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

Abbie laughed. “That sounds like fun, Lily, and perfect for you. Is it a year-round job?”

“Absolutely! Something’s always happening on the island now. Armchair theater, concerts, community events like the spelling bee.”

Abbie tilted her head. “Are you really so busy off-season?”

Suddenly Lily felt under attack. “I run the house, too. I buy groceries, I make Dad healthy dinners, I vacuum …”

“I know, I’m just wondering … The curtains need to be washed, and stuff like that.”

Emma walked into the room, wrapped in a towel, her brown hair curling around her face, smelling wet and strawberry-scented from the shampoo.

Abbie ran her hand over her forehead. “You know, I’m whipped. I mean, I started the day in London, and it’s nine o’clock in the evening for my brain. Jet lag must be catching up with me.”

“Take a nap,” Emma said. “I don’t feel like going out, anyway.”

“Actually, I think I will take a nap.” Abbie stretched and yawned. “Emma, would you wake me in a couple of hours? I want to get back on U.S. time.”

“Sure.” Emma dropped her towel on the floor and slipped into her bed. She reached for the clock on her bedside table and set the alarm, then slid down between the covers, turning her back on her sisters.

“See you in awhile,” Abbie said over her shoulder as she left the room. “Man, it’s really hitting me. I’ll unpack later.”

Lily stood for a moment, then she left the room, too, mumbling, “You could have said thank you for changing the sheets.”

Emma must not have heard her, for she only said, “Pull the door shut, would you, Lily?”

Suddenly Lily found herself alone in the hall. The doors to both sisters’ rooms were shut, as blank and forbidding as they’d been when they were teenagers gossiping about exotic secrets while silly little baby Lily, too young to be included, hung around in the hall,
waiting to be invited in, hoping to overhear even one intimate word.

Well, she wouldn’t be like that! She had a life! She had work!

But she’d turned in her column this morning, and tonight, Tuesday night, nothing was happening on the island. It was still too early for the big parties, galas, fund-raisers, even for the art openings.

Well, then, she had friends! Clattering down the stairs, she yanked out her cell phone and punched in Carrie’s number. Carrie was always at home with her baby and eager for adult company.

“Hey, Carrie, I thought I’d come over for a while.”

“Hallelujah! I haven’t had a real conversation all day. And Tommy’s going to be out fishing until dark.”

“Need anything? Wine, pizza?”

“If I have to eat another pizza, I’ll go mad. So will Tommy. I never seem to have the time or energy to shop for real food, let alone cook it.”

“Tell you what, I’ll stop at the grocery store and pick up some pasta and mussels and clams and fresh parsley. You have olive oil and garlic, right?”

“I do. You’re going to cook dinner for me?”

“I can’t do anything fancy, but I can do a mean pasta with seafood.”

“I utterly love you. I will give you my firstborn child. Really.”

Lily laughed. “See you soon.”

After their naps, Emma and Abbie sat on the back deck, sipping red wine, enjoying the soft evening air. Emma wore khaki shorts and a loose cotton shirt and her brown curls frizzed because she hadn’t blown her hair dry.

Abbie had napped and showered and pulled on an old sundress she found in her closet. Her head buzzed with jet lag and her stomach grumbled.

“Where’s Lily?” Abbie wondered. She hooked a wicker stool with her toes and dragged it over to rest her feet on. “Has she organized anything for dinner?”

“I have no idea,” Emma replied listlessly.

Emma weighed less than Abbie had ever seen her, and she had dark circles under her eyes. She’d always been organized, energetic, determined. It was just wrong, having her seem so defeated. Abbie considered her next words carefully, then said, “Lily’s worried about you, and I can see why.”

Emma twitched in her chair. “I’m fine.”

“Yeah, I can tell.”

“I’m not going to pull a Mom, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“You’d better not!” Abbie glared at her sister. “Suck it up, Emma. It will get better.”

“Will it? I don’t know. I don’t even care.”

