Summer Girl Read online

  I stash my notebook just as Doyle shows up. A rush of diesel fumes accompanies him.

  “You’re driving?” I ask. Doyle rarely comes up to the bridge unless it’s his shift; it hurts his knees too much to make the climb.

  “No, you can,” he says. His voice is sad. Has he sounded like that all day?

  I look out the window and down to the deck. Bill waves to me as he taps his hand on the top of the last car to load and casts off. I throw the throttle in reverse to back away from the dock. The impending monotony of the job sedates my brain. For a second or two, there’s even a dull buzzing at the back of my head.

  But once I throttle up, I remember why I haven’t quit this job. Yeah, the island hasn’t brought the inspiration I’d hoped for in terms of my music, but routine can definitely be good. It takes my mind off everything else, like family, and expectations…and how quickly I can make a summer girl hate me.

  We are two-thirds of the way to New Porte before Doyle speaks again. “This time next year, I’m thinkin’ about retirin’. Partially. Makin’ you captain.”

  I look at him sideways. “What makes you think I’m still going to be here next year?”

  “You’ll be here,” he says, and his confidence is annoying, if not plain alarming.

  I pray to God this coming Nashville trip works out the way Jordan hopes. The way I hope. “Why should I? Sully will be back by then.”

  “I…I got some bad news this mornin’.” Doyle’s voice cracks, and he stops there, making me ask, “What kind of bad news?”

  He sniffs loudly and clears his throat. “Sully O’Hare’s sister called. Seems the bastard died in his sleep.”

  “What?” I blurt out.

  Doyle looks at me sharply.

  “Uh, I mean, I just talked to him a little bit ago.” What I don’t say is, Who’s going to take care of Samson if I leave?

  “Well, sometimes life don’t turn out the way we plan, now does it?” His face is turning red, and there’s a twitch at the corner of his mouth. “The fact is, I need you here.”

  Sully and Doyle were friends. Doyle is obviously doing his best to keep it together, so I give him the courtesy of looking away. My eyes go to Sam, who is paying close attention to our conversation. He whines and rests his head on his legs stretched out in front of him. His eyes dart back and forth between me and Doyle.

  “I’ve taken more than my fair share of trips across this lake,” Doyle says. “I know a lifer when I see him. Give it some thought.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  He clears his throat and forces a change in his mood. “Now, when you get back to that songwritin’, you should write a song about a handsome ferryboat captain. You could name him Juan. Like John, but fiction.”

  “If I were writing a song, it wouldn’t be about you,” I say.

  He shrugs as he passes through the door. “I think there should be more songs about ferryboats.” He goes down the stairs and limps to his post.

  I scan my notebook but can’t remember what I was thinking about before. The line doesn’t make any sense. I tear the sheet out of the book, ball it up, and toss it into the metal can in the corner. Just one more thing I’m going to start and never finish. What is wrong with me that I have the attention span of a fruit fly? Or a goldfish. Going back and forth across this lake is kind of like being a fish in a bowl. Always darting after a flash of something that turns out to be nothing, then returning to the back-and-forth-and-back-and-forth of my daily routine.

  Am I really a lifer? It’s a beautiful island, but…here? For life? How many summer girls would I see come and go in a lifetime? Maybe sixty?

  I’ve been looking for a place to call home, but I always thought I’d default to L.A. Maybe Nashville now. But Little Bear? Maybe I could buy one of those tiny houses on wheels and tow it around the country.

  I aim the ferry toward the pier and slow it down for the approach into New Porte. The polo-and-khaki-clad tourists who have been leaning against the rail below slowly return to their cars. The island hasn’t held any of them; it has only been a momentary diversion. I’m afraid Doyle might be right about me, though. C.C. Knight isn’t a magic pill. If I can’t finish another song, I won’t be going anywhere.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Katherine

  “Hello? Katherine? Is that you? It’s been a million years since I’ve heard your voice.” It’s my mother on the phone, along with her ubiquitous use of hyperbole. It’s a new day. My third on the island.

