Mystic Summer Read online

  “My new client, a well-known lobbyist I’ll call Sandra, heard rumors that her husband was hiding a mistress at their BVI vacation house.”

  Evan squeezes my hand. “I’d never do that to you.”

  Erika rolls her eyes and continues. “So Sandra charters a plane hoping to surprise the two in the act, and instead finds this girl sunning herself alone on the pool deck. Topless, no less.”

  Chad and Trent exchange mock-horrified looks. “Her husband, Dominic, is nowhere to be seen. Rather than confront the girl, Sandra decides to pretend that she thinks the girl is a new housemaid that her husband just hired. Just to mess around with her until the husband returns.

  Peyton frowns. “I’d drown the girl in the pool!”

  Erika holds up her hands. “Wait, it gets good. So Sandra sashays out to the patio, introduces herself, and tells the girl that she’s thrilled Dominic was able to hire new house help. She invites the confused girl into the kitchen and takes out a pineapple and a huge knife. Tells her she’s going to make them a little snack and that they can go over the housekeeping schedule. As Sandra’s hacking away and the fruit is flying, she tells the mistress how she’s been looking for trustworthy, honest help for months. And that the last maid they employed had flirted with Dominic so much that Sandra had to ‘take care of her.’ Which is all made up, of course, but remember, Sandra’s telling this story with a cleaver in hand.”

  Everyone’s jaw drops. “The girl didn’t make a run for it?” I ask.

  Erika grins. “Too chicken. So, three hours later, the idiot husband arrives home.

  And he finds his mistress on her knees scrubbing toilets in the guest quarters, while his wife sips brandy by the pool.”

  Chad claps his hands. “No way!”

  “And that’s after she’s already bathed both schnauzers and cooked dinner.”

  “Sandra’s got balls,” Peyton says admiringly.

  “Not her husband. Apparently he was so rattled by the whole scene that he sat down at the dining room table with Sandra and went along with the whole charade. When the mistress brought out their supper, Sandra dumped the tray in his lap, threw a drink in the girl’s face, and tossed them both out of the house.”

  By now everyone’s laughing. It’s an outrageous story, but as always, Erika’s delivery is just as impressive.

  The server brings the check, which Trent snatches, despite Evan’s quick hand.

  It’s late but Erika’s not tired. “Let’s hit some bars,” she says.

  “I’ve got an early morning,” I remind them, standing. The room is swirling, just a little, and Evan gently pulls me back onto the bench beside him.

  “You okay, sailor?”

  “She’s fine!” Erika insists. “She’s just getting started.”

  As a rule, Erika doesn’t quit until we’ve hit at least three places on a Friday night, and this night is no different.

  We hit a club on Commonwealth, and when the rest of our group heads to the dance floor, Evan grabs my hand.

  “Come here,” he says, pulling me over to a dark corner. “I want you to myself for a minute.” He pulls me in for a long kiss, and I feel myself relax into him.

  “I’ve missed you,” I tell him above the music.

  “I’m sorry. I know these late-night shoots are killer.” He tucks my hair gently behind my ear.

  “It’s okay. I’ve had a bit of a crazy week myself.”

  He nods empathetically. “Report card season?”

  I’m always struck by Evan’s understanding of my profession. While everyone likes to repeat the slogan “Teachers are heroes!” I’ve never met anyone, beyond my mother, who really means it. Usually people just comment on all that money we make for part-time work (peanuts), all those summer vacations we get (unpaid, and spent tutoring in the local library), and what a cushy job it is (year-round professional development, planning, and grading at home).

  Evan shakes his head in admiration. “So what ever happened with that shy student you were telling me about—what was his name, Tim?”

  I smile. “Timmy Lafferty.”

  “The one who writes all those stories?”

  “How do you remember all this stuff?”

  Evan shrugs. “It’s important to you.”

  I place my hands on either side of Evan’s face and kiss him again. Later I will tell him about school and about Timmy. And we’ll catch up on our weeks. But right now I want to catch up on us.

  For our last stop, we settle into an Irish pub, which is much more my scene than the loud club we thankfully just left. The guys start a game of darts in the corner, and we girls grab a table.

