My Bittersweet Summer (5 page)

Three in, six out.

Three in, six out.

Four in, eight out…

“Starting early today?” my mother asked. She looked at me over the rim of her coffee mug, as if deciding whether or not she needed to put it down to come to my assistance.

I took one last counted inhale-exhale and shook my head. “Hopefully I’m finishing early. What could Zach Robinson possibly have to talk to me about before coffee on a Sunday morning?” I pushed off the door and sank down on a stool beside my mom. “Why is it so hard for people to just leave me alone?”

She rubbed my back briefly before getting up and pouring another mug of coffee for me. A splash of milk and a tablespoon of sugar later, and I had my own ritual cup of caffeine.

“Thanks,” I said, blowing on the dark liquid.

“I know it’s easier said than done, Margie,” she said as she sat again, “but maybe he’s not the person you’ve convinced yourself he is.”

My stomach tightened at the thought. I didn’t know if I’d ever be able to think of Zachary Robinson as anything but a bully. It was a fundamental truth of my world.

“People don’t change that much, Mom,” I said.

“You have. Why not him, too?”

“Unless he’s spent the last six years in therapy, too, I doubt it. Matt hasn’t.”

Leaning her elbows on the counter, she set her cup against her lips, glancing at me from the corner of her eye. “How will you know if you don’t find that out for yourself?”

I set the mug down and stared at her, unable to believe she said that to me. “Are you listening to yourself right now? After everything you and Dad went through to help me get my life back, you’re telling me to just get over it?”

Reaching out, she took my hand. “No, I’m not telling you to just get over it. Of course I’m not. All I’m saying is that to really move on and become a better person for what you went through, you can’t let anger and hate eat at you. Maybe talking to him and those other people will help you accept everything and go on to bigger things. Don’t let it weigh you down.”

“And you think I’m ready to do that when I’ve been here less than two full days?”

“I’m not saying go talk to him right this minute, Margie. Just think about it, though. That’s it.”

Returning my focus to my coffee, I watched tiny wisps of steam dance across the surface. Maybe it was my pride, but I couldn’t hit a switch and shut off the tsunami of rage whenever I saw those guys. I hated how out-of-control I was when it came to them; that wasn’t who I wanted to be. I’d never, ever been the kind of person who lashed out at the tiniest provocation. Emotional implosion and projectile vomiting, yes. Screaming and slapping, no.

Who I
did
want to be, however, was another matter entirely. I’d spent six years focused on ridding myself of my “psychosomatic symptoms caused by childhood trauma,” as was written over and over in my medical records. I didn’t really have bigger goals for myself emotionally. As it was, it seemed like that summer was either going to prove I was past the really bad stuff, or trigger it all over again.

“I’m just trying to get through the next three months without becoming a basket case,” I said at last. “If I only manage that, I think it’ll be a huge accomplishment. I can’t handle setting a bigger goal right now.” My eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Why are you pressing for this all of a sudden? What happened to staying focused on Paris and ignoring the other stuff?”

She turned to me, sighing with reluctance. “So, here’s the thing. Originally, your father and I didn’t think there would be cause for concern, as you’d be in the restaurant, and Zach would be off somewhere exotic before college, or something. There wasn’t supposed to be that many of chances for interaction between the two of you.”

“Wasn’t supposed to be?” I repeated, dreading where the conversation was going. “As in, that’s not the case now?”

The look on my mother’s face said about as much. “About that…”

I groaned. “What about that?”

“Beginning this week, Zachary will be staff at Le Beau Tournée.”

My jaw sagged. “Are you kidding me right now?”

She shook her head. “He and his father agreed it would be good for him to get hands-on experience in all levels of a successful business. He’ll be working in the kitchen washing dishes and doing some light prep work.”

The whole idea was so absurd I burst out laughing. “Zachary Robinson? Washing dishes? Is this a joke?”

Her frown quieted my laughter, but didn’t dull my amusement at imagining him up to his elbows in half-eaten food and vegetable peels.

“Don’t you think it would be good for character building?”