  “I had to call and tell you. I ran into Andrew a few moments ago. He was buying a new shirt. I’m so sorry, hon, but do you think that means he has a date with someone?” She sounds out of breath, as if she ran all the way home.

  “You called because you saw Andrew buying a shirt?” Miss you, too, Mom. I pick up my copy of Pride and Prejudice and take a seat in a kitchen chair.

  “No, I wouldn’t call over a shirt.” Silence. “It was a nice shirt, and it was that periwinkle blue that looks so good on him.”

  “Yeah, that’s more than a little creepy,” I say with a sigh. Mom’s got her issues, but despite the mess she’s made of everything, I still love her. I let her prattle on while I flip through the pages of my book.

  “I thought you’d want to know. He really is the most perfectly good-looking boy…and so polite. It’s Friday. Do you think he has a date with someone?”

  “Mom,” I say, dragging the word out like a warning. It’s one thing when your mom likes your sort-of boyfriend. It’s another thing when she likes him a little too much. Though it is kind of weird he was shopping for himself. His mom usually does that for him.

  “Andrew dates.” I hate having to acknowledge this out loud. I lean against the wall and bump my forehead against it three times. I can imagine Mom tapping her nails on the marble countertop. In fact, I’m pretty sure I can hear the clicking. There’s obviously something more she wants to say. It doesn’t take her too long to blurt it out.

  “He had a tie, too.” I can hear the anxiety in her voice, and it makes me sad for her. Her concern has less to do with Andrew and everything to do with Dad. Dad dressed a lot nicer, too, when he started seeing that produce broker.

  “Relax, Mom. Last time I checked, he was allowed to go shopping. He probably wanted new work clothes for the internship. Remember? The one I’m supposed to be doing with him?”

  “Why aren’t you more concerned?” she asks. “You haven’t got a summer fling of your own going on already, now do you?”

  In three days? Is she serious? The only semi-realistic option would be Bennet, and I’d be content to never see him again. Still, if she wants to fish, I’ll tug her line. “As a matter of fact—”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Katherine. Is everything else okay up there? I suppose you don’t have enough food. Or toilet paper. It’s got to be unbearably quiet. I’m sure they could find a replacement for you, then you’d still have time to find a good job closer to home.”

  Her words slur, and that’s when I finally understand what’s going on here. The only question is how much she’s had. “I’m not quitting, Mom. It’s great here.” I purposefully leave out the bits about the dog and the bear.

  “This is my fault you’re losing Andrew.”

  Oh my gosh, is she for real? “I’m not losing him, Mom. I don’t even have him. For crying out loud, he went shopping.”

  “You’re right. Of course you’re right.” She doesn’t sound totally convinced, and I find myself wondering if maybe he is going out with someone. Who would it be? Everyone I know has left campus for the summer.

  “I’ll do whatever I can to keep things good between you two,” she says because, of course, with no life of her own she’s gotten herself personally invested in mine. If things work out between Andrew and me, then Mom can say she hasn’t failed at every relationship she got her hands on. “Call it my penance,” she adds. “I know what. I’ll call him.”

  “Mom. Really. Stay out of it. Things are fine.”
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br />   “Okay. Fine is good. Fine is fine.”

  I close my eyes and take in a deep breath then blow it out. I can hear her opening the fridge and the familiar dull sound of a wine bottle thunking on the kitchen counter. By the time we hang up, the inside of my cheek feels like I’ve been snacking on nails.

  The obvious and surefire remedy for getting over Mom’s call is to put the lighthouse in order. I’ve already cleaned the yard, so I get to work on the mismatched curtains. I could simply take the floral ones down, but then that would mean there’d be one curtained window and one without—still not matching—so I remove both sets from their rods. Better. Not much privacy, but it’s not like I need it up here.

  I wonder what Andrew would think of this place. I’m pretty sure that if we—totally hypothetically—got married and moved up here, he’d gut the place and have it all remodeled. Lots of steel and leather. Very minimalistic.

