All You Need Is Love (24 page)

“Of course,” I say and hope he doesn’t ask me not to look for answers, ask questions, or find out who Galadriel is.

“Just remember who stayed,” Dad says and remains next to me on the couch until I squeeze his hand and we go get some dinner.

Arabella’s email contains exactly one word and one picture. Standing in knee-deep high reed-filled water fishing pole in his hands, is Charlie, sans shirt and with a look of intense focus that makes me long to be the subject of such a gaze. Arabella has clearly taken the picture without Charlie noticing — and you can only see part of his face, all of his body, and his feet are of course water-covered. For a second, I am in that water with him, slicking myself to his bare chest. Then, I remember I’m looking at a picture whose caption reads “SF”.

Summer Fling? More? Neither. Remembering that he bailed on me before and would be thus likely to again, I switch my computer off and go to bed. Alone.

“It wouldn’t be for long, probably two weeks at most. Maybe sixteen days,” Dad says the next morning and moves the stack of travel books to the side so we can have actual viewage of each other at the table.

“It’s fine, I said it’s fine — there’s no reason to rush back from Belgium or…where else are you going?”

“I’d like to hike the Hebrides in Scotland — very rugged, very beautiful.”

Louisa finishes her cereal and says, “Which is fine with me as long as we blance it out with a little time in a city.”

“I hear Edinburgh has a festival,” I say thinking of Asher and his artistic troupe.

Dad immediately says, “No — not Edinburgh — somewhere new.” Not that I knew he’d been there. But then, considering my big package from Mable there’s a lot I have yet to find out.

“Maybe Capri,” Louisa says and reaches for the guide.

I hug my dad goodbye and give a quick not-really-a-hug to Louisa. Dad helps me out to the car with the last of my bags and eyes my precious package from Mable.

“I can’t stop you from reading all that,” he says.

“Would you want to?” I ask and watch his face.

“Not really. Just know that I wanted to protect you — I still want to protect you…”

I listen to this last part and wonder if he’ll protect me from the dorm hell that awaits me in the fall. But I know he means protect me from getting hurt, being left. “You can’t protect me from everything,” I say to him gently and hug him tightly. I expect he’ll be annoyed at this, or bring up the fact that I’ve told him twice now that I feel constrained here — by him, by loss, by memories — and by school.

BUT. But. But he doesn’t. He helps me lift my big pack onto my back and steadies me when it seems I might fall down. “Hey, you did with my physical balance what you do to my emotional being,” I say in a Zen master voice.

“I’m proud that you trust me with your feelings,” Dad says. “Even if I don’t always agree with them.”

“I don’t want to board next year,” I say, parroting myself yet again. Like a toddler who wants another cookie I somehow feel that if I ask enough times he will change his mind.

“You have no choice in this matter,” he says. And then, I suspect so we don’t end on this note he says, “I’ll miss you.”

“Me, too,” I say. “A lot can happen in three months.”

“Not quite three,” dad says and sits on the porch watching me get in the car. I put the pack on the passenger seat, my pretend boyfriend. I will name him Jim. Jim my pretend backpack boyfriend. It’s pathetic enough that I grin. “I’ll be there in August for Illumination Night.”

I haven’t seen it since I was little, but all the gingerbread cottages in Oak Bluffs are lighted up by thousands of Japanese lanterns of all colors. The pictures make it seem unreal, like something from a fairy tale.

“Right,” I say.

“And you can always come back if you need to,” he says and then, like the thought is too terrible he covers with, “But you won’t have to. It’ll be great.”

I drive a few feet and then pull the hand brake. “Dad — Mable said to ask you something.”

“What was that?” Dad asks from the porch.

“My name. She said you’d tell me about my name.”

Dad stands up, stretches his long arms up toward the sky and walks barefoot over to my opened window. “The Beatles.”

“When you were in London?”

Dad nods. “She knew someone at Apple Records…”

“So I could have been named Macintosh or something?”

“We were happy — and it made sense.”

“So which song is it then?” I ask, feeling my moniker mystery untangling.

“All you need is love,” he says. I take it from his expression that he knows now this isn’t totally true. But it’s a wonderful thought.

