it yet?”

“You seem to forget, I live with my parents.” Tara climbed out of the car and followed them into the shop.

“I take that as a no?” Darcy asked.

“A definite no, and it's not going to happen. There's no way any sex will be had in my parents' house. The Washingtons have a strict rule about that. No opposite-gender visitors in your room or behind closed doors. I don't even think my parents have had sex in the last decade.”

“Too much information.” Lindsay scanned the chalkboard of flavors. “Raspberry sorbet sounds good.”

“Sorbet?” Darcy's eyes flickered with approval. “Good for you, sticking to the diet. It's paying off, right?”

Lindsay lowered her voice, as if on guard for the fat police. “I'm just about into last year's swimsuit. But I figure one cheeseburger and it's all going down the drain.”

“Hold tight,” Tara said. “You've been doing great.” She propped her sunglasses on her head and looked up at the menu, craving a hot fudge sundae but deciding to resist in deference to Lindsay.

“But let's get back to the crisis at hand. Alone time for Tara and Charlie.” Darcy licked the edge of her chocolate chip cone and pressed a napkin to her lips. “It seems like such a natural since you're staying under the same roof. No way to sneak away? Pull him into a closet? Lock him into your room at night?”

“Not happening. Mama watches us like a hawk, when she isn't busy cooking up ribs and sweet potato pie for Wayne.”

“Of course you can't do it at home,” Lindsay said. “That could put you in therapy for years. You guys have to step out, find some other place.”

“A summer place,” Darcy sighed. “Remember that movie? We must have watched it, like, eight times the first summer we had boyfriends.”

Tara remembered. It was the summer after Elle left, the summer they'd wrangled up boyfriends. Darcy had lost a highly manipulated game of Truth or Dare and taken the challenge to go make out in the dunes with Kevin McGowan. That had left Lindsay and Tara back on the blanket with two other boys—Anthony and Brian. Brian Salerno, with shaggy red hair that needed trimming and broad shoulders that seemed too big for the rest of his body. While Anthony and Lindsay wandered down the beach, Brian had leaned back on the blanket and shown Tara the Big Dipper, and though she already knew most of the basics of astronomy she pretended to learn, letting him lead the way. She didn't speak when he kissed her, didn't stop him when he put his hand over her left breast and started tickling it, paying special attention to the nipple. It was her first time being touched that way, and although anything more would have been out of the question, Brian had never pushed her. She'd liked that about him. He seemed to understand her need to feel safe, her limits.

After that night, they started meeting most nights, the six of them, for games like Spin the Bottle and Truth or Dare. Inevitably, they'd split into couples toward the end of the night for more kissing and caressing. At the time it had worried Tara that Brian only liked her because she let him get under her shirt, but the warm, tingling sensations he brought on were sweet, and he was fun to talk with, too.

Her first boyfriend . . . not the most meaningful relationship. On the other hand, she'd suffered huge crushes that never reached a physical level. As a kid she'd always mooned over Lindsay's brother Steve, and one summer the girls tolerated her need to follow him secretly and spy on him, hiding out behind picket fences or privets or dunes. And then there'd been a crush on her dance teacher, who turned out to be gay. And Professor Spencer, Contemporary Poets 101, who could crack open a poem and reveal the still waters that ran so deep.

But looking back, she had to admit that Brian had stirred up sweeter physical sensations than anyone since. Sometimes it bothered Tara that she didn't have the knock-down, screaming orgasms Darcy talked about, the earth-shattering events depicted in movies. When she was in the mood, sex was a ticklish, hungry experience—more an act of compliance than a soul-shaking experience. And there was so much to worry about, running the range from pregnancy to STDs, that she found herself more involved in worrying whether the condom stayed on and intact, and whether her period came on time. She played it ultrasafe with condoms and birth control pills, but all those mechanics outweighed interesting sensations. From what she'd read, she was missing something, but though she'd tried, she was beginning to accept that the big “O” just might not be a part of her sexual alphabet.

Darcy handed over a twenty to pay for their ice creams, then whirled around with a snap. “I know what we can do! A party. A big, crazy sleepover party at my house, with boyfriends invited. Each couple gets their own private, luxurious suite for the night. How's that? Better than any game-show prize, right?”

“Awesome.” Lindsay handed out napkins. “I'd do a happy dance if I had a boyfriend to invite.”

“Just shut up and ask Bear already.” Darcy tilted her head, staring through a spray of gold hair. “You know you like him, and it's about time he stepped up and claimed you as his woman.”