“But you will. You’ll get over it. Lots of people—”

“How do you know?” Emma shifted in her chair so she could zing a glance at Abbie. “When have you
ever
made yourself vulnerable to a man? When have you ever lost your heart?”

“Get back, Jack!” Abbie said. “For your information, I’ve been involved a few times.”

“Really.”

“Really.”

At the same moment, Abbie and Emma turned away from each other and took a huge swallow of wine. Aware of their parallel actions, they both laughed.

“So why did you never tell me about any of them?” Emma asked.

“I don’t know. I’ll admit I never was really serious about anyone.” She studied Emma. “How long are you planning to stay here?”

“Planning?” Emma snorted. “I honestly don’t know. I can’t think about it. Hell, I can scarcely move. Plus, it’s not like investment firms are searching for young brokers. I’m worthless, you know?”

“Don’t say that!” Abbie snapped. “You’re not worthless.”

“I am, though. It’s the truth. Might as well face it.”

“Oh, Emma—” A movement at the end of the garden caught Abbie’s eye. “Is that The Dreaded Seductress?”

For a moment they were silent, like hunters spotting prey. The woman came out of the Playhouse with a clear plastic bag in her hand, walked around the garage to the other side where the trash barrels were kept, and returned empty-handed. She was short, slender, and blond, but they were too far away to tell whether or not she was pretty. She wore khaki shorts and a black tee shirt.

“She looks pretty normal to me,” Abbie observed quietly. “Have you met her?”

“I haven’t,” Emma said. “I don’t especially want to.”

“You don’t especially want to do anything,” Abbie reminded her.

“That’s true.”

The woman didn’t seem to notice them. She walked around the Playhouse, studying it, stopping here and there, nodding to herself.

“What’s she doing?” Abbie whispered.

“Well,
I
don’t know, do I?” Emma frowned. “Maybe she’s going to paint the trim? It certainly needs it.”

“But why would
she
paint the trim? She’s only renting. How long is she renting for?”

“The summer, I think. I admit, I haven’t exactly paid attention to anything Lily or Dad said recently.”

“Dad must be worried about money if he rented the Playhouse.”

“I think he is.” Emma began to cry. “I was going to take care of Dad. I had a special savings account earmarked for him. And it all just—
went.
”

“Oh, honey.” Abbie reached over and took her sister’s hand. “No one ever expected you to do anything like that.”

“But I
want
to!”

“I know. But come on. Dad’s not that old. He’s what, fifty-two? And you have to admit, he looks ten years younger.”

“And I wanted to give him grandchildren.”

“You will. ’Course you will. You’re not even thirty yet. You’ll meet someone new.”

“I don’t think so, Abbie. I’m so tired. I could go back to bed right now.”

“Maybe you should see the doctor. Maybe try an antidepressant?”

“Yes, because meds work so well for our family.” Emma stood up. “I can’t do this anymore. I’m going back to bed.”

“I’ll call you for dinner.”

Perhaps she shouldn’t have mentioned antidepressants to Emma, Abbie thought as she sat alone in the garden. It was a tough subject for them all. But Abbie couldn’t help but worry about Emma and she knew Lily was right to call her home. Emma had always been the determined one, the ambitious one, the optimist. Seeing her like this was just wrong. Abbie didn’t think
she
had the depression gene, if there was such a thing, but Emma was close to the mark when she accused Abbie of not letting herself get vulnerable. Abbie didn’t want to put herself out there emotionally, because she wasn’t sure she could take a fall. And as for her youngest sister, Lily seemed to be naturally lighthearted, fun-loving, superficial. Plus dramatic Lily probably shed any unpleasant pressures by turning even the slightest problem into a soap opera.

How odd it was that of the three sisters, optimistic Emma was the one who had struggled with a tendency for depression. All her life, Abbie had been aware of this. Weeks and months had passed
when they were children when Emma would get quiet and melancholy. But she’d always bounced out of it. And when she got to college, she seemed to have burned away any despondency with the strong bright light of hope.