“Thanks,” I say and put my hand on his then release the brake and go.

Neither of us cries — about the goodbye nor about Mable — we just look at each other from his place on the porch and mine behind the wheel. I steer out the driveway. With my fully crammed car, I can’t see what I’ve left behind in the rearview mirror.

A brief stop on central campus for:

“Oh, I hate saying goodbye,” Chris says. “I can’t believe you’re bagging graduation.”

“Well, you do look dapper,” I say, “but I’m going to pass — there’s only so much pomp and circumstance I can handle.”

Chris is dressed in the grad day duds of white trousers and a blue blazer and the Hadley crested tie. Juniors who are about to be seniors wear a purple iris on their lapels (boys) or carry a long-stemmed iris (girls). Chili is wearing a regular sundress because she can’t march in the processional since she’s not yet a full student.

“Just think — this time next year you’ll be done with sophomore year,” I say. Then I clunk my forehead and say to Chris, “and we’ll be graduating. Shit.”

“Hey, Love! Glad to hear you’ll be one of us next term,” Lindsay Parrish shouts from across the street, her bright white trouser suit elegant and crisp against the backdrop of trimmed lawn.

“Don’t bet on it,” I yell back with a smile so she thinks I’m just thrilled. Lindsay walks off with her uptight mother at her side, and just for good measure turns around and says, “And if I don’t see you before the summer, remember this!” She gives me an exaggerated finger behind her backand Chris just joins me as I smile and wave, parade-style.

“Nice — well handled.”

“Just because there’s no way for me to get out of boarding, it doesn’t mean she deserves a summer of satisfaction…” I say.

Chris gives me a puerile grin, “No — you’re the one who deserves that.” Then he thinks. “Same goes for me…I just have to get to the fourth of July….”

“And your romantic week with Alistair,” I say completing his thought. “I hope it’s everything you want it to be.”

“Same for you,” Chris says and gives me a kiss on the cheek.

Chili hands me a piece of paper. “I know I gave you this before, but just so you have it — call me. I get down to the Vineyard next week. Haverford’s coming, too.” She throws in that last part without knowing it will make Chris respond.

“Really? I thought he was working at a bank or something,” he says.

Chili laughs. “Bank Street Grill,” she says. “My mom is the silent partner in this really good dinner place. You should visit.”

I reach my arm out the window and poke Chris. “You know you want to…” I say but don’t mention anything about his former or perhaps still-present feelings for Haverford.

Chili turns to me, “And
you
definitely should — I think Haverford would like that.” She raises her eyebrows and I am horrified to think what that means. That Haverford is not only
not
gay but interested in little me? No — I find that very hard to believe, though in other circumstances he’d be the one to make me turn my head for a re-check.

“Maybe we can all go together,” I suggest and then accidentally but not lean on the horn and signal my own transport is leaving. “See you soon!”

I leave all of campus behind — it’s graduation chairs and potted plants, its immaculate lawns and trays of post-ceremony finger foods, and somewhere — in the crowd — a wickedly grinning Lindsay Parrish who knows she won this round and one Jacob Coleman who will head to Crescent Beach and maybe look for me — or not — but I won’t be there. I will save myself from humiliation or heartache by avoiding the party altogether.

Later, I’m at the flower market.

Empty of carts and flower merchants stocking up for the weekend, I’m hit with memories of being here with Mable. As a little girl I would hold her hand and kick through the fallen petals like they were leaves from the trees. The ground is strewn with petal snow — bright pink near-circles cast off from roses, longer tapers from the Gerber daisies that come in every color, and stray buds from the baby’s breath.

I take a plastic bag from my pocket and use my palm to sweep the petals into it. I fill the whole thing and then bring it back to the car and drive to Slave to the Grind.

“I can’t really talk right now,” I say into my cell to Arabella. “I’m about to…”

“Neither can I,” Arabella snorts and laughs, “I’m too busy doing shots of something repulsive.”

“Are you going to wind up at the Vineyard ER after a night of binge-drinking? Haven’t we moved beyond that phase of socializing?” I ask and adjust my rear-view mirror.