“That sounds wonderfully barbaric.” Lindsay licked the edge of her sorbet. “Uh-huh. Just as soon as he discovers fire and invents the wheel, I'm sure the next thing on his list will be throwing me over his shoulder and ravishing me.”

“You'll never know if you don't try,” Darcy told her. “And you, you need to hook up with Colonel Wigglesteen before he's shipping out of here and your summer is wasted.”

It wouldn't be a total waste, Tara thought, realizing the value in their emotional connection, but Darcy wouldn't get that. “What are your parents going to think?” Tara asked.

“They're not going to be there. Just like every night. Dad never gets out of his office and Mom's too busy screwing that tight-assed tennis pro back in Manhasset.”

Lindsay rolled her eyes. “Again, too much information.”

“We'll do it the weekend after July fourth. I'll have Lupe cook us a really nice dinner and we can mix up a big batch of frozen drinks—margaritas or piña coladas. It'll be a real party.”

“What'll I tell my parents? Mama's already got her eyes on the two of us. I think she's suspicious.”

Darcy lowered her shades to glower at Darcy. “I can't believe I'm hearing this. Get creative! Or tell them you're staying at my place. It's the actual truth, so you don't have to eat yourself up with guilt.”

“That's true.” Tara let out a laugh. “A deceptive truth . . .”

“But who's counting?” Lindsay said. “Go for it, Tara. You deserve some time with Charlie.”

Tara could think of a million reasons to argue, but as she was about to wax prudent she realized this would be her one chance to be with Charlie, who was so tantalizingly close this summer, and yet so out of reach. What would it be like to fall into his arms and have the freedom to spend all night together, just kissing and touching each other?

“Well . . .” Tara felt her cheeks grow warm. “If Mr. Migglesteen goes along with the ruse, I mean, if he's into it—”

“That's not going to be a problem,” Darcy said. “That boy's got ‘Lust for Tara' written across his forehead.”

“Do you think?” Tara squinted. “I mean, I'm really into him. I haven't felt this way about a guy for a long time, and I'm sort of hoping that, if we do connect, I'll finally get to . . .” She looked around to make sure no one was listening in. “I think orgasm is a possibility.”

“Again!” Lindsay clapped her hands over her ears. “Way too much information. Just say yes, get the boy in bed, see how he tickles your taco, and then we'll talk.”

“Okay.” Tara's friends were handing her the one thing she'd been craving this summer: a chance to be with Charlie.

Time to shut up and go for it.

T
oday is the day; you've got to ask him today,
I told myself as Bear came into Old Towne Pizza, grabbed a Coke, and took his usual seat at the counter.

“Hey, squirt,” he said, all business. “Want a drink?”

“I'll take a Diet Coke.” Not that I couldn't have gotten one myself, but I was tickled to let Bear serve me. “You're in early.”

“Yeah, the surf sucks.” He sat in his usual seat at the counter, huddled in a red hooded sweatshirt with Old Towne Pizza emblazoned across the chest. A cool rain had blown in that morning from the northeast, and everyone was feeling the chill. Of course, Bear didn't abandon summer completely, wearing flip-flops and shorts that suggested a tight, square butt.

Three weeks at this job and I hadn't tired of watching the delivery guy. If I didn't work here I could probably get arrested for stalking, but I looked forward to hanging at the counter and talking with him, laughing over his anecdotes about eccentric customers, who were in bountiful supply in the Hamptons. But most of all, the downtime at the pizzeria had given us a chance to talk about more important things, things that mattered in our lives, like Bear's dream to make it as a pro surfer and my secret wish to be a writer one day. Already our relationship had moved up a few notches from the easy camaraderie of two surfers waiting in the lineup. I was a little worried that asking him to the dinner party at Darcy's would ruin everything. He'd ask if it was a date, and I'd say, well, yeah, and he'd freak out and read me the “I just want to be friends” speech that every boy was programmed with in seventh grade.

“Any chance this storm will kick up the surf?” I asked.

“Not according to the Weather Channel.” He flipped open the
Newsday
that Sal left on the counter each day. “What's Ann Landers got to say today?”

“Ann thinks a mother-in-law should mind her own
beeswax,”
I said with a midwestern twang.

“And horoscopes. Let's see. You're supposed to start something new, and what's this mean? Saturn is leaning on your midheaven?”

“I think it means Sal's working me too hard,” I said.

