Three Day Summer (19 page)

chapter 63

Cora

I don't know if I'll ever be able to look at Filippini Pond the same way again.

I don't know if I'll ever be able to look at a thunderstorm the same way again.

Before Michael, all my previous make-out sessions have been semiprivate: in a car, or a barn, or a stolen corner of the hospital. I was never much for public displays of affection.

Now here I am, separated from half a million people by nothing more than a couple of scraggly bushes, and I find I don't care if anyone's looking. Maybe it's because we're also cloaked by the sheets of rain, and maybe it's because I know that almost everyone here is feeling some of the same magic that I am. It's in the air.

My lips are cold and numb and, eventually, one or the other of us comes up for air. I take a good look at both of us, completely soaked and wildly happy. I grin.

Eventually, we leave our little cove by the lake and emerge to rejoin the rest of the world. The stage is still empty and the hill that leads down to the stage has become even muddier than before.

We watch a group of kids around our age huddle at the top and then one brave girl gets on her belly and launches herself down the muddy hill, screaming “Woooooooo!” all the way. She makes it about halfway down before her momentum gives out. Then she rolls on her back, muddy from her head to her toes, and laughs. She sits up and yells, “You have to try it!” to her friends.

One of them follows her advice and launches himself down too.

I can see people looking up at them, laughing, and starting to climb up the hill to give it a go themselves.

We watch the beautiful madness for a while, hand in hand, as everyone starts to become one color. No gender. No race. Just back to dirt and water and laughter. Who knew that the secret to happiness was hidden in the soil of my hometown?

“I almost bought you something,” Michael leans down and whispers in my ear.

“Oh?” I ask, surprised.

He nods and then tells me about a vendor in the woods, describing a teardrop-shaped pendant to me. “It just reminded me of the lake and you in the water. The most beautiful image I've ever seen. I didn't have enough cash, but I wanted to get it for you so badly. It was perfect.”

I smile at him. “I love it,” I say quietly.

“But I didn't buy it!” he protests.

“I don't care. I'll always wear it.” I bend down and scoop up a dab of mud with my finger. Then I use it to draw a teardrop right over my sternum.

Michael grins and then bends down to get some mud of his own. In short, soft strokes, he finger-paints around my neck, creating a chain for my pendant. The cool mud mixes with his warm touch, and my skin drinks in a jolt that travels from my neck to my heart. I close my eyes, and only open them again when I feel Michael's lips softly touching mine. I look up at him, and then down at our creation, already washing away in the rain, and yet forever etched there in my mind's eye. “It's beautiful.”

Michael touches his forehead to mine. “Aren't I just the most thoughtful boyfriend?” he teases. “Nothing's too good for my lady.”

“The best,” I laugh, surprised at how much him calling himself my boyfriend delights me.

We watch the mudsliders for a few moments more before my inner caretaker kicks in. “You must be hungry,” I say to him.

He looks at me and shrugs. I take that as a yes.

I feel like there is only one place to take him. A part of me is scared to go there. A part of me is defiant.

But I take Michael's hand and start to walk away from the stage, away from Mr. Yasgur's farm, and to my house.

chapter 64

Michael

We walk hand in hand in the rain, past the grocery store and the fields and all the landmarks we passed just two days ago. When the world wasn't as promising as it seems now. Now I have the same person beside me but I belong next to her in a way I've never felt I belonged anywhere.

It's quiet when we get to Cora's big gray house, except for the persistent patter of rain.

She takes my hand and leads me straight to the front door this time. She opens it and I catch her looking around warily before she steps inside.

“Come in,” she says. I can't help but look at the immaculate white tile that runs down her front hallway. I am dripping all over her front stoop and she is dripping all over the floor inside. I don't want to mess up her house. Not my first time as a guest in it.

“Cora?” A soft voice says, and I look to see the spitting image of her standing in the kitchen doorway. A little bit taller, and older of course, but the same dark hair and wide brown eyes. And, even, a smile for me.

“Could you get us some towels, Mom?” Cora asks.

She nods and disappears for a few minutes, emerging with two fluffy yellow towels.

“I'm Iris,” she says as she hands me mine, and then proffers her hand.

“Oh, sorry, Mom,” Cora says. “This is Michael.”

I smile and take both the towel and Cora's mom's hand sheepishly. “Sorry I'm so wet.”