I snorted. “I guess, but he’ll still be the owner’s kid. It’s not like it’d be a real job or anything.”

“It most certainly will be.” She sounded insulted. “We’ve already discussed it with him. He knows he’ll be treated the same as any other employee.”

My eyebrows lifted, surprised and skeptical. “And he agreed to that?”

“He insisted on it.”

“When did you have this discussion?” There was no easy way for me to wrap my head around someone I remembered as being so derisive and completely dismissive actually asking for that kind of responsibility.

“Over dinner last night. Everyone asked where you were.”

“It’s probably better I wasn’t there, if this morning is anything to judge by.” I sipped my coffee, trying to untie the knots in my stomach. “Of all the things I thought would happen when I got here, anger management problems never occurred to me.”

My mother grimaced. “Yes, well, I wasn’t going to broach that topic just yet. I figured there would be an adjustment period, but you’ll need to get a handle on it. Especially if you’ll be working with Zach. I expect more from you, so I’m only going to tolerate so much before we bring the hammer down on any outbursts.”

Nodding, I slipped into silent reflection, replaying the run-in with Zach over and over again in my head. It was funny how a thirty-second interaction could occupy enormous chunks of time. I stopped suddenly about the third time through it, my mug poised at my lips.

He called me Mighty Mouse.

Mighty Mouse? That was new, and definitely a step up from the old ones. Why mighty? A vague memory tickled at the edge of my brain, but I couldn’t quite place the reference. Maybe hauling off and smacking Matt impressed him. Or it was just another way to poke fun at me.

I rolled my eyes at myself. I was dedicating way too much time to thinking about it. I couldn’t care less about any of those guys.

Jerks.

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Taping up the last door sign, marking it “office,” I headed into the kitchen to get the next round of colored sticky notes from my dad.

“All ready for the—” I silenced myself immediately as he scribbled notes on a legal pad, his cell on the table and Bluetooth earpiece in as he hummed affirmative answers to the person on the other end.

Tiptoeing over, I grabbed the pad of hot pink tabs and a pen and headed to my room to label every location for my furniture on the walls: bed by the window, the headboard to the left as I looked at it, nightstand beside it, followed by the tall bookshelf. My corkboard calendar would go above the bed, and my dresser on the right wall, far enough in that no one would bump into it when they walked in the door. I also marked approximately where I wanted my framed certificates, like the one I got for taking first place at the Newport County Fair for my apple pie the year before, and marked the closet door for placement of my shoe rack, even though I only had five pairs I wore on any given occasion, including the new ones my mom bought me Saturday. Lastly, I marked the wall beside the door for my full-length mirror. I hardly used the thing, but it had been my grandmother’s, and it always reminded me of trying on her massive collection of aprons when I was a kid.

As I stuck the last note to the wall, my dad came in, looking stressed.

“Your mother needs a few things from Galloway, and can’t get away from the restaurant. Apparently there’s an issue with one of the stoves and she’s waiting for the repairman.”

“Okay, how can I help?” I asked. “Want me to label the other rooms? If you leave me some cash, I can have a pizza delivered or something for dinner.”

“Actually,” he said, scrunching up his face, “I promised Rosalinda I’d fill in for her at the main house for dinner so she can take her grandson out for his eighth birthday. I know it’s asking a lot, but how would you feel about making good on my promise for me?”

“You want me to cook for the Robinsons?” I blinked, totally unprepared for that one.

“Would you mind? Rosie already has everything planned out, but I can’t get to Galloway and back with enough time to get the meal done, too.”

Skeptical, I wasn’t so sure it was a good idea. “Are they gonna be okay with it? Not that I think I can’t handle it or anything, but…”

He smiled at me, completely confident. “You’re as good as any chef I’ve ever hired. It’ll be fine.”

I sighed, knowing I wouldn’t say no to helping him when he needed it, but really not liking the potential for another Zach confrontation. “Yeah, I can cover you. What am I looking at time-wise?”

He ushered me out of the room and towards the front door. “I was about to head up there to check the schedule and prep time I needed. Want to come with me and we’ll see before I head out for errands?”

