Summer by Summer (33 page)

“The reason we couldn’t stay in Belize.” He pointed at it. “Take a look.”

Dad’s hotel graced the cover with the words
Southwest Florida
Writer’s Conference
. It was being held at the Sarasota Four Seasons resort my dad worked at as the Convention Coordinator. “It’s in three months. I thought you might like to attend.”

I stared down at the words, but didn’t know what to say. I wasn’t sure how I felt about it.

He placed his hand on my arm. “I know you haven’t written recently, but — ”

“No, I have.”

He lifted a brow in question.

“On the island, Bray would tell me stories at night, but never finish them. He’d always fall asleep and be snoring before he got to the end.”

My dad swallowed. This is how it always was when I mentioned being alone with Bray. I guess his mind had gone all kinds of places, but he’d yet to ask.

“Dad, Bray and I didn’t
do
anything. I’m sure you and Mom have been worried about that. He was a perfect gentleman. Plus, I made a promise to God a long time ago.”

My dad’s kind eyes crinkled. He let out a long breath. My parents knew about my commitment to wait. They were — of course — in total support. An arm slid around my shoulders. “Do you want to tell us about the island now?”

I hadn’t yet. It almost seemed cruel to make them live it while I relived it. I could see the apprehension in my dad’s face. “No. Not yet.”

“Well, when you’re ready.” He pointed to the brochure I’d lost interest in. “How about the conference? Would you like to go?”

“I don’t know. Can I think about it?”

“Sure.” I started to hand the page back to him, but he held his hands up. “Keep it. I have hundreds.”

The following day, my best friend Becky and I went out for lunch. I bought. The Garrisons had insisted on paying me for the
whole summer though I’d only been a nanny for Joshie for the first few weeks. Becky had a blackened salmon salad and I had a hamburger. Ordering it made me think of Bray. We never got to have our big celebration hamburger together. I wondered if he was okay and when his family would be returning to the States. Did they plan to stay in Belize for the rest of the summer? What I
did
know was Markus and Sandra were no longer getting a divorce. Bray’s disappearance had caused them to realize how lucky they were. Sandra told me the night before I left in a tearful good-bye. She also said that in many ways, I’d become — and always would be — the daughter she never had. I already missed her.

“Hey there,” Becky pointed at me with a forkful of salad. “You still on this planet?”

“Sorry.” It was great seeing her. A smooth waterfall of shoulderlength auburn hair paired perfectly with her sassy personality. She’d gone on for the first half hour about how beautiful I looked, but she was my best friend and as such was required to make such sweeping statements.

“How’s the burger?” She had ranch dressing in the corner of her mouth. I wiped it off with my napkin.

“Heaven. I can’t even describe it.”

Her hand closed on my wrist and drew my burger to her mouth. “Eh, it’s okay.”

Okay?
Was she nuts?

“So, you’re kind of a celebrity now. How’s that feel?”

I could talk to Bec. Tell her what was really going on, so I pulled a breath and tried to figure out where to begin.

“It feels weird. Reporters sometimes call the house wanting to talk to me. I guess I understand. We were supposed to do damage control and instead, I ran out of that stupid press conference like a . . .”

“Like a what?”

I had to smile. “Like a wildcat trapped in a corner.” My eyes rolled. “Probably made everything a thousand times worse.”

Bec, ever loyal, pushed her salad away. “It made me so mad when those reporters hammered at you about that crocodile.”

“Right?” It made me mad too.

“And asking you about Bray. How insolent. I mean, that’s
your
business.” She tilted her head back and forth, hair dusting her shoulders. “And my business — as your best friend.”

“They were rough on me. But I survived.”

“You know what I wish? I wish every single one of them could have been in your place.” Fire sparked from her emerald eyes — just one of the many reasons I loved her. “I wish every one of them would be on a deserted island. Then they’d be singing a different tune.”

“If only.” But I didn’t really wish that on anyone. The island was treacherous. If the reporters
knew
, if they
understood
what it was really like . . .

Bec had given me something to consider, and as we finished our meal, the possibilities ran tirelessly through my head. It was a crazy idea. But, honestly, crazy was a close companion these days.