Now this. Now Emma’s world had crashed down around her. But Abbie was sure Emma would recover. And it was the beginning of summer on the island, a languorous time of year when each day was blessed with natural riches—sunshine, blue sky, sparkling water, soft breezes. It was a good time for starting over.

As she sat musing, Abbie idly observed the woman at the far end of the garden. She had walked around the Playhouse, tilted her head up to scan the sky, and studied the fence that ran along the back. She went into the Playhouse by the blue front door and returned carrying an old red wooden chair. An apple tree arched possessively over the Playhouse—also, Abbie noticed, covered with ivy. The woman set the chair in the shade of the tree, stood with her hands on her hips for a moment, nodded to herself, and went back into the house. She returned carrying a small table.

You’ve got our tea table!
Abbie thought indignantly. Then she laughed at herself. It had been over a decade since any of them had even thought of the old table.

The woman set the table next to the chair. She sat down on the edge of the chair. Abbie was hidden in the shade, or at least the woman didn’t seem to see Abbie. She rose several times to adjust the position of the chair and table.

I’d face the fence. It’s covered with honeysuckle and clematis
, Abbie thought.

As if the woman had heard Abbie’s thoughts, she stood and angled the chair and table so she was facing the fence. She walked back into her house and returned carrying a glass—it looked like a wineglass—and a book. When she finally settled, her back was to Abbie, which for some obscure reason offended Abbie.

Now she began to understand why Lily had been so bent out of shape. Their lives had not been without sorrow, but certain periods of it had been heavenly. Abbie couldn’t remember a time when the Playhouse didn’t exist. Her father had begun building it when his first child was born. He’d built small chairs and a little table, and their mother had made curtains for the windows. Over the years their parents had furnished the place with miniature tea sets and
bunk beds for their dolls and stuffed animals. They even had a little bookshelf and a hutch for the dishes. An old mattress was dragged up the stairs to the Playhouse loft and flopped on the floor, to be covered by a variety of tattered blankets.

As the years passed, Abbie and Emma had dragged in cast-off furniture that fit adult bodies to mingle with the smaller furniture Lily still used. When Abbie became a teenager, she used the Playhouse as a refuge and inner sanctum. She would lie on the old love seat covered with cabbage rose chintz and read to her heart’s content while the rain thundered down all around her.

When Abbie was fifteen, she took Andy Mitchell up to that mattress in the loft. They were in the middle of some pretty serious cuddling when they heard the door slam and Abbie’s father came thundering up the stairs. He chased Andy out and gave Abbie holy hell and the next day he dragged the mattress into his truck and took it out to the dump.

Perhaps that was why their father had started on a long, complicated, DIY project, adding the bathroom and a real kitchen to the back of the Playhouse. He told them he was turning it into a guesthouse, for when they brought friends home from college, but really, Abbie thought now, he was probably just trying to keep her and Emma out of it while they were teenagers. It took him five years to do it all, to build the frame, add the shingles, have someone install electricity and run water and plumbing from the same lines that fed his shop at the back of the garage. It was too bad for Lily, really, because she was still little and would have loved the fantasy world at the back of their yard. Lily was twelve when the Playhouse was ready again. She used it, Abbie had always thought, for escape, in the same way Abbie had, except it was Abbie that Lily was escaping. It was Abbie who had taken their mother’s place, running the house, cooking and cleaning and acting as disciplinarian and protector. It was Abbie who freaked out when she caught twelve-year-old Lily and her friends smoking in the Playhouse, and it was Abbie who chased Lily’s first boyfriend away from the sagging sofa when Abbie caught them with their clothes off.

Now as Abbie sat reminiscing, a truck pulled into their driveway and parked next to the house. Her father got out. Eager to greet him, Abbie half rose, but he didn’t notice her. To her surprise, he
headed toward the Playhouse. He was carrying a cooler. When he got to the bottom of the garden, he called out—Abbie could hear his voice but not the words—and the woman turned in her chair, then stood. As Abbie watched, her father set the cooler down, reached into it, and handed the woman something. The two talked easily; Abbie could tell by the music of their voices that they were friendly.