I grabbed my keys and nodded. “Yeah, let’s do that.”

It wasn’t a long walk up to the main house, but my nerves made it feel like ten miles. A garden path ran through a grove of oaks and maples, passing by a small group of apple trees bereft of blossoms, but not yet bearing fruit. The Robinson estate was at least ten acres of land, the largest one on the island, and every inch of it was pristinely landscaped to Mrs. Robinson’s specifications. As one of the head members of some conservation board I couldn’t remember the name of, it made sense she’d want as much nature around as possible. She was incredibly unhappy with the off-roading course Mr. Robinson put in when I was younger, though I was so little it was hard to recall much beyond a bit of fuming to my mother as I played in a corner. I wondered if the kitchen looked the same as it had six years ago. With the kind of money the Robinsons had, it seemed likely they’d renovated it at least once since then.

Even though I tried not to show my nervousness, my pulse sped up the closer we got to the main house. When we came to the grand pavilion that was the backyard, I swallowed a twinge of nausea at the memories that forced themselves to the surface. That bush was where they’d hidden my backpack one day. The tree on the left side was where they ran me up so far my father needed a ladder to get me down. The white gazebo in the center was where they liked to corner me and try to stick dead mice down my shirt when they caught one.

It wasn’t a backyard to me; it was a torture chamber.

I was completely focused on my breathing when we finally got to the kitchen entrance.
Four in, six out.
My dad gave my arm a reassuring squeeze before we entered.

“Rosie?” he called, looking around the bank of cabinets on the right, then heading off to search.

The first change I noticed was the switch from bright white doors and gray counters to espresso-colored cupboards and beige granite, all accented in brushed stainless steel fixtures. Even the refrigerator was larger, with massive side-by-side doors and a separate freezer next to it on the far side of the kitchen. The room was large enough to contain not only an island, but an entire u-shaped eating area in the center, complete with hardwood bistro chairs lined up on the inside curve. Man, what I wouldn’t have given to have constant access to all the space and gadgetry packed into a single place, all dedicated to my favorite pastime. If kitchens could be temples, the Robinsons’ would’ve been my Mecca.

I ran my fingers along the cold stone counter of the island, inhaling the scent of roasted chicken and root vegetables from one of the two ovens. Peering in the window, a half-cooked bird slowly turned on a spit, occasionally dripping juices into a pan full of potatoes and squash below it.

In my admiration of the kitchen, I’d almost missed my father leaving to search for Rosalinda. They both returned to find me salivating over the main course.

“Rosie,” my dad said, laughing at me a little. “You remember my daughter, Margaret?”

The wide, Hispanic woman let out a tirade of Spanish exclamations as she rushed over to greet me with an exuberant hug. “Ah! Of course I remember my little Margie! How are you,
mija
? So grown!”

I grinned at her, returning the embrace. It’d been ages since someone called me that, and I’d missed hearing her say it. I was happy the Robinsons kept her on after she took over for my parents. “I’m good, Rosie. Happy to see you, too.”

“I’m afraid something came up with the restaurant,” he said, interrupting our reunion, “but Margie’s twice the chef I was even ten years older than her. She can fill in no problem.”

Rosie studied me seriously. “You think you can handle this,
mija
?”

“Just tell me what you need done, and I’m your girl.” I sounded a lot more confident than I felt.

She took me by the arm and led me around the kitchen, showing me where the dishes were, when I needed to set them out for the maid to take up, what serving dishes to use, and the sides I needed to prepare.

“It’s only the three of them, but often there are guests, so I always plan for twice as many people,” she said. “Lettie will help clean up and put away leftovers, so you won’t be on your own for that.” She bustled me over to the sink, where she’d left a page of instructions and recipe cards taped to the side of a cabinet. “I wrote everything down for you, and when to do it.”

I scanned the recipes. Corn on the cob, kale and cucumber salad, and dinner rolls seemed well within my skill set. Really, it was a little disappointing there wasn’t more of a challenge to it.

“Seems easy enough,” I said, shrugging. I paused, looking over the paper again. “Wait. It just says dessert at seven. What dessert?”