I booked it home after lunch and went straight to my room. My PC whirred as it came to life. I opened a new document and started with the title.

Summer by Summer

An adventure novel by Summer Mathers Based on the Real Events on Sovereign Island

I wouldn’t try to defend myself in front of reporters. But what I would do was put them there. Let them live my story. And maybe, just maybe, when they reached the end they’d understand a little more.

Either way, I needed to share it. All of it. The boat, the croc, falling for Bray. I wouldn’t hold anything back, except of course,
the parts I had to keep hidden for the sake of an upcoming murder trial. But everything else I’d tell. Not just tell — I’d give them the ability to feel every emotion, sense every fear. From the hunger to the elation of finding food. The shark chasing Bray. The pitch-dark cave where I thought I’d die until a shaft of air kissed my fingertips.

A fresh wave of excitement washed over me. I had a purpose . . . to write. After another giant intake of air, I dove in.

Chapter 1

I went on a dive trip with a guy I hated and was rescued with the man I love.

For the next five weeks I wrote, edited, reviewed, and wrote more. Most of my time was spent in my room, but when I knew my mom was getting worried about me, I’d take a pen and paper and go to a downtown coffee shop or out to Siesta Key and sip a latte while filling up a notebook.

I loved downtown Sarasota, with its artsy vibe and relaxed atmosphere. I could walk around there for hours, but not right now. I was on a mission. Write my story. And it was coming together more quickly than I would have guessed possible.

During the sixth week, my dad came home with a gift; a lightweight laptop, much more portable than the PC in my room. It made me cry. My parents were really on board with this whole writing thing, and since I’d gotten paid for the entire summer by the Garrisons, I treated the writing like a job. Or maybe like an obsession. The story was no longer for the reporters. Writing it was therapeutic for me. Until Bray, I’d never known the importance of talking about things. Bottling up wasn’t healthy. I thought about Bray often, but getting to relive our stormy relationship through writing about it helped in some ways. It made me lonely too. I missed Bray. Loved him. And maybe there was a part of me that hoped somehow things could eventually work out for us.

That is, of course, if Bray would have anything to do with me. Which he probably wouldn’t, and I couldn’t blame him. But I
could
show the world what an amazing hero he was while we were on the island together.

After week six and with my new laptop, the writing went even faster. I’d hit the halfway point and contacted a former English teacher, Mrs. Singer, to get a read-through and see if my grammar was okay.

She told me to drop it off at her house, so I printed the one hundred thirty pages, said a little prayer, and went by. Both her kids were playing in summer baseball leagues so it’d be a couple weeks before she could read it. That was fine. I was nervous about anyone besides my mom and dad seeing it anyway.

Mrs. Singer called me the next day. She’d already read the entire thing. Stunned, I listened to her go on and on about my story. Later that morning, I went to pick up the pages. She’d made a few grammatical changes — red ink, of course — and told me to keep working. So I did.

Becky stopped by that night. “You heard about what happened with that Katie Van Buren, right?”

No, I hadn’t heard.

“Her dad found out she’d lied about Bray after his public announcement that they weren’t
ever
engaged. Her father made her go on a talk show and give a public apology, said she’d ruined her credibility. It was awesome.”

Oddly, I actually felt sorry for her. My thoughts turned to Bray. Poor guy. When he needed me most, I ran. Just like a wildcat. Right now, I wasn’t proud of his nickname for me. I was ashamed of it. The idea of reaching out to Bray was nearly irresistible, but the timing wasn’t right. Soon, but not yet.

The writer’s conference was fast approaching, but it did little to motivate my writing progress. I just wanted to tell my story and that
was fuel enough. A small part of me wanted to defend the actions Bray and I took against the croc. Another part wanted to encourage people to never give up. Another part just wanted to share the journey. And still another part — a tiny little voice — said maybe this could help others in a survival situation. Not just a deserted island, but surviving the death of Michael that had emotionally shipwrecked me long before the rocks of the island punched through our boat. Maybe my words would speak to others who had suffered a loss like that.