  I take off Andrew’s mother’s ring and set it in a safe, out-of-the-way spot on the windowsill while I hand wash all of the silverware and scrub the crumbs out of the drawer. Next up: Calloway’s extensive collection of empty plastic whipped cream containers.

  My mom might appreciate the charm of the place, but not for anything more than a weekend getaway. She’d be too concerned with financial opportunities to live anywhere other than the city.

  I open the last cabinet and find Calloway’s spice rack. I give it my special A-Z treatment, even though he’s only got dill, oregano, parsley, pepper, and seasoned salt—so it’s not much of a challenge.

  I scrub the floor and clean off the kitchen table, putting Calloway’s “Weekly Duty List” back in the drawer. I haven’t quite got up the gumption to clean Lucy’s teeth today, but I will. Maybe not today, but soon. I promise myself that I will because that’s what I’m getting paid for.

  By the time I’m done, the place is so spotless I can almost claim it as mine. The refrigerator whines to voice its doubts.

  I’m about to make myself something to eat when a dark flash outside the naked window catches my attention. Bear! I think, and a shot of adrenaline rushes through me. But it’s worse than that. It’s that bastard Bennet and his mammoth dog.

  They are no more than fifty feet from my front door. It doesn’t look like they’re coming down the driveway, either (like any self-respecting visitors), but rather up over the crest of the bluff, as if Bennet has landed his boat and is conquering the shore. The wind blows his hair across his face and whips his loose white Henley around his body, catching every line, angle, and muscle.

  A tingle runs through my belly as my body betrays me, because damn if he doesn’t look like a sexy pirate on the cover of a romance novel. A marauding, cocky, romance-novel-cover pirate…

  When he gets closer, I fling open the front door and do my best to let him know how much I hate him for how he treated me. I don’t care if I don’t “do it” for him, but there was no reason to be rude. “Go away.”

  “Nice, D’Arcy,” he says, a grin spreading across his face. “Maybe you didn’t get the memo, but even on Little Bear the typical greeting is ‘Hello.’”

  “How did you get up the cliff?” I demand, throwing my arm out and pointing at the land’s end. His shirt looks soft. I wonder how soft.

  “There’s a path,” he says, as if we’re old friends and he didn’t just blow me off yesterday. So not cool. I’m not talking to him anymore. And where does he get off calling me D’Arcy?

  As I start to shut the door, he closes the last few feet between us and catches the knob with his hand. There’s a tension in the open door as we both push and pull against it, him trying to gain entry, me trying to keep him out.

  “Take it easy, D’Arcy. I came up here to apologize.”

  “For what?” I ask. That’s right. Play dumb. He doesn’t matter enough to have hurt my feelings. I barely know him anyway. “You don’t owe me anything. And quit calling me that.”

  He frowns a little, creating a vertical line between his eyebrows. “I wanted to say that that wasn’t me down at the ferry yesterday.”

  “Ah, so I was right. You’ve got an evil twin.”

  “Sort of. It’s…complicated.”

  “Try me.”

  He lets go of the door, and my weight against it causes me to lurch forward. He pushes his hands deep into his pockets and looks like he’s fighting a laugh. “I’ve been trying to break into this community for two years.”

  “I don’t follow.” I adjust the bottom edge of my blouse over the top of my skirt and pretend to be distracted.

  “I might be staying here a little longer than I thought,” he says, “and I told you, people are slow to accept newcomers. I swear you’ve got to live here for at least three generations before anyone gives you the time of day.”

  It’s not what I expected him to say, though I’m not sure what I did expect. I can’t help but think, If it’s so antisocial around here, we new kids should stick together. Andrew would want that for me. He wouldn’t want me to be lonely up here. “Yeah, but what does your slow acceptance on the island have to do with me?”

  He tips his head to the side and stares, as if he’s waiting for me to comprehend something totally obvious. When it dawns on me what he’s trying to say, I immediately cancel all plans for hanging out with Bennet.

  “Are you telling me that I’m cramping your style?”

  “That’s half of it.” He smiles mischievously. “The only one lower than me on the Little Bear totem pole is you.”

