Summer Beach Reads 5-Book Bundle: Beachcombers, Heat Wave, Moon Shell Beach, Summer House, Summer Breeze (173 page)

She sat for a while, indulging in a good cry, then got bored with herself, blew her nose, wiped her tears, reapplied her mascara and lipstick, and started up the car.

The University of Massachusetts at Amherst was nearby; she’d
passed it several times when driving along East Pleasant Street, but she’d never spent any time there and was curious about its layout. The university had a vast campus, spread across fourteen hundred and fifty acres of rolling green land. It had over twenty-seven thousand students and over a thousand faculty members. It was a city of student centers, lecture halls, dormitories, libraries, dining halls, and laboratories. The environmental safety office, where she’d work if she ever worked again, was on Campus Center Way; she’d Googled it once, just out of curiosity. She didn’t dare go to the environmental safety office. She knew a position was open there; she knew if she walked in the door, she’d be hooked.

She knew where the department of chemical engineering was, because after she’d met Ben Barnaby, she’d Googled it, too. The two buildings weren’t far from each other, except for the spaghetti of streets between them. She drove to Draper Hall, which housed the chemical engineering faculty. It was an elegant Victorian brick building, softened by age, with an arched doorway. She drove past it, found the parking lot, searched for an open space, and finally slid into a space marked Staff Only.

When she’d worked at Weathersfield College, just north of Boston, she’d memorized the campus map, not a difficult feat, because that campus had been so much smaller than the massive U. Mass.–Amherst campus. It had existed in her mind like a hologram so that if there were ever an emergency, she could make her way to it instantly. She’d overseen the installation of OSHA-approved eyewash and deluge showers in several departments and especially the mercury-reduction initiative. Spilled mercury was highly toxic to the central nervous system, hazardous to the ecosystem, and could not be disposed of in the trash. She’d personally supervised the deacquisition of mercury-based instruments—hydrometers, manometers, pyrometers, sphygmomanometers, and so on—and replaced them with nonmercury alternatives. With each step she’d felt a sense of real achievement. People talked about saving the earth; she took action. She couldn’t save the entire world, but she could do her bit.

“Morgan?”

The male voice broke into her thoughts so suddenly she almost
screamed. She’d rolled her window down for fresh air, and there in the window stood Ben Barnaby. What was he doing here?

Of course, the question was, What was
she
doing here?

“Ben, oh, hello.” She shook her head, emerging from her reverie.

“Are you okay?”

He had such clear blue eyes. He seemed so sympathetic.

“To be honest, no, and you might be one of the few people to understand why. I miss working, Ben! I miss the labs, the computers, the offices, the emergencies. I must sound totally crazy.”

“No, you don’t. I understand. Look, want me to show you Goessmann Lab?”

“Oh, Ben, that would be incredible!”

He laughed. “I hope you’re not disappointed.”

He stepped back. She opened her door, left the car, beeped it locked, and set off walking with him.

“Petey’s with a babysitter. Felicity. I was just touring the campus. I guess for me it’s like going to the world’s most fabulous mall.”

Ben chuckled. “Perhaps an eccentric point of view.” He walked along beside her, going left out of the parking lot onto a sideway. “You’re lucky your husband’s a scientist.”

Not today I’m not
, Morgan thought, but said simply, “True. Although we study different things.”

They crossed the street and wound past buildings, bike stands, lampposts, trees, and barrels labeled Trash and Recycle.

“Are you teaching during the summer session?” she asked Ben.

“One morning class three days a week. Plus, I’ve got some papers to write and some grants to apply for.”

“You’re working on bio-oil upgrading?”

“Correct. A bit like what Josh is doing over at Bio-Green, but different. Everyone’s rushing to find an alternative to oil, or a way to improve its efficiency.” He opened the door into a modern building constructed of what looked like giant real-life LEGOs.

She followed him down a corridor, past doors with windows in them and numbers on them and people moving back and forth inside them, and then he opened a door and said, “Here we are.”