Maybe I could bring them hope. That’s what Bray would want. To help bring hope to others. In it, they’d see what a hero he really was. He deserved that, for the world to know.

I chickened out of going to the writer’s conference. It was Saturday morning and the conference ran through Tuesday. I’d dressed to go to town and stood at the kitchen sink eating Cheerios while dad chatted on the phone. “Worst time ever for four restaurant staff to get the flu.” He winked at me as I held my spoon halfway to my mouth. Poor Dad.

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Nah, we’ll have to make do. Not much choice. We can pull a couple of the maintenance guys. And
please
remind the staff not to talk about a flu going around. Okay, thanks. Be there in about fifteen minutes.”

“Sounds bad.” I took the last bite and rinsed my bowl in the sink, then reached for the manuscript resting on the counter.

“Hospitality biz. Never gets boring.” My dad was forty-five, and this morning he looked his years.

“I can help out.”

“Aren’t you writing today?”

“Not now. My daddy needs me.” I crossed the kitchen and dropped a peck on his cheek. “I’ve worked the buffet line before, it’ll be easy.”

He considered me for a long minute. “You sure?”

“Yeah, let me grab my bag.”

When I came back in the room, he had my book tucked under his arm.

I cocked my head and my hip.

One bright blue eye winked, sparks of mischief playing in his irises. “Just in case.”

“Dad, writer’s conferences don’t work that way. You don’t just go and dump armloads of manuscripts on literary agents’ laps.” What could I say? I loved him for what he was trying to do. But publishing was a business. I’d been doing my homework. Besides, I was a nineteen-year-old. What were the odds anyone would want my story? It wasn’t about that anymore, I reminded myself. It was for me. Just for me.

Breakfast was simple, with groups of people flittering through the banquet area helping themselves to coffee in gleaming silver urns, trays of pastries, and fresh fruit cut into a myriad of whimsical shapes. The entire hotel buzzed with an excitement I thought only I felt for the written word. Editors were tagged with orange badges that announced where they were from — so cool to me because I
knew
those publishing houses and had read their books. The literary agents’ badges were green.

“Are these real eggs?”

I glanced forward to find a sweaty little man staring at me. He pushed a pair of glasses up on his shiny nose. Through the glasses, his eyes looked too big for his head. “Uh, I . . . I think so.”

A small, wet mouth pursed into a pucker. “I have to know for sure. I have allergies.”

“Let me check.” I turned from him and spotted my dad in the corner of the room, overseeing. A motion of my hand brought my dad toward us.

“Can I help — ”

“Are these eggs real?” The little man cut my dad off and gestured with an open hand, his bottle-glass eyes unblinking.

My dad smiled, polite and professional. “They are actually from a mix. Very good, though.”

Bottle-eyes released a long, labored breath and crossed his arms. “I have allergies.” As if that explained the mysteries of the entire world.

“I’d be glad to have one of the chefs cook you a couple of folded eggs.” Such composure in the face of the man’s rudeness. Go, Dad. He really was great at his job. I wanted to punch the snotty guy in the nose. It wasn’t our fault he had allergies.

“No, that’s fine,” he said in a breathy voice. “I’ll just go across the street for breakfast.”

As he turned, Dad and I gave each other an almost imperceptible shrug. The man spun back around and pointed at me. “I would suggest better training for your employees.” The finger to the glasses again. “
She
should know what she’s serving.”

“Thank you,” my dad said. I watched the muscle in his jaw flex. Nobody picked on his little girl. It was good the guy was leaving.

We both bit our tongues until the man was out of earshot.

It was a moment before we realized someone else had paused in front of us. “Is he gone?”

The woman was kind looking, albeit a little harried until I told her, “He’s going across the street for breakfast.”

“Whew. That’s a relief.” Her hair fell past her shoulders in long waves that were neither brown nor blond, but her own personal shade somewhere in between. A deep-red alligator briefcase dangled from her hand. I wondered if it felt like my crocodile, but decided it was probably not real skin. It looked expensive enough, but a lot of people were anti-exotic leather these days. I knew I was.