  “I can’t believe I’m getting married in a matter of weeks,” Erika says, pulling up a stool.

  We clink our glasses and toast Erika’s July wedding, but my heart isn’t quite in it. It might be the late hour, or the long week. Or maybe that nagging feeling that lately everything about our tight little group is suddenly changing.

  “One down, one to go,” Peyton says. She and Erika clink glasses, once more, grinning slyly.

  “Meaning?” I ask.

  “Meaning you’re next down the aisle.” Erika winks at me.

  “Oh come on,” I say. “Not you guys, too.” Why is it that as soon as one girl in a group of friends gets a ring, the starter horn blares? If all of us were still single, we’d be sipping drinks and talking about work and summer rentals with that casual air of those who are well armed in the girlfriends department. It used to be that we were bulletproof. Nothing could penetrate our youthful optimism. Not your inquiring grandmother who squints worriedly at you across the Thanksgiving table, or your mother’s remarks about her friend’s daughter’s tacky wedding dress (the unspoken gripe being that at least there was cause for a tacky dress to be worn). Not even your own self-doubt that finds you on a sleepless night, causing you to wonder if indeed there is “the one,” if you’re really with “the one,” or, God forbid, if you already lost “the one.”

  I narrow my eyes at Erika, whose arm is draped around Peyton. It wasn’t so long ago she was on my side of the table. “You two are insufferable,” I tell them. I do want to get married. But being the last of our tight-knit group to do so does make me feel a little bit like an outsider at times.

  “Every dog has its day,” Erika tells me. She was first to have a boyfriend in the fifth grade, first to be kissed in seventh, and first to have her mom march her into what our mothers called the “training bra” section at Macy’s. She leans forward on her elbows and smiles. “Remember when you used to say you were going to marry Cameron Wilder?”

  “Who’s Cameron?” Peyton wants to know.

  Just hearing his name brings back a flood of memories: the smell of pinecones, the frayed flannel shirtsleeves rolled up his tan forearms, the drives along Mystic River in his old Jeep Wrangler. Cameron Wilder was my first love. And yet we shared a relationship as intense as it was long, following me through college and into graduate school. I always thought he would be the one who lasted.

  “He was an old boyfriend from home,” I say now, counting back the years in my head. “I haven’t seen him since he left Mystic for California.” It was both our decisions to go to different coasts for graduate school. But it was my decision to call it quits. I’ve always regretted that I was too stubborn to drive over and say goodbye that last morning.

  Peyton smiles nostalgically over her martini glass. “There’s something about those hometown boys.”

  Later that night, back at my apartment, I can’t sleep. Erika has gone back to Trent’s place, as she does on most weekends. I turn over and press my nose against Evan’s back. His breathing is slow and heavy with sleep. It’s not the alcohol that’s making the lights outside the window spin. It’s the list in my head. My mother’s surprise birthday party is tomorrow. There are two more weeks of school left, the hardest weeks of the year. Most of all, there is the great countdown for Erika’s wedding. It occurs to me that so far my summer consists of l
iving everyone else’s lives. My students’ lives, my family’s lives, and that of my best friend. And though I groan inwardly when I think of all these commitments I have to follow through on, I realize there’s one thing bothering me most of all; beyond them, where are my own?

  Three

  The drive home to Mystic should take the average person about two hours. I picked up Aunt Dotty at eight thirty. It’s now eleven. And so far, we’ve made four bathroom stops since Providence, the last of which I probably could’ve avoided if I hadn’t bought her a coffee at the stop before.

  By the time I finally exit I-95 for Mystic, I should be drained. But I brighten the moment we turn toward Mystic Seaport.

  Downtown Mystic does it to me each time. I don’t know if it’s the sea air or the historic clapboard houses that line the streets into the village, but there’s something magical, as if you’re entering a little storybook town.