“I heard that,” Sal called from the kitchen.

As Bear read his horoscope and asked for my help figuring out the Jumble, I thought of how I loved this daily ritual with him. Sharing a Coke, discussing the news. Some nights Bear folded pizza boxes and stacked them to the ceiling in a space beside the pantry while I wiped down tables and vinyl booths, refilled dispensers, and counted out a drawer for the register, the way Sal had taught me. Tonight I needed to get the mop and wipe the floor by the door, where wet footprints stamped the concrete.

“Um, these have the hauntingly familiar shape of large flip-flops,” I said.

Bear looked down at his feet. “Guilty. But Sal has a rug in the back for nights like this. Can't have some bony old Hamptons heiress falling on her way to grab a slice.”

“How did two poor kids like us end up out here?” I said, realizing that when it came to money I had more in common with Bear than I did with Darcy, corporate heiress from the land of opportunity, and Tara, whose strict parents sometimes made everyone forget that Mr. Washington was a famous trial attorney, known as much for his million-dollar retainers as the celebrity clients he defended. Aside from Hamptons summers, I lived in a modest brownstone in Brooklyn. Bear's mother owned a small bungalow in Wading River, a quiet town on the North Shore that edged into the Long Island Sound, a stone-muddled, still body of water. His father, now remarried, had left New York, moving out to the Midwest.

“Somebody's gotta take care of the tourists.” He disappeared into the back room and returned with a nubby gray mat lined in black rubber. It fell into place in front of the door, and he was back on his stool, back where I loved having him watch as I wrote down orders, served slices at the counter, and made change at the register.

“So what are you doing for the Fourth?” he asked.

“Let's see . . . I'll probably sleep in, then kick myself because I can't drive through town because of the parade. When the tourists get tired of monopolizing the streets with their miniature flags and decorated wagons, I'll drive to the beach. But then the surf will be too crowded with all the weekend warriors, so I'll head out to Coney's, where they'll charge a cover to watch the fireworks on the beach. So I'll head home and pull the covers up over my head and hope some jerk kid doesn't blow the roof off the McCorkle house with his M-80 firecracker.”

“Feeling cynical today?”

“I hate the rain.”

“I'll give you that. But this is more than that. I've seen you laughing in the rain.”

The words “laughing in the rain” made me want to jump over the counter and kiss him. I knew what he was talking about, the times when we were surfing and rain started and I hopped up on my board with a hoot because the beach had cleared, leaving us wide-open spaces to surf the splattering waves. I always loved those storms, and I loved him for remembering.

“What?” he prodded. “What's this blue funk about?”

“Nothing.” That sounded coy. I had to go on. “There's this thing coming up after the Fourth.” Something sagged inside me, pulling at my resolve.
Go on, you big wimp!
“What're you doing on the Fourth, anyway?”

“Steve and I were going to head down to Hatteras Island end of June, check out a competition there. One of the guys I've been talking to about sponsorship will be there.”

I nodded, not liking the idea of spending the Fourth without Bear anywhere near the Hamptons. Of course, if I said something like that, I knew he'd feel totally trapped. That whole crew—my brother's friends—they were raised in a culture of no commitments, no tethers, except to your board. I calculated, knowing that most surf competitions lasted a day or two. He'd be back in time for the party.

“The thing is, Darcy's having a party at her place. Just a few friends. Some food and drinks. It's the Saturday after the Fourth, so you should be back.” I shrugged, not sure what he was thinking. “She thought I should ask you.”

He squinted at me. “Let me get this straight. Darcy wants me to come?”

“Sure.”

“Does Kevin know?”

“Oh, no. She . . . I mean, I want you to come. With me.
I'm
asking.” How many ways could I trip over myself?

“So the weekend after the Fourth?” He squinted toward the back of the kitchen, as if the answer were printed under the sailboats on Sal's calendar. “Yeah, I could do that.”

His simple words sounded like a declaration of love. The edges of the windows were steaming up, but I could see that the sky was darkening early, the streets slick with rain.

But the rain didn't matter. Bear had said yes.

To keep myself from staring at him in glee I filled a Diet Coke for myself. Suddenly I didn't mind the rain that kept me close to Bear inside the pizzeria. There was a certain stillness and peace in the dry quiet under the storm of a long summer day. I sipped my Diet Coke, smothering a laugh. What would Steve think when he figured out his best friend was going to become his brother-in-law? Ha!