“No — Henry and his money-dripping mates have brought a tiki party to the beach. I just moved out of earshot, though, so don’t worry — our conversation won’t be broadcast to the drunken masses.”

“Well, I assume you don’t call them money-dripping to their faces,” I say and then fill her in on my plan, “I’m about to do it. So don’t talk, just listen and tell me afterwards if you can hear the wind.”

Slave to the Grind has always been one of the windiest corners in all of Boston. Unprotected from the taller buildings — there’s a law that you can’t build anything over two stories in the historic district — the corner is a tunnel of gusts. The sunshine is that kind where the rays are distinct and the beams warm the windy spot where I stand. I untie the knot I made in the plastic bag and in one big shake, I dump all of the flower petals out. They take flight, swirling up and around the street, over the café and up into the sky. I cry and then smile at the same time, thinking of the beauty of the moment, the place, and Mable.

“It’s amazing,” I say to Arabella when the petals are still going.

She’s quiet for a minute, respectful, and then jumps in.

“You know what we need?” Arabella says. “And I’m at South Beach by the way, just so you can picture me…”

“What do we need?” I ask and wonder if she’s got her toes in the ocean, digging them into the cold wet sand, or if she’s standing on one of the peaked dunes, the sea grass at her ankles.

“Mum’s always saying if things don’t seem pulled together you need a theme.”

“I think your mother was talking about a living room or a bed set, Bels,” I say and jingle my keys against my pale thigh as I walk to the stuffed car. In another month, my legs will be shades darker, my hair shades lighter and my spirit? Who knows. “I don’t know if Mable meant a theme when she left word that I should let my summer
unfold
.”

“No — even holidays or outfits or friendships can have a theme.”

“So, what will the theme of the next few months be?” I ask and unlock the door.

“I’ve been wearing early sixties surfer gear,” she says.

“And spitting out non-sequitors?” I ask and laugh. “But I’m glad to know you have Hawaiian print sarongs lying around…”

“And we can decorate the apartment with old surf boards and — um — leis…” She says and giggles.

“I think you mean lays…” I say and put the keys into the ignition but sit there, idling as we talk.

“So the theme is like Beach Boys meets silly sixties beach bunny film meets current cool,” Arabella says.

“Like that Beach Boys album Mable had,” I say and picture it in my mind as clearly as if it were in my hands and she were at my side. “Endless Summer it was called.”

“Perfect,” Arabella says. “Perfect. Now — I’ll see you soon, K?”

“K,” I respond.

I’m supposed to drive toward the Cape now, toward the island, but as I pull away from Mable’s for the last time, the swirls of flower petals still arcing somewhere above me, I pause at the on-ramp to the highway. Then, without over-thinking, without analyzing, I decide to delay my departure just for one night. One night meaning tonight — when I will show up at the Crescent Beach party and see what happens. I reach into the glove compartment to get a stick of Rainbow Stripe gum — Mable’s favorite and mine, too, despite the fact that the flavor lasts for all of ten seconds. Along with the chewing treat I pull out the pottery pamphlet from Mrs. Dandy-Patinko. As I gear up for my drive to Crescent Beach I look at the back of the brochure, really reading it for the first time and find extra text pasted next to a picture of a wide, blue mug.

Love — Glad to know you are letting your summer unfold…or least, you’re starting to look closely at things— and know that even though I am not with you right now, I will never leave you. —Aunt M.

I tuck the pottery booklet back still folded up neatly and put the whole pamphlet into my big new empty journal and wonder for a second what the pages will hold by the fourth of July, by Illumination Night, by Labor Day, by tomorrow morning after my adventure tonight.

With Boston behind me, I turn the car toward tonight’s big bash and think of our theme: Endless Summer. It sounds poetic, pure, potential-filled. Those days of beaches and boys that drift in and out for summer — or longer — the café, Arabella and her antics, my as yet unopened mystery package from Mable, those college tours. All of this will be wrapped under the haze of my endless summer, the sand and sunblock that lead from one day to the next.

Thank you to Adam and the kids and to my extended family, for enthusiasm and support. Smiles, nods, and thanks to my editor, Anne Bohner. To Faye Bender, exemplary agent and Labello-lover, thanks and more.

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