  On Main Street, I sigh happily at the sight of the shops. The colonial storefronts boast pastel awnings and window boxes, as bright and cheerful as a Lily Pulitzer dress. We slow as we approach the Mystic River Bascule Bridge and Aunt Dot rolls down her window to squint down at the boats. “Oh my, that’s a classic,” she proclaims, pointing down at a wooden runabout, sporting a little American flag off the back. The sun bounces off the water and I take a grateful breath. We pass Mystic Drawbridge Ice Cream, Bartleby’s Café, and Bank Square Books.

  When we turn onto Godfrey Street and pull into my parents’ driveway just outside the village, it looks like everyone has arrived. The kids come tearing out and launch themselves at me.

  “Aunty Mags!” Owen is the first to reach me, and he wraps his skinny little arms tight around my neck.

  “Look at you, little bugger!” Only he isn’t so little anymore. He’s like an overgrown puppy, all limbs, and I inhale his punky little-boy smell when I kiss his head.

  “What’d you bring us?” Randall stands behind him, a serious look on his impish face.

  “What do you mean? I brought myself! And Aunt Dot!” I say brightly.

  Randall scowls doubtfully past me at Aunt Dot, who’s clutching her giant purse like either her or the purse might be in danger.

  “Oh,” he says gravely. But he allows me to pull him in for a big hug, and he squeals in laughter when I tickle him. Then he’s off in a flash.

  “Finally. Where have you been?” Jane is standing in the walkway with baby Lucy strapped to her chest in a carrier. Her arms are crossed, in front of Lucy, which gives them both a look of disapproval. “You’re lucky. Mom’s still at the hairdresser, so you didn’t ruin the surprise.”

  “Hi to you, too,” I mumble, kissing Lucy’s plush cheek.

  “So, what are we giving her?” Jane peeks nosily into the gift bag.

  “I got her a wrap. I figured she could wear it on cool summer nights.”

  “A wrap. Huh.”

  “What?”

  Jane wrinkles her nose. “Material?”

  “Pashmina.”

  “Color?”

  “Lilac.”

  She reaches inside the gift bag. “Ooh. Not bad.” She tries to pull it out and I smack her hand. Jane will no doubt be trying it on herself, at some point, should she escape the kids for an evening out.

  Jane is dressed in pink capris and a white tunic. Her long curly hair is pulled back in a ponytail, and I’m surprised to notice she’s wearing dangly earrings—something she rarely does as mother of three small children with lightning-speed fingers.

  “You look great,” I tell her, following her up the steps. “Are you working out?”

  She beams. “Thanks, and no. I call it the Tunic Mirage.”

  “Ah. Expanding the wardrobe, I see.” Since having kids, Jane has had a tendency to stick to what we’ve fondly dubbed as “the uniform,” our code word for her stay-at-home-mom-of-toddlers fashion. It consists of stretchy gray yoga pants, whose purpose is twofold. Yoga pants give the impression that you have either just come from working out or are about to go work out. And the gray hides all manners of stains. (Black highlights vomit, she once confided.)

  “Well, look who’s here! Come over here, and let me get a look at you, now.” That’s the thing about my dad. No matter how long it’s been or how old I am, Dad always greets me at the door as if I’m still his little girl. And I kind of turn into her each time.

  “Hi, Daddy!” He pulls me into a tight hug and the scent of Old Spice wraps itself reassuringly around me.

  My parents’ shingled cape house is modest. It’s not like the stately brick colonial with the white columns that Erika grew up in, situated on a green knoll along the Mystic River. Ours is nestled in a tight neighborhood alongside similarly appointed homes with front stoops and back porches. Dad finally retired from his career as an engineer for the Naval Submarine Base in New London, just a year after mom wrapped up her job as a nurse in a local pediatrician’s office. She says he putters around the house now, and drives her crazy. But their marriage is the kind I hope to have someday—snug and familiar, like a pair of worn lambswool slippers.

  Jane returns with a tray of cups, and Lucy, who is still strapped to her chest. “I think Dad could use some help with the coffeemaker.”

  Dad is wrestling with the stainless steel cappuccino maker that was part of my mom’s retirement present from the doctor’s office. “No, no, I’ve got this.” We watch as he pushes one illuminated button after the other in rapid succession. But it’s Lucy’s thrashing that distracts me more.