“The clouds should be apologizing, no?” she says with a smile. “Are you here for the festival?”

“Yes, ma'am,” I say, immediately slipping into my parental-politeness mode.

“How is it? Besides wet?” she asks.

“Wonderful,” I say, and can't help but look at her daughter, who is using the towel to dry off her arms and face before wrapping it around herself.

I follow suit.

“Would you two like any food?” Cora's mom asks.

I smile. Apparently the resemblance goes deeper than just looks.

“That would be great, Mom,” Cora says immediately. “We're starving.”

“Come on in.” She leads us into the kitchen and we sit down at a small breakfast table that's set up there.

“Dinner won't be ready for an hour or so still, but I can definitely tide you over with some leftovers in the meantime.” She bustles around in the fridge and emerges with a few dishes covered in tinfoil. “You're not at the tent today?” she asks Cora.

“Not right now,” Cora replies simply. Her mom doesn't press the issue further.

“Do you like chicken?” Cora's mom has turned to me.

“Love it,” I say, and mean it.

She smiles and heads over to the stove to light it. “Did you travel far to get here, Michael?” she asks as she starts to heat up the food.

“Not too far. A couple hundred miles. I'm from just outside Boston. We've met some people who've traveled from much farther.”

“I've lived here almost twenty-five years,” she says. “Never seen anything like this.”

“Did you go down there, Mom?” Cora asks.

“No, just saw on the television and the newspapers,” she replies. “Dee went down yesterday and came and gave me a full report too.”

“Dee is our neighbor,” Cora explains to me.

Cora's mom asks a few more general questions about what we've been seeing at the festival. I keep my answers solely focused on the musical acts and not, say, on her daughter's body parts, even though that's all I'm thinking about.

Luckily, she doesn't probe too far.

Soon, I have a steaming plate of chicken, peas, and corn in front of me. I dig in, only remembering about three quarters of the way through the meal that it's not entirely polite to completely inhale one's food.

The chicken is good, though not as good as my mom's. I actually surprise myself with that sentiment, but find myself thinking of her chicken cacciatore. With lemons and those little green, olive-y things. I forget what they're called. I seriously miss her food.

I admit, I even miss
her
a little. Despite the nagging.

That being said, when Cora's mom asks if I want seconds, I don't hesitate to say yes.

I'm just about to cut into my fresh helping of chicken when I hear the front door open behind me.

“It's an absolute disgrace out there, Iris,” a man's voice grumbles. “I don't think even all this rain can wash away the stench of those hippies.”

A squat man with a red cap walks into the kitchen and stops short as soon as he lays eyes on me.

“And who the hell are you?”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Cora's face go gray.

chapter 65

Cora

I am mortified.

“Dad!” I cry at the same time that my mom says “Bernard!” in surprise.

Dad looks at me and we stare at each other, the air between us as taut as the wires in the chicken coop.

I collect myself and remember we have company. “Dad,” I say, testing the waters like they're rigged up for electrocution. “This is Michael.” I point over at him while mentally pleading with my dad to act normal.

Dad takes one look over at him, and then turns on his heel and walks out.

My mom gets up, addressing Michael. “I'm so sorry. Let me go see . . .”

But I stand up. “No, it's me,” I say. I pull out my chair and place my napkin on the table. “I'll go.”

Mom puts a hand on my arm then. “Cora,” she says softly, looking into my eyes. “Please be nice. I know you can't see it, but his feelings run deeper than you know.”

I suck in a breath and nod. Of course my mom would know what happened last night.

I find him in the first place I look. The barn. He's placed a bucket underneath April and is milking her.

I walk over before I lose all courage and change my mind. “Dad,” I say softly.

He doesn't look at me.

I take a deep breath. “Look. I'm sorry. I was angry last night and I said some terrible things to you. I didn't mean it.”

Silence, except for the distinct hiss of liquid squirting into the metal bucket. I wait.

“Didn't you?” he finally grunts, keeping his eyes focused on April's udder.

“No,” I say. “I didn't. It's just, sometimes I feel like you treat me like a child.”

“You are a child,” he says.

“Not really,” I say. “I'm seventeen. Next year, I'm going to college. I can't follow your every rule anymore, Dad. Some of them don't even make sense.”

“College,” he says with a snort. “I've always known you think you're so smart and I'm just an idiot without a high school diploma.”