His lab was probably thirty by twenty, with high windows at the other end, track lighting in the ceiling, the walls lined with countertops, refrigerators, cupboards, sinks, and fume hoods for proper exhaust and ventilation. In the middle of the room ran a long workbench, covered with computers and microscopes. Two men and one woman sat on stools staring down into the microscopes or tapping at the computers.

“Hey, everyone,” Ben said. “How’s it going?”

The three grad students glanced up, smiling. “Hey, Ben.”

“This is my friend Morgan O’Keefe. She’s a biosafety specialist.”

The three grad students froze.

Morgan waved. “I don’t work here,” she assured them. “I’m a stay-at-home mom these days. I just miss seeing labs.”

“So she’s welcome to come in and visit here anytime, okay?” Ben told them.

They nodded, but Morgan could tell by their body language they weren’t comfortable with her presence. All scientists were a bit paranoid, not surprisingly. Everyone was racing to find the Big Answers to so many questions.

“Want to stay?” Ben asked. “Look around?”

She shook her head. It wasn’t just the sight of a lab that Morgan craved. “No thanks. This was great.” As they walked away from the building, Morgan said, “It’s terrible, Ben, how much I miss all this.”

“Why is that so terrible?”

“Because I have a child to take care of. Because the formative years are so important. Because I need to protect him and nurture him and teach him.”

“He’ll be ready for preschool soon, won’t he? Beatrice has two of her kids in preschool.”

“True. I shouldn’t be so impatient.” She looked up at the tall blond man walking next to her. “But if you were in my shoes, wouldn’t you be?”

“Honestly?” Ben answered. He took her arm to pull her back as a car came down the road and kept his hand on her arm as they crossed the street. “I think I’ve let my life get too narrow. It seems
all I do is work, work, and worry about whether I’ll get the grants done in time, and meanwhile, entire seasons pass.”

“Do you have a girlfriend?” Morgan asked, surprised at her own audacity.

“Not now.” Ben frowned. “Don’t have time for a girlfriend.” Then, as if she’d gone a step too far, he literally backed off. “I’ve got a meeting.” He pointed. “The parking lot’s over there. See ya.”

“Ben, thanks for the tour!” Morgan hurried to say.

But he was loping away from her, toward Draper Hall, hands in his pockets, head bent forward, and she could tell his mind was already on his work.

Natalie was in her aunt’s immaculate blue-and-white laundry room putting clothes in the dryer when her phone rang.

“Hey, Nat, I’ve got an idea. Let’s have a cookout Sunday night and invite the Barnabys and the O’Keefes.”

She nearly dropped the phone. Then, her voice sarcastically sweet, she said, “Excuse me? Who’s calling, please?”

Her brother said, “Very funny.”

A charming white wrought iron chair with a blue-and-white-checked gingham cushion waited next to the ironing board, also covered in blue-and-white-checked gingham. Natalie dropped into it. “
You
want to have a cookout.”

“Yeah. Listen, you don’t have to worry about a thing. I’ll swing by Angelato’s and get it all—potato salad, macaroni salad, gelato—and I’ll pick up some hamburger and hot dogs and buns when I get the mixers. I’ll bring the booze, too.”

“Slade. What the hell are you up to?”

“What do you mean? It’s summer. It’s hot here in Boston. I want to spend the weekend on the lake. I want to swim, see you and your friends.”

A light flashed in Natalie’s brain. “You want to check out the Barnabys’ furniture.”

“Oh, get over yourself, Nat.”

“You’re shameless.”

“Hey. No reason to get mean about this. I just want to have a cookout.”

“You never just want to do anything.”

“Fine. Forget I ever said anything.” Strangely, he sounded hurt.

Natalie sagged. “Oh, Slade.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ve got other friends.” He hung up.

Now Natalie felt awful. Quickly she punched in the number and called him back. When he answered, she said, “Look. I’m sorry. I simply can’t forget the way you treated all my girlfriends in high school. Plus, you are a wheeler-dealer with the antiques, you know you are.”