  “Does Lucy like that thing?” I ask Jane, inspecting the sling contraption that Lucy is squished into against her chest.

  “It’s a Balboa. Haven’t you heard of it?”

  Well, considering I don’t have any babies or any friends with babies, yet, no. “Of course I have. It just make her look so . . .”

  “What?”

  Slumpy, I think to myself. Lucy’s chubby legs dangle out one side and her face peers from a narrow opening on the other, which is lined with a pool of drool. “Adorable,” I tell Jane, directing her back to the coffeemaker.

  Finally, the coffee is flowing, the food is out, and we’ve packed all the guests onto the back porch. Mom’s car has just pulled in, but after three false alarms of rushing everyone into hiding, no one is taking this final call too seriously.

  But this time the front door opens, and I can see the soft outline of my mother through the screen. “Hello? Don?” Her voice is high and uncertain. There’s no getting around the fact that about fifteen cars are parked at a variety of angles in front of her house.

  “Out here, honey,” my dad hollers back. “Just weeding the flower pots.” Never mind the fact that Dad never gardens, or that there are never any weeds in Mom’s pristine pots. He’s giving it his all.

  There’s a patter of footsteps. Mom’s face gamely appears at the sliding door and we lurch forward in one singsong mob. “Happy Birthday!”

  She throws her hands up. “My goodness! I had no idea!” Whether she did or not, she’s crying, and Jane and I move in to hug her first. “Oh, heavens!” She turns to the group behind us and wags her finger accusingly at Dad. “You! Did you do all this?”

  “Guilty,” he admits, laughing. And when they embrace, for some reason I want to cry, too.

  I spend the afternoon being thrust from one guest to the next, politely answering questions about work and the Red Sox. Which means I have to also listen as my parents’ friends tell me about their own kids, who, more often than not, are either married, about to get married, or just popped out their first baby.

  “What about you?” Mrs. Banks from next door asks me, while I’m serving birthday cake. “Are you married, Maggie?” Her eyes are wide and hopeful as she thrusts her paper plate in my direction. I resist the urge to nod at the hungry line behind her. It’s backing up.

  “I’m in a relationship with a great guy,” I say, balancing an unwieldy piece of vanilla cake on the knife.

  She frowns. “Engaged?”

 
; I shake my head. “But I’m happy,” I tell her, unsure of whom I’m trying to reassure more. My nosy cousin Ellen is right behind her, listening in. “Maggie is our picky one,” she jokes. Cousin Ellen is, herself, very married. To the tune of five children, all under the age of seven. Despite her oh-so-cheery exterior, Ellen’s mood is as sharp as her blond bob that prickles her overblushed cheeks as she speaks. “Picky, picky, picky.”

  Jane and I have never been big fans of Cousin Ellen. Since childhood she has smugly held it over us that she has always been first. First to drive. First to go to college. First to marry. The Christmas that I announced that I was going to Boston to teach, she was also the first to start a debate at the dinner table. All through the meal she peppered me with questions as to what I thought about women who defied their role in the home and maintained singlehood, putting career above a more traditional lifestyle, which ultimately absolved them of eternal happiness. She regarded me sadly and told Wilson, her eldest, to “give poor Cousin Maggie the last piece of pumpkin pie,” because I wasn’t used to eating home-cooked meals alone in my urban apartment. I’d been too furious to take a bite.

  After which, Jane had dragged me into the foyer and grabbed my chin. “Look at that shit!” Jane nodded over her shoulder as Ellen’s boys fought on the kitchen floor, her baby howled in its applesauce-splattered high chair, and her husband scurried off to watch football in the den. “Ignore her, Mags. She’d give her lactating left boob to be the one who is single in the city!”

  I try to remember this as Ellen thrusts her empty plate under my nose now. “That’s me,” I say in a singsong voice. “Picky, picky, picky.”

  My sarcasm is lost on Mrs. Banks, who’s still holding up the dessert line as she studies me with concern. “Well, don’t be too picky, dear. If you wait too long, no one will be left.”