“I don't think that,” I say, startled. “Not in the slightest. You've been running this farm since you were twenty, Dad. You've grown it. You've kept it profitable. And really, it's been an amazing place to grow up. I mean that.”

I wait for him to say something, but he remains focused on milking, even though I can tell April's just about dry.

So I continue. “But it's the growing-up thing, Dad. You have to let me do it. Because the truth is, whether you allow me to or not, it's happening. Me and Wes. We're our own people now. You may not agree with everything we do or say, but I know you love us enough to let us make our own choices. Can't you accept you and Mom have already given us the tools to make good ones?”

Finally, he stops milking. He stares into the bucket for a long time before looking up at me.

“I'm not so sure we have,” he finally says, his voice scratchy. “All that protesting that all those hippies do, that Wes does, that you agree with. You're protesting soldiers, you know. You're protesting Mark. And me.”

I draw in a sharp breath. Is that what he really thinks? “We're not protesting you . . . ,” I say softly, but it sounds weak even to my own ears. I never really considered this viewpoint before.

He shakes his head but doesn't say anything.

“Have you . . . ,” I start. “Have you ever told Wes this?”

He laughs bitterly. “Your brother hasn't listened to a word I say in about a decade.”

“That's because in some ways you're so different, Dad, but in some ways you are so much the same.”

He gives April a pat. “You sound like your mom.” He gets up then, taking the almost-full bucket with him.

“She's a smart lady,” I say, trying to lighten the mood.

“Of course she is.” He heads toward the barn's entrance, walking past me.

I touch him on the arm to stop him. “Dad. I
am
sorry.” And I know that I'm not just talking about coming home after curfew or even cursing at him last night.

He searches my face for a moment before nodding. “Okay,” he says simply. And I immediately reach over and hug him. He pats me awkwardly on the back.

“All right,” he says. “It's over now. Let's not beat a dead horse, okay?”

“Dad!” I protest, feeling like a huge weight has been lifted. “Not in front of Shannon!” I point at our mare, who is glancing over disconcertingly.

“Shannon?” he says, shaking his head at the name. “Oh, girl. When will you ever learn?”

chapter 66

Michael

Cora's mother is the type of parent who doesn't feel the need to make awkward conversation with her daughter's friends.

I appreciate this about her.

After apologizing again for her husband (not necessary, I assure her), she asks me a few more questions about the festival, and then leaves me in comfortable silence while I finish the rest of my meal.

I insist on doing the dishes, though, and that's how Cora finds me when she comes back, with peach-colored gloves up to my elbows.

“Nice getup,” Cora says.

“Does it bring out the salmon in my eyes?” I ask, batting my eyelashes at her.

“Definitely.” She splashes some sudsy water at me. “The rain's letting up. You about ready to go back?”

“Definitely,” I counter as I clean off the last fork and take off my gloves. I look down at Cora and grin at her, already feeling the excitement of the concert building in my belly. It's not over yet.

I glance around the kitchen to make sure we're alone, and then give her a quick kiss on the lips.

She looks a little embarrassed, seeing as her parents are probably only feet away, but she smiles.

As we head to the front door, I hear the click of a television being turned on in another room.

“Wait,” Cora says. “Come with me.”

She leads me to her living room, where her parents have just set themselves down in front of the TV. Even though there are two couches and an armchair, they sit right next to one another, their shoulders touching. I cannot remember ever seeing my parents that physically close to each other.

“Mom, Dad,” she calls, and they look up. “My friend Michael and I are going back to the festival,” she says slowly. “And I'd like to stay for the rest of the concert. But I don't know how late that'll be. Okay, Dad?”

He looks at her hopeful face for a second and then shocks the hell out of me by replying with a gruff “Fine, but be careful.” Cora's mom gently squeezes his arm, and he turns his steely gaze over to me. “You too, Michael.”

“Of course, sir,” I immediately pipe up.

“Have fun,” Cora's mom says with a smile.

“Thank you. Thanks. See you later.” I can hear the relief in Cora's voice.

At the front door, she asks me to wait one more time, then disappears into the hall closet and reemerges with two thick red blankets.

“Wet ground,” she says.

“Good thinking,” I reply.

I take the blankets from her and hold them over my arms. Then we walk out of her house and make our way back to the glorious stage.