“That’s true. I am. It’s my
business
, Natalie. I have learned a lot of stuff over the years, and you know what? I’m proud of it. I’ve talked with Bella about the furniture her family has, you’re right about that, but I don’t intend to rip the Barnabys off. Bella’s thinking of changing her shop, and I offered to help her bring in some antiques. And that’s the truth.”

“Slade, so help me, if you break Bella’s heart—”

“Hold on. Bella’s practically engaged to Aaron. She’s not interested in me. I’m not interested in her. I thought you wanted me to come out this summer and enjoy the lake house. If I have to go through this kind of interrogation every weekend, forget it.”

“No, you’re right, I do want you to come out.”

“Well, thanks. And, PS, did I say I wanted to go on a date with Bella? No. I said I wanted to bring out a lot of stuff and have a cookout. I like your friends. Is that so weird?”

“No,” Natalie agreed. “All right, let’s do it. Do you want me to invite them, or you?”

“You. You see them all the time. I’ll try to get there Sunday morning. That way I can enjoy some sunshine. I’ll do all the cooking in the evening. It’s going to be fun.”

“It’s a good idea, Slade. It really is.”

Still, when Natalie hung up the phone, her stomach felt funny.

• • •

Sunday was a perfect summer day: hot and cloudless with the slightest of breezes sweeping away any visiting mosquitoes and filling the sails of the small boats drifting on the lake.

Natalie worked in the morning. She had gotten into a good work routine and almost begrudged the weekends, when people expected her to do something as worthless as having fun. Her charcoal of Petey had surprised her with its unexpected resonance. It was so good she couldn’t give it to the O’Keefes; she wanted to keep it for a show, when she ever had one. Until then, she needed to refer to it, to keep looking at it—it was leading her somewhere. So she was doing an oil of the same pose of Petey for the O’Keefes. They would prefer the oil, she knew. In it, Petey looked like himself, the real boy in living color; the charcoal had something more art museum, even antique, about it. She wouldn’t give the oil to the O’Keefes this weekend, not when everyone was around. She’d wait for a special time.

She worked in a new black bikini and an ancient paint-covered work shirt until she heard a van pull up in her drive. Not even her talented brother could arrive with all the picnic goodies on a motorcycle. She hurried downstairs to help him unload one of Dave Ralston’s vans. They lugged in beer and wine, soft drinks and sparkling water, and bags of groceries. They stocked the refrigerator, emptied bags of ice into a Styrofoam cooler, and shoved cans and bottles down into the sparkling ice. They set up beach chairs on the sand, and put out a table and a cooler of ice.

“That’s about it,” Slade said. “It’s hot. Let’s get out on the water.”

He disappeared into the downstairs bath, returning in surfer-boy boxer-short bathing trunks that slid down his skinny hips just a tantalizing inch. His long, lean body was muscular, but white.

“You’re pale,” Natalie teased as they left the house and tapped down the wooden steps from the deck.

“(A) I am not, and (B) not everyone lounges around on a lake all day.”

“I don’t lounge,” Natalie shot back.

Together, they dragged the old canoe out of the boathouse down to the edge of the water.

“Get the paddles,” he told Natalie. “They’re on the wall.”

In the shed, the summer fragrance of sun-warmed wood and packed earth surrounded her. She breathed in, closing her eyes just for a moment, then found the paddles and the flotation cushions and carried them down to the shore.

“You get in,” Slade directed. “I’ll shove off.”

Slade pushed the boat into the water and stepped in, rocking the canoe until it settled down as the lake embraced it.

They dipped their paddles into the water and stroked. The boat obligingly moved forward. They slid away from shore as gracefully as a swan. A beguiling silence enveloped them, broken only by the musical splash of their oars. The sun splintered the surface with streaks of dazzle. Along the shore, trees dappled the lake with shade. They passed the piers and docks and beaches of other houses, and people they didn’t know waved at them from their decks and porches. A pair of mallards bobbed near a fallen maple branch. A green fall of willow leaves bowed from the ground into the water; they slipped beneath the arch it created. Droplets of water fell from Natalie’s oar, each one a shimmering gem.