  I slap my hands down on my thighs. “Screw you.”

  “Nice talk.”

  “Why don’t you go away? If you’re not careful, someone might see you here. I wouldn’t want to ruin your stellar rep.” I probably should tell him that I’ve already made a friend in Natalie O’Brien. (Sort of.) I bet that would make him crazy.

  He looks over his right shoulder, and then his left, as if to demonstrate that it’s highly unlikely anyone is going to see him on my doorstep. He pushes around me saying, “I’ll take my chances,” and continues on into the house without invitation, just like he did before.

  “You said something about an apology?”

  “Hmmm?” He pulls a stubby pencil and a small, worn notebook out of his back pocket and scribbles something down.

  “What are you doing?” Full-blown paranoia creeps up the back of my neck. If he’s writing something about me, I want to know what it is.

  I take three quick steps in his direction and reach for the notebook, but he flips it shut and returns it to his pocket.

  “Nothing,” he says.

  “Tell me what you wrote down!”

  “No.”

  I make a desperate lunge for the notebook, and in the process my chest slams up against his.

  I’ve momentarily forgotten what I was doing, but I’m keenly aware of how hard his chest feels against mine and—when I look up—how insanely hot his expression turns whenever our bodies get close. The heat of his gaze burns through me, and I squeeze my thighs together to ease the building ache.

  “What’s going on, D’Arcy?” he asks, way too knowingly, raising one eyebrow. “You’re looking a little hot and bothered.”

  I grit my teeth, and he chuckles. I take one quick step backward, and he winks. Bastard.

  Bennet pulls his notebook out again and puts the pencil between his lips. He lets it dangle there, like it’s a cigarette and he’s some sexy 1940s movie star. I can’t look away from those lips, and I don’t know who I’m madder at about that, him or me.

  “What’s your favorite color?” he asks.

  I shake my head.

  “I can stand here all day,” he says, smiling down at me. I’m sure he could. I wonder if he would.

  I tell myself to look mad, but how am I supposed to be angry when, now that he’s up close, now that I’ve felt that chest and memorized those lips, my insides have completely liquefied.

  My attraction to him doesn’t make sense. I mean, yes, he’s gorgeous, but his hair
hasn’t seen a comb in days, and the frayed bottoms of his jeans brush along the floor. In other words, he is not my type. At all. As in, he is not Andrew and nothing like him. But, dang it, if I’m not a sucker for this stupid keep-away game.

  “Give it here,” I say, holding my hand out for the notebook.

  “How rude, D’Arcy.”

  “You’re the one who’s rude, and my favorite color is red, if you must know.”

  “Why?” he asks, chewing on the eraser end of his pencil.

  “It’s powerful, and when I wear it, it makes me brave.” Okay, that sounded stupid. It made more sense when it was still in my head.

  He turns his back on me and flips the page in his notebook. “Favorite color: red,” he mumbles as he writes it down. He looks over his shoulder at me with a studious expression. “Chinese Zodiac sign?”

  “Be serious.”

  “You strike me as a rat.”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “I mean, it’s supposed to be based on your birth year, but rats are wealthy.” I raise my eyebrows at him. “And they’re very adaptable, and”—he glances around the room—“the Chinese say they have a flair for cleanliness and tidiness. This place has never been so shiny.”

  He sits down on one of the red kitchen chairs. He looks really nice there. It’s like he came with the house, along with the mismatched curtains and the noisy refrigerator.

  The corner of his mouth twitches as he asks, “Greatest ambition?”

  I fold my arms and purse my lips. He’s staring up at my mouth, and his lips part ever so slightly. There’s a tiny, needling part of me that wants to bend down to meet them, but I hold firm. Andrew, I think, nearly pleading with myself. He might not want me to be lonely, but kissing Bennet is not the way to go.

  “It’s not what you think,” I say.

  “And now I’m dying to know what you think I’m thinking.”

  “You think it’s something like being secretary of state, or going to the top of the Eiffel Tower, or helping populate Mars, or…something.”